The Red Blazer Girls (11 page)

“So you
want
to hate her, but you don't have a good reason, because she really is as nice as she seems. Is that about right?”

“Pretty much,” I admit.

“Soph, they just met. You don't even know if anything is—”

“Oh, come on. You saw them at the coffee shop. The way they looked at each other. They are
so
going to hook up.”

Margaret puts her arm around me. “I'm sorry. I'm still a little surprised, but I'm sorry. You might have mentioned this. This is Margaret; remember me? And I don't think you're crazy. But don't jump to any conclusions—yet. Give it a little time. Okay?”

“Yeah. I do feel better just talking about it a little. This way, I can hear how loony I sound.”

“You're not loony. It's just love—”

“Or something like it.”

Undoubtedly because she feels sorry for pathetic little me, Margaret agrees to put off going to the church to look under the sheep until after we are finished at the museum. (That sentence must sound totally bizarre to someone who just randomly opened up to this page to see what this story is all about. Go back and start at the beginning!) Rebecca calls me in the morning to say that she, too, will meet us.

I act incredibly normal when I see Raf, teasing him about how bad his hair looks and questioning whether his shirt should even be on the same block as his pants. (They
shouldn't
.) What
is
truly remarkable, though, about his appearance on the steps of the museum is that he is on time for the second time inside of a week. He was
always
late for everything when he was at St. Andrew's.

“So, are we goin' in? And, uh, weren't you supposed to bring coffee?”

“After we find what we're looking for, then we'll stop for coffee,” says Margaret. “But you can't take too long, because we've got to go to the church to look for our
Ovis aries
.”

“You know, that reminds me of something I was gonna mention last night,” I say. “I don't think they're going to let us wander around the church looking under statues and paintings whenever we feel like it. Priests and nuns and security guards—even when they're half blind and deaf like that Robert guy—tend to be a little touchy about stuff like that.”

“Yeah, they're gonna think we're planning a heist or something,” Raf adds.

“Oh, don't you worry your pretty little head about that,” Margaret says, further mussing up his mussy hair. “I've got a plan.”

Like Joan of Arc leading the troops to battle, Margaret of Manhattan leads us straight through the museum's main lobby (the “Great Hall”) and then into the Medieval Art wing, where dump-truck loads of the treasures of the churches of Europe are displayed on the walls and in glass cases scattered around the various rooms. “Okay, it
should
be around here somewhere.” Taking me by the arm, she guides me to a section of stained glass window from the Cathedral of Saint-Pierre in France. A good omen?

She unfolds the paper that contains all the information we have so far. “Remember, we're looking for stuff donated by this Zoltan guy, especially something that could be one of a pair.”

Zoltan
. Sounds like the name of a god, or at least someone with superpowers. Hmm … Zoltan St. Pierre.

“Like a pair of earrings?” Rebecca wonders.

“Maybe,” says Margaret. “But he probably wouldn't give her one earring, so I'm guessing it's a ring with some kind of Christian symbol on it.”

We barely start looking when—
ta-da!
—Margaret hones in on a beautiful gold ring centered in a display case in a place of honor above the lesser pieces. It is set with a cross of tiny rubies. The plaque sitting next to it informs us that the ring had been found in the ruins of a twelfth-century chapel near Rocamadour, France, and donated to the museum by the estate of one Zoltan Ressanyi, the Hungarian-American archaeologist and explorer. It is “the groom's ring from a pair of wedding rings known as the Rings of Rocamadour.” According to local legend, the rings had been a gift to a young couple from St. Veronica, who had touched them to the famous veil—the one she wiped the face of Christ with. They had been passed down through the centuries, and those who wear the rings, it is said, are visited in their dreams by St. Veronica, who answers their prayers.

“Holy crap,” I say. “That's what we're looking for? It's beautiful. Oh my God. How much is something like that worth?”

“It is, in fact, priceless,” says a man's voice.

We all spin around in shock. And there he is—Mr. Malcolm Chance, decked out in layers and layers of tweed and still carrying that ridiculous walking stick.

Aha! I
had
seen someone sneak out of the church. That jerk must have been snooping and heard our plans. The hair on the back of my neck stands up again as I catch another whiff of his strange odor. What
is
that smell?

“Of course, it would be worth even more if it were reunited with its companion. There's no telling what the museum might pay to have the two Rings of Rocamadour reunited.”

Margaret totally keeps her cool. “Dr. Chance, right? We met you at Ms. Harriman's the other day.”

But old Malcolm plays it pretty cool, too, as if our running into each other in the museum is just a coincidence. “Oh, yes, of course. How do you do? Are you students interested in early Christian artifacts? Or just this one in particular?”

“We're doing a little research project for school,” I fib. “It's more like one of those treasure hunts where teachers send you out with a list of things to find.” I glance quickly at the others to make sure they are with me.

“My, my. That sounds interesting. I'm afraid my education was a bit less, shall we say, creative. Lots of memorizing and reciting, I seem to recall. Is there anything else—for your little
project
—that I can help you
find? I'm something of an expert in this field,” he says, gesturing to encompass everything in the room.

I
so
want to kick him in the shins.

Margaret sensibly chooses a more mature response. “No, thank you. I think we're all set. We just need to copy down some information.”

Malcolm leans over the case. “This ring you're so interested in—the Ring of Rocamadour—quite a thing of rare beauty, no?”

“The stuff that dreams are made of,” says Raf, quoting his favorite Sam Spade line from
The Maltese Falcon
. (Every time he says it, Margaret points out that the line was ripped off from Shakespeare.) Raf's grandfather was a projectionist at a theater in Times Square in the forties and fifties, and he and Raf spend hours and hours watching old movies (and yes, I know, lots of great movies are in black and white, and I should give them a chance instead of watching
Grease
for the six hundredth time). A lot of the big premieres took place in Times Square in those olden days, and Raf's grandfather has a million stories about all the movie stars who had been to
his
theater.

“My, my, a young Dashiell Hammett fan. Or is it Shakespeare? Either way, a great line, isn't it?” Malcolm looks at the three of us and takes a deep breath. “It is apparent that the four of you are quite intelligent, so there's no point in my beating about the bush. I know why you're here and what you're really
looking for. I have not yet ascertained exactly
how
you came to be looking for it, but that's not particularly important right now. What is important is that this—this object you seek—
is
found, and found soon. You are probably
not
aware that the church is about to undergo a thorough cleaning and sprucing up, from the tiles of the floor to the limestone blocks of that spectacular vaulted ceiling.

“And do not forget that I
knew
Everett Harriman quite well, too. I was, in many respects—regardless of what my former wife may have told you—his protégé. I also knew of his intention to provide my daughter with the puzzle you seem to have stumbled on. And perhaps more than anyone else, I know how his mind worked. Judging from what I've seen and heard thus far, some of what you need may be in danger of disappearing very soon. So, then, shouldn't we join forces to prevent that from occurring?”

I stand up straight and look him directly in the eyes. “Look, Mr. Chance, we're doing a project for our religion class, and we already found what we were looking for. We are
not
a force, and we
won't
be joining you.”

He stares right back at me, half smiling and half smirking. Smirkling? “It's strange, don't you think, a teacher asking you to remove something from the back of a painting? Risking damage to one of the church's treasures, for the sake of this ‘project.’”

“We didn't damage anything.”

“Perhaps.”

“Are you spying on us?” I blurt out. “This is no coincidence—you just happening to be here at the same time as us.”

“Easy, Soph.” Margaret pulls me back a step. “Dr. Chance, even if everything you say is true, how can we be sure we can trust you?”

“A fair question. Let me answer it with another. Why should you
not
trust me?” He waves his hand around the room. “This has been my career, my life. I'm not the monster I fear Elizabeth makes me out to be. You don't have to give me your answer right now. Think about it—but not for too long.”

And with that, Malcolm smiles, tips his cap to us, and walks his tweedy, creepy, strange-smelling self away. Ick, ick, ick.

After we watch him stroll down the length of the gallery and out the door, Rebecca speaks up. “Man, that guy gives me the creeps. How he snuck up on us like that—oh my God. I almost peed my pants. And what is up with that stick? He doesn't even need it. And did you notice that smell?”

“Yes, yes, and yes!” I say. “I can't figure it out. It's right on the tip of my brain—”

“It's hair dye,” Margaret says. “That stuff men use when their hair turns gray. My dad uses it. Come on, do you really think he's
that
bad? I think he's kind of, um, charming.”

I pretend to gag. “Oh, come on, Margaret. How can you
not
see it? The guy is pure evil.”

That makes her laugh out loud. “Sophie, he's just an old man.”

“We'll see,” I mutter, slightly miffed.

“How much do you think he knows?” Raf asks as we cross Fifth Avenue on our way down to the church. We are rushing and all of us keep looking over our shoulders for any sign of the “old dude with the stick,” as Raf calls him.

“I think he's mostly fishing,” I say. “He overheard part of what we said in the church and when I opened my big fat mouth at Ms. Harriman's.”

“He knows about the ring,” Margaret points out. “And that it's hidden somewhere, probably in the church. But obviously, without the letter, none of that matters. I
am
worried about what he said about the renovation work in the church. That could be a problem. So—let's go to church!”

A short subway ride later, we are in front of the church, watching a giddy bride and groom bounding down the steps and into a stretch SUV. Adoring family members and friends pelt them with birdseed as a flock of pigeons pace nearby, waiting for their chance to celebrate the blessed event.

“Poor guy,” says Raf, watching the smiling groom pull the door of the limousine shut.

Margaret smiles slyly. “That'll be you one day, Raf. And who knows? Maybe even to someone we know.” She pokes a finger into my ribs.

Rebecca sees that. “Is there something going on I don't know about?”

“No!” I say, hurrying everyone along.

Raf, of course, is oblivious. “Hey, can we get a slice or something? I'm starving.”

“Oh, you can wait a little while,” Margaret says. “We won't be that long.”

We're standing at the foot of the steps when Rebecca says, “Guys, I'm gonna take off now. I'm meeting with Ms. Harriman at that gallery in Chelsea. Call me later and tell me what you found.”

Margaret and I hug her as if she is moving to some remote corner of the planet.