“Uh-oh. I know that look,” I say.
“Me too,” says Leigh Ann. “Margaret Wrobel has a plan.”
In which I come face to face with my old pal Mr. Winterbutt
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.
Becca takes a sip of hers and swishes the fake wine around her mouth like she’s seen my dad do a million times. Then she purses her lips and lifts her tiny, un-French nose high in the air.
“A looovely vin-tage,” she says. “I taste wet newspaper … rotten apples … and turpentine. Maybe a touch of day-old chewing gum. Delightful. Delicious. Decontaminated.”
And then, of all the kitchens in all the world, Dad chooses this kitchen and this moment to walk into mine. He gasps when he sees the havoc we’ve wreaked and what seems to be going on. On my left, Becca, her hands stained with splotches of bright green and blue, and with faux wine dribbling down her chin, holds her glass up, about to propose a toast. On my right, Margaret is using all her strength to grip a full bottle of 1949 Château Latour while Leigh Ann struggles to cram the cork into the neck. Flour and spilled Kool-Aid are everywhere, and on the stovetop sits one of his prized possessions—a huge copper saucepan from the best pot-and-pan-maker in Paris—filled with a sticky, turquoise-ish mess.
“My good saucepan! Sophie! What have you done to my kitchen?”
In these situations, I’ve learned, play it cool. Nonchalant, even.
“Oh, hey, Dad. Qu’est-ce que tu fait?”
A sudden, horrible idea strikes him, and his face clouds over. He considers us—and the contents of his beloved copper pot—carefully, before asking, “Mon Dieu, girls. Are you making … plastic explosives? In my saucepan?” (I’m not sure which was more upsetting to him: the possibility that we were making explosives, or that we were using his good pan to do it.) “And are you drinking … wine?”
“What! No!” I shout. “No to everything you said. Dad, how could you even think that? Like we’re terrorists or something. Jeez, we’re making our own Play-Doh. And this is Kool-Aid.”
He would like to be relieved, I think, but from the completely blank look on his face, he has absolutely no idea what I have just said. “Play … dough. Why is it that … horrible color? And what does one do with … play dough?”
“Silly, one plays with it,” I say.
“It’s kind of like modeling clay, Mr. St. Pierre,” Margaret explains. “It’s all-natural. It won’t hurt your pan, and we’ll clean it up, I promise.”
“One more question,” he says, pressing a finger into the turquoise blob that has sullied his beloved pan. “Why?”
“Oh, you can use it for lots of things,” I say. “You know, school projects, Christmas decorations. That kind of stuff.” Vague? Definitely. The truth? Absolutely.
Dad smiles, nodding at my nonanswer. “I see. You’re not going to tell me. As long as you’re not going to blow something up, I’m happy. One thing I will say: life is never boring when you girls are around.”
“Thanks, Dad. That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said.”
But before I let him completely off the hook, let’s tally things up. In the past two weeks, we’ve been called hooligans (Mr. Eliot), delinquents (Marcus Klinger), hoodlums and criminals (Mr. Winterbottom), and now my own father has basically accused us of being the mad bombers of the Upper East Side.
And we’re such sweet girls … really!
Dear Reader,
Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve been getting a free ride for the past few chapters, while we Red Blazer Girls have been chasing clues all over town in the snow and the cold (and enduring a series of undeserved insults along the way). Well, honey, the party’s over: it’s your turn—time for you to earn your own red blazer. The heavy lifting has already been done for you: thanks to us, you know the combination to Mr. Dedmann’s secret cellar (Julius Caesar, Terpsichore, and Venus). You also know that you need his walking stick, which Marcus Klinger has and is unwilling to part with.
So, what would you do? Can you come up with a plan to open the vaults in the secret cellar without committing a felony or destroying everything in the house? That means you can’t steal the walking stick!
At your disposal is an imaginary tote bag with a container of homemade Play-Doh, a bottle of fake 1949 Château Latour, a tube of epoxy, and a kidnapped rat—exactly the same tools that we have. Your friends (and Mr. Winterbottom—how scary is that?) await your instructions.
When you think you’re ready, turn the page.
Your friend,
Sophie
P.S. Oh, one more thing: have you figured out why Curtis Dedmann was so obsessed with the number nine? I have.
P.P.S. I’ll be watching.
You call that a plan! Get back to work!
I don’t care what they say about these late-December days being the shortest days of
the year; Thursday lasts forever. Most of my classmates have already checked out for Christmas vacation, and now it is official: most of the teachers have joined them.
But not Mr. Eliot.
It is dress rehearsal day for The Merry Gentlemen, and every second of his class counts. We scramble to get into costumes and then race down the halls to the stage, where he has everything prepared. Exactly ten minutes after the bell, he opens the curtain, and we are on our way.
And … it’s not bad. Not great, maybe, but definitely an improvement over the “dreadful” and “shockingly bad” reviews our fearless director had delivered to us following the Monday and Tuesday rehearsals.
“That was nice,” says Mr. Eliot. “For a moment there, I forgot that I wrote this mess, and actually started to enjoy myself. Livvy and Leigh Ann—fantastic. Don’t change a thing for tomorrow. They’re going to love you. And great job, everyone else. Um, Miss St. Pierre, a question: what did you have in your coat pocket when you first came onstage? I could swear I saw something moving.”
My hand flies to my pocket in a full-blown panic. “Oh no. No. No. No. Humphrey!”
Margaret, Livvy, and I immediately drop to our knees, crawling around the stage and looking for Humphrey the rat. Leigh Ann? Well, she goes the opposite direction: she climbs onto a table.
“What is going on?” Mr. Eliot demands. “What are you looking for?” When it’s clear we’re too preoccupied to answer, he turns to Leigh Ann. “Who is Humphrey?”
“You mean what is Humphrey? He’s a rat,” says Leigh Ann. “Sophie kinda, er, borrowed him from some guy. She’s been taking care of him for a few days.”
A whole gaggle of girls scream, “Rat!” and run to the back of the auditorium, where they stand on the seats.
Mr. Eliot, flabbergasted, slaps his forehead with the palm of his hand so hard that everyone stops to see where the noise came from. “You brought a rat to school, Sophie? Even for you, that’s impressive.”
“Just help us find him, George. You can yell at me later,” I shout from the far corner of the stage.
“Did she really just call me George?” Mr. Eliot asks Leigh Ann. “What is going on here? Aren’t you going to help?”
The Secret Cellar Page 14