The Red Blazer Girls

by D. Michael Beil

  “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.

  In which our “school project” seems to be

  taking on a life of its own

  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.

  “Good luck!”

  “Call us! Do you have your sketchbook?”

  “Say hi to Elizabeth!”

  “You're going to be famous!”

  Rebecca stops us. “Guys, I'm just going to talk to this woman. It's no big deal. I promise I'll call you later.”

  When she leaves, Margaret, Raf, and I race up the church steps (I win!) and find ourselves face to face with our good friend Robert, who peeks at us over his Glamour magazine and sighs.

  “Hi! Remember me? Margaret Wrobel, from St. Veronica's? Here's my ID. I was wondering if it would be okay if we took some pictures of the stained glass behind the altar.”

  Robert looks up at her with a mixture of confusion, suspicion, and annoyance. Apparently, without our blazers, we don't look so innocent.

  “WE PROMISE NOT TO TOUCH ANYTHING. IT'S FOR A VERY SPECIAL SCHOOL PROJECT.”

  “WHY ARE YOU SHOUTING?” he shouts, adjusting his hearing aid. “You should probably check with Mr. Winterbottom. He's around somewhere. There's another wedding at four-thirty, so he'll be supervising while they set up flowers and so forth.”

  “Oh, okay. No problem. We know him. He's the one who helped us out the other day. Thanks!” That Margaret. So sincere, so cheerful. How can anyone not trust her? We have now used that lame “school project” excuse three times. It's like my dad says: if it's not broken, don't fix it.

  Mr. Winterbottom, pant cuffs dragging and shoulders drooping, is at the front of the church muttering to himself. When he sees us approaching, he squints hard and forces a smile. “Good afternoon, girls—and boy. Here on a Saturday! It seems you just can't bear to stay away from church.”

  Dutiful smiles all around.

  “Mr. Winterbottom, we'd like to take a few pictures,” Margaret says. “Do you think it would be all right if we go back by those windows behind the altar? They're nice and low, so I can get really close.”

  “Sure, just be careful not to knock anything over.” His smile reveals a set of teeth just crying out for a bleaching. “Something in particular I can help you find?”

  Margaret assures him that she has it under control and leads the way, genuflecting before stepping onto the raised marble floor. Raf and I, good Catholic kids that we are, follow her example and then start looking for our Ovis aries. Plenty of sheep in the area behind the altar, all right—painted sheep, stained glass sheep, embroidered sheep, but nothing made of marble. I'm looking at one of the windows when I spot Mr. Winterbottom. For somebody who seems like he trusts us, he sure is keeping a close eye on our little trio. We start moving around the perimeter of the church, checking all the little chapels and niches built into the stone walls, each containing a sculpture or two. St. Francis, as usual, is surrounded by several animals—but no sheep. We search our way around the church, with Mr. Winterbottom never more than a stone's throw away—and my throwing arm is not that great.

  Margaret doesn't seem concerned, about either the shortage of marble sheep or Mr. Winterbottom's close proximity. “Remember, there's more to the church than just this part. For instance, the passages that led us to Ms. Harriman's. Plus, there's the outside of the building. The note says ‘in or on’ the church.”

  And then I swear I see an actual lightbulb light up over Margaret's head. A hundred watts, at least.

  “Soph, do you have the copy of the note? Let me see it for a sec.”

  I dig through my bag. “Here you go, Miss Marple.” (Hey, I read, too.)

  Scanning the note, Margaret smiles.

  “You've got a scary look in your eyes,” Raf says.

  “Where's Mr. Winterbottom? We need him!”

  Raf and I stare open-mouthed as Margaret bounds down the aisle toward Mr. Winterbottom, who is pretending to refill the holy-water urns in the back of the church.

  “Um, Mr. Winterbottom, I'm sorry to bother you again, but I have a little question. Kind of a strange question, actually. When does the official Christmas stuff—you know, the Nativity set and all that—when do you bring all that stuff out?”

  “The Official Christmas Stuff?” A genuine smile. “Right after Thanksgiving, the start of the Advent season. Not for a few weeks. May I ask why?”

  For a second, Margaret looks stumped. “Well, it's kind of a long story, but it's related to that project we told you about. Sort of. I want to look at the bottoms, to see where they were made. Do you know, by any chance, where they're all stored?”

  “Of course. I know exactly where everything in the church is.”

  “It would be great if we could see it—just for a minute. I mean, if it's not too much trouble.”

  “For this rather exciting and unusual school project, right?” He looks skeptical but is still smiling—as though he is willing to have one put over on him.

>   “I promise it will only take a few seconds,” says Margaret. “I—we only need to see one of them to take a look at the markings.”

  “Well, all right. I have a few minutes before people start showing up for this wedding; I guess I can show you the storage room.”

  A few moments later, he leads us through the door with the stained glass chalice. Margaret and I grin knowingly at each other as he digs into his pockets for the skeleton key that unlocks it. Rebecca did it faster with a bobby pin.

  “Right in here,” he says, continuing to lead the way. “There's a storage closet down the hall. I was in here just the other day, looking for—well, for something I had, uh, misplaced.”

  Raf whispers in my ear. “Breath mints? A suit that actually fits?”

  I know it's really mean, but I have to bite my finger to keep from laughing.

  He opens the closet door and fumbles around for the light switch, finally finding it. “I never remember where that darn switch is.”

  Turns out it's a pretty funny sight that greets us. The Nativity scene is set up, but all the pieces are crammed together facing the door. The statues of Joseph and Mary, along with the shepherds, the angels, and the three wise men, look as if they can't wait to be set free from the tight confines of their off-season prison.

  “Can I touch them?” Margaret asks.

  “Oh, sure. Just be careful, especially with the infant Jesus. His arms have been broken off a number of times, from the looks of things. They're quite old, you know. Worth more than you might think.”

  As I take a closer look, I see that both arms have been glued back onto the body. Margaret shoots me a look and I ask Mr. Winterbottom about the passageway we've just come through; where did it lead, who used it, and so on. Lucky for me, he loves talking about the church, and before I know it, he's telling me to duck and we're going up the stairs that lead to Ms. Harriman's door. He points out all the architectural details and statues of the saints set into the niches along the walls, and I pretend to be just fascinated by it all, even asking him about a striking little statue of St. Andrew. By the time we get back to the storage closet, Margaret and Raf are waiting for us, grinning like idiots—thanks to my masterful diversion of poor, sweet Mr. Winterbottom.

  We thank him profusely and practically run out the side door of the church. As soon as we get outside, Raf and I crowd around Margaret. But we also check to see if anyone is watching or listening.

  “So, where was it? Have you read it yet? What does it say?”

  “It was under a little lamb lying right next to the manger,” Margaret answers. “His legs are folded underneath his body, and there's a crevice where this was stuck in.” She hands me a tiny scroll, tied with a piece of black thread. “You do the honors.”

  I unroll the paper.

  Then I turn it over to reveal:

  “So, 3Y goes in the second blank,” Margaret says. “Now we have X + 3Y = something. And two more clues.”

  Raf scratches his head. “Maybe this whole thing is like a video game, where there are lots of levels, and we're still in the first one.”

  I suggest that we ask for help, but Margaret wants nothing to do with that idea. “No way. Jeez, we just started and we've already got two of the clues figured out. And now we're getting a handle on how his mind works—er, worked.”

  “I'm still not sure how we got this one. I mean, how did you know to ask about the Christmas stuff?”

  “Because I observed, Dr. Watson,” Margaret says. “It was simple, really. Look at the date on the letter to Caroline. December ninth. As soon as I remembered that, I realized that when he wrote the letter, the Nativity set would have been displayed on the altar. It was obvious.”

  “To you.”

  “Let's get some obvious pizza,” says Raf. “I'm obviously starving.”

  Margaret hands me some money. “Why don't you guys pick up some slices at Ray's and take them over to Perkatory. I'll meet you there in a few minutes.” Her hands go over her ears, the sure sign that she is deep in thought.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I want to take a look at one more thing inside. I'll tell you about it later. It's only going to take me a few minutes, I promise.”

  She turns and runs back up the steps while Raf drags me down the street to Famous Ray's Pizza. (Or is it Original Ray's? Or Famous Original Ray's? I can never remember.)

  This one is for all the people

  who say they've never used geometry

  in real life

  Despite the way it sounds, wandering around the Metropolitan Museum of Art and St. Veronica's Church and then sitting down to some serious puzzle-solving in the coffee shop with Raf is not a bad way to spend a Saturday. And Margaret, of course. There are these two old booths in the back corner at Perkatory, and when Raf and I show up with the pizza, she practically shoves me into the seat next to him, her eyes sparkling mischievously as she tries (totally unsuccessfully) to suppress a knowing smile. It's a small booth, so it is practically impossible to sit without touching each other. Boy oh boy. This boy.

  And so, I eat my slice, drink my Dr. Brown's cream soda, and listen to Raf's stories from the dance the night before. (No mention of her—is he hiding something?) Apparently, things got a little out of hand on the dance floor. Now, let me say right here that I am not a prude; I mean, my dad is French, for God's sake; we've had some pretty frank discussions around the dinner table. Margaret just about died of embarrassment one time when she was over for dinner once and my parents started talking about their “first times.”

  “Yeah, you can't believe some of the moves kids were doing,” Raf says. “Here, let me show you.” He pulls me out of the booth and spins me around so that my back is to his front. His hands are resting on my hips. “Okay, now—”

  “Stop it!” I snap, spinning away from him. My fingers and toes start to tingle as every last drop of blood in my body rushes to my face.

  “Why, Sophie, my dear, I do believe you're blushing,” said Margaret. “Pourquoi?”

  “Ferme-la, Marguerite.” I slide back into the booth and glare at Raf. “So, were you dancing like that?”

  He laughs. “I only danced a couple of times. The music mostly blew, so me and my friends just hung out. Some of your friends, though, whoa! They were going wild in there.”

  “Like whom?” Margaret asks. “No, wait. Don't tell me. I don't want to know. Okay, tell me. Was it Leigh Ann?” I knew Margaret would figure out a way to bring her up.

  “No, she was pretty cool. This other girl, though—long blond hair, kinda tall—she was totally out of control.”

  “Oh my God. Bridget. It has to be,” I say.

  “It was like she'd just been let out of an all-female prison after a looonnnnng stretch.”

  I hold up my hand. “Oy. Stop. Let's change the subject while I still have a tiny morsel of respect for my lesser friend.”

  Margaret sets the copy of the letter on the table. “Number three. Ms. Sophie, this one's all yours.”

  “Me? Why me?”

  “Because you, my dear, are our resident math whiz. We got the religion clue and the classical language clue.”

  “Okay. Let me see. 612 divided by D, which is the distance between the centers of the south and west rose windows. What am I missing?”

  “What's a rose window?” Raf asks.

  “Oh, come on,” says Margaret. “The big round windows on the ends of the church? They look like flowers, hence the name rose window. There are three in St. Veronica's.” She opens her notebook up to a blank page and (using a ruler, naturally) draws the church in outline form:

  “Okay, the church looks like a big cross, right? The two rose windows we're concerned with are here and here.” She marks Xs on the south and west walls. “Are you with me so far, Raf?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “Well, to find this distance he calls D, all we have to do is measure from here to here.”

  “But those windows are like a hundred fe
et off the ground, and there are two walls in the way.” I take the pen and draw a (more or less) straight line from the center of the south façade to the center of the west façade, thinking I am about to prove to Margaret how utterly impossible it is. And then it hits me. Pythagoras!

  “This is easy!” I rave. “God, I'm an idiot.”

  Margaret looks at me proudly. “Pythagoras, right?”

  “Exactly. Do you see it yet?” I ask Raf, who stares blankly at the page.

  I add two lines to the drawing:

  “It's a triangle. A right triangle.”

  Raf can only shake his head. “No idea what you're talking about.”

  “Sophie, kindly explain the Pythagorean theorem to our dimmish friend here.”

  Boy, am I smart.

  “Pythagoras was a Greek mathematician, and here's what he figured out. See, here's a right triangle. We'll call the sides A, B, and C.

  “This corner down here between the A and B is our right angle, okay? The long side, side C, is called the hypotenuse. It's always opposite, or across from, the right angle. In other words, the side that is the hypotenuse is never a part of the right angle. With me? Good. Our friend Pythagoras figured out this rule that's always true about right triangles. Any right triangle. Doesn't matter how big or what the other two angles are, as long as one angle in the triangle is ninety degrees. Let's say that side A is three feet long, and side B is four feet, okay, and what we want to know is, how long is side C, our hypotenuse? Well, we don't have to measure, because the Pythagorean theorem says that A squared plus B squared equals C squared. It's easy.”

  Raf does not look convinced.

  “What's A squared?” Margaret quizzes.

  “A squared? A is three, so, um, nine.”

  “That's right. A squared is nine. And B squared?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Right.” I urge him on. “So, remember the formula. A squared plus B squared—”

  “So, nine plus sixteen is twenty-five. So side C is twenty-five feet?” Raf looks with disbelief at the drawing. “That can't be right.”