The Red Blazer Girls (27 page)

“Oh, no—we're
very
good girls,” Rebecca says.

As we edge toward the door, I nudge Malcolm on the arm. “Are we still on for tomorrow?”

“Ah, the coup de grâce. Absolutely! Go ahead and meet Mr. Winterbottom at seven o'clock as directed. I take it that, uh,
everything
went according to plan in the church tonight?”

“Perfectly. Well, except for that exploding flashlight thing.”

Margaret turns around to face me. “What are you two talking about? Sophie St. Pierre. After all we've been through! Are you keeping something from me?”

“Only a very little thing. You'll see soon enough.”

“And when did you arrange all this?”

“At Perkatory, when Leigh Ann and Becca were up at the counter and you went to the bathroom.”

“Serves me right. The most interesting stuff
always
happens when you're in the bathroom.”

We leave Ms. Harriman's in a hurry and get back to my apartment at about ten-fifteen. I check with Kevin, our doorman, to make sure my parents haven't returned yet and beg him not to mention my own late-ish arrival. They get home just
minutes
after us; they had a change of heart about the movie and went out for a little late dinner instead. If we had spent five more minutes at Ms. Harriman's or had stopped for a slice of pizza (like the perpetually hungry Rebecca had suggested!), we would have been busted.

It is going to be a
long
time before anybody goes to sleep, even though we are all exhausted. We pass the ring back and forth, admiring it on our fingers while rehashing the whole adventure. Sometime between midnight and one, we start to slow down, but before we crash, we have a very important decision to make. Which one of us should wear the ring to sleep?

Rebecca shuffles a deck of cards several times and then fans them out on the floor. Leigh Ann draws the five of hearts, Rebecca the jack of spades, and Margaret the two of diamonds. I reach for a card and flip it over. The king of diamonds. Cha-ching.

“Everybody's okay with this?” I ask.

“It's perfect,” Margaret says. “If the legend of the ring is true, we'll all be friends forever.”

At three-forty-four a.m., I sit up suddenly in bed. I could have sworn someone shook me awake, but Margaret, next to me on the bed, is sleeping soundly, and so are Leigh Ann and Rebecca, on the air bed in the middle of the floor. I take the ring off my finger, slip it onto Margaret's left pinkie, roll over, and go back to sleep.

The screech of the alarm clock wakes us. Margaret and I sit up partway and throw our pillows at Rebecca, who has buried her head beneath hers.

A few seconds later, Leigh Ann sits up. She even looks good in the morning, damn it. “Um, Sophie?”

“Yeah?”

She holds up her left hand with a puzzled look. The ring is on her second finger. “Did you—”

“It wasn't me.” I scratch my head, trying to recall the events of the night. “It was the strangest thing. I remember waking up at three-forty-four. I looked right at
the clock, and then I took the ring off and put it on Margaret's finger. But what's really weird is that I don't remember thinking ‘I should give this to Margaret’ or anything like that. I just did it. It was automatic, like I was
programmed
to do it or something.”

“Okay, I just got goose bumps,” Margaret says. “Because the exact same thing happened to me! I woke up at four-thirty-seven and put it on Rebecca's finger. And now that I think about it, I don't even remember wondering how it got on
my
finger. I just did it. And then I had this dream …”

Rebecca slowly pulls the pillow from her face, squinting at the light. “It happened to me at five-nineteen. I thought you guys were goofing around, because it felt like someone was shaking me. And I gave it to Leigh Ann.”

Leigh Ann stares at the ring. “That is
freaky
. When the alarm went off I was having a dream. I can only remember bits and pieces, but it felt so
real
. And I have this strange feeling that it isn't over. It's like I
know
I'll have the dream again.”

We all look at each other and nod. We know
exactly
what she is talking about.

Definition of chaos: four girls trying to get ready for school at the same time in an apartment with only one bathroom. Luckily, Dad slept in; he would have gone crazy with all the confusion and running around. Mom
makes us breakfast and then, for her own safety, stays out of our way.

At six-thirty, I announce, “We need to be moving along, guys. Mom, thanks for breakfast. I'll see you at the banquet tonight. Dad
is
going to be there, isn't he?”

“He's going to meet me at seven-thirty. I've told him that your skit is first, so if he's late, he'll miss you, but he insists he'll be on time. Tell me again why you have to be at school at seven o'clock this morning?”

“We just have another, um,
project
that we need to finish up. It's due today, and we have a few little details to work on.”

“Well, all right, but be careful; it's still dark out there.”

“We're walking together, Mom. We'll be fine. See you tonight.” I kiss her on the way out the door, and we are off.

The sky over the East River is glowing red and orange, and the air is crisp and cool. We have plenty of time to get to the church for my appointment with Winterbottom, so we decide to walk the whole way. At the door to Perkatory I send Margaret, Leigh Ann, and Rebecca inside with my assurance that I will be back before they have finished their coffees.

Margaret's arms are crossed. “Are you
sure
you don't want us to come with you?”

I shake my head. “Don't worry. I'll be fine. He's
going to be ticked off, sure, but what's he going to do? The only thing I need is that little tool you used last night to lift the tile.”

Margaret finds it in her bag and hands it to me. “Good luck. And remember, go slowly—don't break the tiles.”

“Got it. Nice and easy.”

“And, Soph? Don't drop it.”

Gordon Winterbottom is waiting for me in the foyer of the church, pacing with a pained look on his icky face. I glance around the barely lit church interior. No one else around. No security guard, no construction workers, no little old ladies waiting for Mass. Just me and Gross Greedy.

“Ready?” Apparently we aren't bothering with any pleasantries.

Time for my close-up. Quiet on the set, please.

“Y-yeah, I'm ready. Look, m-mister, please, let's get this over with so I can get my bag and get out of here. I don't want to get into any trouble. I don't even care about the stupid ring anymore.”

“But you
do
know exactly where it is, right?”

“I—I know where it's
supposed
to be, according to my friend's calculations. But maybe she's not as smart as she thinks. And I mean, it
has
been twenty years. A lot of things can happen in that amount of time.” We walk down the center aisle of the church; out of the
corner of my eye I spy a piece of the flashlight I had dropped, which makes me chuckle to myself. I am also pretty sure I see the shadow of someone standing behind the familiar door with the stained glass chalice, which appears to be propped open. Friend or foe? I take out a piece of notebook paper with some scribbled notes, which I pretend to study with tremendous earnestness and then make a big show of counting out the tiles and finally arriving at
the
tile. “Okay, if the calculations are correct, it should be under this tile. Do you want me to lift it? I brought a little tool. Or do you want to do it?”

Winterbottom makes a series of faces and then grunts. “You do it. Go ahead. Come on, quickly.”

I stick the edge of the tool into the crevice between the tiles, just as Margaret had done, gently wiggling it back and forth until it is far enough in to start lifting. As I inch my fingernails under it, he gets down on his hands and knees, pushing me aside roughly so he can finish the job himself. I stand up and move a few feet away so I can see the look on his face when he opens that box.

His eyes flash with anticipation as he reaches into the opening and lifts out the jewel box that holds his treasure. Still kneeling, he snaps the lid open. I watch his jaw drop, just barely at first, and then, as the terrible realization of the situation hits him, more and more. Trembling and twitching, he holds up
not
the hoped-for Ring of Rocamadour but my four-buck, 1970s-vintage mood ring. The stone is a deathly gray in his hand. He
glares at it for a second before dashing it to the floor. Then, my favorite part: he slowly unfolds my note—written across four paper dolls, joined at the hands, and each sporting a crimson St. Veronica's blazer. His face turns a shade of red I've never seen before (although tuna sashimi comes close). He looks up at me, and I am a
teensy
bit afraid. Is he going to kill me right here on the spot? Or just have a stroke?

But this is
my
moment. I give him my most diabolical smile and snap his picture with my phone, which, like me, is
fully
charged.

“Thank you,” I say. “That look on your face is just
priceless
—really the stuff dreams are made of. Why, whatever is the matter, Mr. Winterbottom? You seem upset. Is it not what you expected to find?”

All he can manage is a grunt in my direction.

“I don't know about you, but I've found that lots of things in life are like that. You build things up in your mind, and then, when you finally find what it is you've been searching for, you're disappointed. I wonder why that is? It seems—”

“You think you're very clever, don't you?” He rises to his feet and tries to intimidate me.

Fat chance. “Actually, I
know
I'm pretty clever. Clever enough to outsmart you, you disgusting wannabe crook.” I pick up my mood ring, which immediately begins to glow a very healthy and contented purple in my hand.

“This isn't over. Don't forget, I still have that precious bag of yours.”

“Would this be the bag you're talking about?” says Malcolm, stepping up onto the altar, joined by Father Julian, who is holding up my book bag.

Mr. Winterbottom suddenly looks like a cornered rat. “I might have known you would be involved in this, Chance! You've always had it in for me. It was because of you that Everett Harriman didn't leave me anything in his will—after twenty years of loyal service. That ring belongs to me. I deserve it. I earned it!”

“Just like you deserve these?” Malcolm takes the candlesticks from my bag and places them on the altar table. “How many other church treasures have you stolen over the years, Gordon? All those missing items that we just chalked up to random thefts—how many of those were your handiwork?”

“How dare you. I have devoted my life to St. Veronica's. Do you honestly believe that Father Danahey is going to take your word over mine after all I've done?”

“That
will be up to Father Danahey. But with Miss St. Pierre and Father Julian—”

“This, this juvenile delinquent!” Winterbottom scoffs. “You think Father Danahey is going to believe
anything
she says, after she was caught red-handed in the church, after closing time—with
those
in her bag? And we all know it's not even the first time.”

“Even a third-class detective could tell you that the problem with that story is lack of motive.
Why
would she steal two very ordinary-looking candlesticks when they were
this
close to finding the ring? Look at them. She would have had no way of knowing they had any value; they look like they might have come from a ninety-nine-cent store. It just doesn't cut it.”

Winterbottom's only response is to scowl at Malcolm, Father Julian, and me. He spins on his heel and stalks off toward the main entrance, shouting over his shoulder, “This isn't over!”

Of course, his exit would have been a little more dramatic if he didn't stop at the top of the steps to light a cigarette. While he's standing there, Winnie bolts out of the chalice door and bustles down the aisle after him, her shoes squeaking on the polished floor. When she catches up with him, she pounds her fists against his chest like a child having a tantrum. A pretty pathetic spectacle. I
almost
feel sorry for him.

Father Julian watches the two of them leave, shaking his head sadly. He asks how I am.

“Oh, I'm fine now. I was a little freaked out right before you two came in. He looked kind of scary.”

He reaches down and picks up the jewelry box and the paper doll note and hands them to me. “Keepsakes of your little adventure.”

“What does your note say, anyway?” asks Malcolm.

I show it to him.