The Secret Cellar (14 page)

“We might as well hide it here,” says Margaret. “Sophie, where’s your best hiding spot?”

“Yeah, Soph, where do you keep all your deepest secrets?” Becca asks, poking around my desk.

“Get away from there,” I say. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be secret anymore, would it?”

“So you’re admitting that you do keep secrets from us,” says Becca. “In-teresting.”

“Just give me the ribbon. I’ll hide it after you leave, Becca. So, now what?” I ask.

“Well, Julius Caesar is our ‘worthy man’; there’s no doubt about that. Now we have to find ourselves a Muse,” answers Margaret, glancing at the two poems written in her notebook. “And we know for sure that we were right about the medallions. They’re all part of one big lock.”

“And we’re going to need that walking stick to turn the medallions,” Leigh Ann says. “Don’t forget that.”

“What about the second poem?” I ask. “Anybody have any ideas? ‘As the view of Delft was revealed to him.’ What’s Delft?”

“Jeez, Sophie. I can’t believe you don’t know that,” says Becca. “It’s a city, someplace in Europe. I thought everyone knew that.”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry about that Ides of March crack,” I say. “How do you know about Delft?”

“The
View of Delft
is a painting by Vermeer. We studied it in my art class when we were talking about perspective. It’s one of those paintings … You know, at first, I’m thinking, ‘Meh—this is nothing special. Just another landscape.’ But the longer you look at it, the more you start to see.”

Margaret’s fingers are pressed against her temples as her mighty brain focuses like a laser beam on the poem before her. “The name of the Muse is going to be revealed to us … as the
View of Delft
was revealed to
Vermeer. What does that mean? Rebecca, you’re the artist. How is a painting revealed to a painter? How do you decide what goes into the picture?”

Becca shrugs. “I dunno, you just … know, I guess. But one of my teachers did teach me a little trick that’s amazing for landscapes. He takes this big piece of mat board with a little rectangle cut out of the middle. Then he holds it up and looks through the hole at the scene he’s thinking about painting. He just keeps moving it around—side to side, close and far—until he, you know, finds the picture he wants to paint.”

“Hmmm,” says Margaret. “There must be some other way of looking at the poem. I just need to sleep on it. That always helps. I know it’s a radical idea, but I was thinking that maybe we could try to go to sleep at a reasonable hour tonight.”

Well, we could.

We probably should.

But … well, we all know better, don’t we?

The lights finally go out a little after midnight, and we settle into sleeping positions for the night. Our heads are together in the center of the floor, with our bodies stretched out like the spokes of a wheel. For a few quiet moments, we stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars that Margaret helped me stick to the ceiling. (Because Margaret was involved, you can bet your sweet Betelgeuse
that each one is right where it should be, astronomically speaking.)

“When I was little,” says Leigh Ann, “we visited some relatives way out in the country in the Dominican Republic, and I swear, that’s how the stars looked. I felt like I could just reach up and touch them.… It was so beautiful.”

“Doesn’t this remind you of the first time all four of us had a sleepover?” I ask. “Remember? It was the night we found the Ring of Rocamadour, and Elizabeth insisted that we keep it overnight?”

“And how we passed it back and forth during the night, without even realizing that we were doing it?” Margaret adds. “Kind of hard to forget.”

“Hard to believe that was only a few months ago,” says Becca. “It seems like L.A. has been part of the gang forever.”

“Does everyone remember what they wished for that night?” I ask.

According to the legend of the Ring of Rocamadour, St. Veronica appears in the dreams of the person wearing the ring and answers her prayers. “I remember mine: I wished for the four of us to stay friends forever. I think we’re doing okay, don’t you? You’re all wearing your rings, right?”

Each of us has a perfect copy of the Ring of Rocamadour, a thank-you from Elizabeth Harriman for finding
the ring, and for reuniting her with daughter Caroline and granddaughter Caitlin. We’ve made a solemn vow to wear them every day for the rest of our lives. We are, as Becca constantly reminds us, ring-bearers—just like Frodo.

“Of course,” says Becca.

“Every day,” says Margaret.

“I’ve never taken it off my finger,” says Leigh Ann. “You guys may not realize this, but that was the best night of my life—it still is. Before I transferred to St. V’s, I never had friends like you, who were smart, and funny, and nice. Even you, Sophie, when you thought I liked Raf. Well, maybe for a few days there, you weren’t so nice. Anyway, I remember what everybody wished for that night. Margaret, you wished you could relive your eighth birthday with your grandfather, back in Poland. I wanted my parents to get back together. Fat chance of that happening now that my dad lives in Cleveland. And, Rebecca, you wanted to see your dad again, even if it was only in your dreams. I’ll always remember that, because you said you could still smell the ink from his print shop, but you’d stopped dreaming about him. I cried for like an hour after you guys went to sleep that night just thinking about it.”

We’re quiet for a long time after that.

Becca finally breaks the silence. “You know what I’d wish for right now?”

“What?” we all ask, waiting breathlessly.

“Some more of that pizza. I’m kinda hungry.”

I don’t care if we did make a vow to be friends for life; I wind up and thump her with my pillow as hard as I can. Within seconds, Margaret and Leigh Ann have joined in the beating.

On Sunday afternoon, it’s just Margaret and me again. Leigh Ann is off to Queens to go shopping with her mom, and Becca is meeting some of her “artistic friends” at the Metropolitan Museum to attend an exhibit of paintings by some Dutch guy I’ve never heard of.

I meet Margaret outside her building, where she announces, “First stop, Mr. Dedmann’s cellar. We need to get a good look at the Vermeer medallion. If Rebecca’s right about the name of that painting, the poem must have something to do with him.”

“Um, yeah, that sounds good. Hey, um, sorry to change the subject, but what do you think happened to Dedmann’s dog after he died?” I ask. “I started thinking about that last night. I’m still hoping that my parents will let me get one.”

“That’s a good question,” Margaret says. “I’m sure Shelley will know.”

When we get to Dedmann’s house, I ring the bell and my question is answered before Shelley even opens the door: inside the house, a dog is barking at us.

“Come in, come in,” Shelley says. “She’s very friendly. Her name is Bertie, with a ‘t.’ Personally, I
think she ought to be Birdie with a ‘d,’ because she loves to chase them.”

My knees hit the floor and she buries her head in my coat, tail wagging nonstop.

“Oh my gosh. She is so beautiful. I think I’m in love.” I look up at Margaret and flutter my eyelashes. “Can I keep her? Can I?”

She shakes her head. “No, you cannot keep her.”

“Actually,” Shelley says, “you could. I’m looking for a good home for her. I would love to keep her myself, but if I found the right home for her … She’s a great dog, and she’s only about eighteen months old. She is something like the seventeenth English setter that Mr. Dedmann owned. Are you serious about wanting a dog?”

“Oh, I’m plenty serious,” I say. “It’s my parents who are the problem. I haven’t convinced them yet.”

Margaret and Shelley both start to speak at the same time: “I have some big news—”

Laughing, Shelley says, “You first.”

“Sophie showed that wine bottle to her dad.”

“And?”

Margaret can’t contain her smile. “Six to eight thousand dollars. Can you believe it?”

Shelley’s reaction is the same as ours was: her mouth opens, but she’s unable to speak for a moment. “Wh-what?” She has to sit on the upholstered bench in the foyer. “What if … What if there’s more? A lot more.
That must be the secret Mr. Dedmann was talking about. The answers to all the questions.”

“I don’t get why he didn’t just tell you the combination,” I say. “He left it to you in his will, but then doesn’t tell you how to get to it. Crazy.”

“Maybe not so crazy,” says Margaret. “Mr. Dedmann must have had a good reason for holding this secret so close to his chest. Now, what was your big news?”

“Oh! Yes! Follow me,” Shelley says. “After you left the other day, I got to thinking. There was one other strange thing that happened with Mr. Dedmann a few months before he died. I watched him go down the spiral stairs into the cellar room one morning, like he often did. But then, a few minutes later, I ran into him right here in this hallway. The funny thing is, I was at a bookcase by the spiral staircase the whole time, and I never saw him come up. I was walking toward the kitchen, and suddenly, there he was.”

“And you’re sure you didn’t miss him coming up the stairs?” Margaret asks.

“It would have been impossible. He was in his nineties, and he moved rather slowly, as you can imagine. At the time, I was busy, and didn’t give it another thought. But then, after we talked, I started thinking about it. The only reasonable conclusion is that there must be another way to the basement. And that’s when I found this.” She leads us into a little breakfast nook in the
kitchen, situated at the back of the house. Reaching behind a small light fixture mounted on the wall, Shelley pushes a button and a section of paneling on the side wall, identical to the others around it, pops open.

“A dumbwaiter!” says Margaret, opening the door the rest of the way. “It’s a small elevator, really!”

I take a look inside. “Kinda scary. Have you … taken it down to the cellar?”

Shelley shakes her head. “I was afraid to, because I’m the only one here. If it got stuck—”

“Smart,” says Margaret. “Don’t worry, Sophie and I will test it for you.”

We will? I haven’t had the best luck with elevators lately. Inside, I’m screaming at Margaret: HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND!?

“Come on, Soph. We need to go down there, anyway, remember?” She explains to Shelley, “We solved the first part of the combination, and we have the clue for part two, but we need to get a good look at the Vermeer medallion.”

“Do you even know how this thing works?” I ask, squeezing in next to Margaret.

“I think I’ll start with this button that points down,” she says. “See you in the cellar, Shelley!”

The door closes, leaving us in complete blackness. There’s a slight jar, and then we start the v-e-r-y s-l-o-w downward journey.

I use light from my phone to illuminate Margaret’s face. “Are you sure we’re still moving?”

Before she answers, another shudder tells me that we’ve reached our destination. The door slides open, but we’re facing a solid wall. “Now what?” I ask, lighting up the control panel, which consists of exactly two buttons: up and down.

“Push,” says Margaret, her hands against the wall.

And just like that, the wall swings open with a long
crrreeeaakkkkkkkkk
, and we’re in the cellar, where Shelley greets us with a relieved smile.

“Well, I could live my entire life without doing that again,” I say.

Margaret is busy examining the medallion on the panel that hides the dumbwaiter. It belongs to Isaac Newton, which I suppose makes sense. (Elevator, gravity—get it?)

“Hey, look at this,” she says. “Watch what happens when I spin the ring.” The ring around Newton’s face has nine apple-shaped cutouts, and when Margaret starts to spin it, the latch that holds the paneling shut starts to move. When she changes direction, the latch goes back into its original position.

“Try closing the door and then see if you can open it,” I suggest.

“Good idea.” Margaret closes the door and spins the ring until the door is latched so tightly that it’s
impossible to tell that there is a door. Then she spins it the other direction—nine complete rotations—and the door pops open.

“Remarkable,” says Shelley. “This house is just full of surprises.”

Satisfied, Margaret breaks out a pocket-size notebook and pen, and moves around the room, glancing quickly at each of the thirty-six wall medallions and jotting down the names for future reference as Shelley and I look over her shoulder.

“William Shakespeare. Thank goodness he’s here. Ludwig van Beethoven—well, naturally. Rembrandt van Rijn. Johannes Kepler. Charles Dickens. Mr. Eliot will be pleased to hear that. Brahms. Tolstoy. Michelangelo. Ah, here we are, Jan Vermeer.”

“See anything strange about it?” I ask.

Margaret doesn’t have the chance to answer, though, because we hear Bertie barking upstairs. “Blast!” says Shelley. “That will be that awful Mr. Klinger. I completely forgot about him. He comes every Sunday to work down here, getting things ready for their weekly Beethoven meeting. He mentioned that he’d be bringing Lindsay with him today.”

Margaret’s eyes widen. “Lindsay! I don’t want her to know we’re here. Can we hide in the elevator?”

“Um, uh, yes,” says Shelley, not sure what to make of someone so young and yet so bold.

That’s my Margaret, though. The girl is absolutely
fearless. She grabs me by the arm and drags me to Isaac Newton’s medallion, where she spins the dial until the door pops open. We pile inside and Margaret tells Shelley, “Make sure the panel is closed all the way, and then just spin the ring counterclockwise until it stops.”

“Got it,” says Shelley. “You’re in. Are you going up?”

“Not yet,” says Margaret. “We’re going to listen for a while. Meet you in the kitchen later.”

“He only stays for a few minutes,” Shelley says. “Usually, that is. I’ll be waiting for you upstairs.”

“How long are we going to stay here?” I ask, feeling a little claustrophobic. “What if they stay down here for a couple of hours? Can I use my phone for some light?”

“Yes, but make sure that the ringer is off. And Sophie?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t forget to breathe.”

“Thanks.”