“Exactly.” I move to the heavy oak wine rack nearest thepanel. “If we reposition these three racks, create a solid wall of inventory...”
“You’d need to move at least fifty bottles.”
“Sixty-seven,” I correct automatically. “We’ll stack the new cases in front of them. No one questions a wine stockpile in a jazz club.”
“The smell, though.” Adrian’s expression tightens with concern.
I grimace, running a hand through my hair. “I know. The mummies are perfect—no odor at all. It’s the earlier work that’s causing problems. The ones from before I perfected the preservation technique.”
“The freezer units?”
“Exactly. Ten of my first subjects are still in the old cold storage room. The cooling system was connected to the pipes that burst during the water main break. Temperature’s been fluctuating ever since.”
Adrian nods slowly. “That’s why the smell is escaping. Your earliest collection.”
“My formative years,” I mutter, thinking of those first righteous kills—the rapist who walked free, the drunk driver who killed a family of four and paid his way out of prison. “I couldn’t bring myself to dispose of them completely. They were... educational.”
“Sentimental, even.” Adrian’s tone holds no judgment, just understanding. “Your evolution as an artist.”
I walk to the industrial breaker panel on the opposite wall. “I’ve got industrial-strength air purifiers in storage. We run them all night, redirect the ventilation through the old kitchen ducts.” I trace the path with my finger. “It’s not perfect, but it’ll mask enough for a casual inspection.”
“And Caruso?”
“I’ll handle him personally. Give him the VIP treatment.Limited tour, plenty of distractions.” I allow myself a tight smile. “He’s married to that twenty-five-year-old Instagram model. I’ll have Elise work the bar tomorrow—you know how men get around her.”
Adrian raises an eyebrow. “And if that doesn’t work?”
I’ve already considered this. “Then he’ll eventually join my collection. Just not tomorrow.”
We begin moving wine bottles, creating a barrier between my secret and the world. Each bottle placed feels like another lock sliding into place, securing both our safety and my treasures beyond.
The doorbell chimes upstairs, three short bursts that echo down to the wine cellar.
“Right on time,” I say, checking my watch. It’s exactly 4:30. “That’ll be Moretti with the Bordeaux.”
“I’ll keep working here,” Adrian says, meticulously realigning bottles on the rack we’ve moved.
I take the stairs two at a time, unlocking the service entrance where Moretti stands with his dolly loaded with wooden crates. The Italian importer has supplied my wine for years, with no questions asked about my orders.
“Eight cases of the ‘09 Bordeaux, Mr. Dawson,” he says, already wheeling the first stack inside. “Premium stuff. You throwing a special event?”
“Yes, actually. Jazz Heritage Weekend next month,” I answer, signing his digital pad with a quick scrawl. “Got Donovan Blake quartet booked for three nights. His followers have expensive taste in wine to match their taste in music.”
“Blake’s coming here? Nice get.” Moretti sounds genuinely impressed as he maneuvers the dolly. “Take these straight down to the cellar?”
“Please.”
Moretti navigates the narrow staircase with practiced ease. When he catches sight of Adrian in my wine cellar, he merely nods. Moretti has seen Adrian here enough times.
Twenty minutes later, the cellar floor is stacked with eight wooden crates bearing the distinctive mark of Château Margaux. Moretti leaves with a generous tip, and Adrian and I survey our work.
“Perfect timing,” Adrian remarks, running his hand along one of the crates. “These will complete our little barricade quite nicely.”
We work in practiced synchronicity, removing bottles from their wooden nests and arranging them against the wall in a configuration. The dark glass gleams under the cellar lights as we create an impenetrable barrier. I position each bottle carefully, ensuring maximum stability while completely obscuring the panel door behind.
“There,” I say finally, stepping back to admire our handiwork. The wine racks and newly stacked Bordeaux create a solid wall of glass and liquid, rendering the hidden panel completely inaccessible without major disruption. “Even if Caruso insists on a complete tour, he’d have to move sixty-seven bottles, a metal wine rack, and eight cases to find anything suspicious.”
Adrian slides the last bottle into place, completing our fortress of fermented grapes. “No one questions a wine stockpile in a jazz club,” he echoes my earlier words. “Especially not one as impressive as this.”
