I was now low enough to see that beyond the stairs was a hallway.
I’d been right that this was the back or less-used staircase.
The familiar sounds of a washing machine and dryer came from a room to the left. To the right I saw two closed doors and straight ahead a kitchen. I could only see a small part, some cupboards and counter space. At the moment, I had no desire to see more or to learn if Miss Guidry was still there.
Holding tightly to the bottom square cap at the end of the banister, I took a quick check in the opposite direction, away from the kitchen and beside the stairs. My heart skipped a beat at what I found—a door.
A merciful, lovely tall wooden door with a large glass pane in the middle.
Beyond the glass I could make out concrete stairs and a sidewalk illuminated by the afternoon sun.
Holding my breath, I took one more look toward the kitchen and took off as fast as I could toward the door. I didn’t have time to wonder if there would be an alarm or cameras. I just simply ran, coming to a halt as the old doorknob remained steadfast.
While continually checking behind me, I took notice of a small rack of keys attached to the wall beside the door and reached for all the keys. My body tensed as two fell to the old wood floor. For a moment, I stood perfectly still, waiting for my presence to be detected.
As time passed, I picked up the keys and held all five in the palm of my hand. My mind told me that opening the door couldn’t really be this easy, but my beating heart said I had to try.
With a shaking hand, I inserted the first key. It went in, but wouldn’t turn. The second key didn’t even go into the keyhole and neither did the third. My surging circulation had me almost to the point of fainting when mercifully, the fourth key turned, the locking mechanism clicking as the dead bolt disengaged.
For only a second, I stood statuesque, waiting for the alarms.
My imagination ran wild with every movie I’d ever seen or book I’d ever read.
A pointed fence would descend and alarms would wail much like those found on a prison wall or those to warn of tornados. Hell, maybe even dogs would be released from their kennels where they were kept half-starved for just such a hunt.
The knob twisted as I pulled the door inward.
A welcome silence prevailed.
No iron gates.
No barking dogs.
No howling sirens.
Stepping outside, I quietly closed the door behind me.
Warm sun bathed my cheeks as I anticipated a New Orleans street filled with locals and tourists alike. Instead, I stilled at the bottom of the stairs, looking out over a concrete lot, surrounded by tall brick walls, complete with an ornamented iron fence sitting on top of the nine feet of brick.
My quick deduction was that this was where the Ramses estate or mansion or prison—I didn’t have time to decide on the proper descriptor—received deliveries. Certainly, Everett Ramses didn’t welcome guests to the kitchen and laundry room.
At the far side, in plain view of everyone, was a large iron gate.
From my distance, I wasn’t sure if I could fit between the rungs.
There was always the possibility of climbing the bricks. But scaling walls had never been my forte.
It was then that I noticed a wooden door to the right.
Looking down and opening my palm, I stared at the five keys I’d appropriated.
Trying to avoid the wide open, I slithered along the wall as concrete bit the soles of my bare feet. When I finally made it to the door, I attempted to turn the knob. I couldn’t recall which key worked on the house door to eliminate that one. Instead, I started over, one by one, and gave each key a try. I’d always heard that it was the last ofwhateverone tries. For example: I found my glasses in the last place I looked. Of course it was.
Why would anyone keep trying after success?
Once a key turned, the old hinges creaked as I pushed the door inward.
I blinked my eyes into the dim interior filled with the prevailing scent of must, followed by the scent of fuel. To the side was a workbench, complete with tools hanging on small pegs. To the left was an open space and a garage door.