Chapter 7 - THE TRAPPED BREATH
The smell of gas was immediate and suffocating.
“He broke the main line,” Maya choked out, covering Leo’s face with the fabric of her dress. “Clara, we’re going to suffocate in here!”
I ran back down the stairs, coughing as the heavy gas settled near the floor. I looked around the dim, brick-lined cellar. There were no windows. The walls were thick stone, built to keep the temperature perfectly stable for decades.
Sam gripped my leg, his small eyes wide with terror. “Aunt Clara, it smells bad.”
“I know, Sammy. Cover your nose,” I ordered, ripping a piece of clean fabric from my white under-dress and tying it around his face like a mask.
I rushed to the corner where the hissing sound was loudest. Behind a row of dusty Pinot Noir bottles, a thick iron gas pipe had been deliberately snapped at the joint. The gas was pouring out at high pressure.
I tried to block it with my hands, but the pressure was too strong, and the freezing gas burned my skin.
“We need to plug it!” I yelled over the hissing noise.
I looked frantically around the room. Wine corks were too small. The fabric from my dress was too porous.
Then, I looked down at the floor near the servers.
When I had ripped off the sleeves of the clown suit, the red foam nose had fallen out of my pocket.
It was made of dense, synthetic polyurethane foam.
I scrambled across the floor, grabbed the red nose, and rushed back to the pipe. I shoved the foam ball directly into the broken joint.
It didn't stop the leak completely, but the dense foam expanded slightly under the pressure, significantly slowing the hiss to a faint whisper.
“It won't hold for long,” Maya coughed, her eyes watering. “We need a way out.”
I scanned the walls. High up near the ceiling, on the far side of the cellar, was an old, rusted iron grate. It was a coal chute from the 1920s, leading out to the estate’s side lawns.
“There!” I pointed.
I grabbed a heavy wooden wine crate, dumped the expensive bottles onto the floor, and dragged the crate directly beneath the grate. I climbed up, balancing precariously in my heels.
The iron grate was padlocked with a thick, rusted master lock.
“It’s locked!” I yelled in frustration, hitting it with my bare hands.
“Use this!”
I looked down. Maya was holding up the heavy, rusted vintage skeleton key that had opened the cellar door.
I grabbed the key. It obviously wouldn't fit the modern padlock, but it was made of solid, heavy cast iron. It was essentially a six-inch metal spike.
I jammed the thick end of the skeleton key into the gap between the padlock and the iron latch.
“Sam, back up!” I yelled.
I grabbed the heaviest champagne bottle I could find from the top rack. Gripping it by the neck, I swung it like a hammer, smashing the heavy glass base directly against the end of the skeleton key.
CLANG.
The lock held.
I swung again, ignoring the burning in my lungs as the gas began to build up in the room once more.
CLANG.
The glass bottle shattered, slicing my hand, but the sheer force drove the iron key upward, snapping the rusted internal spring of the padlock.
The lock fell away.
I shoved the heavy iron grate open, welcoming the rush of cold, rainy air.
“Maya, hand me the boys!” I yelled, pulling myself up into the narrow, dirt-lined chute.
Maya lifted Sam up to me. I hauled him through the grate, pushing him out onto the wet grass of the estate. Next came little Leo, crying but safe. Finally, I reached down and pulled Maya up.
We collapsed onto the manicured lawn of Whitmore Hall, gasping for clean air, shivering in the freezing rain.
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder by the second.
I looked toward the front of the estate. Blue and red lights flashed against the stone walls. My bridesmaids had actually called the police.
I stood up, my white dress stained with dirt and blood, the remnants of my yellow clown suit hanging in tatters.
“Let’s go crash a wedding,” I said fiercely.
We marched around to the front doors just as three police cruisers slammed into park.
Standing on the front steps, looking completely composed, was Elise Whitmore. She was speaking to the Chief of Police, a man who had regularly attended her charity galas.
When Elise saw me walk out of the darkness, alive and furious, her face contorted in sheer hatred.
May you like
She pointed a perfectly manicured finger directly at me.
“Chief Evans, arrest that woman!” Elise commanded. “She had a psychotic break, locked my son in a closet, and attempted to burn down my historic venue by sabotaging the gas lines!”
