The Red Blazer Girls (7 page)

The shiny wheels in Margaret's brain are whizzing at maximum speed by the time Ms. Harriman finishes reading the letter.

“Does this make any sense at all to you?” she asks.

Ms. Harriman is indeed a portrait of confusion as she reads the note over again to herself. “Well, I certainly remember Professor Ressanyi. He was a famous archaeologist. I believe he was with Howard Carter when they opened the tomb of Tutankhamen in 1922, but his area of expertise, like Father's, was early Christian artifacts. And this puzzle, these clues … I can tell you that both Father and Caroline loved brain teasers, logic problems, crosswords, anagrams—puzzles of any kind. But the treasure part, well…”

Ms. Harriman pauses for a second too long, and Margaret jumps in. “Is there something else we should know about this?”

“Well, I was just remembering something that happened after Father passed away. His original will mentioned an item of some value that he had intended to go to the Metropolitan Museum—a ring, I believe, from somewhere in France—and gave its location as a case he kept in his office at the university. When we went to find it, however, we found in its place a codicil to his will—a change he made a few days before he died, in which he deleted that one particular gift. No other changes to the will. At the time, we didn't think too much of it. We simply assumed that he had done something else with it; he was always donating items to various museums, university collections, and such around the country. But now that I think of it, Malcolm knew about this ring and where Father kept it, and he was certain that Father hadn't given it away.”

“Maybe he knew that your father planned to give it to Caroline?” Margaret suggests.

“An interesting idea, Margaret,” says Ms. Harriman.

“Ohmigosh, did you see the way he looked at me when I said ‘We found it’?” I say. “I wonder if he thinks
that's
what we found.”

“With Malcolm, anything's possible. I'm sure he would love to have it—especially if it is something important or that could advance his career. Pompous old twit.”

Leigh Ann, sitting next to me on the couch, elbows me. I try to ignore her because I am listening to Ms.
Harriman, and I am also a little afraid that she is going to make me laugh. She elbows me again, harder.

“What?” I hiss.

“Don't turn around,” she says, under her breath, “but that housekeeper lady is spying on us.”

“Where?” I start to turn my head.

“
Don't
look! I can see her in that mirror over by the stairs. She is totally snooping.”

I scooch over on the couch in order to get the same angle Leigh Ann has, and sure enough, there is Winifred, standing behind a pillar at the entrance to the living room, her head cocked in a classic eavesdrop ping pose.

“See?”

“I sure do.”

“What should we do?”

New to this world of spies and secrets, I can only come up with: “Dunno.”

“About this letter,” Margaret continues. “Do you want us to start trying to solve the puzzle, just in case the ring is still where your father left it?”

“Well, you certainly have a better chance of finding it than I do. Heavens, I'm outfoxed by simple crossword puzzles. I wouldn't have the foggiest notion of where to begin.”

“It's like the first time you read a word problem in algebra. It makes no sense,” I say, keeping one eye on Winifred. “But after a few minutes, you start to see it.
It's the same thing with those goofy logic problems. You know, the ones where they tell you that Aaron smokes Lucky Strikes, and Betty lives in a green house, and Cameron lives next door to Aaron, so then who drives a red Ford? It always
seems
like they haven't given you enough information, but when you sit down and organize it, there always is
just
enough to solve it, and you figure out that Doug quit smoking and lives between Betty and Cameron and drives a purple Chevrolet.” I take a much-needed breath and point at the letter. “This is just like that.”

“But when I look at that clue, and those equations or whatever they are, I don't see how they can tell us where something is hidden,” Margaret says.

I take a peek in the mirror and see Winifred still in position, straining to hear every word. I then turn to Ms. Harriman. “Obviously Caroline was really brainy, right? And your father was a professor at Columbia. And it sounds like he was pretty sure that she could figure it out, based on what she knew. I mean, she was almost the same age as us—okay, a couple years older. But c'mon, Margaret, how much more could she know? What about all those books you read? Don't they count for anything?” (I'm on a roll.) “Look how fast you found this envelope. It took you like five minutes to figure that one out. I'd still be in the library, flailing through the shelves. So, what do you think?”

The fortunate combination of her own insatiable
curiosity and my unique ability to be a royal pain in her butt wears her down.

“You actually trust us to do this?” she asks Ms. Harriman.

Ms. Harriman laughs. “I do trust you. All I ask is that you keep this between us.”

“And Mr. Eliot, our English teacher,” I say. “He helped us find the book, so he knows a little already. But he's cool; he'll keep it secret if we ask.”

“Well, then. I guess you girls have another puzzle to solve.”

Back in the foyer, we are saying our good-byes when Ms. Harriman points to Rebecca's ever-present sketchpad. “I noticed that you did some sketching while we were chatting.”

“Yeah, I'm sorry,” Rebecca says. “I don't mean to be rude. Sometimes I don't even realize I'm doing it.”

“Okay if I take a quick peek?”

Rebecca instinctively hugs the pad closer to her body but then slowly relaxes her death grip as we start to hound her. “Um, okay.”

Ms. Harriman opens it very carefully, turning the pages as if each holds a masterpiece. “Rebecca, dear, these are quite remarkable.”

“Told you she was good,” I say.

“Well, you were only being accurate.” She pauses, staring at a drawing of the famous Bethesda Fountain in Central Park, her fingers hovering over the delicate
pencil lines. “Gracious.” She turns a few more pages, stopping at a page filled with a number of smaller drawings—the very ones Rebecca had been working on a few minutes earlier.

“Oh, those are just—” Rebecca starts, trying to close the pad.

“Why, that's me,” says Ms. Harriman. “And there's Winifred. And Margaret. Goodness, Rebecca, you have a gift. Have you had any formal training?”

“N-no. I mean, just some art classes at school.”

“My dear, there is someone I
must
introduce you to. What are you doing Saturday afternoon?”

“Um … babysitting, probably. My brother and sister.”

“Well, I'll tell you what,” Ms. Harriman says, moving to a small table arranged with stationery and a gold-tipped fountain pen. She writes down an address and hands it to Rebecca. “This is the address of a gallery in Chelsea, owned by a very good friend. I would love for her to see your work and for you to talk to her. She loves to help budding young artists, and I'm sure she'll have some good advice for you. I'm meeting her there at two-thirty—please try to make it. Bring your sketchbook and anything else you've done.”

Now we are all gathered around Rebecca, staring and making her completely squirmy. She backs away. “I—I'll try, but I—”

“Jeez, Becca,
I'll
watch your brother and sister for you, if that's the problem. You have to go.”

“I'll be there.”

“Wonderful!” Ms. Harriman smiles. “Saturday, then.”

The second the red door to Ms. Harriman's closes behind us, Leigh Ann and I are both right in Margaret's face.

“Did you see her?” Leigh Ann asks.

“See who? What are you talking about?”

“Winifred,” I say. “The housekeeper—”

“—spying on us!” Leigh Ann exclaims.

“Spying? Are you sure?”

“Completely,” I say. “It was totally obvious. She was hiding behind one of those pillars, but we could see her in the mirror.”

Margaret is skeptical. “Rebecca, did you see anything?”

“Rebecca couldn't see her where she was sitting.”

“You're sure she was eavesdropping and not just waiting for Ms. Harriman to ask for more tea or something?”

Leigh Ann and I look at each other, shaking our heads emphatically.

“Definitely snooping,” I say.

“Well, that makes two interesting … occurrences involving Winifred,” Margaret says. “We will have to keep our eyes and ears open.”

Hmmmmm. A twist on the old “the butler did it” theory. The
housekeeper
did it? (Did
what?
)

Well, I've made it this far without mentioning “the boy,” which must be some kind of a record for a seventh-grade girl. Sooner or later, I guess I have to introduce him. For now, let me just say that “the boy” is Rafael Arocho, and he is seriously
hot
. Raf (rhymes with “laugh”) started out at St. Andrew's School, which is the boys' school right next door to St. Veronica's, but when his family moved across town at the end of sixth grade, he transferred to St. Thomas Aquinas, a boys' school on the Upper West Side. Rebecca and I have known him since kindergarten, and Margaret has known him since the third grade, when she moved to the city. Kids from the two schools were always being thrown together for assemblies, Christmas pageants, and other important events, so we got to know Raf and the other St. Andrew's boys pretty well. Up until fifth grade, we hated him; he was totally obnoxious, a typical boy. In the sixth grade, though, everything changed—he
stopped acting like a
total
idiot and we started to appreciate some of his other qualities, if you know what I mean. And you do, right?

Here's how he enters the story: Margaret has just called to tell me she is on her way over when my phone rings again. It is Raf. After the usual complaining about how much homework the teachers are giving us, the subject changes to the upcoming dance at his school. The ones at St. Thomas Aquinas are rumored to be pretty entertaining.

“I'm going, but Margaret can't—her parents won't let her go to dances yet. Besides, she has Polish school on Saturday mornings, and she usually studies on Friday nights. I've got a couple of other friends, though, who are coming with me.”

“Ah, Miss Sophie St. Popularity, never alone. Always draws a crowd.”

“So, am I going to see
you
there? Or are you too cool for that sort of thing?”

“Well, yeah, of course I'm too cool for it. But I'll be there.”

With that tantalizing nugget confirmed, I change the subject again. “Now, how are you at puzzles?”

“Like jigsaw puzzles?”

“More like word problems. Not crosswords, though. Remember those logic problems that Margaret used to torment us with?”

“Oh, yeah, those things. Like, Larry has three
brothers, Shemp is taller than Moe, but Moe is taller than Curly, so who's the tallest. That kind of thing?”

“Yep.”