“But alas, the romantic days of yore are past, and liquor is legal once again.” He pulled the door open with as much fanfare as he could muster. “If you don’t mind, I would rather not exert myself at this late hour for some cobwebs and dampness, so I’ll only warn you to be careful on the stairs and stay away from the root cellar. It’s the only area of the house that isn’t inspected or maintained.”
Kelly nodded and moved past Lindemann as he turned the old-fashioned light switch on the wall. Looking down, she could see that the stairs descended into darkness about fifty feet below them, and then turned away to the right. Standing at the top, she could not see the bottom. Greg and Paul followed.
As they took the old wooden steps slowly, they heard Lindemann’s footsteps lead away from the door. Kelly figured he was returning to the barroom. They finally made the turn and saw the concrete floor beneath them. Lindemann was right — the musty smell smacked Kelly hard and produced a grip that held onto her face like a hand.
As they gained the floor, Kelly could see the history of the kitchen. Many of the original appliances, including the two original woodburning stoves and three iceboxes, were lined up against the wall like a domestic museum.
“Seems like it would have been easier to get this stuff out the front doors than to negotiate those stairs to get them down here, wouldn’t you think?” Greg asked.
“Lindemann probably thought they would be worth something if he kept them, and he’s probably right,” Kelly answered. “But they’re not what I’m interested in. Basements can be a nice feel, very visual for ghost hunting. We should think about getting an infrared camera down here.”
Greg slapped his hand against one of the concrete walls.
“It will have to be recorded; these walls would never allow a live signal out. Maybe a handheld would do. We’ll definitely get down here, though. We can probably get a signal with a backpack transmitter linked to another link at the top of the stairs, if your boy Peterson allows it in the budget.”
Kelly made the notation. “I’ve already got four transmitters. They’ll be here.” She looked up with her I ate the canary smile, then continued writing.
“Hey, look at this.” Paul stomped his foot down on a flip-up door. A hollow sound reverberated through the basement.
“That must be the root cellar,” Kelly said.
“Damn, how deep does Summer Place go?” Paul asked. He reached down and opened the door, holding it in place as he stared into the darkness. “Doesn’t seem to be a light switch. How the hell are you supposed to see anything?”
“Jesus. Close that up,” Greg said, pinching his nose at the earthy smell.
Paul let the door fall back into place just as Kelly tuned and made her way to the stairs. The two co-hosts quickly followed. As they did, pressure from somewhere below in the root cellar made the door jump. Then it settled and lay still.
Lindemann was waiting inside the giant kitchen when they were finished down below, this time with a drink in hand, ready to conduct the rest of the tour. The house was, as expected, gorgeous. They covered the ballroom and the family room, with pictures of functions from summers past. There were a few spots where the paint was brighter, where pictures had hung for ages and had only recently been removed. Kelly made a note to inquire about them later.
When they had finished with the pool area, followed by the stables, they reentered the grand ballroom and waited while Lindemann poured another drink for himself — without offering any to his guests. Then they climbed the grand staircase once more and examined the bedrooms and suites on the second floor. When they stopped again at the second floor landing, Lindemann started heading down.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Kelly asked.
Lindemann drained his glass and eyed her for a moment.
“The third floor bedrooms?” Kelly reminded him. “The famous wall of the third floor hallway, and the suite where our opera star disappeared.”
“And also the room where that supposed assault occurred,” Greg added.
Lindemann dipped his chin to his chest and held it there a brief moment.
“I guess I forgot, didn’t I?” He abruptly stepped back onto the landing and made his way back down the hallway, toward the upward-leading stairs on the opposite side of the second floor.
“Strange man,” Paul said quietly, deliberately lagging behind.
“Strange, my ass. Did you see his face?” Kelly said, almost in a whisper, watching Lindemann’s back. “Our Mr. Silver-Spoon-Up-The-Ass needed a stiff drink before even coming up here. He’s scared shitless.”
Lindemann paused at the stairwell after their long walk to the opposite side of the house. Then, after it seemed he had built the courage to do so, bounded up the stairs.
When they reached the third floor landing, Kelly looked both ways down the hallway. The Persian carpet runner was centered perfectly on the hardwood floor and everything looked recently cleaned and dusted. Eunice Johansson and her daughters undoubtedly had been told that Kelly and her team would want to utilize the third floor for the show.
“Corner suite, outside wall is where that crazy bastard said his student disappeared. The opera star’s room is directly across the hall, opposite corner. The one with the double doors. As for the silent film star’s suite, I have no idea. That was one of the blatant lies I’d never heard before. The large suite at the end of the hallway was my great-great aunt’s sewing room. Be respectful, please. She loved it there, so the stories go, and never really went anywhere else in the house when there weren’t any guests,” Lindemann said. He turned, and was already on the second riser before Kelly halted him.
“You’re leaving us?” she asked. It was curious that she had never heard mention of any sewing room, especially one so high up in the house. A tad inconvenient, she thought.
“I have calls to make, Ms. Delaphoy. I can’t babysit you and your crew the entire evening.” He took the steps quickly, before she could halt him with any more questions.
“Chicken shit,” Kelly mumbled. She turned to her left and started toward the largest suite.
Paul and Greg followed, examining the papered wall as they went. The bright yellow floral pattern, while meant to be cheery, felt very much out of place.
“Does the wallpaper look new to you guys?” Kelly asked. She had reached the corner suite on the opposite end of the hallway from the sewing room.
“Hadn’t noticed,” Greg said. The look he gave Paul warned him not to encourage her with a positive answer.
Kelly paused with her hand resting on the cut glass doorknob. “I would like more input from you two. I saw you looking at the wallpaper and I know you also think it’s out of place. The other floors have solid colors, so why does this have a floral print?” She turned her head and looked at the two hosts. “Lindemann tried to add a false cheeriness to this floor, and failed miserably, when it was cleaned up after Professor Kennedy’s visit.” Kelly turned the knob and opened the door. “Get with it; I can’t do this on my own.”
Greg shrugged his shoulders and then stepped up behind Kelly to look into the large suite.
The room was huge. The main bedroom was occupied by one of the largest beds any of the three had ever seen. It was at least sixteenth century, and was complete with a canopy and a bedspread that looked as if it were made of mink. The oil paintings on the walls were of the surrounding Pocono valley. The walls were papered in a satin-type rose colored print with fine stripes, the type seen in boudoirs at the turn of the century. There were three very large cherry wood wardrobes, with three Japanese silk screens at the side of each. The Persian rug was of the same quality as the others they had seen in the house, only this one was far more expensive in look and texture.