The Secret Cellar (11 page)

As we wave good-bye to Leigh Ann and Becca from the front door of Dedmann’s house, it really hits me: it’s Friday night, and for the first time in months, the Blazers won’t be playing at Perkatory, our regular (and only) gig.

And so, with Dad at the restaurant and Mom playing a concert in midtown, I’m joining the Wrobels for dinner. They don’t eat out that often, so I am surprised when Margaret tells me we’re going to the Heidelberg.

Surprised and, well, just the teensiest bit terrified. Here’s the scene I’m picturing: I’m looking over the menu, trying to decide between bratwurst and weisswurst, when I feel it in my fingertips. At first, it’s just a few ripples in my water glass, but when I see the look of terror in Margaret’s eyes, I know it’s too late. We’ve been spotted, and Winnie is on the move. Our eyes dart about the room, searching for an escape route, but our attacker is too clever for that; she has made sure that we
are seated against the wall, hemmed in by other tables. We are doomed as
Winniesaurus giganticus
moves in for the kill.

Suddenly, Margaret is shouting at me. “Sophie! Are you listening to me?”

The truth is, I have no idea how much of the conversation I’ve missed. “Huh? What? Yeah. I mean, no. I was having a nightmare.”

“Winnie?”

I nod. “What if she’s there? She hates us! She used to have a nice cushy job, and now she’s on her feet all night serving beer and sausage. What if she’s our waitress? She’ll probably poison our food! Or, worse, spit in it!”

“That’s worse?”

“Uh, yeah. Eeyyukkkk.” And then I get an idea. “Margaret, quick, tell your dad I’m allergic to sausage. Tell him I’ll die if I’m even in the same room with a dish of sauerkraut.”

Margaret, my best friend, the girl I would do anything for, laughs at me. “I thought you liked a little adventure in your life. I seem to remember a motor scooter ride across the park with a certain boy.”

“That was different. That was just New York City traffic, and that’s nothing compared to Winnie. She’s like going up against a herd of tornadoes.”

“Well, put on your tornado-fighting shoes, because my parents are waiting for us.”

As we approach the Heidelberg, I hang back, letting Mr. and Mrs. Wrobel take the lead. Mr. W. spoils my plan, though, when he holds the door open for me.

“Ladies and guests first,” he says, gesturing to me to go inside. I pull my hat down nearly to my eyes, tuck my chin into my scarf, and shuffle through the door.

I shake my head at the hostess, who asks if I want to check my coat. (When the really bad stuff starts goin’ down, I want as many layers between me and Winnie as I can get—know what I mean?) My eyes are so busy scanning the room as we move toward our table that I completely miss seeing her come around a corner carrying a tray with four gigantic glass boots filled with beer. (Why boots, you ask? Ummm, I may have to get back to you on that one.) She hoists the tray over my head at the last possible moment, avoiding a catastrophe of epic proportions.

My heart is doing a tumbling routine inside my chest as I drop into my chair.

“Whew! That was close,” says Margaret.

“My life flashed before my eyes,” I say. “And all I saw was me drowning in a swimming pool full of beer. And Winnie was the lifeguard.”

“Shhh!” Margaret hisses. “Here she comes again!”

Winnie, dressed in the traditional German costume, with her … um, ample bosom testing the strength of a white cotton blouse, is standing at the end of our table. I slouch down even lower and cover half of my face with
my hand as I mumble my order. (I go with the weisswurst, by the way. Not traditionally a dinner sausage, I know, but sometimes you just have to be a rebel.)

“Is everything all right, Sophie?” Mrs. Wrobel asks after we’ve all ordered and Winnie has thundered back to the kitchen (to poison my sausage, I’m convinced).

“Y-yes, everything is fine,” I lie.

Winnie returns quickly with our drinks, and this time I see the flash of recognition in her eyes as she sets my soda on the table.

“Miss Sophie, right?” she asks. “From Elizabeth Harriman’s place.” She turns to Margaret, struggling momentarily to remember her name. “And Miss Margaret. I thought you seemed familiar.”

I don’t know how she does it, because my own heart is back to its gymnastics routine, but good old Margaret plays it cool.

“Oh! Hi! Winnie! How are you? These are my parents. Mom, Dad, this is Winifred Winterbottom. She used to work for Miss Harriman.”

Winnie nods at Mr. and Mrs. Wrobel, and then something really strange happens. Winnie smiles. Yep, you read that right. Winnie smiles. Okay, so she’s not going to challenge Raf’s position at the top of the list of World’s Greatest Smiles, but it’s real, and it has an effect on me that I wouldn’t have thought possible: it makes her seem … human.

“I am doing very well, thank you. Many changes in
my life since I left Miss Elizabeth, some good, some not so good, but I’m still here.”

“We, um, heard about you and Mr. Winterbottom,” Margaret says. “I’m sorry.”

Winnie’s smile fades as she nods at Margaret. “Yes, thank you. Twenty-six years we are together. Well, I must return to work. It was good to see you girls again. Be sure to tell Miss Elizabeth I said hello.”

When she’s out of hearing range, Margaret turns to me. “Well, that’s that. We have to get them back together.”

“Winnie and Elizabeth? I don’t know, Margaret. Elizabeth seems pretty happy with Helen. And remember, she said Winnie was a lousy housekeeper.”

“Not Winnie and Elizabeth. Winnie and Gordon. You saw her face when I mentioned him. She misses him. And it’s almost Christmas. They can’t spend the holidays apart.”

I try my hardest, but no matter what I do, I just can’t wrap my mind around the concept of missing Gordon Winterbottom. Apparently, there are still some ideas too foreign for my brain to process.

“But … why? They’re probably better off without each other.”

Even as I say it, I know I’m wasting my breath; once an idea takes root in Margaret’s brain, there’s no turning back. The girl could teach your average mule a thing or two about being stubborn.

Mr. Eliot, or, as we now refer to him, King George the Unfair, has scheduled (can you believe it?) a Saturday-morning rehearsal of
The Merry Gentlemen
, so Margaret and I meet Leigh Ann, Becca, and Livvy at Coffeeteria.

Wait! Don’t leave! I know what you’re thinking: Sophie talks a big game about saving Perkatory, but here she is, a few days later, feasting with the enemy.

Let me explain.

When Leigh Ann first suggested it as a meeting place, I went ballistic, but then I started to think about it. If Perkatory is going to reopen (and survive), they need to know their competition. As far as I’m concerned, it’s not breakfast: it’s a spy mission. The way I see it, I owe it to Perkatory to check out Coffeeteria.

The first thing I notice is how clean the place is. Practically sterile. It smells more like disinfectant than coffee,
and my shoes squeak on the shiny floors, something that has never happened at Perkatory. But it’s clear to me immediately that the place has no soul. Coffeeteria is corporate, overproduced pop music, while Perk is gritty, in-your-face punk. Where would you rather go?

While my friends marvel at the variety of pastries and coffee flavors, I’m already busy plotting the overthrow of this impostor, with its generic “Happy Holidays” decorations hanging from the ceiling. “This is no coffee shop. Coffee shops are supposed to have mismatched, secondhand furniture. This place looks like the lobby of a four-star hotel.”

“I don’t know—it seems pretty nice to me,” says Leigh Ann.

“I have to agree with her,” says Livvy. “At least I’m not, um, afraid to sit on these chairs. That one couch at Perk—”

“I know, I know. Perkatory’s not the cleanest place. But I still don’t believe they have rats.”

“Sophie, the health inspector saw one,” Margaret reminds me. “How do you explain that?”

“I can’t—yet. But Raf and I are working on it.”

Livvy elbows me gently, grinning. “Working on it, eh? Sounds serious.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet there’s really a lot of work going on there,” says Becca, who turns and heads for a table before I have a chance to respond.

The rest of us join her a few seconds later, and then
the serious evaluation begins. The coffee, we decide, is too strong for our taste, and the pastries are huge but otherwise nothing special. The hot chocolate, however (and it practically kills me to admit this), is delicious. Spectacular, even.

As our discussion continues, the manager stops by our table. “Good morning, girls. You’re up bright and early on a Saturday morning. How is everything? Can I get you a free refill on those coffees?”

“No thank you,” Leigh Ann replies. “I’m okay. Everything is great. The hot chocolate is fantastic.”

He beams. “Wonderful. Well, if you need anything, let me know.”

The whole time he’s there in front of me, I’m scowling at him and watching his pockets for signs of small furry critters.

“We usually go to Perkatory,” I say. “We’ve been going there for years. I can’t wait until they reopen.”

My friends’ jaws all hit the table as I’m talking, but the manager—Jeff, according to his name tag—doesn’t bat an eye.

“Yes, well, I heard they had some problems. I’m sure they’ll take care of everything. But I hope to see you back here.” He reaches into his vest pocket and takes out four coupons for free small coffees—and that’s when I see a tiny pink nose and whiskers. Raf is right! I pretend to be interested in the coupons he’s handing Margaret, but I watch secretly as his hand immediately
returns to his pocket and gently pushes his four-legged friend back where he belongs.

Even when he’s gone, I keep my little secret. I smell a rat, all right, and his name is Jeff.

Rehearsal for
The Merry Gentlemen
—or, as it is known to us,
The Merry, but Constantly Changing and Evolving Gentlemen
—ends at noon. Mr. Eliot has finally agreed to stop making changes, which is a good thing, because we have exactly six days to pull the darn thing together.

We wait until everybody else is gone to approach him about a plan that Margaret and I cooked up in a post-Heidelberg flurry of deep thinking. German food can do that to you.

I dig into the very depths of my being, searching for a level of charm that I’ve never accessed before. I take a deep breath and throw out my first pitch, slow and right over the middle of the plate. “So, Mr. Eliot, how’s it going? I think this play is really coming together, don’t you?”

He’s closing the curtain and turning off lights, and when I note the dumbstruck look on his face, I keep going.

“You know, I’ve always wanted to try writing a play, but I just don’t think I have what it takes. But the way you took those characters from the Dickens story and turned them into something—”

“Stop!” He holds up his hands as if I’m mugging him. “What do you want, St. Pierre? Money? My wallet?”

“Why, whatever are you talking about, Mr. Eliot? I was merely hoping that you might consider sharing some of your vast knowledge.”

Behind me, Becca and Leigh Ann snicker. Perhaps I
have
laid it on a bit thick.

“Oh, puh-leeeez!” he exclaims. “Seriously, my own mother doesn’t pour it on like that. So, what do you girls want? You want me to talk to Sister Bernadette about a cast party after the show?”

Margaret steps up to bat. (Sorry, I’m not sure what is going on with all these baseball metaphors.) “Welllll, since you’re asking, there is one little favor you could do for us. What are you doing right now—the next hour or so? We wouldn’t want you to change your plans with Mrs. Eliot or anything like that.”

He checks his watch. “I have a little time; what’s the favor? Nothing illegal, I trust.”

“Absolutely not,” says Margaret. “Cross my heart. All you have to do is come with us up to Eighty-First Street, to a used-book store called Sturm & Drang.”