The Red Blazer Girls (26 page)

Margaret is helping Ms. Harriman pour the tea. “Elizabeth, when you first found that card in that book of poems, did you ever imagine all these things happening?”

“Well, no, but I do love surprises! This little adventure has transported me back in time to my own childhood and my travels with Father. And best of all, I've gotten to know you girls.”

“I just can't wait to touch the ring,” I say. “I mean, somebody made it almost two
thousand
years ago. Think how different their lives were from ours.”

Ms. Harriman shakes her head. “Maybe not as different as you think. Families, love, life, quarrels, death. Those things haven't changed much, I think.”

The grandfather clock in her hallway begins to chime; it is nine o'clock.

Father Julian stands and looks around. “Are you all ready?”

We all look at each other and nod vigorously. Ms. Harriman wishes us luck, and Father Julian leads us up the stairs and into the passageway.

We creep down the back staircase, fingers and toes crossed against the chance that we will run into any kind of obstacle. Margaret and Father Julian lead the way, and we stop when we get to our old friend, the door with the stained glass chalice. Margaret takes a deep breath, turns the knob, and pushes it open. This is it, the big moment. The church is
really
dark. There are a few “night lights” plugged into sockets, but the dim light they give off is absorbed by the cold stone walls. Statues of Jesus and Mary and the saints seem to come to life as we creep past them in the darkness, their limbs reaching out to us as our shadows flicker over them.

Gradually our eyes adjust to the darkness, and I make out the figure of Father Julian motioning for us to come closer. My heart is thumpa-ka-thumping like mad. Margaret waves us on. “Okay, let's do it.” All of us, including Father Julian, are wearing sneakers, so we silently make our way from the door to the
altar. All that effort is wasted, however, when I drop the flashlight—which instantly shatters into a million pieces, with the batteries spinning and skidding wildly across the polished marble floor. You just cannot believe how long the sound waves bounce around those stone walls. Around and around they go, while all I can do is cringe. Finally,
finally
, it stops.

“Please tell me that wasn't the only flashlight,” whispers Father Julian as we all crouch low, half waiting for who-knows-what.

Margaret, ever the good Girl Scout, puts her hand on my back. “It's okay, Soph. I've got a little light here on my key chain. I bought it right after that first day with Raf.”

Have I mentioned how lucky I am friend-wise?

Father Julian sizes up the altar table. “All right. Which leg is it?”

“This one right here,” Margaret says. “It's centered right over the intersection of the four tiles. We only have to move it over about a foot—just enough so we can get to all the tiles. What do you think? Can we do it?”

Rebecca pushes against it, groaning, but nothing happens. She shakes her head. “Man, I've never seen a table like this. No way.”

“We have to lift and push at the same time.” I hope my positive attitude will make up for that unfortunate flashlight incident.

Father Julian agrees. “I think Sophie's right. Let's give it a try.”

The five of us line up on one side of the table.

“One, two, three, PUSH!” Margaret orders. We might as well be pushing against the outside wall of the church.

Rebecca looks at the bottom of her shoes. “I'm slipping on this stuff. They must have just waxed it or something.”

I slide my feet around on the smooth marble. “Me too. We need some spit.”

“Excuse me?” Even in the darkness I can see the horrified look on Father Julian's face.

“Spit. You spit on the bottom of your shoes, or you spit on the floor and then rub your shoes in it. Makes them sticky. Basketball players do it all the time.”

“Can we please step off the altar to do this?”

“What? Ohhhhhh. Yeah. I'm sorry, I just wasn't—”

“It's all right. Let's all just give it a try.”

What a difference a little traction makes. We're not fast, and it doesn't go far, but by grunting and groaning, and pushing and pulling, we move that behemoth just enough to clear the four tiles. As we kneel down around the tile, Father Julian shushes us for a second, looking around the church interior. He then crosses himself. After a quick look at each other, we all do it, too. (Hey it can't hurt.)

Margaret feels around the edge of the first of the
polished stone squares, looking for a place to grip. “Boy, it's in here pretty tight. There's definitely no cement in between it and the other tiles, though.” She then unzips her backpack and holds up a thin piece of metal, bent at one end.

“What's that?”

“I don't know what it's called; it's for opening paint cans or something. Figured it might come in handy.”

“What else do you have in that bag of yours?” marvels Father Julian.

Rebecca snorts. “A forklift. A miniature nuclear reactor. One of those inflatable swimming pools. Grappling hook. Lipstick ray gun.”

Margaret slides the thinnest end of the tool into the crevice that appears to be the widest. Then, gently, gently, gently, she starts prying, moving the tool from side to side, working it under the edge. I pray (along with Father Julian, I'm sure) that the tile doesn't crack. Does she have a spare slab of matching marble in that magic bag of hers?

“Here we go,” she says as the edge of the tile starts to rise. “Just… a … little … bit… further … and … Got it!” Her eyes sparkle with excitement.

“Careful,” Father Julian cautions.

Margaret reaches her hands under the tile and then she and Father Julian lift it clear of its home.

We are all on our knees, practically bumping heads in what looks like some bizarre religious ritual. Rebecca
points the light into the hole where the tile had spent the last twenty years undisturbed. Margaret's hands glide around the space, but there is no sign of anything unusual.

She doesn't seem at all worried. “It's okay. That's just one tile. Three more to check. It could be under any of them.”

“Well, at least the others ought to be easy to get out,” Rebecca observes. “The first one was the tough one.”

Suddenly a light comes on in the dressing room just off the altar, and we freeze. Voices—men's voices—and they are
close
.

“Quick, under the table,” says Father Julian, and for the second time in just over twenty-four hours, I am hiding under the altar table in St. Veronica's Church. With five of us, it is incredibly crowded. Leigh Ann is practically on top of me, and I can feel her breath on the back of my neck as I listen to footsteps approaching.

“You see, Gordon, there's no one here.” It is the unmistakable voice of Malcolm Chance. “It's as quiet as a church.” He is standing next to the table; one of his familiar shoes is covering the corner of the gap where the missing tile had been just moments before.

“I tell you, I heard something,” Winterbottom replies.

“Everything's locked up as tight as a drum. I checked the doors myself. You probably just heard something from outside on the street. Come on, let's go back
inside. I have one more set of figures to run past you; I think it's time to renovate the convent, and we need to come up with some money.”

Winterbutthead grunts. I can tell he isn't completely satisfied with Malcolm's explanation, but he follows him out of the church anyway. We wait until the light is switched off and the door pulled shut behind them before we dare to move.

“My, that was close.” Father Julian breathes deeply.

I agree wholeheartedly. “Yeah. Let's get this done and get out of here.”

Margaret slides her paint can tool under the second tile, which lifts right out. In the center of that square is another square, about two inches on each side, which has been neatly dug down into the floor beneath the tiles. The hole is just deep enough, in fact, to hold a small black jewel box—the kind that rings come in.

“Holy crap,” I say. “Sorry, Father.”

“No, I agree. Holy crap, indeed.”

“Open it, open it,” hisses Rebecca.

“Father Julian, you do the honors,” Margaret says.

“No, no, no. You girls did all the work. You deserve it.”

“Go for it, Margaret,” I whisper.

She pries the box out of the hole and holds it under the light for us all to see. Grasping it with both hands, she carefully lifts the lid.

Pressed into the purple velvet lining is a ring
exactly like the one we saw in the Metropolitan Museum. It is absolutely perfect, and the gold and rubies glimmer and sparkle in the light from Margaret's tiny flashlight.

Leigh Ann's mouth is open in awe. “It's amazing.”

“The stuff dreams are made of,” I say. “What do you think, Margaret?”

“I think it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.”

Father Julian breaks the spell. “Okay, we need to get out of here. Let's get the tiles back in place and hope that we have the strength to move this table one more time.”

Margaret picks up the tile and is about to set it in place when I stop her. “Wait. There's something I have to do.” I reach into the pocket of my jeans and take out a folded piece of construction paper.

“What's that?”

“Just a friendly little note.”

“For whom?” Margaret quizzes.

“Why, Mr. Winterjerk, of course. Margaret, you didn't think we were done with him yet, did you?”

“Well, I just kind of figured—”

“That once we had the ring, we were done? We have a golden—pun
totally
intended—opportunity to really mess with ol' Winterslime. This is a little something Malcolm and I cooked up. Let me have the box the ring is in.”

“Why?”

“Don't argue. Give it to me. Just the box. Trust me. I know what I'm doing.”

Margaret carefully removes the two-thousand-year-old ring from its slot in the velvet lining and hands the empty box to me. I turn so no one can see what I am doing. Then I snap the lid shut and hand it back to Margaret with a satisfied smile. “All done.”

She sets the box in its indentation in the floor and ever so gently replaces the two tiles. When she finishes, she looks up at me with a sly grin.

The table seems lighter the second time we have to move it. Maybe it is all that adrenaline rushing through us? But rather than returning it to the exact spot it had been in, I convince everyone to place it so that it is possible to access the ring's hiding place. Then we clean up all the broken flashlight parts and take one last look. It is absolutely impossible to tell that anything has been tampered with.

As we slip through the door with the chalice (the “Holy Grail Door,” as Rebecca refers to it), we thank Father Julian one last time and climb the stairs to the entrance to Ms. Harriman's.

“Mission accomplished!” I shout as she opens the door.

Her face beams, and she hugs us all, thanking us over and over again. We show her the ring, and she starts to cry—just a few tears, but enough to make us feel bad for her and try to comfort her.

“Oh, no, no, girls, I'm not crying because I'm sad. This little ring represents so much. My father, my daughter. And my granddaughter. Even Malcolm, that old coot. But look who's talking. What an old fool I've been. What if I've waited too long—”

The doorbell rings and she collects herself, swiping the tears away and pausing in front of a mirror to check her hair and makeup. It is Malcolm, who gives her a quick peck on the cheek and then gestures to us, palms up and eyebrows raised. He has to know from our glowing faces that we have been successful, but he still asks: “Well?”

Margaret is standing there with her chin held high. “Right where I said it would be.”

“Excellent. May I see it?”

“You may indeed. We couldn't have done this without you.”

“When that light came on in the church, I thought we were cooked,” I say.

Malcolm chuckles. “You and me both. What
was
that awful racket? It sounded like someone kicked over a bucket of marbles.”

“Sophie dropped her flashlight.”

“She's smooth,” Rebecca says.

“No harm done. Just a few anxious moments.” He holds the ring up to the light, admiring it. “It's even more beautiful than I remembered.”

He hands the ring back to Margaret. “You found it; you get to take care of it for one more day.”

“Are you sure?” She holds it out, Frodo-like, in the palm of her hand.

“I am. Now, I understand that you girls are all taking part in some kind of theatrical event at the school tomorrow night—am I right? Good. Elizabeth and I will both be present.” He turns to Ms. Harriman and smiles. “As will two very special guests.”

Her eyes turn watery again. “Thank you, Malcolm.”

“When the performance is over, please come and see us. That will, perhaps, be an appropriate time for you to give the ring directly to its
rightful
owner.”

“You mean—”

“Tomorrow. But right now, unless I'm mistaken, you young people should all be home in bed. It
is
a school night, and, well, you're not really delinquents, true?”