The Secret Cellar Page 2

  He opens the cover, beautifully bound in coffee-colored leather, and turns to us. “Do you have a budget in mind?”

  We look at Margaret, and I’m sure we’re all thinking the same thing: please don’t say something crazy, like a hundred bucks. I mean, I do like Mr. Eliot, but let’s be reasonable.

  “Um … twenty or twenty-five dollars?” she says.

  “Twenty would be good,” I say.

  The man—MARCUS KLINGER his name badge says sighs loudly and returns the book to its place on the shelf. “I see.” He moves to another shelf and pulls down a thin volume. “I have this copy of A Christmas Carol—I assume you’ve heard of it. It’s forty dollars, but I could let you have it for thirty-five. That’s the best I can do.”

  “Can I see it?” Margaret asks.

  Another sigh as he holds out the book. “Your hands are clean?”

  Margaret glares at him, horrified, before snatching it from his hands.

  He doesn’t apologize; in fact, he seems completely oblivious. “Gilt edge. Calf binding. It’s a reprint, an American edition, of course. A bargain at thirty-five dollars.”

  Margaret hands it back to him. “We’ll think about it.” She takes me by the arm and practically drags me out the door, with Becca and Leigh Ann on our heels.

  “Man, what a loser,” Becca announces as the door slams shut behind her.

  “I was gonna call him something a lot worse than that,” says Leigh Ann. “We have a word for people like him in Queens.” She pauses, then continues, smiling to herself, “Actually, we have a lot of words for people like that.”

  “Tell me he didn’t really ask you if your hands were clean,” I say.

  “Oh, he asked, all right,” Margaret says. “And if that book is worth thirty-five dollars, I’m Cleopatra, queen of the Nile. It’s a cheap knockoff that you can find anywhere for seven ninety-nine.”

  “Begging your paaaardon, miss,” says Becca, mocking Mr. Klinger. “That’s a genuine turtle-skin binding. The paper was made from leftover bits of wood from Noah’s ark, and the ink was brewed from a baby bald eagle’s blood.”

  “What kind of names are ‘Sturm’ and ‘Drang,’ anyway?” Leigh Ann asks, looking back at the door. “I wonder which one he was.”

  “They’re not names,” says Margaret. “It’s German. It means ‘storm and stress.’ I think Goethe—he was a German writer—was involved somehow.”

  “And you know this … how? Let me guess: the Harvard Classics. Right?”

  “Naturellement.”

  Margaret is the proud owner of the complete set of the Harvard Classics, also known as Dr. Eliot’s Five-Foot Shelf. Apparently, this Dr. Eliot guy (no relation to our Mr. Eliot) was the president of Harvard but used to tell people that all the books they really needed to be a well-educated person could fit on a five-foot shelf. (Why, then, are people so obsessed with getting into Harvard? I mean, their own president basically admitted that no one needs to go there. Kinda makes you think, doesn’t it?) One of Margaret’s (many, many) goals is to read every word—and we’re talking about a collection of books that includes a whole volume called Prefaces and Prologues. Thrilling stuff, I’m sure. Right up there with Glossaries I Have Loved and The Year’s Best Tables of Contents.

  “Well, we can take a trip down to the Strand after school one day next week and look for Mr. Eliot’s book there,” I say. “They have everything, and they’re not going to try to scam us. And besides, I have a list of books I want to buy, but can’t afford them all if I get new ones.”

  “Or you could go to the library, like a normal person,” says Margaret, who accuses me of having a compulsive book-buying disorder.

  “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever walked down this street before,” I say. “Look at all those little shops on the other side. Let’s go check them out—maybe I can find something for my dad.”

  “GW Antiques and Curiosities? Seriously? That’s where you want to shop for your dad?” says Becca. “I’m not going in. Those places make me nervous.”

  “I know what you mean,” Leigh Ann says. “I’m always afraid I’m going to knock over a stack of china plates that’s worth a fortune.”

  I ignore their fears and run across the street, where I press my face against the front window and peek at the treasures inside. “Come on, you guys. It’s not that crowded, and there’s some cool old boat models and stuff.”

  As I step inside, I’m greeted by a woman who is probably in her thirties, but dressed like she’s younger. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s rocking a natural, almost-no-makeup look.

  “Good morning, er, afternoon,” she says, her eyes landing on the rock-star-cool jacket my parents surprised me with a few weeks back. “Wow. That is a great jacket.”

  She’s right about that; it is pretty terrific. It’s not really warm enough for mid-December, but I just can’t bear to put it away until spring. If I have to suffer a little bit to look fashionable, so be it.

  “Oh, thanks,” I say. “It’s my favorite.”

  The door opens and Margaret comes inside; a few seconds later, Leigh Ann and Becca follow reluctantly.

  “Are you all together?” the woman asks. “Of course you are. I’m Lindsay. Is there anything in particular I can help you with today? Or are you just browsing—which is fine, too.”

  “I’m, um, kind of looking for a present for my dad,” I say, eyeing an old wooden model boat hanging from the ceiling above me. “Wow. That is beautiful. He would love that.”

  “You have good taste,” says Lindsay. “That’s a Hacker model from 1935, with the original paint. It’s twelve hundred dollars.”

  I hear Becca snickering behind me. “For twelve hundred bucks, I want a boat big enough to ride in, at least.”

  “That’s a bit more than I want to spend,” I say. “Maybe I’ll look around a little.”

  I wander over to a display case containing an assortment of items: cuff links of every shape and size, a couple of gold pocket watches, wicked-looking straight razors, engraved cigarette lighters, money clips, and much more. And then I see the perfect gift for my dad.

  “Margaret, come here,” I whisper. “Do you see it?”

  She leans over the case, her eyes scanning the contents until they land on an antique fountain pen. She grins at me. “You’re right. It’s perfect. Can you see the price?”

  “Do you see something you like?” Lindsay asks, moving behind the case. When she realizes which case we’re looking in, her face falls. “Oh, this case is … special. These are things from the estate of a gentleman who lived in the neighborhood, a Mr. Dedmann. Unfortunately, they’re not for sale—not in the usual way, that is. They’re all going to an auction next Tuesday evening. Which piece are you interested in, one of the Cartier watches?”

  “No, the fountain pen,” I say. “Can I see it?”

  Lindsay unlocks the case and sets the pen on a felt pad on top of the glass. As I lift it, I smile at the heft of the thing: it is about as far from the cheap disposable pens I use as you can get. The rounded barrel is polished black, sleek and smooth, and the gold nib still looks new.

  “It’s a beauty,” says Lindsay. “An old Reviens—made in France in the twenties. They’ve been out of business for years.”

  “How much is it worth?” I ask.

  Lindsay smiles. “Well, that depends. If it were for sale here in the shop, Mr. W.—he’s the owner, I just work for him—would probably ask two hundred dollars for it. But … if you were to buy it at the auction, you might get it for a lot less. Depends on who else wants it. And how badly, I suppose.”

  “Like, how much less?” I ask.

  “With something like this, the auctioneer will probably start the bidding at twenty-five dollars. After that …”

  Margaret and I share one of our are-you-thinking-what-I’m-thinking? looks and grin at each other.

  “So, tell us more about this auction.”

  A piece of my world crumbles

&nbs
p; Mr. Eliot’s latest harebrained scheme to torture his honors students is to force us to perform in a one-act Christmas play that he wrote just for us. (“My, aren’t we lucky,” Livvy Klack, my enemy-turned-friend observed.) It’s called The Merry Gentlemen, and it is, according to Mr. Eliot, an homage to his hero, Charles Dickens. It tells the story of the two men who come into Scrooge’s offices on Christmas Eve, asking for money for the poor. Grumpy old Scrooge, if you remember, runs them out the door, telling them that it’s not his problem that people are suffering. A real prince, old Ebenezer.

  Mr. Eliot’s script picks up from Scrooge’s last “Bah! Humbug!” and follows the two “portly gentlemen” throughout the remainder of Christmas Eve, revealing twists and turns in their lives that I doubt Mr. Dickens ever considered. I don’t want to give away the whole story, but I can reveal that after their unpleasant experience with Scrooge, the two gentlemen begin to have serious doubts about what they’re trying to achieve. In fact, after a few glasses of Christmas cheer, they’re so filled with despair that they convince themselves that their mission is absolutely pointless.

  We’ve only been rehearsing for a few days, and Mr. Eliot is driving us crazy by constantly changing our lines. Even Leigh Ann, who is practically a professional actress, is losing her cool. With the help of some oversize thrift-store clothes and a ton of stuffing, she and Livvy are playing the portly gentlemen. They both had almost all their lines memorized when Mr. Eliot broke the news that he was still rewriting some of their scenes.

  “Can you do that?” Livvy asks.

  “I’m the director and the playwright. I can do anything,” he says. “That’s why it’s so good to be king.”

  Leigh Ann grumbles under her breath, “Yeah, and that’s why there are revolutions.”

  Our day doesn’t get any better after that. As we gather our books and coats from our lockers, I persuade Livvy to join us at Perkatory, our local coffee shop / hangout, for a little unwinding and director-bashing. I lead the way from the school, past the church, and down the steps to the front door, where I stop, my red Chuck Taylors suddenly glued to the concrete. Becca, who isn’t paying attention, runs into me, smashing my face right into the door.

  “Owww! Ow, ow, ow!” I shriek. “My nose!” My lovely Gallic nose (inherited from Dad) is still healing from a little run-in it had with Livvy’s fist during swim practice a few weeks ago. That whole Mistaken Masterpiece extravaganza may have had a happy ending, with Livvy and me walking down the red carpet to the premiere of Nate Etan’s (astonishingly bad) movie together, but my nose hasn’t quite gotten over it yet.

  “Sorry!” Becca says, unable to suppress a smile.

  Livvy cringes with embarrassment. “Oh, man. I am so sorry, Sophie. Are you okay?”

  “It’s her fault for just stopping like that,” says Becca. “What is the matter with you, anyway?”

  “Me? How did this get to be my fault? Look at the sign!” I step aside so everyone else can see what has stopped me cold:

  CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE

  “What? That can’t be right,” says Leigh Ann.

  “They can’t do this!” shouts an indignant Becca. “It’s not fair. What are we supposed to do?”

  Even Margaret, usually unflappable, is shaken. “No. Not Perkatory. We need this place. Even with its smelly old couches and the occasional cockroach. It’s ours. We have to do something.”

  She’s right. It’s not just a coffee shop—it’s part of our history. The countless cups of coffee and hot chocolate, the stale pastries, the conversations, Jaz stealing the violin, the music … Oh no! The music!

  “The Blazers!” I scream. “Where are we going to play?”

  The Blazers, in case you haven’t heard of us, is our band, and we’ve had a regular Friday-night gig at Perkatory for the past couple of months. Okay, to be completely honest, it’s the only place we’ve ever played, other than Elizabeth Harriman’s basement. We don’t actually get paid, but Aldo, the manager, gives us free ice cream every Friday. There’s me on guitar, Becca on bass, Leigh Ann on vocals, and our friend Mbingu, the only non–St. Veronica’s member, on drums.

  Becca groans. “Finished up at the age of twelve. Life is so cruel.”

  “I’ll find you guys another job,” promises Margaret, our manager. “But in the meantime, we have to get to the bottom of this. I know just where to go. If it happened in this neighborhood, Malcolm Chance is the man to talk to.” She spins around and stomps up the steps.

  As we rush off to see Malcolm, I almost knock over a guy who is standing on the sidewalk handing out flyers. He shovels one into my hand as I’m apologizing.

  “Half-price coupon,” he says in a heavily accented voice. “Grand-opening special.”

  I’m about to say “No thanks” and hand it back to him (in the interest of saving a tree, or at least a small branch) when “New Coffee Shop” near the top catches my eye.

  “Wait!” I shout as my friends swing past me and turn the corner onto Lexington. I spin back around to the guy with the flyers. “Where is this? Dónde?”

  To my horror, he points to a building directly across Sixty-Sixth Street, almost a mirror image of the building that is home to Perkatory and our old friend Mr. Chernofsky’s violin shop. The awning that extends over the stairs to the lower level is brand-new, I realize, and in one of those playful fonts reads:

  COFFEETERIA

  “What’s going on?” Livvy asks. “Now, why’d you stop?”

  I hold the flyer up in front of their faces. “Look across the street—at the awning.”

  “ ‘Coffeeteria’? What a stupid name,” says Becca.

  “I’ve heard that name before,” Margaret says with a worried expression.

  Leigh Ann nods. “Yeah, they’re popping up all over the place. Everybody says they’re great.”

  “They’re not great. They’re evil,” I say, which is surprising because I hadn’t even heard of them until ten seconds ago. “What are they doing here?”

  “That must be why Perkatory’s closed,” Livvy says. “Aldo probably figures he doesn’t stand a chance against them.”

  When the flyer guy sees how interested we all appear to be, he comes over and hands us a few more.

  “No! No más!” I shout, tearing them into pieces.

  He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind (an altogether reasonable conclusion, some might say), shrugs, and turns away.

  “Corporate stooge!” Becca yells.

  “Well, now we really have to go see Malcolm,” I say. “There must be something we can do to stop this.”

  “Looks like we might be too late already,” says Leigh Ann.

  I cross my arms. “I refuse to accept that.”

  Way back in September, when Elizabeth Harriman sent us off in search of the Ring of Rocamadour, I was certain that her tweed-loving ex-husband, Malcolm Chance, was our nemesis. Boy, was I wrong! (Hardly an isolated event, Becca would be quick to point out.) He turned out to be a huge help along the way in that case, and in the other two big cases we’ve had since. He’s smart, witty, and, as a professor of archaeology, he understands better than most that when you’re looking for evidence, sometimes you just have to keep digging. After knowing him for a few months now, the only mystery that still remains about Malcolm is the nature of his relationship with Elizabeth. They seemed to hate each other when we first met them, but ever since we helped Elizabeth and her daughter reconnect, those two appear awfully cozy together.

  So it’s not surprising when Malcolm opens the bright red door to Elizabeth’s townhouse on Sixty-Fifth Street.

  His face breaks into a huge smile when he sees us. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite crimson-blazer-wearing detectives! Elizabeth! We have visitors!”

  I push Livvy toward him. “Hey, Malcolm, you remember Livvy, don’t you? She was my doppelgänger when we switched paintings,” I say, referring to the case of the Mistaken Masterpiece.

  “Of course, of course,” he says. “Livvy, welcome! Good
to see you again. Please, come in and get warm, everyone.”

  “We can only stay a minute,” I say, after all the hugs and cheek-kissing. “Our teachers are trying to kill us with homework. But this is kind of an emergency.”

  “My, that sounds dire,” says Malcolm. “Sit. Have a cup of tea.” As he says the words, the grandfather clock behind him begins to chime.

  “It’s a sign,” Elizabeth says. “Four o’clock. You simply must stay for tea and tell us your troubles. That’s what friends do.”

  We look at one another and then give in to the inevitable, perching in a perfect, red-blazered row on the couch, like birds on a wire.

  “What do you know about Perkatory?” Margaret asks Malcolm. “We just came from there, and it’s closed.”

  “And what’s worse,” I say, “is that there’s another coffee shop opening up across the street. Part of a chain.” The way I emphasize that last word, you’d think they were selling babies inside. “It’s called Coffeeteria. Is that a stupid name or what?”

  Margaret pats me on the arm. “Easy, Soph. Deep breaths.”

  I lean back on the couch, following her advice.

  “Anyway,” Margaret continues, “we figured that since you seem to know just about everything that goes on in this neighborhood, you’d probably be able to give us the real scoop.”

  Malcolm frowns. “Sorry to disappoint you girls, but this is the first I’ve heard of it. Is there a sign, or a notice from the health department, anything like that?”

  “Just a sign saying CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE,” says Leigh Ann.

  “I saw the manager—what’s his name, Aldo?—last Thursday,” Malcolm notes. “He was outside sweeping the steps, talking with Ben, from the violin shop. He waved and said hello; I didn’t notice anything unusual. He was smiling. It’s probably nothing.”

  “We saw him Friday,” I say. “We played there on Friday night, for cryin’ out loud. He never said anything about closing.”

  “You mentioned something about the health department,” says Margaret. “Why would they care about a little place like Perkatory? It’s not really a restaurant; they just sell a few things to eat.”