The Secret Cellar (18 page)

Margaret’s eyes widen when I meet her in the lobby; she recognizes the box immediately. “Croissants?”

“Avec chocolat.”

“Mmm.
Très bien
.”

And then there were four. Oops. Make that three; once I open the box, I can’t avoid helping myself to another.

“That was amazing,” she says, her eyes glued to the box.

“I have to save two for Becca and Leigh Ann,” I say. “Don’t I?”

“Well, we could eat the rest. If they don’t know they missed them, they can’t really miss them, right?”

“Kind of like, if a
pain au chocolat
falls in the forest, and no one is there to eat it, did it really taste good, anyway?”

“Exactly!”

I start to open the box, but something stops me. “No. We can’t. We have to share. It’s the Red Blazer way.”

Margaret nods sadly. “You’re right. Listen to us. And a week before Christmas. Like a couple of Scrooges.”

We meet Becca and Leigh Ann in the cafeteria before school and I set the box on the table between them.

And then there was one.

“Hey, guys, what’s going on?” says Livvy Klack, appearing at my side. “Ooh. What’s that?”

“Um, it’s yours,” I say.

“Really? Thanks! Hey, did you hear about Perkatory? They’re going to reopen on Saturday night.”

“Yay!” we shout, earning ourselves a scowl from Sister Eugenia, who is passing by.

“I know, right?” says Livvy, tearing off an enormous chunk of
pain
with her teeth. “It’s about time. I never realized how long I spent in there until it was gone. The only good thing is that I think I lost two pounds. Thank God they don’t sell these. I would weigh a ton.”

“How did you hear about Perk?” I ask.

“I was in that new place, Coffeeteria, waiting at the counter for my coffee, and I heard a couple of people talking about it, and then I went by this morning and there was a sign on the door.”

Margaret eyes me suspiciously. “Did you ever …?”

“No. I never had a chance,” I say. “I was going to do it yesterday, but after school we were in such a hurry to get uptown to Shelley’s that I forgot.”

“What are you two whispering about?” Leigh Ann asks.

“You won’t believe what Sophie did,” Margaret says. “You know the manager over at Coffeeteria, Jeff? She kidnapped his pet rat.”

“What?” cries Livvy.

“Nice,” says Becca. “Well played, St. Pierre.”

Leigh Ann shudders. “A rat?” She backs away from me. “You don’t have him with you now, do you?”

“No, he’s home in an aquarium,” I say. “In my closet. Now what am I supposed to do?”

Livvy holds up a hand. “Wait. Why did you take his rat? Just for spite?”

“Oh no,” says Margaret. “This is Sophie St. Pierre, the girl with the world’s most vivid imagination. She actually thought that the manager at Coffeeteria had planted his rat in Perkatory at the exact time the health inspector would be there so they would get shut down. The best part, though, was her ransom note: ‘We have your rat.’ And then telling him he has to make things right with Perkatory if he wants the rat back alive.”

“No. Way,” says Leigh Ann.

“Oh, totally way,” Margaret replies. “But she never delivered the ransom note, and now Perkatory is reopening.”

“You really are crazy, aren’t you?” Livvy asks. “I love it! A ratnapping!”

“There! See!” I shout. “Somebody gets it. It still could have been him. Just because I didn’t send the note—”

“What are you going to do now?” Becca asks. “You gonna kill the rat?”

“What? No! Of course not!”

“You want me to take care of it? Because I, uh, know people.”

“Nobody is going to whack the rat. He’s innocent. I just have to slip him back into the guy’s coat pocket. I got him out; I can get him back in … and in one piece, Becca.”

While Leigh Ann and Livvy rehearse their scenes in
The Merry Gentlemen
, Becca sketches like mad, and Margaret checks and rechecks her math homework, I do something I’ve never done in school: I take a little nap. Even in kindergarten, when it was encouraged (or forced on me, depending on how you look at it), I refused to do it. I was convinced that I would miss something important. It’s hard to imagine now just what that something might have been, but at the time, it was life-or-death stuff.

Maybe it was those two pastries I had for breakfast, or maybe staying awake until eleven-thirty to finish the first book in the series that Becca swears is “almost as good as
The Lord of the Rings
” is the problem. Either way, I put my head down on a desk—I’ve seen lots of
other kids do it—and in seconds, I’m out cold … and dreaming I’m in France again.

As usual in these dreams, I’m on the back of a scooter with my arms wrapped around Raf’s waist—
ooh la la
. We’re zooming down a country lane with vineyards on both sides, and then slow down as we approach a small village. There’s an old church on the left, and a bride and groom are standing at the door waving at us. Raf pulls up in front, and that’s when it gets weird. First, I realize that I know the two people: it’s my aunt Noëlle—my dad’s sister, who lives in a town that looks a lot like the one in my dream—and her husband, Christian. There’s another woman standing a few steps below them—a woman I’ve seen before, but only in my dreams—smiling sweetly directly at me.

“
Bonjour
, Sophie,” she says. “
Et joyeux Noël
. The stars are full of secrets. Look to the stars.” And then—poof!—she’s gone.

“The stars?”

My eyes turn back to the happy couple, but something very, very strange has happened. That’s not Uncle Christian standing there in that tux—it’s Raf. The bride, however, has turned away so I can’t see her face.

“Turn around,” I say. “Please.”

“Sophie,” someone calls.

“Raf!” I shout.

“Sophie!”

I jerk awake and find myself surrounded by an army
of red blazers, plaid skirts, and laughing faces. The look on my face must be one of absolute confusion, because it makes them all laugh even harder.

“Jeez, St. Pierre,” says Becca. “Where were you?”

I find Margaret’s face in the crowd. “You were talking in your sleep,” she says. “You said something about stars, and then told someone to turn around—”

“And then you shouted Raf’s name,” says Leigh Ann. “It was adorable.”

“France again?” Margaret asks. “The scooter?”

I nod. “It was outside a church in some little village, and my aunt and uncle were—” I stop as the answer to the third clue rumbles into my brain like the M15 bus running a red light. I leap to my feet. “We have to go. Now.” I race to the locker I share with Margaret and grab my coat.

“What’s the matter?” Margaret says as she pins me against the locker next to ours. “I haven’t seen you move that fast since that time Raf called Leigh Ann, and you thought they were going out. What happened in that dream?”

“I can’t tell you. Not all of it, anyway. But that’s not it. I … remembered something. Something important. I have to go home and get it, and then I’ll meet you guys at Dedmann’s house. Trust me, okay?”

“What are you up to?”

“Eyes like Mars,” I say. “I know what he means.”

Margaret releases my coat but continues to stare at
me suspiciously. “Okay, but if you’re not there in half an hour, we’re coming after you. Right, everybody?”

Becca and Leigh Ann nod their agreement while Livvy looks on.

Margaret hesitates a second before turning to Livvy. “Do you want to come, too?” Margaret asks. “We can fill you in on what we’ve been doing on the way up there.”

Wow.

Even though I’m in a huge hurry, I have to stop to let that sink in. Margaret and Livvy don’t exactly … Well, let’s just say that those two are kind of like England and France—at war for centuries, but now they’re allies. Sort of.

Even though Livvy played a big part in our last case, she’s still in the “honorary” category of Red Blazer Girls, along with Elizabeth Harriman and Malcolm Chance (whose blazer would have to be red tweed). So for Margaret to actively invite Livvy to join us is a pretty big deal.

Livvy’s eyebrows move a few degrees north in surprise, but her whole face lights up. “Really? Yes! The way you’ve all been acting, I knew you were up to something.”

“Oh, we’re up to something, all right,” says Margaret, staring directly at me. “Some of us more than others.”

The streetlights are already on, and everyone else is inside when I arrive, panting, at Dedmann’s house. I check my watch: twenty-eight minutes.

Bertie is first to say hello, the entire back half of her body wagging crazily.

“Why didn’t I get a greeting like that?” Becca asks.

“Because I’m her favorite,” I say, dropping to the floor to be covered in dog kisses. “Dogs know who their real friends are.”

“Boy, she really does like you,” Shelley says. “Maybe you should just take her home with you today. But first, the girls tell me that you think you know how to solve the third clue, but that you’re being very secretive about it. Shall we go to the cellar?”

We follow her down the stairs and to the round table, where everyone sits and waits for me to start talking.

“This had better be good,” Becca says. “Or I’m never
going to let you forget that little sleep-talking episode we just witnessed.”

“Like you were going to, anyway,” I say.

“Ohhh, Raaafff,” she says, swooning.

“Come on, Becca,” scolds Leigh Ann. “Let her talk. The suspense is killing me.”

I stick my tongue out at Becca. “Thank you, Leigh Ann. Okay, remember that I told you my aunt and uncle were in my dream? Well, there was somebody else.” I point at the Ring of Rocamadour on my right hand. “She was there, too.”

Margaret, Becca, and Leigh Ann know exactly who I mean, but Livvy and Shelley share a confused look.

“Ever since we found the ring—the real one—this woman keeps showing up in my dreams, just like in the legend.”

“Legend?” Shelley asks.

“Uh-huh. Supposedly, whoever wears the ring receives visits from … I know this sounds bizarre … St. Veronica. And she makes your wishes come true … somehow. I know, crazy, right?”

“What does she look like? I mean, how do you know who she is?” asks Livvy.

“I suppose she looks like what you think she ought to look like,” I say. “Usually, she looks just like the painting of her in the church. This time, though, she may have had a little of Madame Zurandot thrown in, too.”

“What did she say?” Margaret asks.

“She said ‘Hi,’ and ‘Merry Christmas,’ in French. And then she said, ‘The stars are full of secrets’ and ‘Look to the stars.’ That was it. Then I woke up.”

Leigh Ann looks disappointed. “That’s it?”

“Not quite,” I say. “Seeing my aunt … reminded me of the Christmas card she sent me last year. This card.” I take a card from its envelope and set it on the table. “She makes her own cards every year, and they’re always, like, wacky-creative. Here, check it out yourselves.” I pass it to Margaret, who opens and closes it several times, smiling at the card’s “magic,” before passing it on to the others.

You see, the inside of the card is an indoor scene of a Christmas tree, decorated with red lights and red ornaments, with packages wrapped in red—very festive-looking. The front fold of the card, however, has a special feature: an oval is cut out, large enough to reveal the picture of the tree inside. But the oval is covered with red cellophane, and when the card is closed, the lights, ornaments, and presents all magically disappear, leaving a simple fir tree.

“This is pretty clever,” says Livvy. “The red plastic filters out all the red light, so anything that appears red to our eyes just disappears. I saw something like this once at a planetarium. That’s how they can tell what stars and other stuff are made of.”

Oh yeah. Whatever you might think about Livvy, she’s no dummy.

“Ohhh!” says Margaret. “Look with eyes like Mars! Mars is the red planet. Look with red eyes. Nice work, Sophie.”

“And the answer is in the stars,” I say. “It’s written in the stars. I thought we might need something a little bigger than the Christmas card, so I brought this.” I take out a red plastic report cover that is exactly the same color as the cellophane in the card.

I set the report cover on top of the painted Milky Way and watch as all the red stars disappear beneath it. At the same time, with all the red ones gone, the light blue stars seem to pop out from the image.

“Move it right to the center of the galaxy,” Margaret says. “There … stop. Do you see it?”

We all stand on tiptoe and stretch as far as we can to see what she’s pointing out.

“It’s writing,” says Leigh Ann, taller than I am, and able to get a closer look.

I slide the red plastic rectangle across the tabletop, following one of the swirls of the Milky Way and reading: “I … am … the … Third … Wise … Man.”

“Oh my,” says Shelley. “Then it’s true. Mr. Dedmann really was a German spy.”

“Not just a spy—a famous spy. The Third Wise Man,” says Margaret. “This is huge. But we still need more.”

“Keep going,” Becca says. “There are a lot of stars left to check. Each one of these swirls has hundreds. Thousands.”