The Secret Cellar
Page 12
“Just like that?” says Raf, snapping his fingers.
“I’ve been watching the manager since we got here.” I point at a row of coat hooks on the back wall. “You see that dark gray coat, the one with the hood? He goes over to it every few minutes and drops something into the left pocket. Next time he goes into the back room, I’m going to smear some peanut butter on the palm of my glove, grab that little rodent, and stick him in my coat pocket.”
“And then what?”
“And then I’m gonna run like crazy.”
“I can’t believe you’re going to do this.”
“Says the boy who talked me into riding all over New York on his uncle’s scooter.”
“I made you wear a helmet.”
“Still. There! Did you see that? The manager just dropped something in the pocket. Get ready.” I use a coffee stirrer to spread some peanut butter on my left glove. “That ought to keep him busy for a while.”
When Jeff opens the door to the kitchen, I make a mad dash for his coat. I glance around the room, making sure no one’s watching. Using my non–peanut buttered hand to lift the flap, I peek into the pocket, where an adorable whiskered face peers up at me.
“Why, hello there, Mr. Rat. You want some nice peanut butter? Of course you do.”
Naturally, he can’t resist the temptation, and clambers up and out of Jeff’s pocket and into mine, where I’ve stuck my glove. And then I turn and walk away, cool as a cucumber.
I did it!
Raf, who looks nervous, waits for me on the sidewalk and hustles me away.
“Did you get him?”
“Of course.”
“And you didn’t get caught. It’s a miracle. You always get caught.”
“Oh my gosh, that’s right! I didn’t get caught!”
“You’re a successful criminal … with a pet rat.”
In which we look deep into Vermeer’s eyes
“You did what?” Margaret howls.
“I took matters into my own hands, with the help of a little peanut butter. Well, matters and a rat, if you want to get technical.”
“Where are you keeping it? Do you know anything about taking care of a rat?”
“What’s to know? It’s a rat, Margaret, not a koala bear. He’s in my old aquarium. But don’t tell my parents. They would freak out. Dad has this thing about rodents.”
“Because he’s a chef, and rats are disgusting. Did Raf talk you into this?”
“No! He had nothing to do with it, I swear. He thinks I’m crazy.”
“He’s right. Now that you have this rat, what are you going to do with it?”
“That’s what I’m working on. How does this sound to you? ‘We have your rat. If you want him back, tell the health department how you set him loose in Perkatory. You’ll get him back when they reopen.’ ”
“I think it sounds like my best friend has lost her mind. A ransom note? Let me guess—you used cutout letters from a magazine, didn’t you?”
“Not yet, but I’m going to. This is just a first draft.”
“Mr. Eliot would be so proud.”
“Hey, do you think he’d give me extra credit?”
“No, I think he would have you arrested.”
“Oh. Right. So, did you hear anything from Shelley? She find anything?”
“Nothing yet, but she says she’s still looking. We’re going by there tomorrow right after school. Don’t forget your camera; we might need it. And, Sophie?”
“Yeah?”
“Leave the rat at home.”
With the shortest day of the year just around the corner, it is already dark when we sneak past Sturm & Drang and GW Antiques and Curiosities on our way to see Shelley. The lights are on in both places, and each gives off a golden glow, making them look like the warm, inviting places a used-book store and an antiques shop should be. Above both shops, Christmas lights strung around the railings of fire escapes add a unique–to–New York flavor to the neighborhood.
At Curtis Dedmann’s house, the white lights of a Christmas tree glow behind the front windows and a beautiful wreath hangs on the door. Shelley and Bertie greet us enthusiastically in the foyer, and then we all rush into the kitchen to demonstrate the dumbwaiter to Leigh Ann and Becca, who have been dying to see it.
“You two can go,” I say. “I’ve had enough of that thing.”
“I’m with Sophie on that one,” says Margaret. “Meet you downstairs. We’ll be waiting for you.”
We take the stairs, and sure enough, we get to the basement ahead of the dumbwaiter.
“I think we’re stuck,” says Leigh Ann. “We stopped moving.”
“You’re not stuck. Just push on the door,” I say, my ear pressed against the wood panel that is the dumbwaiter door.
Becca grunts. “Nothing is—Hey, you’re right!”
“Welcome, again,” says Shelley.
“All right, let’s get to work,” says Margaret. “Vermeer is … over here.” We gather around her as she begins the thorough examination of the medallion.
“Heard anything from Klinger lately?” I ask Shelley. “Or Lindsay?”
“Not a peep. I expect Mr. Klinger is gloating; he’s certain that he has ‘won’ this little battle over the house. And he’s probably right. I’ve looked everywhere, and that will just isn’t here.”
Leigh Ann pats Shelley on the back. “Don’t give up yet.”
“That’s right,” I say. “We still have time.” I point at Margaret. “She really is a genius, you know. This Dedmann guy may have been, too, but I’d put her up against anybody in a battle of brainpower.”
“Easy, Sophie,” says Margaret. “I haven’t solved it—Hey … ohhhhhh.”
“See what I mean?” I say, nudging Shelley.
Margaret looks over her shoulder at the rest of us and waggles her eyebrows. “By George, I think I’m onto something. Watch what happens when I turn this.”
She grasps the medallion and spins it clockwise a few degrees. There is a noticeable click as something happens inside the metal disk, revealing a pinprick of light coming from behind the wall, through Vermeer’s left eye. When Margaret turns the medallion to the left, the hole closes and the light disappears.
“Cool,” says Becca.
Margaret continues wiggling, pushing, pulling, tapping, and turning until she is satisfied that there are no more secrets. She turns the light back on and tries to look through the pinhole to see what’s behind.
“The hole is too small,” she says. “And the light is too bright. I can’t see anything.”
“There must be some way to open this section,” I say, running my fingers over the panel and the wood trim. “Maybe another one of the medallions.”
While I try to get my pathetic, chewed-to-the-nubs fingernails under the molding, Leigh Ann puts her eye up to the light to see for herself if anything is visible.
As she pulls her head back, Becca shouts, “Wait! Don’t move!”
Leigh Ann freezes. “What is it? Is there a spider on me? Get it off!”
“It’s not a spider,” says Becca. “For once, I swear I’m serious.” She pushes the still-terrified Leigh Ann’s face closer to the wall and then pulls it back away. “It’s the light coming from this hole.” Smiling mysteriously, she adds, “Oh, this is good.”
“What’s good?” I ask.
“The View of Delft was revealed to him … with a little help,” says Becca. “Remember, I was telling you how perfect the perspective is in the painting? Well, there’s a reason. When I was at the museum yesterday, I read something about Vermeer. Supposedly, he used this thing called a camera obscura to lay out the perspective.” When she sees the confused look on our faces, she continues. “It works kind of like a pinhole camera. The image he wanted to paint was projected on the canvas, and he traced the outlines.”
“He cheated?” I say.
“It’s not like it was a paint-by-number,” Becca replies. “He still had to do the actual painting.”
Flustered, Shelley runs to the bottom of the stairs and flips the switches, plunging the basement—except for Leigh Ann’s face—into total darkness.
“Wait!” shouts Margaret. “Turn them back on. We need something flat.”
Becca giggles. “How about Sophie’s chest?”
“Hey! Not funny,” I say.
“Like a piece of poster board,” says Margaret. “It needs to be white.”
Becca’s mouth starts to open: she is grinning like a demon.
“Don’t say it, Becca,” I warn.
“I have one of those posters from the auction upstairs,” says Shelley. “The back is plain white. Will that work?”
Margaret nods. “Perfect.”
Shelley runs upstairs and returns with the poster in seconds; she’s as excited as the rest of us to see what Margaret has discovered.
Margaret holds the poster about a foot away from the hole in the wall. “Sophie and Becca, you two hold it just like this,” she orders. “Now, Shelley, turn the lights off again. Please.”
As the lights in the room go out, an illuminated circle appears on the paper between Becca and me.
“Whoa,” says Becca. “It’s like a projector.… Hey, there’s something there.”
“Start moving the paper away from the wall … slowly!” says Margaret. “Stop. Back up an inch. Perfect.”
“It’s writing,” Leigh Ann says, “but it’s upside down.”
“I don’t understand,” admits Shelley. “What is going on? Is that a projector?”
“Sort of,” answers Margaret. “Did you ever use a pinhole camera?”
“Sure, when I was a kid. My dad helped me make one.”
“Well, that’s essentially what this is,” says Margaret. “Just a slightly bigger version. The image must be on the back wall of the compartment, and when you turn the light on, it projects it through the pinhole. So simple. The answer is revealed to us, just like the View of Delft was for Vermeer.”
“What does it say?” Shelley asks.
Margaret takes a pen from her pocket and carefully traces the letters. “Okay, that’s it. Let’s turn the lights back on.”
Becca “translates” the upside-down printing:
Dance with delight and turn your Muse,
against the clock, no time to lose.
Beneath the signs, look to the stars,
which long have held an old man’s past,
in plain sight but unseen for years.
The source, to be revealed at last,
of this not-so-wise man’s tears, by one who looks with eyes like Mars.
“But … isn’t it supposed to tell us who the Muse is?” I ask. “Wasn’t that the whole point?”
Margaret scrunches up her face as she stares at the message. “Um … yes … I thought so, anyway.”
“You guys aren’t going to believe this, but I totally know who it is,” gushes Leigh Ann. “It just has to be Terpsichore.”
“Who?” Becca asks. “Turpentine?”
“Terpsichore,” Leigh Ann repeats.
I check out the floor medallions of the nine Muses, and there she is, in one of the corner positions. “How are you so sure it’s her? Why not … Euterpe? Or Pol-y-hym-ni-a?”
“Because Terpsichore is the Muse of dancers. My teacher talks about her all the time. In fact, technically, dancers are called terpsichoreans. It’s kind of strange, though, because I’ve never seen a picture of her actually dancing. She’s always sitting down playing one of those miniature harp things. I forget what it’s called.”
“Ohhh, I remember her,” says Margaret. “You’re right. It’s a lyre, but it does look a little like a harp. I think she’s also the mother of the Sirens, those women in The Odyssey who sing the beautiful song and lure sailors to their death.”
“What about the second line?” I ask. “What does that mean?”
Margaret glances at the poem. “ ‘Against the clock’ … It sounds like we have to hurry. Like it’s a race against the clock.”
Leigh Ann shakes her head. “Or maybe it means to turn her medallion counterclockwise. You know, against the clock.”
Margaret claps her forehead with the palm of her hand. “Duh! Of course! Leigh Ann, you’re brilliant!”
Leigh Ann’s face lights up. “You mean I’m really right?”
“I guess we’ll find out when we try to open the lock.”
Becca slaps Leigh Ann on the back. “Very nice job, Jaimes. I knew you had it in you. Even if you are from Queens.”
“Gee, thanks,” Leigh Ann says.
Margaret turns to Shelley. “That’s two out of three. Julius Caesar and Terpsichore. One more, and we can open this crazy lock … and find out what Mr. Dedmann was hiding.”
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed,” says Shelley. “And if you girls will excuse me, I need to make a call. I’ll be right back.”
“Wait a second,” says Becca as Shelley disappears up the stairs. “We have the first two, right? Caesar and Terpsidancer. Can’t we just do those two and then try all the planets, one by one? There’s only nine.”
“Actually, eight,” says Margaret. “Pluto’s not considered a true planet anymore. I guess it still was when he put the floor in, though.”
“Who cares about Pluto? What about my idea?” Becca asks.
“Nice try,” Margaret says, “but it won’t work. We can’t turn any of the medallions until we get that walking stick. Remember? It’s the key.”
“Duh!” says Becca. “Forgot about that.”
“It’s getting late, so let’s get to work on the third clue,” I say.
Leigh Ann reads the next lines of the poem aloud:
Beneath the signs, look to the stars,
which long have held an old man’s past,
in plain sight but unseen for years.
“So, I think we can assume that the old man in the poem is Dedmann,” says Margaret. “His past is hidden somewhere in plain sight.”
“Beneath the signs,” I add. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Margaret taps me on the shoulder and points at the ceiling, where the twelve constellations of the zodiac, made up of gold-leaf stars, glitter between the planets.
“Ohhh. I get it. Capricorn. Aquarius. Gemini. The signs of the zodiac.”
“So, if it’s beneath the signs, it must be hidden in the floor,” Becca deduces.
Margaret says nothing, but moves to the round table, where she stands, bent over the glossy surface of the Milky Way galaxy. A smile creeps across her face as she turns back to us.
“Look to the stars,” she says. “The answer is in the stars. This table … The Milky Way has something to do with it. I know it.”
I look at Becca and Leigh Ann as my arms break out in blueberry-size goose bumps. “Did she just say what I think she said?”
“The answer is in the stars,” says Becca. “Just like Madame Zurandot said. Man, that is faa-reaky.”
Margaret? Well, let’s say she is unimpressed.
“You guys are the biggest suckers. Do you know how many people—this very second—are saying something like ‘The answer is in the stars’? Thousands. Millions, probably, if you count other languages. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s a coincidence, that’s all. Now get over here and check this table out … every square inch of it.”
“Don’t forget the last line,” Leigh Ann says before crawling underneath the table. “About looking with eyes like Mars. Wasn’t he the god of war? What was special about his eyes?”
“Nothing that I can remember,” I say. “But you never know with mythology. There are so many stories that
it’s impossible to keep them all straight. I’ll volunteer to do some research.”
“And I need to learn more about the Milky Way,” says Margaret.
“It looks like a satellite picture of a hurricane,” says Becca. “There’s the eye, and then these big swirls.” She leans over until her face is almost against the polished surface. “I wonder how long it took somebody to do this. It’s amazing. There are thousands of stars. They must have used a toothpick to make each one.”
“And the colors are right, too,” Margaret adds. “White, yellow, blue, orange, and red … Those are the colors of stars.”
“Any luck?” Shelley asks, returning from upstairs.
“Not yet,” says Margaret. “But we’re working on it.”
“Well, I hate to interrupt your progress, but I have to run across town to see my grandmother. I wouldn’t do it now, with all this going on, but it’s her birthday, and—”
“It’s okay,” says Margaret. “Sophie, you remembered your camera, right?”
“Yes, ma’am. Charged and ready.” I take it from my backpack and wipe it clean. “What do you want a picture of?”
“I want some close-ups of the tabletop, different sections. Get nice and close so we can see individual stars.”
I move around the table, snapping away, and then, with Shelley looking on nervously, I climb on top so I can position myself directly over the center of the galaxy. When I finish there, I hop off the table and wander down the center of the room, taking pictures of the ceiling.
“Just in case,” I say.
Okay, okay, so it wasn’t the greatest plan ever conceived
It’s just Mom and me for dinner, so we decide to make it a soup and salad night. I make the salad Dad taught me—a true bistro salad, he calls it, with escarole and walnuts and Gruyère cheese. Easy, and infinitely yummy, if I do say so myself. Meanwhile, Mom throws together one of her specialities, this rich, creamy, mushroom soup that she makes using three different kinds of mushrooms. Confession time: I used to hate mushrooms until I tasted this soup. Now I beg her to make it for me at least once a month.