The Secret Cellar (19 page)

I try to hand her the card, but she refuses. “No, you keep going. This is your moment of glory.”

“It’s a little tricky to read,” I say.

“Try over here,” says Leigh Ann. “This looks like it could be something.”

I push the cover toward her fingertips. “Oh, okay, here we go. ‘My … name … was … Kaspar … Neuner. I … had … a wife … Venus … and … a son … Kaspar.’ ”

“His wife’s name was Venus!” Margaret shouts. “The planet! And remember his poem? The source of this not-so-wise man’s tears. He had a family. I wonder what happened to them.”

Shelley, so pale that she seems almost transparent, slumps into a chair.

“Are you okay?” I ask. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

She smiles weakly up at me. “I think maybe I just did. You see, my mother’s maiden name was Neuner. And her grandmother, my great-grandmother … you won’t believe this … was named Venus. That just can’t be a coincidence. Which makes Mr. Dedmann, or Kaspar Neuner, whoever he was, my great-grandfather.”

“Oh my gosh. That means that the picture he had in his hand when he died—the one with the ‘V’ on the back—must be Venus,” I say to Shelley. “Your great-grandmother.”

“His one true love,” says Leigh Ann. “So sad. And romantic. After all those years …”

“And that’s why he changed his will, I’ll bet,” says Margaret. “He probably just figured out that he had a real heir.”

“But … why didn’t he go back to Germany after the war?” I ask, continuing to search the stars for more information. “Or have his family come here?”

“There are a million possible reasons,” Margaret says. “But right now, we have to focus on what we do know. We absolutely have to find that will. Fast.”

“Well, we have the three pieces of the puzzle,” says Becca. “All we need now is that walking stick.”

“I saw Marcus Klinger out on the street earlier today, and he had it with him,” Shelley reports. “In fact, I haven’t seen him without it in days. I’ll bet he keeps the darn thing under his pillow when he sleeps.”

The left side of Margaret’s mouth curls up in a half smile as the last bank of circuits in that supercomputer she calls a brain are switched on.

“Uh-oh. I know that look,” I say.

“Me too,” says Leigh Ann. “Margaret Wrobel has a plan.”

And, oy, what a plan it is. All we need to pull it off, Margaret informs us, is a container of Play-Doh, some epoxy, and the kidnapped rat (whom I have nicknamed Humphrey). Oh, and a little help from our old friend Gordon Winterbottom. That’s all.

“Play-Doh?” I ask.

Margaret nods. “And epoxy.”

“Isn’t that some kind of glue?” asks Leigh Ann.

“Sort of,” says Margaret. “It comes in a pack with two tubes, one of resin, and the other, a hardener. You mix the two parts together, which causes a chemical reaction. When it dries, it’s hard as a rock.”

“You’re going to glue Klinger’s shoes to the floor, aren’t you?”

Another mysterious smile appears on Margaret’s face. “No, but that’s not a bad idea. Listen, I promise I’ll
explain everything, but right now, we need to talk to Mr. Winterbottom. And, Sophie?”

“Yeah?”

“We have to be nice to him.”

“Harrumph. I don’t know why you think he’s going to help us. He hates us, especially me.”

“Well, for one thing,” Margaret says, “we have a special card up our sleeves: Winnie.”

“What about her?” Becca asks.

“We know where she is,” I say.

“And anyone can see that those two lovebirds just need a little push in the right direction,” Margaret adds. “They’re meant to be together.”

“Yeah, like a lit match and gasoline,” I say.

“Maybe I can put in a good word with Gordon, too,” says Shelley. “Remember, he helped me prepare Mr. Dedmann’s books and those other items for the auction at Bartleman’s, and he made a nice little profit for himself. And who knows, there may be more things to sell … if everything works out. You know, ever since you told me about the will, I’ve been thinking. If Mr. Dedmann, er, Neuner, really did leave me everything, I’m going to turn this old house into a school of the arts for neighborhood kids. Music. Art classes. Dance. Maybe even a science lab. Who knows? Wouldn’t that be perfect?”

“Are you serious? That would be amazing,” says Margaret.

Shelley nods. “It would, wouldn’t it? Yes, I am serious. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”

Shelley has another piece of information that proves helpful: Gordon stops by the same diner on his way home almost every day. It’s only two blocks away, so we bundle up and head out into the cold, dark evening.

A melancholy-looking Gordon Winterbottom sits on a stool at the counter, his shoulders sagging lower than usual as he sips a cup of coffee and then violently jabs a fork into a piece of cherry pie.

“Hello, Mr. Winterbottom,” says Shelley, approaching first and standing to his right. “Remember me? Shelley Gallivan? You helped me sort out Curtis Dedmann’s estate. Do you mind if we join you?”

He spins around, and his eyes grow narrow as he realizes exactly who the “we” is in her question.

“
You
are certainly welcome. But I have nothing to say to these … hoodlums. Nothing but trouble,” he grumbles.

“Not a good start,” I whisper to Leigh Ann.

“You might want to listen to what they have to say,” says Shelley. “They’ve been a big help to me—”

“Help! I’ll bet!” he says, glaring right at me. “Criminals, they are. Don’t know why you’re mixed up with them, Miss Gallivan.”

“Well, let me tell you. Thanks to these girls, I just learned that Curtis Dedmann was my great-grandfather,
and that he changed his will shortly before he died. He intended to leave his house and everything inside to me. But there’s one big problem. Marcus Klinger—”

“—is a damn fool!” Gordon growls.

“I couldn’t agree more,” says Shelley. “But he has something that we need. He knows about the will; in fact, he’s already destroyed one copy of it. We’re still trying to locate the original.”

“What does he have that’s so important?”

“A walking stick. Remember, from the auction?”

“What’s so special about this stick?”

“It’s kind of a long story,” Shelley says. “But if we don’t get the stick, Marcus Klinger and the other members of his Beethoven club will inherit the house.”

“What does this have to do with me? Why don’t you just steal it?” he asks, again focusing on me. “You don’t seem to have a problem with stealing, do you?”

Man, he is bitter. And I can’t believe he remembered that little blemish on my otherwise flawless record. It’s true: when I was in the fourth grade, I stole a St. Christopher medal from the gift shop at St. Patrick’s Cathedral and got caught by Sister Antonia, who made me work there every Saturday for months and promise never to steal again—and I haven’t. Gordon found out about my dirty little secret when Margaret and I got caught sneaking around St. Veronica’s one night, back when he was the church deacon.

Oh, I know what you’re thinking: Not so fast, there, Sophie. What about that recent ratnapping incident? Well, I’ll tell you, that is a totally different situation. I didn’t steal the rat; I just borrowed him for a while, in the name of justice. Yep. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

“We’re not going to steal it,” Margaret says. “And we’re not asking you to, either. We just need you to do one little thing for us. It will only take a second.”

“Why would I help you?”

Margaret holds up one finger. “One, because although you may be Scrooge on the outside, deep down, you’re a good person. Malcolm Chance told us about all the good things you used to do for the church, and for the kids at St. Veronica’s, when you were deacon there. He said that you’ve paid kids’ tuition bills—anonymously—when you knew the families couldn’t afford to. So, no matter how mad you might be at us, and how many not-so-great things you may have done, you’re not all bad. This could be a second chance for you to really prove it to the world.”

“What on earth does Marcus Klinger’s walking stick have to do with a second chance for me?”

“Well, this is where the story gets interesting,” answers Margaret. “Shelley wants to turn Mr. Dedmann’s old place into a school for arts and science, and this could be an opportunity for you to help her get it on its feet.
Come on, Mr. Winterbottom—a school for kids who want to study music and art and science. How can that be a bad thing?”

“Think about it like this,” I say. “If we’re in school, we won’t be out on the streets bothering people.”

Becca slaps him on the back, much to his surprise. “And who knows, there might even be a position for you. Right, Shelley?”

“How does director of maintenance sound?” Shelley suggests.

Gordon sits up a little straighter on his stool. “I’m still listening.”

“Two,” Margaret says, holding up a second finger. “Shelley says the attic is full of old furniture that will need to be … evaluated, and then sold, to help raise money for the school.”

“And I would be happy to give the job to GW Antiques and Curiosities,” says Shelley. “To tide you over until the school opens.”

Gordon scratches his chin. “Ten percent commission?”

Shelley smiles. “I was thinking fifteen would be more fair to you. There are some big pieces. You’re going to have to hire movers.”

“So, what do you think, Mr. Winterbottom?” Margaret asks.

Leigh Ann leans close to Margaret. “Hey, aren’t you
forget—” She stops when she sees the look in Margaret’s eyes.

Gordon stares Margaret down, his eyes unblinking for an unhealthy length of time. “You’re quite a salesman. I may have to hire you when all this is said and done.”

“Salesperson,” says Margaret. “And thank you. That means you’ll do it?”

“Well, I still haven’t heard what you want me to do, but if it’s within reason, and gives me a chance to put one over on that fathead Marcus Klinger, why not?”

As we leave the diner with, of all people, Gordon Winterbottom on our side, Leigh Ann turns to Margaret. “Why didn’t you tell him about Winnie?”

“Simple. The fish was already on the hook. I didn’t need to give him any more bait.”

“The fish? Ohhh. Right. So you’re—Wait … so we’re not going to try to get them back together?”

“I never said that. There’s a time for peace, and a time for war. On Thursday, we go to war. Then we worry about Gordon and Winnie.”

Before we can go to war, however, we have to prepare, and that means cooking up a homemade batch of Play-Doh and refilling a bottle of 1949 Château Latour. (C’mon, admit it: you are dying to know what that is all
about, especially the Play-Doh. Sorry, but for security reasons, I’m authorized to tell you only that it is “part of the plan.”)

“I’ve made it before,” says Margaret as everyone invades the kitchen at my apartment after school on Wednesday. She lines up the ingredients on the counter. “Flour, water, salt, oil, and cream of tartar.”

“What color is it going to be?” I ask.

Margaret shrugs. “Flour-, water-, and salt-colored, I suppose. Some shade of beige?”

“Beige Play-Doh?” Becca protests. “I’m sorry, Margaret, but as an artist, I can’t let you do that. Sophie, do you have any food coloring?”

I climb onto the counter so I can reach the back of the cabinet where Dad hides the little bottles from me. (He still hasn’t forgotten the famous “green mashed potato incident.”) “Here we go, red and blue. And green! My favorite.”

“Guys, what difference does it make?” Margaret asks. “We’re not making little animals. Beige is fine. Buuuttt, now that I think of it, we could use some food coloring.” She hands me a packet of grape Kool-Aid. “You and Leigh Ann are going to make wine, and you can start by mixing up a big pitcher of this. Then you can add some red and blue until it looks dark enough to be red wine.”

While Margaret stirs and Rebecca kneads food coloring into the fake Play-Doh, Leigh Ann and I make a quart of delicious-looking fake wine.

“One more thing,” says Margaret, setting the empty bottle from 1949 on the counter. “We need a cork.”

“Not a problem,” I say. “We have thousands.”

“Thousands?” Leigh Ann asks. “Really?”

I shrug. “My dad has been saving them for years.”

“Your parents are, like, a lot different from mine,” she says, following me to the living room, where I reach into the bottom of a basket and take out a handful of corks.

“We need a nice old one. Maybe with some stains on it. We’ll have to stick some glue down in the hole where the corkscrew went—otherwise, it’ll leak.”

Leigh Ann takes a few more from the basket and examines them. “How about this one?”

She hands me the darkest of the bunch, well stained by wine.

“Perfect,” I say. “It’s in good shape, but not too good. Now let’s see if we can get it into the bottle.”

Back in the kitchen, I quickly learn that getting wine and a cork back into a bottle is perhaps a job best left to professionals. Dad has hidden his funnel from me, too (a science experiment gone bad), so I end up splashing purple Kool-Aid all over the kitchen and me. The rest I pour into four glasses.