Twanged by Carol Higgins Clark Page A

Chappy stood. “Onward and upward.”
    “Okay, boss.”
    Through another secret door they went, this one opening onto the tunnel that led straight to the basement of the guest house. This tunnel was also where the booze was stored during the fourteen years of Prohibition, starting in 1920. Because Prohibition was so flagrantly violated, a popular song of the day had been “Everybody Wants a Key to My Cellar.” That was certainly true in Grandpa Tinka’s case. He’d had this long tunnel built to use not only for storing the bottles and bottles of contraband he always managed to procure, but also as a secret passageway for his drinking buddies to get to the speakeasy from the guest house. He never wanted them coming through the main house. Not only was he afraid of the main house being watched more carefully by the police, but he didn’t want his wife, Agneta, having to cope with anyone stumbling out at the end of the night.
    The tunnel was dark and damp. It smelled earthy and occasionally a bug or little animals would make Chappy scream. Now he and Duke moved, single file, through the subterranean passageway that opened onto the corner of the basement beneath Brigid’s guest house. Another secret door had been built so as not to be noticed by the casual observer who happened to be in that basement.
    No use letting people know about the tunnel and that Grandpa Tinka had been an outlaw, Chappy often thought. Chappy’s mother had preferred that no mention of his colorful history be made in polite society.
    The door upstairs in the guest house that led to the basement had no handle, per Chappy’s design. It could be opened only from the other side by someone who was on the basement steps. Since no guest would have any reason to go to the basement, Chappy had in effect sealed it off.
    “Well, we’re here,” Duke said, pushing his hair back as they opened the door and stepped out onto the cement floor.
    “Shhhh,” Chappy commanded.
    “But nobody’s home.”
    “You never know!” Chappy said sharply.
    Silently they crept up the steps and stopped at the door to listen. They could hear nothing but the sounds of the surf outside and birds cawing as they flew overhead.
    “You’ve got the camera?” Chappy asked.
    Duke nodded solemnly.
    His whole body trembling, Chappy slowly opened the door and looked around. No one was there. A breeze was blowing through the window. Papers were on the table. The sun was streaming in and the whole house was quiet. He turned to Duke. “Come on.”
    Leaving the door wide open behind them so as not to be locked in, they both ran through the downstairs room and bumbled up the staircase to Brigid’s room. The door was closed. Chappy stopped and listened and then opened it. Brigid’s brush and creams and perfume were arranged neatly on the dresser. Her suitcases were stacked in the corner. The bed was made.
    “What a good guest,” Chappy mumbled as he dove to the floor and checked under the bed. “Aha!” he cried. “Aha!”
    He pulled out the fiddle case and lifted it onto the bed. “This case is a little better than the other,” he said to the hovering Duke. When he opened it, his knees almost buckled.
    The sight of the CT right there in front of him was almost too much to bear.
    “Chappy Tinka!” he cried. “Chappy Tinka.” His eyes grew moist as he lovingly lifted the fiddle and cradled it in his arms. The bow was in the case. “Too bad we can’t take it now! Should I play, Duke? Should I play it?”
    Duke shifted from one foot to the other. “I think we’d better just take the pictures. They might get back soon.”
    “You’re right. Oh God, you’re right.” Chappy laid the fiddle on the white bedspread, and Duke started snapping away. They turned it over and snapped. They held it sideways and snapped. After Duke used up the whole package of film, Chappy lifted it again as if it were a newborn babe. “Mine, all mine,” he said. “This will bring luck to our