Later that night Keith and Christopher give me a tour of the Florida House.
“It’s a very cool place,” Christopher is saying. “Or it was until Magdalene was snatched from it.”
We are standing just inside the front door. Before us is the large wooden staircase against the right wall, the hallway leading to the back of the house beside it, and to our left the parlor/reception area.
“I’ve always been into architecture and I love old houses,” Keith is saying. “I’m especially fascinated by old mansions and castles with hidden rooms and secret passageways. And since we were building in a place called Sandcastle, I said why not incorporate some of those things in our B&B. So we did.”
“We used to play it up,” Christopher says. “Tell guests about it. Give them tours. Play games using the hidden rooms and secret passageways. Our Halloween haunted houses were the best. We even have an escape room. But when we lost Magdalene we lost all interest in it. So we don’t even mention it to anyone anymore.”
“If whoever took Magdalene used any of the rooms or passages I designed to take her . . .” Keith says. “I think I’ll kill myself. I really do.”
“Honey, we can’t both do it,” Christopher says. “Somebody has to stay around to be here when they find her, and I have dibs.”
Keith smiles and pats Christopher on the back. “Let’s both hang around and find her together. We ready for the tour?”
I nod.
Keith reaches over and pulls on what looks like a cord and tassel that go with the curtain and a moment later the steps of the staircase rise up, revealing another set of steps beneath them that lead down into an elaborately decorated room.
“Shall we?” Christopher says, and leads the way down into the hidden room.
I follow and Keith brings up the rear.
Down a short flight of stairs and we’re in what looks like an old, formal study/library complete with huge wooden desks and tables, brass-studded leather furniture, and floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with leather-bound books.
Above the stone fireplace, the portrait of a medieval knight hangs in an elaborate and ornate wooden frame, and no matter where we go in the room his gaze seems to follow us.
The room is nice enough, but has a little of the fake feel of a TV set about it.
“This is our escape room,” Christopher says.
“No one ever figured it out,” Keith says. “We always had to come in and get them. There are four exits. Two behind bookshelves. One behind the fireplace. The one behind the fireplace is a set of stairs that leads up to the first, second, and third floors. The one behind the bookshelf on the left wall is a secret passageway that leads down the wall next to the hallway and opens through a secret panel in the downstairs restroom. The one behind the bookshelf on the wall in front of us next to the fireplace leads all the way back to our residence.”
“I thought you said there were four exits,” I say. “Does that count the way we came in under the stairs?”
“No, actually,” Keith says. “I’ve always considered that the entrance since coming back through it doesn’t constitute escaping the room. The other exit is just a panel behind the wall under the main staircase and it opens into the hallway. You have to climb up to it using something in the room—a chair is best—and you have to crawl through the panel, which is small and low where you come out.”
“Who of the guests at the solstice party knows this is here?” I ask.
“All of them,” Christopher says.
“But none of them knows where the exits are or how to access them,” Keith says.
“That you know of,” I say. “Just because none of them have ever escaped the room doesn’t necessarily mean they don’t know how.”
“That’s true,” Christopher says.
“When you woke up and discovered that Magdalene was missing,” I say, “you searched the entire house—including in here and all the secret passageways?”
They both nod and say they did.
“Did you show the investigators all of the hidden rooms and passages? Did they search them too? Did they have forensics process them?”
“Yes, yes, and I think so,” Christopher says, then to Keith, “Do you know if forensics processed this room and the others?”
“I’m pretty sure they did.”
“How familiar with the secret rooms and passages was Magdalene?” I ask.
“Very,” Christopher says. “She loved them. We used to have the most epic games of hide and seek. She—”
He breaks down and begins to cry.
“Sorry,” I say as Keith steps over to comfort him, wiping tears of his own.
“Don’t be,” Christopher says. “It just brought back such happy memories for a moment. I can see her running down that narrow passageway, her little arms pumping so fast, her little rear end waddling. And her sweet little voice. I can hear her shrieks and squeals and laughter. We had so much fun together.”
“Yes, we did,” Keith says. “We gave her the happiest life possible for the brief, perfect time we had her.”
“God, I miss her so much,” Christopher says.
“I know,” Keith says. “Me too.”
“We had her for such a short time, but it seems like she was a part of us for her entire life—maybe even our entire lives.”
“It really does.”
“I’m gonna step back upstairs,” I say. “Give y’all some time alone. We can finish the tour of the house when y’all are ready or another time if that would be better.”
“No,” Christopher says. “We’re good. Let’s continue. This is how we do everything these days. Through tears and momentary breakdowns.”
“You sure?” I ask.
“Positive.”
They show me each of the exits, then we take the one behind the fireplace with stairs leading to all three levels.
The stairs are narrow and claustrophobic. Like the escape room we were just in, all of the hidden elements of the house are smaller and shorter and narrower than their visible counterparts.
We exit into an empty guest room on the third floor through a fireplace. It’s the Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings room—the one that Hal Raphael had stayed in the night of the solstice party.
“Did Raphael know about this?” I asked.
They shake their heads and say he didn’t.
“Did he go into the escape room or take a tour of the hidden part of the house?”
Again they shake their heads and indicate he didn’t.
“Did he even hear about them?”
“Not from us,” Keith says.
“He was here for business and really only slept here. I’m not sure he even interacted with any other guests, ” Christopher adds.
“We really wanted it to be him,” Keith says. “That would mean it wasn’t one of us. But the security footage shows him leaving alone.”
“The security footage also shows that Magdalene never left the house.”
“That’s true,” Keith says. “But the cops looked at him hard for it.”
“Then we have to look even harder,” I say.
“Ooooh, I like the sound of that,” Christopher says. “And I didn’t mean that as gay as it sounded.”
“Too bad,” Keith says.
“We find her,” Christopher says to Keith, “we’ll make up for lost time.”
“No we won’t,” Keith says. “We’ll never let her leave our side again.”
“True,” he says. “Well, let’s get back to showing John everything so we can get her back as soon as possible.”
“Out here,” Keith says, and leads us out of the room and onto the third-floor landing.
The hardwood-floor landing is roughly fifteen by fifteen. Five room doors, the staircase, and a small wall with a narrow table and a vase of flowers on it that stands beneath a huge gold-framed mirror.
The second-floor landing where my room is looks nearly identical.
“All three levels have this,” Keith says. “A small hidden room with a passage that leads to our residence in the back.”
He pulls the vase forward on the table and pushes on the wall next to the mirror and it opens into a small room with a narrow passageway that leads to the back of the house.
“It’s nice when we’re cleaning or working on the rooms not to have to go all the way to the front of the house and then up the main staircase,” Christopher says. “Having these saves us a ton of time.”
I nod and think about all the implications. “Do your friends from the party know about these?”
They nod.
“Somewhat. I’m not sure how much,” Christopher says.
“No one knows them very well,” Keith says. “Only three people do—me, Chris, and my mom, who helps us clean them and the rest of the house. But not only would she never take Magdalene from us—not under any circumstance—she wasn’t even in the state. She went to my sister’s in Washington for Christmas.”
“But you don’t think Hal Raphael knew about them?”
“Don’t think so,” Keith says.
“If he did, it didn’t come from us,” Christopher says.
Keith asks, “Do you want to take this passageway to the residence part of the house?”
I nod and we do.
The dim, narrow passageway takes us to the back part of the building, down a spiral staircase that reminds me of being in a Florida lighthouse, and through a door next to Magdalene’s room.
“There’s no evidence that Magdalene’s abductor used this hidden passageway as far as we know,” Christopher says. “But if they did . . . couldn’t be much more convenient for them, could it?”
I frown and nod.
“I don’t want to think about that,” Keith says.
“Even if they did,” Christopher says, “you’re not to blame.”
“I’m the reason they’re even in the house.”
“But, baby, that’s like saying the architect or contractor is to blame because they put doors in houses and criminals entered through the doors.”
“Well, not exactly,” he says, “but that’s sweet of you to say.”
We are all quiet a moment, our eyes drifting back over toward the closed door of Magdalene’s room.
“You’ve seen pretty much everything back here except for our bedroom and Magdalene’s,” Keith says. “Magdalene’s is right here. Do you want to look at it first?”
I nod. “If you don’t mind.”
He slowly opens the door, and we carefully and gingerly enter Magdalene’s room like we’re trying not to disturb the dust.
Just a few steps inside, I stop and look around.
It is just as it was on the night she was abducted, except for anything the investigators and forensics team did and the addition of Magdalene’s Christmas presents piled on the floor next to the wall near the door.
Her small big-girl bed is still unmade, the pink princess comforter turned back to reveal white sheets with little pink flowers on them.
Instead of a closet she has an antique armoire, the doors of which are open enough to reveal an extensive and extravagant wardrobe, by turns cutesy and casual, fashionable and formal.
Toys are scattered throughout the room—mostly in a semi-orderly fashion.
A tiny table with small chairs sits in the far corner. A huge teddy bear in one of the chairs looks lonely and about to topple onto the floor. The table is covered with paper and pens, markers and crayons, and some of Magdalene’s work—one particularly poignant creation has three stick figures, a little girl standing between two men, their long noodle arms twisting around to hold each other’s hands. Crayon scrawl reads “I love my Dads.”
Several places throughout the room still have a dusting of black fingerprint powder on them—including the bedposts and doorjambs.
A few of the drawers of her dresser are open and have clothes spilling out.
“We always kept her room neat and clean,” Christopher says. “And she was pretty good about it too. Especially for her age. The open drawers and that dirty-looking black powder are from the police. I need to clean it. Just haven’t been able to. This is the longest I’ve been in here since it happened.”
“There’s no rush,” Keith says. “We’ll get to it when we’re able.”
The room reveals evidence of a loved and adored and cared-for and indulged little girl.
On the wall above the headboard of the bed is a large black-and-white poster of a youngish Dolly Parton. She has large hoop earrings and a ribbon in her big blond hair and she is looking off to the side pensively, her mouth barely open as if in the moment before she says something.
Keith says, “Chris is a closeted country music fan. Something he quickly passed on to Magdalene.”
“Queen Dolly transcends country music,” Christopher says, “and is a great role model for anyone—especially a little girl with two dads. Her energy and vibe, her talent, her work ethic, her positivity, her graciousness and generosity and self-deprecation. I can’t believe we’re not going to get to see the woman Magdalene would have grown up to be.”
On the bedside table is a Dolly Parton makeup set.
“The night before . . . before we lost her,” Christopher says, “she had me paint her nails—fingers and toes—all in the same Hard Candy Apple Red Christmas. I knocked the bottle over and spilled some on the sleeve of her new Toy Story pajamas. She was so good about it. I promised I’d get her more of both—the nail polish and the pajamas. She didn’t care. Only thing she cared about was not having to take those pj’s off. She insisted on keeping them on, Hard Candy Apple Red Christmas stain and all.”
“And I’m glad we let her,” Keith says.
“Let her,” Christopher says. “That’s cute.”
I glance over at the pile of unopened Christmas presents, which is huge. Next to them is a smaller pile of opened presents.
“That’s not just from us,” Keith says. “Those are the ones from my mom and her foster mom and our friends. We all went a little overboard.”
“It was our first Christmas with her,” Christopher says. “Everyone was so happy for us—even those who weren’t at first. It was going to be . . .”
He breaks down again.
“Why are some opened?” I ask.
Keith says, “My mom went to my sister’s in Washington for Christmas, so we had Christmas with her early. It was . . . I guess it had to be two days before the party because her flight was the day before the party. Magdalene got to open her presents from her grandma then.”
“And one from us,” Christopher says between sobs, “the Toy Story pajamas she was sleeping in the night she—” He turns and rushes out of the room.
Keith follows him.
I linger for a moment longer.
God, please help me find this sweet little girl alive and return her to her parents. Please.
“I’m so sorry we live in a world where you can be put up for adoption and be abducted,” I say to Magdalene. “But I’m going to do everything I can to find you and . . .”
I’m not sure what else to say. I was going to say bring to justice whoever took you, but there is no justice for something like that, so I just let the unfinished sentence hang there in the air, suspended like Magdalene’s unfinished life.