Chapter 5: Shadows in the Vault
Mrs. Higgins stepped fully into the silver vault, the heavy iron door clicking shut behind her with a definitive, chilling snap. The dim overhead lights cast long, distorted shadows across the rows of polished metal shelves, making the cavernous room feel suddenly claustrophobic. I stood rigid beside the empty shelf, the master inventory clipboard clutched tightly in my fingers.
"You think a few compliments from Mr. Vance and a fancy brass key ring makes you the mistress of this estate?" Mrs. Higgins murmured, her voice laced with venom as she closed the distance between us. "You're nothing more than a maid who got lucky in the foyer. But luck runs out."
"The French soup tureen is missing from the registry, Mrs. Higgins," I replied, forcing my voice to remain steady despite the hammering of my heart against my ribs. "Your signature is on yesterday's release log. Where is it?"
The head housekeeper let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Check your own employee locker downstairs, Evelyn. You might find that the Vance family treasures have a peculiar habit of gravitating toward people with your specific background. A girl who grew up in a cramped apartment with a sick mother—it's amazing what temptation looks like when it's handed a promotion."
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Before I could answer, the sharp chime of the main hall telephone echoed faintly through the vault wall. Mrs. Higgins flashed a cold smile, turned on her heel, and unlocked the heavy iron door, leaving me alone in the freezing metallic air. I did not hesitate. I dropped the clipboard onto the steel desk, marched out of the vault, and headed straight down the service stairs toward the staff locker room.
The basement hallway was dead silent, illuminated only by the faint, flickering glow of emergency exit lights. When I reached my narrow metal locker, I spun the combination dial with trembling fingers. I pulled the door open, bracing myself for whatever trap had been laid. Tucked neatly behind my spare uniform apron sat a heavy, polished leather case. My breath caught in my throat as I unlatched the lid. Inside, resting against green velvet lining, gleamed the missing sixteenth-century French soup tureen. Someone had not only stolen it; they had systematically framed me for the theft.
