"Trust everybody, but cut the cards."

~ Finley Peter Dunne, humorist

The dirt floor of the wine cellar feels under foot like concrete rather than soil. Where it isn't packed down from foot traffic, it's stomped on by rows upon rows of wine casks. Most casks report their vintages in the early 1900s, but a few go as far back as the 1860s.

Carter stumbles into a stack of casks. They're too heavy for him to knock over, but he is drunk enough to be knocked over by them.

"Ukraine bullshit. No one knows. Was dead when I got there," he says. His light conversation with Zandra on the way to the wine cellar devolved into whatever enters his mind at a given moment.

Zandra, dragging a shovel behind her, pulls cords hanging from the ceiling as they push deeper into the wine cellar. Light bulbs turn on to guide their way. The cellar could double as a garage for collectible cars. The air is damp, but not in an unpleasant way. Appliances whir on and off somewhere in the background, probably to control the humidity.

Just a matter of getting the right setup. It'll come.

Carter slumps against the side of a wine cask, chuckling to himself. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and grimaces at the smear the motion leaves on his skin.

Zandra leaves him behind, taking note of where the cords from the ceiling are and aren't. She approaches a corner and notices a gap between the cords. It's dark, and it will probably stay that way.

"Over here, child," Zandra says.

"M'kay," comes the response, followed by a drunken slide from the edge of one cask to another. Zandra toys with lighting a cigarette, but she's not sure what fumes the casks toss into the air.

"Oh, shit," Carter says just before Zandra hears the sound of his body hitting something with a resolute thump.

Zandra makes her way back to the thump. She finds Carter moaning at the bottom of a hole in the dirt. The hole is about four feet deep, and its dimensions would hold two adults laying down. It's situated near a spigot sticking out of a wine cask. A pair of shovels rest next to the hole.

Carter did mention how interested Melvin was in the wine cellar during the ghost hunt. Melvin must've heard the same rumors about the money being down here.

Exactly how far were they planning on digging? And why here?

"Your dumb Spirit Boxes," is all Carter can say as he tries to find a limb with enough support left in it to lift his weight out of the hole.

"Lots of spirits down here," Zandra says, looking at the wine. She stuffs the blade of the shovel into the dirt and leans on the handle like a road worker on break. "So you and Melvin, and maybe Hank, went looking for buried treasure instead of ghost hunting."

"Eh," Carter says.

"Eh is right, not that you're listening anymore," Zandra says.

Zandra shifts off of the shovel. She takes a couple steps to the spigot sticking out of the cask.

I suppose this is better than my original plan, which was to just hit you with the shovel. Thank your lucky stars you fell in that hole first. This mud bath will keep you in place. I don't need a wandering drunk, especially in a place like this. It might take years before anyone finds you.

Zandra opens the spigot.

"I never, ever, with the Kiev," Carter says as the cask starts to empty into the hole. He props himself up with elbows. "Nice shower."

It takes some doing, but Zandra finds a way to shovel dirt without her bad ankle folding over. She tosses a shovel full onto Carter's lap. Then another, and another. He flips over onto his stomach and hoists his head and shoulder above the edge of the hole.

"You have no idea what's going on, do you?" Zandra says.

"Does this massage come with that thing at the end?" Carter says and rolls onto his back.

Good.

"Only in Kiev," Zandra says and sends another load of dirt onto him.

The wine mixes with the dirt, forming a mud like wet cement. There's more than enough wine to fill the hole.

Zandra tosses the shovel to the side. She rinses the dirt from her hands with the wine pouring out of the cask. The lawnmower knife takes a shower, too, to wash away The Crocodile's gristle.

"I don't know how much money is in that hole, or not, Carter, but you're right where you need to be," Zandra says.

"It's good. Little this, little that," Carter says and tips his loose head straight back.

"Yeah. All good. Nighty night."

As she shuffles by, Zandra gives Carter's head a nudge. His head rolls to the side so he won't choke if he vomits.

You're a marvelous piece of shit, Carter, truly one of the best in your class. Tonight, though, isn't about you. Perhaps we'll settle up another time.

Zandra leaves the lights on as she makes her way out of the wine cellar. She takes the long way back to the lounge, stopping at a bathroom featuring a gold-leafed toilet and sink combo. She splashes cold water on her face, feeling the heat dissipate into the cool drops raining into the sink.

Time to end this.

When she releases her grip on the sink, she notices something stuck to her hand. A flake of gold came up with her palm.

That coprolite Gene Carey is dead. In life he owned all this, and the shit he spent all that time and money on is decaying along with his corpse in the ground. They say this place is haunted. They might be right. This house is his legacy, his rotting zombie, and it attracts flies.

All sort of flies.

Zandra expects screams from somewhere in the house. None come. She leaves the bathroom and resumes her trek toward the lounge. She passes rooms with open doors and busy shadows inside, but she doesn't stop to investigate further.

Go away. I'm not a psychic.

The flash of a face out of the corner of her eye has her picking up her pace, bad ankle be damned.

Ghosts aren't real. Psychics aren't real. No one can talk to the dead.

Another flash. She rubs at her tired eyes.

It's just my imagination, or the onset of a panic attack, or the stress.

Zandra slows her gait and lights a cigarette to cool her nerves. No more faces or flashes. No more dancing shadows.

Need to keep my head steady.

Zandra turns the last corner before the lounge and relaxes her body so her posture isn't suspicious. She takes as deep a breath as her nicotine-stained lungs will allow when Sunglasses and Hank come into view.

"Well?" Sunglasses says. He stands next to a handcuffed Hank, who sits cross-legged on the floor with duct tape covering his mouth.

I see you received my hint.

"Carter fell asleep. We're not rich, not yet," Zandra says.

Hank attempts to scoot toward Zandra, but Sunglasses's foot keeps him in place.

"I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of tying up this loose end," Sunglasses says. "Would you say Hank is our would-be murderer?"

Zandra watches Sunglasses slip a hand inside his jacket pocket with the Spirit Box inside. She grins and says, "I might say so."

Hank worms away from Sunglasses's foot toward Zandra, but he's no closer to refuge. Zandra draws the lawnmower knife with her right hand, and then reaches down for a fist full of Hank's hair with her left. With a tug, Hank's posture straightens enough to rise to his knees.

Sunglasses nods. "For official purposes, would you mind saying exactly that, out loud? I hope you understand, I need to get a clear, direct result from you. Then we'll proceed with how you arrived at that conclusion."

Zandra's grin hardens, the amicable crease stretching into something fiendish. "No."