chance … Gordon Winterbottom?” Margaret asks.
The question catches Lindsay by surprise. “Y-yes, he is. Do you know Mr. Winterbottom?”
“Sort of,” I admit. “We, um, go to St. Veronica’s, down on Sixty-Fifth. He used to be a deacon in the church there. Until a few months ago.”
“There was a, um … an incident,” Margaret says. “You may remember reading in the paper, the story about the Ring of Rocamadour.”
“You’re those girls!” Lindsay says. “Amazing! What a small world. Gordon only opened the shop here about six weeks ago. Ever since his wife left him—”
Four girls, in perfect harmony: “His wife WHAT?”
“Winnie actually left him?” I ask, lowering my voice back to a whisper.
Lindsay nods. “Poor guy. He’s heartbroken. He misses her something terrible. I’ve never met her, but I hear that she’s working at that German restaurant over on Second Avenue—the Heidelberg.”
“My dad loves that place,” Margaret says. “He says they have the best sausage in town, and he considers himself a true connoisseur of sausage.”
“Back up a second,” I say. “Gordon Winterbottom is heartbroken? I can’t believe the guy even has a heart.”
Lindsay can’t help smiling—just a little. “He might surprise you. He even quit smoking a couple of weeks ago. Of course, that hasn’t exactly helped his temperament, but I think he’s trying to win her back by showing how he’s changed. And he’s determined to make a go of this shop. I teased him the other day that he’s working so much that he’s turning into Mr. Scrooge … which, I’m afraid, makes me Bob Cratchit.”
“What did he say?” I ask. “No, wait, let me guess: ‘Bah! Humbug!’ ”
“No, he said that he might as well be Scrooge. He has no one to celebrate Christmas with, anyway.”
Well, that shuts me up. In an instant, I feel bad for all the mean things I’d been thinking and saying about ol’ Winterbutt. I mean, I know the guy’s no saint, but nobody should be alone for the holidays.
“We should get going,” Margaret announces. “The snow’s really starting to come down.”
“Are we still going to Slime and Drool?” I ask.
Lindsay raises an eyebrow. “Slime and Drool?”
Margaret punches me on the arm. “Sturm & Drang.” She points at the bookstore across the street.
“Ah,” says Lindsay, grinning at me. “It is rather aptly named, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. What is that guy’s problem?”
“Marcus Klinger?” she says, laughing. “How much time do you have?”
“So it’s not just us,” says Margaret. “Or him having a bad day?”
“No, and no,” Lindsay answers. “He’s rude to everyone. It’s his nature. I’ve known him for a few years; he even helped me find this job. We’re both members of a little music appreciation club that meets in Mr. Dedmann’s townhouse every Wednesday night. There are nine of us: we call ourselves Beethoven’s Nine.”
“Ah, because Beethoven wrote nine symphonies, right?” Margaret asks.
“Something like that,” Lindsay says. “But here’s an interesting tidbit about Marcus Klinger: he is a direct descendant of Friedrich Klinger, a German who wrote a play, strangely enough, about the American Revolution called
Sturm und Drang
. Marcus is very proud of that connection. Are you looking for a particular book?”
“Sort of,” Becca says. “We started out looking for one thing—a book for our English teacher—but now we’re trying to find something called
Nine Worthy Men
. Sophie found—”
Margaret cuts her off. “What do you know about Curtis Dedmann? Who was he?”
My Sherlock-sense detects a momentary narrowing of Lindsay’s eyes, as if she’s suspicious of our unexpected interest in Dedmann. And suddenly, Madame Zurandot’s advice to “trust no one” rings in my ears.
“Curtis was always a bit of a mystery, to tell the truth,” says Lindsay. “I knew him for years, but I couldn’t tell you much about him.
The question catches Lindsay by surprise. “Y-yes, he is. Do you know Mr. Winterbottom?”
“Sort of,” I admit. “We, um, go to St. Veronica’s, down on Sixty-Fifth. He used to be a deacon in the church there. Until a few months ago.”
“There was a, um … an incident,” Margaret says. “You may remember reading in the paper, the story about the Ring of Rocamadour.”
“You’re those girls!” Lindsay says. “Amazing! What a small world. Gordon only opened the shop here about six weeks ago. Ever since his wife left him—”
Four girls, in perfect harmony: “His wife WHAT?”
“Winnie actually left him?” I ask, lowering my voice back to a whisper.
Lindsay nods. “Poor guy. He’s heartbroken. He misses her something terrible. I’ve never met her, but I hear that she’s working at that German restaurant over on Second Avenue—the Heidelberg.”
“My dad loves that place,” Margaret says. “He says they have the best sausage in town, and he considers himself a true connoisseur of sausage.”
“Back up a second,” I say. “Gordon Winterbottom is heartbroken? I can’t believe the guy even has a heart.”
Lindsay can’t help smiling—just a little. “He might surprise you. He even quit smoking a couple of weeks ago. Of course, that hasn’t exactly helped his temperament, but I think he’s trying to win her back by showing how he’s changed. And he’s determined to make a go of this shop. I teased him the other day that he’s working so much that he’s turning into Mr. Scrooge … which, I’m afraid, makes me Bob Cratchit.”
“What did he say?” I ask. “No, wait, let me guess: ‘Bah! Humbug!’ ”
“No, he said that he might as well be Scrooge. He has no one to celebrate Christmas with, anyway.”
Well, that shuts me up. In an instant, I feel bad for all the mean things I’d been thinking and saying about ol’ Winterbutt. I mean, I know the guy’s no saint, but nobody should be alone for the holidays.
“We should get going,” Margaret announces. “The snow’s really starting to come down.”
“Are we still going to Slime and Drool?” I ask.
Lindsay raises an eyebrow. “Slime and Drool?”
Margaret punches me on the arm. “Sturm & Drang.” She points at the bookstore across the street.
“Ah,” says Lindsay, grinning at me. “It is rather aptly named, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. What is that guy’s problem?”
“Marcus Klinger?” she says, laughing. “How much time do you have?”
“So it’s not just us,” says Margaret. “Or him having a bad day?”
“No, and no,” Lindsay answers. “He’s rude to everyone. It’s his nature. I’ve known him for a few years; he even helped me find this job. We’re both members of a little music appreciation club that meets in Mr. Dedmann’s townhouse every Wednesday night. There are nine of us: we call ourselves Beethoven’s Nine.”
“Ah, because Beethoven wrote nine symphonies, right?” Margaret asks.
“Something like that,” Lindsay says. “But here’s an interesting tidbit about Marcus Klinger: he is a direct descendant of Friedrich Klinger, a German who wrote a play, strangely enough, about the American Revolution called
Sturm und Drang
. Marcus is very proud of that connection. Are you looking for a particular book?”
“Sort of,” Becca says. “We started out looking for one thing—a book for our English teacher—but now we’re trying to find something called
Nine Worthy Men
. Sophie found—”
Margaret cuts her off. “What do you know about Curtis Dedmann? Who was he?”
My Sherlock-sense detects a momentary narrowing of Lindsay’s eyes, as if she’s suspicious of our unexpected interest in Dedmann. And suddenly, Madame Zurandot’s advice to “trust no one” rings in my ears.
“Curtis was always a bit of a mystery, to tell the truth,” says Lindsay. “I knew him for years, but I couldn’t tell you much about him.
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