“Okay,” Lula said. “The coast is still clear.”
I opened the cellar door and flipped the light switch. Scarred wood stairs, gray cement floor, cobwebby rafters, and creepy rumbly cellar sounds. No disappointment here.
“Something wrong?” Lula asked.
“It's creepy.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I don't want to go down there.”
“It's just a cellar,” Lula said.
“How about if you go down.”
“Not me. I hate cellars. They're creepy.”
“Do you have a gun?”
“Do bears shit in the woods?”
I borrowed Lula's gun and crept down the cellar stairs. I don't know what I was going to do with the gun. Shoot a spider, maybe.
There was a washer and dryer in the cellar. A pegboard with tools . . . screwdrivers, wrenches, hammers. A workbench with a vise attached. None of the tools looked recently used. Some cardboard cartons were stacked in a corner. The boxes were closed but not sealed. The tape that had sealed them was left on the floor. I snooped in a couple of the boxes. Christmas decorations, some books, a box of pie plates and casserole dishes. No bread crumbs.
I climbed the stairs and closed the cellar door. Lula was still looking out the window.
“Uh-oh,” Lula said.
“What uh-oh?” I hate uh-oh!
“Cop car just pulled up.”
“Shit!”
I grabbed Bob's leash, and Lula and I ran for the back door. We exited the house and scooted over to the stoop that served as back porch to Angela's house. Lula wrenched Angela's door open and we all jumped inside.
Angela and her mother were sitting at the small kitchen table, having coffee and cake.
“Help! Police!” Angela's mother yelled when we burst through the door.
“This is Stephanie,” Angela shouted to her mother. “You remember Stephanie?”
“Who?”
“Stephanie!”
“What's she want?”
“We changed our mind about the cake,” I said, pulling a chair out, sitting down.
“What?” Angela's mother yelled. “What?”
“Cake,” Angela yelled back at her mother. “They want some cake.”
“Well for God's sake give it to them before they shoot us.”
Lula and I looked at the gun in my hand.