The Secret Cellar (16 page)

While Margaret and I are waiting to cross Third Avenue on our way home, I realize that I haven’t turned my phone on since our claustrophobic eavesdropping session in Dedmann’s dumbwaiter. I missed three calls and a text message from Raf, who probably thinks I’m still mad at him about that Coffeeteria incident.

“Hey, he’s on this side of town,” I say. “Huh. I wonder what he’s doing over here.”

“You know, you could call him back and find out,” Margaret suggests. “I just hope he didn’t borrow his uncle’s motor scooter again.”

“No kidding. If his mom catches him, he’ll be grounded for life. He’s still paying for the last time,” I say as I press the call button.

“It’s about time!” Raf scolds. “What are you doing? Where are you?”

“I’m with Margaret, on my way home.”

“I’ll meet you at Eighty-First and Third. Let’s go to a movie.”

I put my hand over the phone and turn to Margaret. “You feel like going to a movie?”

“No, I’ve got too much to do at home. I want to find out a little more about Vermeer and the
View of Delft
, and then we have to figure out when we’re going back to Dedmann’s house. But you should go—you don’t get to see him that much, especially now that Perkatory is closed.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

I uncover the phone. “Okay. What are we going to see?”

“Rear Window,”
says Raf. “Alfred Hitchcock, 1954. Jimmy Stewart and Grace Kelly. It’s number forty-two on the AFI list.”

Raf keeps the American Film Institute’s list of the greatest movies of all time in his wallet, checking them off as he sees them. He’s not trying to watch them in order or anything like that (which drives Margaret crazy—she would have started with number one hundred and worked her way up to number one), and he tries to see them at theaters whenever possible.

Rear Window
is playing on the Hunter College campus, down by St. Veronica’s, and when it’s over, I have only one question for Raf: “How can a movie that good be only number forty-two on your list? It was amazing.”

He grins at me, shaking his head. “You say that every time.”

“Well, I still can’t believe that
Casablanca
got beat out by
Citizen Kane
. It’s no contest.”

“You just like Humphrey Bogart when he says, ‘Here’s looking at you, kid.’ ”

“Remember that first time you imitated him for Malcolm?”

“Oh, right—Sam Spade, in
The Maltese Falcon
.” He lowers his voice an octave or two. “It’s the stuff dreams are made of, sweetheart.”

Wait a second. Did Raf just call me sweetheart? Or was it part of his Bogart impression? And why am I blushing? Stop it!

“Hey, d’you want to get something to eat?” I ask, changing to a safer subject than romantic movies. “What I really want is a hot chocolate from Perkatory, but I guess I can’t have that.”

“I thought you said that the stuff from Coffeeteria was pretty good. We could go there. It’s close, at least.”

Actually, I’m pretty sure I described their hot chocolate as spectacular, but it still doesn’t make me want to hand over my money to those destroyers-of-Perkatory-and-all-that-is-good.

But then the bulbs start flashing in my overworked brain: I have an idea. “Fine, let’s go to Coffeeteria.”

“Really?”

“Sure.”

“Should I be afraid?”

I nod gravely. “Very. But, first, we need to buy a jar of peanut butter.”

“It’s a plan worthy of your friend Alfred Hitchcock,” I say after we take our seats at a table and cautiously sip our steaming hot chocolates. “There’s going to be a ratnapping, and you’re going to help.”

“A ratnapping?”

“Uh-huh.”

“But … why? What good is that going to do?”

“Here’s what I think happened: This guy Jeff, who keeps the pet rat in his pocket, discovered when the health inspector was going to be at Perkatory—it can’t be that hard to find out stuff like that—and goes over there a little ahead of time and lets his furry friend loose. He probably trained him to go into the kitchen and wait until he called.”

“You actually believe that?” says Raf, trying not to laugh. “Using a pet rat to sabotage a rival coffee shop. How can you be sure it’s the same rat? You know, I like Perkatory and all, but let’s face it, it’s not exactly the cleanest place. Maybe it was a real rat. A wild one, I mean. A real New York rat.”

“I already thought of that. We’ll get the inspector to identify him. It’ll be just like on
Law & Order
. A rat lineup.”

Raf drops his forehead onto the table. “Sophie. What.
Are. You. Talking. About? A rat lineup? With a New York City health inspector. You’re insane.”

“Okay, so maybe not the rat lineup. But it doesn’t matter—I have a better idea, anyway. Let’s just grab the rat and get out of here.”

“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.”

“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.”

“Oh my gosh,” says Margaret, consulting her notebook and reading the second clue aloud: “ ‘As the view of Delft was revealed to him, shall his eyes to you in a
chamber dim, divulge her name and the final quest.’ I get it! You’re right, Rebecca. Vermeer’s eye will reveal the name and the final quest … in a chamber dim. Dim … dark! That’s it! Turn off the lights!”

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?”