are downright grumpy—definitely the first time I’ve felt that way about a trip to a bookstore. I can’t decide whether to blame Klinger or the fact that I have no feeling in my ears.
“It has to be done,” Margaret says. “We know he has a copy of the book, and we know how much he paid for it. We just have to make him a reasonable offer. I looked online at some used-book sites, and nobody has it. The guy I talked to at the New York Public Library told me that because it was an expensive three-volume set that was published during the Depression, there were probably only a few hundred printed. People just weren’t buying books. So, Herr Klinger may be our only chance.”
“But we don’t even know what we’re hoping to find,” says Becca. “What if, after all this, it’s just some stupid saying about saving money?”
“That’s a chance I’m willing to take,” says Margaret. “Come on, you guys—aren’t you just a little curious? A secret decoder hidden away in an old fountain pen?”
“Eh,” says Becca, trying (and failing most miserably) to hide her smile.
Margaret smiles back at her. “That’s what I thought.”
“Before we go into Slurp and Drool, can we stop in the antiques shop?” I ask. “I want to thank that lady for helping me out. I’ll just be a second.”
Okay, so “a second” turns into an hour. But that’s the way things go sometimes.
Lindsay is helping another customer in GW Antiques and Curiosities when we go inside, but she smiles at us and tells us to feel free to look around.
“Now,” she says as the door closes behind the customer, “how can I help you girls today?”
“I, um, just wanted to thank you for telling me about the auction. I got that fountain pen for my dad; he’s going to love it.”
“Excellent!” Lindsay says. “I’m so happy for you. It really is a lovely pen. I hope you didn’t have to spend too much.”
“No, I got it for thirty-five, plus all those extras. With the buyer’s premium and taxes, it ended up being closer to forty-five, but that’s okay, because my mom decided to pitch in half the money. You know, I thought I saw you there—I guess it was somebody else.”
“Me? No, I was there earlier in the day, but I hadanother appointment and missed the actual auction. Must have been my doppelgänger.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Margaret’s right eyebrow arch upward. She, too, was certain that it had been Lindsay in the auction room at Bartleman’s.
From the back room, a man’s voice—raspy and oddly familiar—shouts, “MISS JONES! Come here!”
She excuses herself, and a quick huddle of the Red Blazer Girls follows.
“I’ve heard that voice before,” I say. It gave me goose bumps all over. And then I put the pieces of the puzzle together. “Holy crud. GW Antiques and Curiosities. ‘GW’ is Gordon Winterbottom! That was his voice—I’m positive. We have to get out of here. That guy hates us. Especially me.”
I start for the door, but Margaret blocks my way. “Relax. He’s not going to kill us. He doesn’t even know we’re here. If he comes out, we say hi and go on our merry way.”
“He probably doesn’t even remember us,” Becca reasons.
“So Gordon Winterbottom has an antiques shop,” marvels Leigh Ann. “I guess it fits. I wonder if he buys anything, or just goes around stealing stuff. Hey, Soph, maybe that fountain pen was stolen. Wouldn’t that be funny?”
“No! That would not be funny,” I say. “That would be horrible. I do not want to give my dad stolen propertyfor Christmas. Besides, we know where it came from—the estate of some dead guy.”
“Ol’ Gordo still coulda tooken it,” says Becca, earning the dreaded stink eye and a whomp on the back of the head from Chief Inspector Wrobel of the NYGP (New York Grammar Police).
Lindsay returns to find us all still in a circle. “So sorry, girls. When the boss calls, I must answer.”
“Is your boss … by any
“It has to be done,” Margaret says. “We know he has a copy of the book, and we know how much he paid for it. We just have to make him a reasonable offer. I looked online at some used-book sites, and nobody has it. The guy I talked to at the New York Public Library told me that because it was an expensive three-volume set that was published during the Depression, there were probably only a few hundred printed. People just weren’t buying books. So, Herr Klinger may be our only chance.”
“But we don’t even know what we’re hoping to find,” says Becca. “What if, after all this, it’s just some stupid saying about saving money?”
“That’s a chance I’m willing to take,” says Margaret. “Come on, you guys—aren’t you just a little curious? A secret decoder hidden away in an old fountain pen?”
“Eh,” says Becca, trying (and failing most miserably) to hide her smile.
Margaret smiles back at her. “That’s what I thought.”
“Before we go into Slurp and Drool, can we stop in the antiques shop?” I ask. “I want to thank that lady for helping me out. I’ll just be a second.”
Okay, so “a second” turns into an hour. But that’s the way things go sometimes.
Lindsay is helping another customer in GW Antiques and Curiosities when we go inside, but she smiles at us and tells us to feel free to look around.
“Now,” she says as the door closes behind the customer, “how can I help you girls today?”
“I, um, just wanted to thank you for telling me about the auction. I got that fountain pen for my dad; he’s going to love it.”
“Excellent!” Lindsay says. “I’m so happy for you. It really is a lovely pen. I hope you didn’t have to spend too much.”
“No, I got it for thirty-five, plus all those extras. With the buyer’s premium and taxes, it ended up being closer to forty-five, but that’s okay, because my mom decided to pitch in half the money. You know, I thought I saw you there—I guess it was somebody else.”
“Me? No, I was there earlier in the day, but I hadanother appointment and missed the actual auction. Must have been my doppelgänger.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Margaret’s right eyebrow arch upward. She, too, was certain that it had been Lindsay in the auction room at Bartleman’s.
From the back room, a man’s voice—raspy and oddly familiar—shouts, “MISS JONES! Come here!”
She excuses herself, and a quick huddle of the Red Blazer Girls follows.
“I’ve heard that voice before,” I say. It gave me goose bumps all over. And then I put the pieces of the puzzle together. “Holy crud. GW Antiques and Curiosities. ‘GW’ is Gordon Winterbottom! That was his voice—I’m positive. We have to get out of here. That guy hates us. Especially me.”
I start for the door, but Margaret blocks my way. “Relax. He’s not going to kill us. He doesn’t even know we’re here. If he comes out, we say hi and go on our merry way.”
“He probably doesn’t even remember us,” Becca reasons.
“So Gordon Winterbottom has an antiques shop,” marvels Leigh Ann. “I guess it fits. I wonder if he buys anything, or just goes around stealing stuff. Hey, Soph, maybe that fountain pen was stolen. Wouldn’t that be funny?”
“No! That would not be funny,” I say. “That would be horrible. I do not want to give my dad stolen propertyfor Christmas. Besides, we know where it came from—the estate of some dead guy.”
“Ol’ Gordo still coulda tooken it,” says Becca, earning the dreaded stink eye and a whomp on the back of the head from Chief Inspector Wrobel of the NYGP (New York Grammar Police).
Lindsay returns to find us all still in a circle. “So sorry, girls. When the boss calls, I must answer.”
“Is your boss … by any
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