The Secret Cellar Read Online Free PDF

you, and good luck! Hope you get the pen!”
    As she scurries off to the back room, Margaret and I join Mom and Elizabeth, who are waiting for us at the entrance to the auction room, where a hundred or so folding chairs are set up.
    As Elizabeth leads us down the aisle, I see yet another familiar face in the gathering crowd, although the woman in question is doing all she can to avoid being recognized. But I’m certain it’s Lindsay, the woman from GW Antiques, sitting in the last seat in the last row of chairs, a scarf wrapped around her head in that sixties, going-out-for-a-spin-in-my-convertible way. She doesn’t see me, or if she does, makes no attempt to smile or wave; she just stares ahead.
    We take seats in the fifth row; I’m on the aisle with Elizabeth next to me. My right hand has a death grip on the paddle, while my left presses it against my lap. (Why, you ask? Because I can’t trust my right arm not to do something crazy.) Marcus Klinger strolls past, so close that his coat brushes my arm, and takes the aisle seat three rows in front of me.
    Margaret leans forward to get my attention. “Go get him, Sophie. That pen is yours.”
    The auctioneer steps up to the podium and, after all the introductions and warnings, bangs his gavel on the podium to begin.
    The first six items are boxes of miscellaneous old books, and Marcus Klinger wins the bidding on every one. The lady who is bidding against him takes her time when the asking price goes above a hundred dollars, but Klinger never hesitates to raise the bid. It’s pretty obvious that he wants those books, and is going to pay whatever it takes to get them. Margaret shakes her headevery time the auctioneer shouts, “Sold! To number thirteen, in the second row!”
    Items seven and eight are sets of bookends: hunting dogs in the first, and owls in the second. Elizabeth takes the paddle from my hand and bids on the dogs, but sets the paddle back on my lap when the price goes to two hundred.
    “I can buy them in a shop for that,” she whispers to me.
    “As if you would pay retail,” says Malcolm.
    Elizabeth grasps my hand. “Are you ready?”
    I nod, gripping the paddle tightly.
    “Lot number nine!” announces the auctioneer. “A fountain pen by Reviens. French, circa 1920. Can I have fifty dollars to start?”
    Fifty dollars! My head, ready to explode, spins to face Elizabeth, whose eyes quickly scan the crowd for interest at that price. Ahead of me, I see Marcus Klinger sitting at attention, waiting.
    “Twenty-five, then,” says the auctioneer after an eternity.
    Elizabeth nudges me. “Now.”
    My hand shoots up.
    “I have twenty-five, the young lady on the aisle. Can I have thirty? Thirty dollars for this beautiful, working fountain pen.”
    Grrr. Shut up, mister.
    Klinger—grrrr again—raises his paddle nonchalantly.
    “I have thirty from lucky number thirteen. Do I hear thirty-five?”
    Help! What do I do? I’m starting to panic as I turn to the support team on my right.
    Mom nods.
    Malcolm gives me the thumbs-up and a wink.
    Elizabeth pats me on the arm.
    And Margaret just grins like mad. The girl loves to see me squirm.
    I raise the paddle, which suddenly feels much heavier in my hand.
    “Thirty-five! Do I hear forty? Forty dollars for this excellent example of French craftsmanship. A steal!”
    I glare at the auctioneer, gritting my teeth and attempting mental telepathy: Will you please just SHUT UP!
    A century passes. My eyes are glued to the back of Klinger’s head, and I almost pass out when his shoulder twitches. But his paddle stays on his lap where it belongs, and the next thing I know, the auctioneer shouts, “SOLD! To the young lady with paddle number eighty-one!”
    I did it!
    “Well done,” Elizabeth praises. “That was perfect. Like an old pro.”
    I catch Marcus Klinger sneaking a peek over his shoulder at our little celebration, a snide expression on his face. A few minutes later, the auctioneer announceslot number