She met his lips with hers. “You’re forever in my heart.” That much was true. She’d never forgotten the young surfer with the guitar on the beach, even two decades later.
Laughter filtered in from the veranda. Moments later, Shelly burst into the kitchen with Mitch right behind her. “Well, if this isn’t the picture of domestic bliss.” She winked at Ivy.
“I love a man who washes dishes,” Ivy said.
Shelly had put on makeup and changed into a flowing white top and jeans with kitten heels. She still looked healthy and happy, and she seemed oblivious to Bennett doing her usual duty.
“And I love a man who cooks,” Shelly said, giving Mitch a playful kiss.
Just then, the door to the lower level creaked open, and a gust of wind blew through the kitchen.
Ivy brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Must be a window open. I wonder who was down there last?”
“Not me,” Shelly said. “I haven’t been down there in forever.”
“Well, it wasn’t me.” Ivy crossed the kitchen to shut it. “Maybe it was Poppy, although I can’t imagine why.” She tried to shut the door, but it seemed out of alignment with the doorjamb. “That’s odd. It was shut just a few seconds ago.”
Poppy swung through the kitchen door. “Did I just hear my name?”
“Were you downstairs?” Ivy asked.
“No, but I saw that new guest, Geena Bellamy, down there. She said you told her it was okay to look around.”
Ivy rolled her eyes. “I didn’t mean down there.”
“I’ll look at that door,” Mitch said, tossing his towel to Shelly. He knelt before the old wooden door and swung it back and forth. “Bennett and I can fix this.”
Shelly laughed. “I bet Amelia is up to her old tricks again.”
“Don’t you dare start on that,” Ivy said, frowning at her sister. “It was probably an ocean gust. I should check the windows down there.”
“I’ll go with you,” Shelly said, tossing the towel back to Mitch. “I know how you feel about ghosts.”
“There is nothing of the sort,” Ivy said, wishing Shelly would stop with such nonsense. She’d been irritated with her sister since she’d returned from her honeymoon. Still, priorities shifted in life, Ivy supposed. She’d have to accept that and work out something with Shelly.
Behind her, Bennett chuckled. “The kids in Summer Beach always thought they saw something. You probably remember that from the campfires we used to have on the beach.”
“We were teenagers then.” A strange feeling bristled along Ivy’s spine. Exasperated, she jabbed her hands onto her hips. “Not you, too.”
“Just passing along information,” Bennett said, turning off the faucet and stepping away from the sink as he dried his hands. “I’m through here, so I’ll go have a look. Mitch, why don’t you come with me?”
A thin white curtain at the window above the kitchen sink fluttered.
“Oh, no,” Shelly said, pointing toward the curtain. “You’re not leaving us up here with a ghost. Even if Amelia is a friendly one.”
Ivy sliced her hands through the air. “That’s it. We’re all going. We need to figure out what to do with that lower level anyway.” Not that she believed in ghosts, yet she couldn’t help shivering.
4
Wrinkling her nose against the stale odor, Ivy peered tentatively down the stairs to the lower level. “It smells musty.”
After the FBI had collected the precious loot of artwork, and she and Shelly and Poppy had moved furniture they could use upstairs, they hadn’t returned here often—except for the art show tours they’d held last year. Ivy planned to host another show later this summer.
“Could be mildew or mold,” Bennett replied as he flicked on the light. “You can have it checked for leaks. Who’s going first?”
“I will,” Ivy said, steeling herself against the odor. “No spirits here.”
Beside her, Poppy hesitated. “On second thought, I forgot that I need to check on a guest.” She skittered away.
Ivy hardly blamed her. Gingerly, she made her way down the stairs, lifting the hem of her floral sundress to avoid the accumulation of dust. Once they were gathered at the base of the stairs, she swung around to Bennett. “Could you check the windows? One of them must have been left open.”
Her voice echoed through the mostly empty space. Only a few boxes and assorted pieces of antique furniture—Victorian sofas, wingback chairs, wool rugs, bar stools, a carved bar—remained in a storage area where Amelia Erickson had concealed her treasures during the Second World War.
Bennett nodded toward Mitch. “We’ll check them.”
While the men started off, Ivy glanced across the cavernous room. “This is a lot of space. We’ll have to take this in phases.”
“It’s a pretty big job,” Shelly agreed, shivering. “It’s a lot cooler down here, even in the summer.”
“It might have been built for storage.” Ivy ran her hands over a brick wall. “Back then, people did a lot of canning. They could have stored winter and root vegetables here from neighboring farms. This entire area was once farmland and fishing.” She gazed up at the windows that lined the top of the space.
“I’ve also heard the Ericksons had bowling lanes,” Bennett said, joining them again. “Since they lived here during the Roaring Twenties and Prohibition, they might have had a secret bar, too.”
“That could also explain why they built up the exterior grounds to hide this level,” Shelly said. “Maybe it wasn’t to hide from submarines after all.”
The lower level was a half-basement with windows that looked out over the grounds and had been concealed from the outside with landscaping for years. Once uncovered, that section had required exterior repair and painting. Due to the cost, Ivy had left the interior in its original condition.
Ivy nodded toward an area that had rows of empty racks and individual wooden cabinets. “They must have kept bottles over there.”
Mitch walked over, brushing dust from his hands.
“Sure wish they’d left some wine,” Shelly said. “Could you imagine what that would be worth?” She heaved a sigh. “How about a lounge? We could sell wine and appetizers. Live jazz on the weekends would be great.”
“I like it, but we’d have to have all kinds of permits for that, and we don’t have the zoning to sell alcohol.”
Shelly furrowed her brow. “Couldn’t you get the zoning changed like you did on this place before?”
“That was a special situation,” Bennett interjected. “An exception was made because the city needed the rooms to lodge local residents after the Ridgetop Fire. But selling alcohol here would be a real departure for the neighborhood. I don’t think Darla and your other neighbors would like that. Zoning is there to protect neighborhoods. That’s why you can give wine away, but you can’t charge for it.”
“Bet they had big parties here,” Mitch said, grinning. “Maybe they were rum runners. You don’t think they stored only wine down here, do you?” He pointed to a lighter space on the wooden floor in front of the wine racks and other shelves. “That’s probably where the bar was.”