Storytelling
The Father of Margarita
“Good day, my friends. Nothing is more exciting than a treasure hunt right?”
The Father of Margarita
It began with splintering glass in the dead of night. Amaria flinched and silenced her treadmill. She hadn’t been able to sleep in her grandmother’s creepy house that night, so decided to exercise.
Bathed in sweat from her run, she slipped from the attic room and listened from the landing atop the stairs.
Somebody cracked the back door, she’d know that creak anywhere.
“Who are you and why do you want your arse kicked tonight?” Amaria whispered as she slunk down the dark staircase. She never used the lights unless forced to.
A kitchen cupboard door banged.
Amaria slipped along the landing between the bedrooms and descended the second staircase to the front hallway.
A male swore under his breath. His torchlight cut a beam across the room, prismatic through the crystal vases on either side of the front door.
Amaria slipped out of sight but not before the light glinted upon the little Swarovski diamond in her belly button.
“What was that?” Heavy footsteps headed for the hallway.
Amaria watched a near six-foot-tall figure dressed in black emerge.
He eclipsed the white double-glazed front door as he looked about with his torch. “I know I saw something.”
Amaria squeezed behind boxes under the stairs and held her breath.
“Must have gone upstairs. Maybe, the answers are there too,” he mumbled.
Amaria counted four footfalls and pounced. She grabbed his ankles through the newel posts and yanked him off balance.
He hit the steps hard and tumbled back into the hallway with a thud. He sat at once and glared at her, “There you are! I’ll kill you for -”
Amaria whirled on her heels and scythed him flat with a kick to the jaw. “Um, no. My home, my rules. Who are you?”
The man rose and shook off the blow, “It doesn’t matter who I am.”
She slapped him hard, “Again my rules. Who are you and why are you here?”
“Alright! What are you possessed?”
Amaria raised her hand again.
He flipped to his feet and knocked her down. Before she could react, he fled through the kitchen and escaped the house.
Amaria gave chase but lost him in the dark street. She stepped over the broken remains of the back door window and entered the kitchen. The fright of the ordeal struck and left her shaking as engaged the lights. She poured herself a glass of water and drank thirstily. It was through the bottom of the glass she saw it. A yellowed piece of paper lay discarded in the debris.
“I bet you dropped this,” Amaria mused as she retrieved it. The fragile nature of the paper showed great age. Unfolded with great care, it revealed a short note.
The Brethik Jewels reside with the father of Margarita. Find the Don and Julia will give you the fortune.
“That’s a little cryptic, and yet some of it makes sense — I think.” Amaria yawned, it was almost 1 AM now.” She set to work with a dustpan and brush and started cleaning away the glass. “My grandmother was Margaret and my mother is Julia — I guess that’s why he came here. Although, who my grandfather was, I have no idea.” She knew he’d died in the war days before her mother was born, but the rest of his life was a mystery.
The glass tinkled into the bin and then Amaria found her phone, she contemplated calling the police. He stole nothing and so they wouldn’t do much, so why bother calling them?
“Who on earth is the Don?” she mused while finding a piece of board and tools to seal the door for the night.
“A lord — an Italian mafia leader?” She hammered some nails through the board into the door frame. “No mafia in the UK … Donald … My uncle. No, he’s never lived here.”
With the door secure, Amaria ascended the stairs and undressed for bed. Even as her head hit the pillow, she knew sleep wouldn’t come. Her mind whirred over what had happened.
Within minutes, her phone screen illuminated the old room with its flowery, peeling wallpaper. “11 Longthorn Road, Norwich. History,” she breathed as she typed and hit search.
A registry site topped the list. Clicking on that, Amaria knew exactly why the house had been targeted as she read the entries, “House built in 1855, the occupiers — Draytons 1855–1926 — Brethik’s 1926 -1985 — Latham’s 1985 — present.”
She scanned the rest of the information, then allowed her phone to fall to her side on the pillow, “So, the Brethiks have jewelry of value, it disappears and this mystery note is all that remains. They die or leave and my grandmother Margaret buys this place … The Margarita in the note has to be a coincidence then. Which means my grandfather is insignificant to the mystery!”
Sitting upright, she used her phone to light the note. “Yeah, it can’t be my grandmother at all. It -” Scanning the note brought chills racing from her spine to the roots of her tingling hair. “And that doesn’t say ‘Julia’, it says ‘Julio.’ which means what exactly?”
Amaria climbed from her bed and began pacing the floorboards. She just knew the answer was right in front of her if only it would come into focus. One thing did come to mind, the only place left to clean out was the cellar. So, if answers lay hidden in the house, they had to be there.
Like a barefoot adventurer, she descended the stairs in her pajamas and returned to the dark kitchen. A silvery moonbeam cut across the sink and table causing a small door to glow.
Amaria drew it open, revealing a narrow staircase plunging into the darkness, “If ever there was a place to go, and never to be seen again!” she inhaled a deep breath and took a torch from a hook above the stairs. Flicking it on, she dropped into the cellar. Never seeing the eyes watching her from outside.
The creak of wooden steps echoed throughout the underground room. Racked with ancient oak shelving laden with long-forgotten belongings, the space resembled an overloaded warehouse.
Amaria squeezed between boxes and crates stacked between the racks. She wrinkled her nose, as she plunged into an enormous cobweb, “Ugh, this place is nasty. I am not looking forward to cleaning it out!” she complained to the silent room.
Something knocked on the ceiling.
Spinning back to the staircase, Amaria’s torch illuminated rows of bottles on the first rack. Beyond those, a water pipe ran across the ceiling into the kitchen above. “Must have been that rattling,” she decided.
Amaria approached the bottles with a smile. “Wine of all varieties, Brandy, sherry and whisky. I knew you enjoyed a tipple, Nanna. But, wow! You have a full selection down -”
Realization froze the words in her throat. She scanned the mysterious note again. “Of course! If ‘The Don’ is ‘Julio’ then the ‘Father of Margarita’ has to be ‘Tequila!’
Another scan of the alcohol bottles revealed no tequila, “Okay, so Nanna didn’t drink the clue,” she turned her attention to the rest of the space, “Where is it?”
Amaria made fists with her toes; she could feel the dust and grime from the floor sticking to them. Undeterred, she began walking the lines of racks in search of answers. In places, there was no option but to climb over boxes, old hoovers, standard lamps, and other objects covered in blankets.
There was even a five-foot-tall gnome in one aisle.
“Don’t suppose you drink Tequila, do you?” Amaria questioned as she moved the smiling fellow aside.
Beyond him, a credenza-style oak cabinet, reminiscent of a wine cellar bar was built into the arched wall. Above it, hung a painting of human-shaped cacti in the desert. Amaria played the torch over the furnishing. The front had crosshatched openings for wine bottle storage. Some were occupied.
Amaria pulled the bottles, each thick with dust. She found every label to be browned and peeling, these wines were ancient. “I have red, white, rose, and even champagne,” Amaria ran her fingers over the wire-caged cork of the champagne dated 1902, then put it back. “But no spirits.”
“Where are you?” Amaria examined the rest of the bar and shook her head. “I hope I don’t have to search all the boxes in here!”
It was the old oil painting hung in the arch that left her smiling. “Huh, those are saguaro cacti — they grow in North America and — Mexico.” she felt her heart rate increase. “Mexico is where the agave grows for Tequila!
Amaria scrambled onto the Credenza and pulled the painting from the wall.
A large, hairy house spider shot away.
“Ugh, it’s your fault, I have more cobwebs than hair right now!” she told it. The painting had covered a stone etched with ‘ DJ ‘’
“Don Julio, I presume.” Amaria dug her nails around the stone and pulled. Dust rained around her toes as the stone came free. Behind it was a recess containing a tall, thin, hand-rolled bottle.
“Gotcha!” Amaria took it out with shaking fingers. She dropped to the floor and examined the dusty relic. An original 1940s Tequila bottle and something gleamed within it.
Wasting no time, Amaria climbed through the boxes and escaped the cellar. She made it one foot into the kitchen and froze.
“Thank you for finding that. I’ll take it now!”
“I guess, I didn’t kick you hard enough earlier then?” Amaria recognized the shadowy man, sitting at her kitchen table.
“I should kill you for that,” the man rubbed his bruised jaw.
“Try -”
“Just give me the bottle and I’ll leave you unharmed.” He climbed to his feet.
“That a fact,” Amaria retorted while cursing herself for leaving her phone upstairs.
“Last chance,” he extended a hand for the bottle.
“Who are you?” Amaria set herself ready to flee. “Corrigan Brethik?”
“Smart arse!” the man leapt around the table.
Amaria scooted away keeping the furnishing between them.
“Yes, I’m Corrigan. That bottle belonged to my father Garon. Now, give it to me!” he lunged again.
Amaria moved away but caught her foot clattered against a chair leg.
He seized her shoulders and slammed her into the stove. “Now, I got you.
“Ouch! Bully! Where did the jewels come from?”
“I don’t know, proceeds of the family business, I guess?”
“More like robbery.” Amaria stared straight into his eyes.
“What, how dare you accuse — Awww!”
Amaria had swung her knee hard and fast. It connected between his legs. She leapt and crushed his jaw with a second knee and dumped him flat on his back in agony.
“I’ll … kill … you … for -”
Amaria hit him again knocking him out cold, “Shut up!” she said whilst calling the police.
Corrigan was still unconscious when the police came and arrested him for breaking and entering, assault and attempted theft.
“We’ll ensure you never see him again now, miss.” said the friendly sergeant.
“Thanks, what about this?” Amaria put the bottle on the table. “He was after this bottle of his father’s jewels. I reckon they were stolen in a heist in the ’30s or ‘40s.”
“Why those dates?” the sergeant inquired, noting the details.
Amaria picked up the bottle. “Don Julio changed his bottle to the more recognizable short, round one in the 40s; meaning if the heist happened later the jewels wouldn’t be in this tall thin bottle.”
“I see.” the sergeant smiled.
Amaria carefully tipped the bottle, allowing a collection of diamonds, sapphires, emeralds and a tiny gilt diamond pendant to cascade onto the table. “That’s a new spin on ice and a slice.”
“Wow!” the sergeant gaped at the sparkling loot. “That’ll pay for Margaritas all around!”
Amaria chuckled, “Cheers!”
The End
Thanks for reading my friends.
There’s more in the Poetry Corner, Poetry Nook, and the Short Story Collection
Have a great day!
Originally published in Mason’s Menagerie on December 12, 2023.
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