The Secret Cellar (25 page)

The second person grunts something unintelligible from the tunnel. From my vantage point, I can see the back wheels of the wagon, and for the next few minutes, Klinger lifts case after case of wine, setting each on the back of the wagon. A pair of dirt-covered hands then pulls it forward and out of sight. Just as I’m getting really frustrated at not being able to see who it is, the helper in the tunnel backs up to the doorway. I can’t see his face,
but I would know that baggy, dirt-brown suit and those clunky black wingtip shoes anywhere—it’s Gordon Winterbottom! For crying out loud!

Margaret reaches the same conclusion at the same moment, because she turns to me with open mouth, upturned hands, and a look that says, “Once a crook, always a crook.”

As they continue loading, I try to imagine how this dastardly duo managed to join forces. Seriously, it’s like the Joker and Lex Luthor getting together. Apparently, Gordon’s performance was even more convincing than I originally thought—he fooled us completely. That old so-and-so must have run over to Sturm & Drang the second we left to tell Klinger what we had done, just so he could really stick it to us! When Klinger heard that we would soon have our own key to the cellar, he panicked and headed for the tunnel. And now my old pal Winterpatootie thinks he’s going to get a piece of this million-dollar pie.

Well, you know what? I don’t think so!

“Hold it right there, you two!” I shout, surprising everyone—including me.

Klinger spins around so fast that his face is a blur. “What the … Where did you …?” (Thankfully, he doesn’t drop the case of 1999 Aloxe-Corton he is holding; I hate to think what my dad would have done to him in the face of such senseless destruction—’99 was a very good year, after all.)

But it’s Gordon’s face that is the real shocker. When I shout, he turns and … and … well, it’s not Gordon Winterbottom at all. It’s Lindsay—wearing one of Gordon’s old three-sizes-too-big suits.

“Lindsay?” I say. “I thought you were … those clothes … Winterbottom.”

She just stares at me, so filthy and exhausted that she almost seems glad that they’ve been caught red-, no, make that dirty-handed. She sheds Gordon’s suit, which she has been wearing in place of coveralls, and stands before me in her own tasteful (if a bit young for her) clothes … and those clunky wingtips.

Klinger, meanwhile, realizes that he’s surrounded by the eight of us (Mr. Applewood chooses to remain safely behind the stacks), so he sets down the case of wine and throws his hands high in the air. “Fine. I give up.”

“Tsk, tsk,” says Margaret. “Look at those grubby hands, Mr. Klinger. I hope you won’t be handling any of those nice books in your shop in this condition.”

“You girls really are … exasperating,” he says.

An enormous grin splits Margaret’s face. “You know, even if there hadn’t been a single bottle of wine back here, it still would have been worth all this effort just to hear you say that.”

We spend the next hour lugging cases of wine back from the basement of Sturm & Drang to Mr. Dedmann’s secret cellar. Shelley has decided not to involve the police,
as long as all the wine is returned, and appoints my dad supervisor of that effort. Dad is a nervous wreck, and there are some cases that he won’t even let us kids touch.

“I’d rather do it myself,” he says, as if it’s his wine! “It’s better than watching you drop a case of Romanée-Conti.”

The tunnel, we learn from the exhausted, defeated Lindsay, was built by Dedmann for his own escape from the FBI, when they came knocking.

“But they never did,” she adds. “He was smarter than they were, I’m afraid. Soon the war was over, and Dedmann was a man without a country, in a sense. He had a fortune, thanks to his years in the black market … and nothing to do, no one to fear. He spent the next sixty years pretending to be someone he wasn’t.”

“And collecting wine,” adds Dad.

“If I had to guess,” says Lindsay, “I would say that, like most German spies of that time, he spent some time in England and France, where he probably developed a taste for … the finer things. Things he wouldn’t have found in Germany in the 1920s and ’30s.”

As I glance around the wine cellar, I wonder: how many more secrets are hidden away, just waiting to be discovered? Something tells me that the Third Wise Man has a few tricks up his sleeve yet.

Leigh Ann looks down the dark length of the tunnel. “There’s still one thing I don’t get. Why did he dig a tunnel to the bookstore’s basement?”

Margaret nods. “Good question.” She turns to Klinger. “And why did you wait until now to do anything?”

Lindsay answers for him. “Because he didn’t know about the tunnel until I showed him the plans for this house.”

Margaret nudges me with an elbow. “See! Just like I said!”

Lindsay continues, “As for the tunnel, it leads there because, one, it’s close by, and two, Dedmann owned that building, too. Before he sold it to Marcus’s father in the sixties, he walled up the tunnel. By then, he was certain that he would never need it.”

“Right there … all those years,” mutters Klinger. “My own basement. Two measly inches of concrete. And Dedmann never let on.”

“His real name was Neuner,” says Becca. “Kaspar Neuner.”

Klinger’s bottom lip trembles, and Lindsay gasps.

“How do you know that?” she asks. “What did you find? Where are his secret files? Please, you have to show me. I’ve waited years to see them. That man killed my grandfather. They could help me finally prove it.”

“I don’t know about any secret files,” Becca answers. “His name was written in the stars, just like he said it would be. You know the big table with the Milky Way painted on it? It’s right there, plain as can be.”

As you can imagine, that takes a little explaining.

After we reveal the name written in the Milky Way, Leigh Ann tells Dad, “Sophie’s the one who figured it out.”

“It wasn’t just me,” I say modestly. “We all did it. And it was my aunt Noëlle who really deserves the credit.”

Dad’s head tilts several degrees to the left. “
Ma soeur?
Noëlle? What did she do?”

“She sent me this Christmas card,” I say, holding up the “magic” card with the red cellophane.

“Oh. I think I’m getting a headache from trying to keep up with you, Sophie.”

“It’s never boring, though, is it?” I say, thoroughly satisfied with myself.

“Well, what do you think, Mr. Applewood?” Shelley asks, sweeping her arm around the room and its contents. “Do you think I have enough here to start a nice little art school?”

“And then some,” Mr. Applewood answers.

“How about you, Mr. St. Pierre? You’re the wine expert here. What do you think?”

Dad scratches his chin. “I think you could open three schools.”

When we are certain that all the wine is back where it belongs, we send Klinger and Lindsay scurrying on their way through the tunnel. Dad, meanwhile, finds some scraps of wood to wedge into the doorframe to ensure that there won’t be any more unwelcome visitors to the secret cellar.

“And now I think we celebrate,” says Shelley. “Upstairs, everyone. I have champagne for the grown-ups and ginger ale for the rest of you. I still can’t believe it; I feel like my feet aren’t touching the ground. How can I ever thank you girls?”

“Just get this school up and running,” Margaret says.

“And give Mr. Winterbottom a chance,” I add, feeling a little guilty that I was so quick to assume he had stabbed us in the back. “You know, now that we’ve kept the world safe from the evil clutches of Marcus Klinger,
and since it wasn’t Gordon down there helping him, we still have one more job to do.”

“Gordon and Winnie?” Margaret asks.

“Yep,” I say. “And this time, I have a plan. We have to head down to Elizabeth and Malcolm’s when we leave here. Apparently, Malcolm made his famous eggnog and is cooking a giant ‘roast beast.’ Elizabeth left me a message saying that she remembered something Winnie told her a long time ago. When I called her back, she wouldn’t tell me over the phone. I think she just wants to make sure we really come.”

Upstairs in the formal dining room, we toast our success with enthusiastic clinking of crystal champagne flutes. After wishing Shelley well in her new life, and promising to keep in touch, we say our good-byes to her; Mr. Applewood; Livvy, whose parents are waiting for her at home (and who promises to meet us Saturday night at Perkatory); and Dad, who has to hurry downtown to the restaurant.

“Nobody will believe me when I tell them what I’ve seen here,” he says, before adding, “Sophie—call your mother and tell her where you’re going. And don’t be late. And stay with Margaret.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her,” says Margaret.

Rebecca comes between Raf and me, putting her arms around our shoulders. “Yeah, and I’ll sit between these two crazy kids.”

“Gee, thanks for offering to be my personal chaperone, Becca,” I say, “but Raf has to leave, too.”

“ ’Fraid so,” Raf says. “Family stuff.”

“You sound thrilled about that,” says Leigh Ann.

“I’m gonna end up babysitting a bunch of my cousins,” he groans. “They’re all brats.”

I take Raf by the arm. “I, um, need to talk to you. Let’s go outside for a minute.”

“You want me to go with her, Mr. S.?” Becca says. “You know, just to make sure there’s no monkey business.”

“I take back all the nice things I’ve ever said about you, Becca,” I say, slamming the door in her face.

The temperature has dropped in the two hours that we were inside, and we’re both shivering as we stand outside Mr. Dedmann’s—make that Mr. Neuner’s—front door.

“I just want to make sure we’re still on for tomorrow,” I say. “You
are
going to make it to Perkatory, aren’t you?”

“I’ll be there, I promise,” he says. “Unless—”

“No! No ‘unless’! I’m leaving for France on Sunday—for ten days!”

“Okay, okay. If my mom says anything, I’ll just tell her … something.”

“That’s better.” I lead him out of the porch light and away from the line of sight of the Rebeccarazzi. “So, I
guess I’ll see you tomorrow?” I say, tilting my head to the side and breaking out my sure-thing, kiss-me-you-fool smile.

Arggghhh! Raf totally misses the signs! He gives me a quick brotherly hug, and bops down the steps, shouting, “See ya tomorrow! Call me!”

Walking into Elizabeth’s townhouse is like walking into a scene from a Norman Rockwell painting. The fireplace, crackling and hissing, gives the room a warm, golden glow, aided by the dozen burning candles on the carved mantel. In one corner stands a ten-foot Christmas tree, simply, yet tastefully decorated, with stacks of color-coordinated packages beneath.

Elizabeth, who is famous for her over-the-top outfits, has outdone herself: she’s a vision in red-and-green checked slacks and green turtleneck, topped off with the red blazer she bought to match ours—and a Santa hat.

“Girls!” she cries when Malcolm ushers us into the living room. “I was so afraid I wouldn’t get to see you all before Christmas. Come and sit in front of the fire—you must be freezing. Now, you’ve got to have a glass of Malcolm’s homemade eggnog.” She leans in and whispers, “Pretend you like it even if you don’t; otherwise, he’ll pout.”

“I heard that!” says Malcolm. “But I’m not concerned. It’s simply inconceivable that they won’t like it. People rave about it.”

Maybe it’s the atmosphere—the roaring fire, the Christmas tree, being surrounded by my best friends—but Malcolm’s eggnog is right up there with the best things I’ve ever had to drink.

“It’s … incredible,” Leigh Ann says, agreeing with the yummy noises I’m making.

Malcolm thumbs his nose at Elizabeth and sits on the arm of the couch. “Now, don’t you have a little something else for these young ladies?” he asks.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” says Elizabeth, springing to her feet and running to the tree. She digs into the piles of presents and returns with a single elegantly wrapped gift.

Margaret starts to protest. “You shouldn’t have bought us any—”

“Nonsense,” says Elizabeth. “It’s just a little something I had my friend Susanna put together. She has a small jewelry store downtown.”

“Well, go ahead,” Malcolm orders. “Open it.”

On the count of three, we tear off the paper and pop open the black jewelry box.

Resting on the velvet surface inside is a half-dollar-size bronze coin that has been cut into four equal wedges, with a black silk cord looped through each.

“It’s a copy of a piece my father found in France,” says Elizabeth. “He was leading an excavation around Rocamadour and it turned up—it’s the only one like it. No one knows for sure who the woman is whose face is
on it, but when some of the local diggers started calling it the St. Veronica coin, the name stuck. The original is in the Metropolitan Museum, of course.”

I remove mine from the box and slip the silk cord around my neck, unable to take my eyes off it. “It’s beautiful.”

Becca, Margaret, and Leigh Ann put theirs on, too, and we hold the pieces together to complete the circle.

“The fellowship of the ring,” says Becca.