Page 51 of Murder in the Lighthouse

Birk indicated it was time to move on. As Lucien followed, exiting the cemetery through the back gate, he could only imagine the ghosts watching their every move.

Their next target was the old wine vault. Using Brogan’s hand-drawn map, Birk led the way to a heavy wooden door covered in English ivy and almost hidden from view. He quickly picked the lock before they descended a set of steps into the cool darkness, the beams from their flashlights revealing a tunnel leading underground. They fought cobwebs as the air around them felt thick with the scent of damp earth and fermented wine.

The tunnel opened to a vast chamber lined with rows of wine barrels covered in dust. Some were cracked and leaking their contents onto the ground. Lucien ran his fingers along the labels, noting the dates and vintages.

Birk tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to a corner. Nestled behind a stack of barrels was a small, rusted iron door. Birk knelt down to inspect the lock, his brow furrowed in concentration. With a click, it sprang open, revealing a narrow passageway disappearing into more darkness.

They found more cobwebs and crumbling stone walls. The air grew colder here, a perfect place to hide bodies. Each step echoed off the stone walls, creating an eerie cadence that matched the pounding of their hearts. The passage twisted and turned, leading them further into the unknown depths beneath the vineyard. The frigid air wrapped around them like a shivering embrace, squeezing tight across their chest. They emerged into a larger chamber, their flashlights revealing more old barrels.

Disappointed, Lucien whispered, “We’ve reached a dead end. There’s nothing here except more of those rotting wooden barrels. How far do you think we’ve come.”

“Probably half a mile underground. Let’s head back the way we came.”

They retraced their steps through the dark passageways. The oppressive silence weighed on them, broken only by the resonance of their footsteps and the constant drip, drip, drip of water from the damp walls.

The two were grateful when they found their way back outside. But they had one other place to check.

They hiked in a northerly direction toward the farthest corner of the property. In the distance, they could make out the silhouette of an old, abandoned pump house. They walked past a small pond, crouching down low, scanning the area to ensure no one guarded it. No one was around. In the light, nestled in the grove of trees, stood a brick pump house used as an irrigation station for decades. Made from adobe and cinder blocks, it had seen better days. The windows were shattered, and the door hung precariously on one hinge.

Creeping closer, they could hear the faint sound of water dripping into the pond. Together, they approached the ramshackle building and stood outside the door. Birk ran his fingers along the edges to check for traps or alarms. He shook his head.

“Clear,” he whispered, pushing the door open. It let out a loud creak that rebounded through the night air.

As they entered, the smell of mildew and decay assaulted their senses. Their flashlights illuminated the interior, revealing a small, musty room with a rusted-out pump in the corner.

Lucien shined his flashlight along the dirt floor, its beam cutting through the gloom, revealing a scene that made his blood run cold.

Two shallow graves were hastily dug and crudely covered with dirt, leaf debris, and small branches. Lucien knelt beside the first grave and cleared away the top layer of leaves. With his gloved hands, he dug until he reached the layer of topsoil. With each handful of dirt he removed the shape of a man’s body emerged, contorted in an unnatural position as if he’d been dumped and left to rot.

Birk knelt beside Lucien next to the second grave. His jaw clenched in grim resolve as they moved the dirt together. “I don’t think we should go any further. Look at the hair. It’s obvious we just found Bethany Heywood.”

“What about the other one? It looks male. It also looks as though it’s been here longer.”

“My guess would be Owen Quinn.”

After another thirty minutes of working on the second grave, they unearthed enough of the second body to assure themselves it belonged to a female.

“Photos,” Lucien muttered. “We need pictures to send to Theo and Trish, showing them what we found. And the GIS coordinates.”

“I’ll handle the coordinates and send them a pin,” Birk mumbled. “You take the photos. I haven’t seen anything this morbid since Afghanistan.”

Lucien nodded, his hands steady as he took out his phone to capture the horrific scene. The soft light from the device illuminated the twisted forms of the bodies in stark contrast against the dark, earthen graves. Each photo he took felt like a heavy weight on his soul, a reminder of the darkness lurking beneath the serene face of the fancy winery.

Lucien finished taking the photos just as Birk sent the GPS coordinates to Theo and Trish, along with a terse message about their grisly find.

“Got a response,” Birk said, holding up his phone. “Theo wants us to secure the area and wait. He’s coming in quiet, no sirens. We’re to stay put to make sure no one gets near this place until he arrives around four. We use flashlights to indicate our location when he gets close to the parking lot.”

But Lucien had already moved on to another issue. He traded looks with Birk. “It occurs to me that if Bethany is buried here, where’s her car? She borrowed her mother’s Mazda that morning. It’s gotta be around here somewhere on the property, right?”

“I like the way you think. It would need to be someplace big enough to house a vehicle.”

“Maybe two vehicles,” Lucien pointed out. “Owen Quinn sure didn’t walk here.”

“Good point. When Jade and I were here before, we noticeda Quonset hutadjacent to where they tested the wine. That’s big enough to use as a hangar, large enough to store a couple of airplanes.”

“Perfect. But we can’t leave this place unguarded. One of us has to stay.”

“It was your idea to look for the car. You go.”

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