Read The Secret Cellar Online

Authors: Michael D. Beil

The Secret Cellar

Also by Michael D. Beil

The Red Blazer Girls

The Red Blazer Girls: The Vanishing Violin

The Red Blazer Girls: The Mistaken Masterpiece

Summer at Forsaken Lake

T
HIS
IS A
B
ORZOI
B
OOK
P
UBLISHED
BY
A
LFRED
A. K
NOPF

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2012 by Michael D. Beil

Cover art and interior illustrations copyright © 2012 by Daniel Baxter

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Beil, Michael D.
The Red Blazer Girls : the secret cellar / by Michael D. Beil.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: When Sophie finds a secret message in the antique fountain pen she bought for her father, she and her friends become involved in a treasure hunt devised by the pen’s previous owner, whose house is full of puzzles that protect a hidden treasure.
eISBN: 978-0-375-89790-0
 [1. Mystery and detective stories. 2. Puzzles—Fiction. 3. Buried treasure—
Fiction. 4. Eccentrics and eccentricities—Fiction. 5. Christmas—Fiction.
6. Catholic schools—Fiction. 7. Schools—Fiction.] I. Title. II. Title: Secret cellar.
PZ7.B38823495Red 2012
[Fic]—dc23

Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

What’s this?
Another
secret message?

v3.1

For the Dominican Sisters of S V F

Contents
One does not argue with Fate, the Red Blazer Girls Code, or Andrew Jackson

I’m peeking through an opening in the threadbare velvet curtain that leads into the tiny storefront parlor of Madame Zurandot, who, according to the flashing neon sign in the window, is both
PSYCHIC
!
and
CLAIRVOYANT
! Two of my fellow wearers-of-the-red-blazer, Rebecca Chen and Leigh Ann Jaimes, look over my shoulders and nudge me inside.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this. Maybe it’s not such a good—” I say as four hands give me a final push. A combination of smells, none of them particularly pleasant, greets me: vanilla incense, mothballs, and, somewhere in the distance, slow-cooking cabbage. Before me is a small round table that looks exactly as I had imagined it would. Seriously, Madame Zurandot has a crystal ball.

“Can I help you?” a voice asks from behind another curtain.

Gulp.

• • •

Ten minutes earlier, the three of us had been enjoying a chilly December Saturday in Manhattan, doing a little Christmas shopping and dreaming of the long school vacation, just two weeks away. On most Saturdays, Leigh Ann (the beautiful, graceful one) had dance class and Becca (talented, artistic) had art lessons, but they were both on break until January. Only Margaret Wrobel (genius, absolute best friend in the world) had plans; besides being the smartest person I know, she’s also a future violin superstar and takes lessons from my mom every Saturday, rain or shine, vacation or no vacation.

I spotted it first, a microsecond before Rebecca but enough to beat her to it. Lying there on the sidewalk in front of Madame Zurandot’s, folded neatly in fourths, was a twenty-dollar bill!

“Well, hello, Mr. Jackson,” I said, unfolding it and holding it up to make sure it was the genuine article.

“Sophie St. Pierre, you are the luckiest person I know,” said Leigh Ann. “I don’t think I’ve ever found a quarter.”

“What should we do with it?” I asked. “I mean, it’s found money. We have to spend it.”

“You could buy lunch,” Rebecca suggested. “I’m getting hungry.”

Leigh Ann shook her head. “No, you should spend it on something for yourself. Or for Raf.”

Raf—as in Rafael Arocho—is my boyfriend-who-I’m-not-allowed-to-call-a-boyfriend-until-I’m-sixteen.

“No, no, no,” protested Rebecca. “Absolutely not. The rules in this situation are clear: if you find money when you’re with other Red Blazer Girls, the money must be shared.”

“What rules?” Leigh Ann asked. “You’re making that up.”

“Actually, she’s right,” I admitted. “And it’s even my rule. Last summer, before you started hanging out with us, I found a five in the park one day—”

“What! You found a five, and now a twenty! That is
so
not fair,” said Leigh Ann.

I shrugged. “I can’t help it. It just … happens. But I told Margaret and Becca that it was only right to share. The Red Blazer Girls Code, I guess.”

“I have an idea,” said Becca, pointing at the sign in Madame Zurandot’s window. “First visit, twenty dollars. It’s fate. We have to do it.”

“A psychic? Are you crazy?” I said.

“What, you don’t believe in them?” Becca asked.

“I, uh, no. Yeah, no. I mean, I’m not sure. Margaret says it’s a bunch of hooey.”

“Oh, jeez. I should have known,” Becca scoffed. “So what if Miss Scientific Method doesn’t believe. How often do you have a chance like this? Even Margaret would have to admit that having twenty bucks just drop
out of the sky the exact moment that you’re standing in front of a sign that says
FIRST CONSULTATION $20
is just … I mean, what are the odds?”

I had to admit, she had something there.

“Okay, but we don’t tell Margaret. She’d be so disappointed.”

“You have a serious problem,” said Becca.

I didn’t disagree.

A young woman—twenty at most, and dressed in jeans and a Lady Gaga T-shirt—appears from behind the curtain. Not at all what I’m expecting from a psychic. But then, maybe she knew that, and changed into those clothes just to catch me off guard. Pret-ty darn clever, these psychics.

“Hi,” I say. “I, er, we were wondering if we could, you know, get a, um, reading. But if you’re not … ready, we can come back later.”

“Oh, yer lookin’ for ma,” she says, laughing. “She’s the psychic. Have a seat. I’ll get her for ya.” She goes back through the curtain. “Ma! Ya got cust-a-muz!”

My eyes dart nervously from Becca to Leigh Ann to the ominous-looking crystal ball as we wait for Madame Zurandot.

“You should go first, Becca,” I say. “It was your idea.”

“Yeah, but you found the money,” she says. “And I don’t think she’s going to tell all our fortunes for twenty bucks.”

The curtain parts again and, following a dramatic pause, Madame Zurandot glides into the room as if she’s on roller skates. (She’s wearing a peasant skirt that drags on the floor, so, for all I know, she might actually be wearing skates.)

Without a word, she takes my fingers into her own cold, chapped hands and stares straight into my eyes for a full ten seconds without blinking. Then she closes her eyes and says, in an accent that I can’t place, “I see a black dog running across an open field. You are trapped in a small room. And an old man with a cane, a man who is not who you thought he was, stands before a blue door with the number nine on it. And I see romance.… But wait! I see an enemy who becomes a friend, and a friend who becomes an enemy.”

Okay, I’ll admit it: I am freaking out as she finally breaks away from me and roughly grabs Leigh Ann’s hands.

“Someone you love—someone who is far, far away—is waving to you from a boat. You are kneeling on a cold stone floor in the dark, searching for something that has been hidden away for many years. A girl in a red coat hands you a message.… I see the letters, but I’m afraid I cannot read the words; it is in a language I do not understand.”

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