The Secret Cellar Read online

  “They still have to pass the inspections. But if that was the problem, there would be a sign saying so. I’ll tell you what—I’ll look into it for you. The building is owned by someone in the parish. I’ll give him a call. How’s that sound?”

  “Thanks, Malcolm,” Margaret says. “You’re the best.”

  “Let’s not get carried away,” teases Elizabeth. “We don’t want it to go to his head. He’s hard enough to be around as it is.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot!” I say, leaping to my feet. “Do you guys know anything about auctions?”

  “Auctions?” Malcolm says, grinning ear to ear. “Ladies, when it comes to auctions, Elizabeth here is a true master, an ace, a … virtuoso. Auctioneers are mere putty in her hands. They may think that they are in charge—”

  “Enough!” cries Elizabeth. “I think they get the picture. He’s right, though, girls. I have been known to attend an auction or two.” She points at the artwork hanging around the room, paintings by people like Matisse and Warhol. “All from auctions. Every piece. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, I found this fountain pen that I really want to buy for my dad for Christmas because it is old, and French, and just so perfect, but then the woman in this shop told me that she couldn’t sell it to me because it’s already scheduled to be in some auction, and she said that the bidding will start at only twenty-five dollars, but I can even go a little higher because I still have all that money I earned from dog-sitting for Nate Etan, but, oh no, it’s tomorrow night!”

  “Breathe, Sophie!” Margaret says before taking over for me. “The other problem is that we’re too young to bid. You have to be eighteen.”

  Elizabeth opens her desk calendar and leafs through the pages. “Tomorrow night, you say? Which house? Sotheby’s? Christie’s?”

  “Um, I think she said Bartleman’s. Up on Ninety-First. We found the pen in this little shop on Eighty-First, GW Antiques.”

  “And Curiosities,” Becca adds. “You can’t forget those.”

  Elizabeth is already punching numbers into her phone. “Good afternoon. This is Elizabeth Harriman. Can you tell me what time tomorrow’s auction begins? Seven-thirty? Lovely. And will the items be available for preview beforehand? Perfect. Thank you very much, young man.” She sets the phone on the coffee table and looks at me with a satisfied smile on her face. “It’s all set. I’ll meet you at Bartleman’s at seven o’clock.”

  “You know their phone number by heart?” Leigh Ann asks.

  Malcolm takes a big bite of cookie and winks at Leigh Ann. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  That old pen is chock-full of surprises

  On Tuesday at seven o’clock, Elizabeth and Malcolm are waiting for us at the entrance to Bartleman’s Auction House on Ninety-First, between Lexington and Third. A sign outside announces the evening’s big event: an auction of “some personal effects” from the estate of Curtis Dedmann. Dad is at the restaurant, so Mom joins Margaret and me for this glimpse into an unfamiliar (and, at least to me, kind of creepy) world where people line up to fight over some dead guy’s stuff. (Of course, now that I’m one of those people, I guess I really shouldn’t judge.) I told Mom about the pen, and she even offered to help me pay for it, as long as the price stays in the “reasonable” range.

  Most of my dog-sitting money went into my college savings account, but Mom and Dad let me keep out some for Christmas, as long as I promised not to spend too much on them. When I see the crowd that has gathered inside the showroom at Bartleman’s, my heart sinks an inch or two. Surely I’m not the only one interested in that Reviens fountain pen. I cross my fingers as we go inside.

  We aren’t in the door for five seconds before one of the Bartleman-ites (Bartlemanians?) is fawning all over Elizabeth, giving her the full celebrity treatment. He hands her a catalog and then offers to take her coat, get her a drink, arrange a private viewing of the most desirable pieces, whatever she wants. No kidding, I think the guy would shine Malcolm’s shoes if he asked (and if I know Malcolm, he might).

  Elizabeth just shakes her head. “Not today, Raoul. I’m here for a friend, and she has her eye on one small item. Here it is—lot number nine, the Reviens fountain pen. Hmmm. I see that it ‘appears to be in working order.’ Does that mean no one has actually tested it to make certain? That seems odd. I would hate to have my very good friend spend her hard-earned money on a defective pen.”

  Poor Raoul apologizes like mad and says that he’ll see what he can do. I watch as he has a brief, intense conversation with a twenty-something woman with vivid red hair, and then the two of them take the pen from its display case and head into the back room.

  Two minutes later, Raoul sets a notepad on an antique desktop and hands Elizabeth the pen. She turns it over in her hands, admiring it, and then signs her name on the pad.

  “Ah, lovely,” she says. “Sophie, would you like to give it a try?”

  “Umm, sure.” I’ve never written with a fountain pen, and I’m amazed at how effortlessly it glides across the page. I find myself writing in cursive for the first time in months; I’d almost forgotten that I knew how!

  “Wow! Margaret, you have to try this! I feel like I could just write and write, without my hand ever getting tired.”

  Elizabeth smiles and thanks Raoul, who looks relieved as he returns the pen to the display. Malcolm, meanwhile, comes back carrying a Ping-Pong paddle with the number eighty-one on it.

  “What is that?” I ask.

  “Well, I hope it is your lucky number,” he says, handing it to me. “You just sit next to Elizabeth, and hold that up when she tells you.”

  “But only when she tells you,” adds Mom. “I don’t want you accidentally buying a van Gogh.”

  “Excellent advice,” Malcolm agrees. “Now, if you ladies will excuse me, there are some books I may be interested in. Lot 113, if you’re keeping score, my dear. Save me a seat!”

  “We have a few minutes before we need to go into the auction room,” Elizabeth says, “so feel free to wander around, girls. You might see something else you like—maybe for your lovely mother, Sophie. Perhaps a nice brooch? I see that there are several in the catalog.”

  “No, no, no,” Mom insists. “Don’t you dare buy me a thing.”

  Margaret and I wander off to check the bookcases for possible Mr. Eliot gifts. As we’re standing there browsing, out of the corner of my eye I see someone leaning against the glass display case, talking to Raoul. My heart drops into my shoes when I realize that it’s Marcus Klinger—the rude guy from the bookstore—and he has my dad’s pen in his grubby little hands!

  I elbow Margaret. “Oh no. No. No. No.”

  “What are you …? Oh, him. What is he doing here?” She scowls at him, a reminder that one insults Margaret Wrobel at one’s own peril. Something tells me that Marcus Klinger is going to pay dearly for that “clean hands” remark.

  Klinger sets the pen on a square of black velvet and examines it with a magnifying glass. He then starts to unscrew the barrel, but Margaret interrupts him, snatching the pen out of his grasp.

  “Excuse me, miss, I was looking at that,” he says. Then he recognizes her from the store. “Oh. You.”

  “Yeah. Me. I would have thought you’d be looking at the books,” she says. “I’m sure there are plenty of cheap imitations that you could pawn off as first editions in your shop.”

  Fortunately, Raoul steps in before Klinger challenges Margaret to a duel, or whatever it is that people do now when they think they’ve been insulted. “Sorry, miss. I must return the pen to the case. It’s time to move everything into the auction room.”

  Margaret hands him the pen and then glares one last time at Klinger before joining me back at the books.

  “What are you doing?” I demand. “Are you crazy? Now he’s going to buy the pen just for spite.”

  “Don’t worry, Soph. Elizabeth knows what she’s doing.”

  “Yeah, maybe. But it’s still my money, remember.”

&nbs
p; The woman with the dazzling red hair approaches, smiling warmly. “Hi, I’m Shelley Gallivan. I’m sorry to interrupt, but I couldn’t help noticing your St. Veronica’s blazers—that’s my alma mater. I have such fond memories of that place. Is Sister Bernadette still the principal? She runs a tight ship, I think you could say.”

  “Yep, she’s still the captain,” I say. “I’m Sophie.”

  Margaret introduces herself, and then asks, “Do you work here?”

  “No, I’m just … coordinating, I suppose is the right word. I worked for Mr. Dedmann before he died, and now I’m helping out with the settling of his estate. Sophie, I see that you’re interested in his old fountain pen. Is it for yourself?”

  “No, it’s for my dad, for Christmas. He collects them.”

  “Do you know anything else about it?” Margaret asks.

  “Only that it was Mr. Dedmann’s favorite,” Shelley replies. “Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this, but he was holding it when he died. I found him at his desk, and the pen was still in his hand.”

  Hmmmm. I’m not quite sure how I feel about that.

  “Really?” Margaret asks. “That’s amazing. What was the last word he wrote?”

  Shelley ponders the question for a second. “I’ll have to … Oh yes, now I remember. He had the pen in his right hand and an odd metal box in his left—and the last words he wrote were ‘Look inside.’ He wrote it on the cover of a notebook, almost like he knew he didn’t have time to open it to a blank page. The box he was holding is a funny little thing—it has a tricky latch that took me a while to figure out. When I finally did, the only thing inside was a photograph of a young woman. I had to use tweezers to remove it. It was an old picture; based on the hairstyle and clothes, I’d guess it was taken in the thirties or forties. Nothing written on the back except for the letter ‘V.’ It’s still at the house; I’m trying to piece together some of the details of his life. He was a very secretive person, and so much of his life is a complete mystery. Well, I need to get ready for the big auction. It was nice meeting you, and good luck! Hope you get the pen!”

  As she scurries off to the back room, Margaret and I join Mom and Elizabeth, who are waiting for us at the entrance to the auction room, where a hundred or so folding chairs are set up.

  As Elizabeth leads us down the aisle, I see yet another familiar face in the gathering crowd, although the woman in question is doing all she can to avoid being recognized. But I’m certain it’s Lindsay, the woman from GW Antiques, sitting in the last seat in the last row of chairs, a scarf wrapped around her head in that sixties, going-out-for-a-spin-in-my-convertible way. She doesn’t see me, or if she does, makes no attempt to smile or wave; she just stares ahead.

  We take seats in the fifth row; I’m on the aisle with Elizabeth next to me. My right hand has a death grip on the paddle, while my left presses it against my lap. (Why, you ask? Because I can’t trust my right arm not to do something crazy.) Marcus Klinger strolls past, so close that his coat brushes my arm, and takes the aisle seat three rows in front of me.

  Margaret leans forward to get my attention. “Go get him, Sophie. That pen is yours.”

  The auctioneer steps up to the podium and, after all the introductions and warnings, bangs his gavel on the podium to begin.

  The first six items are boxes of miscellaneous old books, and Marcus Klinger wins the bidding on every one. The lady who is bidding against him takes her time when the asking price goes above a hundred dollars, but Klinger never hesitates to raise the bid. It’s pretty obvious that he wants those books, and is going to pay whatever it takes to get them. Margaret shakes her head every time the auctioneer shouts, “Sold! To number thirteen, in the second row!”

  Items seven and eight are sets of bookends: hunting dogs in the first, and owls in the second. Elizabeth takes the paddle from my hand and bids on the dogs, but sets the paddle back on my lap when the price goes to two hundred.

  “I can buy them in a shop for that,” she whispers to me.

  “As if you would pay retail,” says Malcolm.

  Elizabeth grasps my hand. “Are you ready?”

  I nod, gripping the paddle tightly.

  “Lot number nine!” announces the auctioneer. “A fountain pen by Reviens. French, circa 1920. Can I have fifty dollars to start?”

  Fifty dollars! My head, ready to explode, spins to face Elizabeth, whose eyes quickly scan the crowd for interest at that price. Ahead of me, I see Marcus Klinger sitting at attention, waiting.

  “Twenty-five, then,” says the auctioneer after an eternity.

  Elizabeth nudges me. “Now.”

  My hand shoots up.

  “I have twenty-five, the young lady on the aisle. Can I have thirty? Thirty dollars for this beautiful, working fountain pen.”

  Grrr. Shut up, mister.

  Klinger—grrrr again—raises his paddle nonchalantly.

  “I have thirty from lucky number thirteen. Do I hear thirty-five?”

  Help! What do I do? I’m starting to panic as I turn to the support team on my right.

  Mom nods.

  Malcolm gives me the thumbs-up and a wink.

  Elizabeth pats me on the arm.

  And Margaret just grins like mad. The girl loves to see me squirm.

  I raise the paddle, which suddenly feels much heavier in my hand.

  “Thirty-five! Do I hear forty? Forty dollars for this excellent example of French craftsmanship. A steal!”

  I glare at the auctioneer, gritting my teeth and attempting mental telepathy: Will you please just SHUT UP!

  A century passes. My eyes are glued to the back of Klinger’s head, and I almost pass out when his shoulder twitches. But his paddle stays on his lap where it belongs, and the next thing I know, the auctioneer shouts, “SOLD! To the young lady with paddle number eighty-one!”

  I did it!

  “Well done,” Elizabeth praises. “That was perfect. Like an old pro.”

  I catch Marcus Klinger sneaking a peek over his shoulder at our little celebration, a snide expression on his face. A few minutes later, the auctioneer announces lot number thirteen, a walking stick with a sterling silver handle made to look like a sawed-off tree branch.

  Malcolm, who sometimes carries a walking stick (not because he needs it—he freely admits that he just likes the way it looks with his tweeds), perks up.

  “May I borrow that paddle for a moment, dear?” he asks.

  Elizabeth groans. “Another stick? Good grief. There’s hardly room in the umbrella stand as it is.”

  “Yes, dear,” says Malcolm with another wink in my direction.

  Bidding on that silly walking stick turns into a small-scale war between Malcolm, a man in the back (old and feeble enough that he actually needs the darn thing), and—big surprise—Marcus Klinger. The bidding quickly goes from one hundred, to two, to three, to four. Malcolm’s final bid is four hundred fifty, and when Klinger promptly raises it to five hundred, Malcolm mutters, “Too rich for my blood,” and hands the paddle back to me.

  I’m rooting for the old man, but Klinger keeps raising and raising the bid, never hesitating to hoist his paddle high in the air. Finally, with the bidding at nine hundred dollars, the old man in the back gives up, and Klinger adds the walking stick to his haul, which includes six boxes of books and a small writing desk.

  But there’s one thing he doesn’t have: Dad’s fountain pen.

  • • •

  “Don’t you just love New York during the holidays?” Mom says, slipping her arm through mine as we stroll through the pine forests of the Upper East Side on the way home from Bartleman’s. “The lights, the smells … so lovely. Maybe it’s my imagination, but people even seem nicer.”

  “Well, I’m with you about the lights and the smells, but that other thing is definitely your imagination,” I say, picturing Marcus Klinger and the way he treated us in his shop.

  Mom squeezes my arm. “Since when did my baby get to be so cynical? What happened to my innocent litt
le Sophie?”

  “She started seventh grade,” I say. “It’s a jungle out there, Mom.”

  “Don’t let a few Scrooges ruin your holidays,” Mom says. “You have such a wonderful outlook on life; it’s just one big adventure after another for you, and I love that about you. I couldn’t bear to watch it disappear. Promise that you won’t ever stop being so excited, so passionate, about … everything?”

  “Promise.”

  When we get home, it’s after nine o’clock, and Dad is waiting for us—an unplanned-for scenario. He’s usually at the restaurant until eleven or twelve on Tuesdays.

  “Guy! What are you doing home already?” Mom asks, caught completely off guard. She recovers quickly, though; Mom is pretty fast on her feet. “I’m sorry—that sounded like we’re not happy to see you.”

  Dad smiles and hugs her. “Nice to see you two, too.”

  “Two too,” I repeat, in a singsongy voice. “Like a train. Get it? Choo-choo?”

  Dad stares blankly at me, then turns to Mom for an explanation of my lame attempt at humor.

  “Never mind,” she says. “Your daughter’s being silly. We’ve been out doing a little Christmas shopping.”

  “For youuuuuu,” I add.

  “Ah, ma foi! All is forgiven. Was it a … successful trip?”

  “Very,” says Mom. “I think you’ll be pleased. Definitely surprised.”

  “I can’t wait to see your face,” I say. “I don’t know how I’m going to make it to Christmas.”

  Dad shrugs. “You could just give it to me now if it will make life easier for you.”

  “Oh, no you don’t,” says Mom. “Sophie—to bed! Look at the time. And you have a math test tomorrow!”

  “Postponed until Thursday,” I say. “But I do have a Spanish quiz. No problemo.”

  I kiss them both and then head off to my room, where I spend a few minutes reviewing my Spanish notes. Before long, I convince myself that I’m fully prepared for the quiz, set my notebook aside, and take the fountain pen out of my jacket pocket. As I unscrew the cap, I realize that I have no idea how the thing works. I vaguely remember seeing Dad fill one of his other pens: he dipped the end of the pen into a bottle of ink, and somehow the pen sucked up enough ink to write for a few days.