Between a Vamp and a Hard Place (2 page)

But with all of our savings gone . . . The reality of it hit me, and I felt sick . . . or maybe it was all the sugar. “I can't believe you gave him all our money.”

“He says we'll make it back.” Her voice was small and unhappy.

“Oh God. I hope so.” The thought of losing it all made me want to vomit.

Her lower lip quivered even more. “You have to trust me, Lindsey!”

“I do!”

“No, you say you do, but you don't. You like being in control. I'm just the box-taping lackey. We're supposed to be partners, but all I ever do is ship stuff.”

I made a sound of protest, but the truth of the matter was that I was a control freak. I did like handling everything. And I was a crappy friend, because in the “Lindsey and Gemma Antiques” business, all Gemma did was ship things. I didn't let her do much else. “But you're so good at packing things up.”

“I can be good at finding antiques too, but you won't let me!” Gemma gave me a sad look. She dashed a hand across her eyes, and I felt guilty. Gemma was the only person in the world I had. We'd grown up at the same state foster home together. She was my family and I was hers. “We can always just forfeit the money and I'll just pack boxes for the rest of my life.”

“I'm sorry, Gem. I just get nervous thinking about all that money.”

“Which is why you have to trust me.” She clasped her hands under her chin and gazed at me. “Please, Linds.”

I sighed heavily, because I sensed I was losing this battle. Heck, I'd already lost it. Ten grand down the drain. “All right. I guess we can go check it out.”

“Fucking awesome!” Gemma said, and clapped her hands like a little girl. “This is going to be badass. I just know it.”

“So where's this beach house at?”

Gemma widened her eyes innocently. “I didn't say it was a beach house. I said it was on the water.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “Where on the water?”

“Venice.”

I sputtered.

I
pulled the renter's envelope open and found an old, antique key, then held it up to Gemma.

She rubbed her hands together. “Let's do this thing.”

“I'm glad one of us is excited,” I teased, though I was getting more excited by the minute. Venice was like something out of a fairy tale, and if dreams could come true, why not here? In a six-hundred-year-old apartment building? We stood on the doorstep of our unseen apartment, which could either be filled with untold treasures . . . or copious amounts of junk. I was hoping for the former.

The stairs were narrow and steep, the small hall barely big enough to fit our shoulders. “Jeez, Venetians are some tiny fuckers,” Gemma commented, shifting on her feet in the entryway. “How do they get couches upstairs?”

“No clue,” I told her, the heavy key clutched in my hand. The door was small, wooden, and unassuming. This was it. This was what ten grand had bought us. “Here we go.”

Next to me, Gemma bounced. “I'm so excited!”

And I was so scared. Visions of living out of a cardboard box under a bridge floated through my mind. Uneasy, I put the key in the lock and turned it, then pushed the door open.

A cloud of dust puffed. I coughed, waving my hands in the air. “What the heck?”

“Maybe no one's been up here in a while,” Gemma said, then sneezed. “Remember that one apartment in France that no one lived in for sixty years?”

If that was the case, this might not be too bad. I waved my hand in the air, waiting for the dust to clear. The entryway was dark, so I fumbled on the wall for a light switch before stepping inside.

The lights came on with a flicker, and both Gemma and I gasped.

The room was narrow, the ceiling high. And in the dim light, we could see that, floor to ceiling, it was full of boxes. Completely, horrifically full. I could barely step into the place for fear of a teetering tower of boxes crashing down. Piles of newspapers lay on a nearby table, and upholstered chairs were covered with dust and stacks of old frames.

“Oh my God,” I coughed.

“Wow,” Gemma said. “It's like a hoarder's paradise in here.”

“It is,” I said, dismayed. “There's so much stuff. How are we ever going to get through it all?” Everywhere I looked, there were boxes, more boxes, and dust.
Everywhere
.

“Well, we have a month,” Gemma said brightly. “Just think of all the money we'll make!” In the packed kitchen, Gemma tried the faucets. While they groaned a protest, they seemed to be in working order. “This place probably hasn't been used in decades. Who the hell owns an apartment in Venice and never uses it?”

“Rich people,” I told her.

“Well, if they're rich, then they're bound to have some good shit somewhere. We just have to find it.”

She had a point. “The bedrooms might be promising,” I told her. We went upstairs and checked them. The closets were full of vintage clothing and crammed with unworn shoes, and one dresser was brimming with costume jewelry. At least I was pretty sure it was costume jewelry, though I'd have to get it inspected just to be sure. I glanced around and then looked at Gemma, whose eyes were big and hopeful as she gazed at me. She desperately, desperately wanted this to be a good thing for us.

I didn't have the heart to burst her bubble, so I smiled and said, “This could work.”

Gemma squeezed my arm and gave a happy little squeal. “This is so cool, isn't it? We're in Venice for a month! Digging through someone's old shit! This is the life!”

“It is,” I agreed, though with far less enthusiasm. “I guess we should air out the bedding if we're going to stay here for a bit.” We couldn't afford a hotel. “We can clean up a bit, clear off a bed, and then maybe head down for dinner before getting to work?”

“Now you're talking,” Gemma told me. Then she gasped. “Wait. You don't think this place is haunted, do you? Is that why it's been deserted?”

I snorted. “Please. That stuff is nothing but fairy tales. The only things alive in this place are dust mites.”

I ran a strip of tape over a box, sealing it, then stood and rubbed the small of my back. I ached everywhere. “Where are we putting the stuff to ship?” I called out to Gemma.

“In the kitchen,” she bellowed from upstairs.

I eyed the stack of boxes blocking me and my latest package from getting to the kitchen. “Can't we put them by the door?”

“No,” she yelled again. “I have a system. Kitchen!”

Damn it. I shoved a stack of boxes out of the way and hauled my package into the kitchen, staggering as I did so. This was so not my line of work. I was the hunter, the eye for treasure. I went out and scoped out sales and found bargains. Gemma was the one who organized and boxed things. All we'd done for the last two days was pick through old junk, get dirty, and haul more crap off to the local dump.

It was miserable, hard work, and I hated it.

Worse than that, we'd barely scratched the surface of things. We'd cleared enough to open the front door, but we still couldn't access the dining room. The kitchen was an unholy mess, and the tiny walkway we'd made through the living area seemed to fill up with more stuff as quickly as we cleaned it out.

For every box of decent stuff, there were two boxes of junk. Some of it was interesting but didn't warrant being shipped back to the States. I'd contacted the owner of a local curio shop, who would come by in the next day or two to check things out, but I wasn't sure they'd find enough to make a dent in the looming mess.

Three weeks was not going to be enough time to clean this place out. We'd need months. Maybe even a year.

I grew more depressed as I opened another box and found it full of moth-eaten sweaters. More garbage. More stuff we couldn't sell. Gemma and I had stayed up late last night, trying to approximate how much we thought we could make based off what we'd found so far.

The news wasn't good. Sure, there was money to be made, considering that everything in the Venetian apartment was at least thirty years old. But the cost of shipping it home so we could sell it? Expensive. Gemma was so excited about things, though, that I kept my unhappy thoughts to myself and just worked harder.

There had to be something of value in this place.
Had to be
. We just needed to find it.

The doorway to the blocked-off dining room taunted me. I eyed it with new determination and approached. The wood of the door was heavy, and I pushed at it again. Boxes on the other side prevented me from opening it fully, so I gave it another brutal shove, frustrated.

It budged an inch.

Aha. Encouraged, I eyed the crack and wedged my knee in there, then pushed my entire body weight against the door again.

It moved another inch. I kept at it until the door was open enough to wriggle and squirm my way through. By the time I got to the other side, I'd scraped my belly on the door handle and my T-shirt had a tear in it, but I was through. I straightened up, dusted my hands off, and looked around.

More boxes.

With a sigh, I picked my way forward. There was a lovely dining room table and a set of six chairs, all of it thick, heavy wood. That would not be coming back to the States with us. I imagined the shipping costs would be more than the entire fee Gemma had paid for us to come raid this place. I ran a finger over the table's surface and watched a line appear in the thick dust. This was so discouraging. I looked around the room. At the far end was a heavy wooden buffet, with a small, square, ugly painting of a pastoral scene hanging over it. Curious, I peered at the painting. Real oils. Huh. I couldn't make out the name, so I leaned in closer.

The painting fell off the wall and dropped behind the buffet.

“Drat,” I muttered, then eyed the buffet. If I'd been able to move that heavy door, surely I could push this aside, right? With a determined shove, I gave it everything I had.

Didn't budge.

I frowned, opening the drawers of the buffet. They were made of a light wood, which was odd, considering how heavy the damn thing was. I opened each drawer; they were filled with tablecloths and a few items for setting the table. Nothing heavy. So why couldn't I push the damn thing aside to get that painting?

Frustrated, I gave the buffet another shove. It didn't move at all. I bent down to the ground and peered at the carved feet.

It was nailed to the floor.

What the heck? I frowned at the dusty marble floor. How exactly did one nail wood to a marble floor? I felt around under the buffet, then snatched my hand back. What if there were mice? I climbed on the buffet again and lay flat along the top of it, my fingers moving against the wall behind it. Maybe if I could snag the edge of the painting's frame, I could pull it back up.

So I reached. And squirmed. And just when I was about to give up, my fingers touched something hard jutting out from behind the buffet. Aha! My painting! I gave a tug with my fingertip.

The entire wall shuddered and moved, spinning around and nearly flinging me off the buffet.

I screamed.

“Lindsey?” Gemma cried out from somewhere upstairs. “Are you all right?”

I had no idea. I stared in shock at my surroundings. Like something out of a Scooby-Doo episode, I'd tripped a secret switch and the entire wall had flipped around, carrying me with it. Now my legs dangled in the dining room while the rest of me peered over the edge of the buffet into darkness.

An echoing darkness.

With a shiver, I sat up, scurried off the furniture, and stumbled backward. Holy cow. A secret door. A secret room! It was all shrouded in darkness, so I couldn't see what was in there. I moved closer, and the room smelled old and dusty, and a bit damp.

“What the fuck, Lindsey! Are you okay?” Gemma pushed her way into the box-filled dining room. Then she stopped in her tracks and stared. “Oh my God, what the hell is that?”

“I think it's a secret room,” I told her, panting. My heart was racing a mile a minute. “Did Franco mention it to you?”

“No!” She moved to my side, her fingers digging into my arm. “Do you think it's haunted?”

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Gemma thought that because the place was six hundred years old, it was crawling with ghosts. I hadn't believed her, but then again, I hadn't anticipated finding a secret room, either. “Do you have a flashlight? My phone's just about dead.”

“What? Why?” She looked shocked. “You're not going in there, are you?”

“I might as well,” I told her, warming up to the idea. “I mean, if you were old rich crazy people, where would you hide all your good stuff?”

“In a secret room,” she said, her eyes wide. “Fuck-a-doodle, do you think there's treasure? Real treasure?”

“I don't know, but I'm thinking that's the most likely place to hide something,” I told her.

“What about ghosts?”

“I can always sell a painting as haunted,” I told her dryly. “I bet that'd make it worth more.”

*  *  *

Twenty minutes later, we found a pair of flashlights, ran to the corner store for batteries, then braced ourselves to go exploring. Gemma wasn't keen on the idea, but she said that if I was going down there, she was, too.

I shone my flashlight into the dark room, expecting it to be closet sized. To my surprise, it was a tiny room with a turn that led around a corner, and I could see nothing interesting except a few cobwebs. Water dripped from an exposed pipe. That was about it.

“We should see where this goes,” I told Gemma.

“You first.”

I took the lead, sliding past the buffet into the crawl space. As I turned the corner, I peered around cautiously . . . and gasped.

“Ohmigod, what?” Gemma shrieked behind me. “What do you see?”