And so, here we sit, the picture of guilty innocence, awaiting our fate on a bench in the pastor's office.
Father Danahey barges into the office. He's about six foot three, with hair like a paintbrush, all gruff and no-nonsense. Margaret and I start to stand when he barks, “Sit. First, your names.”
We introduce ourselves, adding quickly that we both go to school at St. Veronica's in the hope that this piece of information will automatically absolve us.
But: not so much.
“Robert tells me that you were under the altar table. Is that right?”
“Well, yes,” Margaret says. “But we—”
“And that you were running out of the church when he found you.”
“Yes, Father,” she admits.
Father Danahey looks first at Margaret, then at me, and turns his palms upward. His bushy eyebrows move in the same direction.
My palms are sweating, and my stomach is starting to hurt.
“But see, we weren't doing anything bad,” Margaret begins. “We're working on a project, and we needed to look at a few more things in the church. I know, we shouldn't have been up on the altar, but Mr. Winter-bottom let us go up there before to take pictures of the stained glass. And then, when we heard someone coming, we just panicked and hid.”
“And that's the whole story, eh?” Father Danahey leans back in his chair. He looks tired, too tired to be dealing with teenage girls. “You must admit, it sounds a little fishy.”
“I do admit that,” Margaret says as I begin to envision the two of us breaking rocks in those very unflattering prison jumpsuits.
“You see, girls, I want to believe you. I'm still not entirely convinced by your explanation, but I also don't think you intended to do anything wrong. Of course, you might be pulling the wool over these old Irish eyes. You see, a few days ago, a small statue of St. Andrew disappeared from one of the old corridors, and sometime in the last twenty-four hours, someone walked off with two candlesticks that were sitting right on top of the table where you just happened to be hiding. Now, ordinarily, that wouldn't be such a big deal, because candlesticks can be replaced. But these were special. They may not have looked like much, but I'm told that when it comes to the value of antiques, that doesn't mean a thing. For example, that monstrosity of a table you were hiding under. It was made sometime in the Middle Ages for a castle in Scotland, and they tell me it's worth a small fortune. The candlesticks came from the same castle, and they also date back to the Middle Ages. As a matter of fact, I was just meeting with a parishioner about them; he's an expert on such artifacts and I asked him to come in and tell me about them—their potential value and so forth. Now do you see my problem?”
Margaret is indignant. “You think we stole them? I've never stolen anything in my life, and it was just that one time when Sophie—”
Deafening, terrifying, I-think-my-jaw-just-hit-the-floor silence.
Margaret knows from the look on Father Danahey's face that she's already said too much, and her hand flies up to cover her mouth.
She tries to recover, but the damage is done. “But that was years ago!”
“Exactly what was years ago?” Father Danahey glares at me across the table. Gulp.
Here's an unembellished, honest-to-God true confession: I, Sophie St. Pierre, have a criminal past.
“But wait,” says Margaret, now in tears. “You can't … she would never … oh my gosh, Sophie, I am so sorry. Please, Father Danahey, you have to believe me. It wasn't her fault. It was nothing.”
“Miss St. Pierre, why don't you tell me about this other time and let me decide. There are tissues on the table behind you, Miss Wrobel.”
Surprisingly, I'm not that nervous as I tell him the story. “We were in the fourth grade. It was the last day of school before Christmas vacation and our class went to St. Patrick's Cathedral for a special Mass and then to the gift shop next door.”
“You stole from the gift shop at St. Patrick's?”
I nod. “But it's not as bad as it sounds, really. I was kind of a … victim of circumstances. See, my dad is from France, and we were flying to Paris that night. I was a little nervous about the trip, and in the store there's this beautiful St. Christopher medal that I really wanted, because I had just learned about him being the patron saint of travelers and all that. It was like five dollars, and I only had three dollars with me. And that's when this other girl gets involved.”
“Bridget O'Malley,” sniffs Margaret.
“She starts telling me these stories about the Titanic and all these plane crashes, and how the only people who survived were the ones wearing their St. Christopher medals, and that if I didn't have one, well, you know. And I believe her because, I mean, I'm nine years old and getting on a plane in a few hours, and by that point, I'm scared to death. So I took it—but I swear to you that I was going to come back and pay for it when I got back from France. I swear.”
“But you got caught.”
I nod again. “Red-handed. By Sister Antonia—she runs the place. And for three months, I had to go help out her and the other sisters in the store on Saturdays, and my parents grounded me and made me go to confession. And I swore I would never steal anything for the rest of my life. And I haven't. And I won't.”
Father Danahey rubs his forehead, eyes closed. “Hmmm.”
I am trying to decide if that was a “Hmmm—sounds believable” or a “Hmmm—that's a really lame story” when someone comes up behind us and clears his throat.
Father Danahey waves at him. “Malcolm, do come in. Girls, this is Dr. Chance. He is sort of our, um, unofficial church historian.”
I spin around to see that tweedy, creepy Malcolm Chance, looking even tweepier than usual.
“Ah, we meet again. Good evening, girls.”
“You know each other? Maybe I should get Gordon in here as well.” Father Danahey steps out into the hallway and shouts, “Gordon! Can you come in here, please?” Then, turning back to Malcolm, he says, “So, you do know these girls?”
“Oh, yes. These young ladies are friends of Elizabeth's. We share some … common interests, you might say.”
“You don't say. Common interests like the Yankees, or common interests like medieval religious antiquities?”
“The latter, I'm afraid.”
“Interesting.” Father Danahey waves another man into the cramped office. “Gordon, thanks for coming. Girls, this is our deacon, Mr. Winterbottom.”
Even if I were blind, I would still know Mr. Winterbottom was in the room. The guy's an ashtray with legs.
Father Danahey continues. “I was just telling the girls about our missing candlesticks. They assure me that they had nothing whatsoever to do with that unfortunate incident. They also mentioned that you had let them take some pictures behind the altar. Does that ring any bells?”
Mr. Winterbottom's yellow eyes dart back and forth from Margaret to me. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did help them out once or twice. They seemed especially interested in some of the artwork and the Nativity figures.”
Well, that was helpful. Thanks for throwing us under the bus, Mr. Winterbutt.
Just then, Father Julian, dressed in a sweat suit and running shoes and sweating profusely from his forehead, appears in the doorway. He recognizes me immediately and seems utterly confused by our presence in Father Danahey's office.
“Evening, Father, Dr. Chance. Girls? What's going on?”
“Well, everyone seems to know you two except me,” Father Danahey says.
Father Julian smiles, and I know that we have at least one ally in the room. He points directly at me. “Well, I know this one. I met her, along with one of her teachers, in the church this morning. I believe they were doing some research.”
“So you've actually seen her working on this project?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And you'll vouch for her?”
“Definitely.”
“And what about you?” Father Danahey looks straight at Margare
t.
Father Julian winks at me. “I don't know. She looks like a shady character to me,” he says, smiling broadly.
“That's good enough for me, then.” Father Danahey fights back a smile of his own. “Young ladies, we won't say anything to your parents about this—yet. But, girls, go home. And no future sneaking about the church, understand?”
“Yes, Fa-ther Dan-a-hey,” we say dutifully. As I stand up to leave, I push the hair out of my eyes and notice Mr. Winterbottom focusing on the second finger of my right hand, where I wear a single ring, turned so that only the gold band is visible.
“That's an interesting ring,” he lies. “Do you mind?”
“What, this?” I turn the ring so he can see the stone. It is an authentic seventies “mood ring” that I picked up for four bucks in a vintage clothing shop in the Village.
“Hey, I remember those,” Father Julian says. “A mood ring, right? Boy, I haven't seen one in years. What does that color mean?”
The stone is coal black. “I think it means that I need some coffee-toffee ice cream. With sprinkles.”
He gets a chuckle out of that. “I'll show you girls out.”
Margaret turns back to Father Danahey and Malcolm one last time. “We really are sorry, Father. We won't do it again. We promise.”
“Good night, Miss Wrobel. Remember, straight home.”
Father Julian leads us out to the rectory entrance and opens the door.
“I think you saved our lives in there,” I say.
“Oh, I don't think the Church burns very many people at the stake these days—at least not for minor offenses. But one day I'd like to hear what is really going on, okay?” Pretty smart for a hobbit.
In which I learn so much more than I need
to know about men's shoes
We start to go straight home, both a little too freaked out to talk much. I mean, what with being minor suspects in a heist and Margaret dredging up my shameful past at the worst possible moment and all. About two blocks from the church, it hits me like a piano falling from a ten-story building. “MY BAG! Oh my God. I don't have my bag!”
“Are you sure you had it with you when we left school today?”
“Positive! Remember, I took my phone out of it before we went into the church.” I reach into my coat pocket and pull out the phone.
“So, you must have left it in Father Danahey's office. I'm sure you can get it from him tomorrow morning.”
I rack my brain, trying to remember where I left it. “No, no, see, I didn't have it with me in his office.”
“Are you sure?”
And then the second piano hits me. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, no' what?” Suddenly Margaret looks worried.
“I didn't have it with me in the waiting room.”
It only takes her a second to realize what that means. “Gulp. You left it somewhere in the church?”
“Under the table. When we were hiding there, something in the bag was digging into my back, so I took it off when the music was really loud.”
Margaret starts laughing like a lunatic. “Sophie, you are the worst criminal ever. Never mind fingerprints, officers, here's my book bag with everything you'll need to identify me.”
“It's not funny. What am I going to do? How am I going to get it back? And what am I supposed to do tonight? My books are in there, I have homework I gotta do. And our skit—you know I need to work on my lines.”
“All true, but there's no way we can retrieve it tonight. You can use my books to study. In the morning, we tell the security guard some version of what happened and he'll get it for you.”
My heart rate returns to normal, and we turn and go down the stairs to the subway stop at Sixty-eighth Street.
“Hey, did you notice their shoes?” Margaret asks as we swipe our cards and pass through the subway turnstiles.
“Whose shoes?”
“All the men in Father Danahey's office.”
Shoes? I was too busy watching the DVD of my life pass before my eyes—a decidedly G-rated piece of filmmaking, I'm sorry to report.
“Well, I'm going to bet you remember the shoes, the ones that practically kicked us when we were under the table. What did they look like?”
“I don't know. Black penny loafers. Ordinary. Men's shoes.”
“That's right. Did you notice the security guard's? His were more like sneakers.”
“So that means it wasn't him up there on the altar when we were. Maybe it was Father Julian.”
“Nope. Remember, he was wearing running clothes with sneakers.”
“Which leaves—”
“Father Danahey was wearing brown shoes. Hush Puppies.”
“Malcolm!”
“Bingo. Kinda.”
“Meaning?”
“He was wearing black penny loafers, slightly worn. But here's the thing—Winterbottom was wearing them, too.”
Why was I disappointed?
“But if it was Malcolm—what was he doing?”
“Same thing we were. Doesn't it seem like a pretty weird coincidence that he was kneeling down on the floor looking for something not five feet away from where we were looking?”
“But how could he know where to look? We figured out all those riddles, and there was only one note and one set of clues. Do you think he was spying on us the whole time?”
“Or maybe he had someone doing it for him,” Margaret says. “Like Elizabeth's housekeeper, Winifred.”
“She's in cahoots with him. I knew there was something strange about her.”
“Sophie, you think there's something strange about everyone.”
“Well, this time I'm right. So what do we do?”
“Actually … I have no idea.”
Hmmm. Margaret without an idea. Now that's a first.
“So what do you think about those missing candlesticks? Malcolm, too?”
“Could be, but why?”
“Oh, come on, Soph. For the money, of course. Father Danahey said that they didn't look like much. Malcolm's probably one of the few people around who would have any idea what they were worth. And because he's a trusted, upstanding member of the parish, he can pretty much do as he pleases in the church. It's like he has a backstage pass.”
And so the race is on: the Red Blazer Girls versus Malcolm and Winnie, the Bonnie and Clyde of the Upper East Side.
In which my life is turned upside-down,
topsy-turvy, helter-skelter, and torn
asunder
In the morning, I am wide awake before my mom calls for me, for the first time in my life, I am reasonably certain. It is Thursday, and I have a full day ahead of me, and possibly a nervous breakdown. Even though Mom has a busy day of her own, she still makes me blueberry pancakes. All right! I thank her as I run out the door, reminding her that it is dress rehearsal day for the Dickens banquet and I'll probably be pretty late.
When Margaret and I get to the church, several trucks are parked outside, and the sidewalk is bustling with workers carrying scaffolding and other heavy equipment inside. The renovations are officially under way, and the odds of success in Project: Ring Retrieval are sinking by the minute.
Robert is at the security desk, immersed in Marie Claire.
“Does he ever go home?” I whisper unnecessarily.
“Morning, ladies. Got something for one of you.”
“Oh, good, you found it.”
Robert stares blankly at me. “Found it? Didn't find anything. This is from Mr. Winterbottom. For a … Sophie St. Pierre. That you?”
“Yes, that's me,” I say, utterly baffled. “But what about my bag?”
“Don't know nuthin' about a bag. Was told to give you this when you showed up, so here you go.”
I open the envelope. Inside is a note, printed in large, blocky letters.
That's it?
Margaret reads it, frowning. “Why didn't he just leave the bag here?”
“Did he happen to say anything about what he wanted?” I ask
.
“Nope. Handed me the envelope and told me to give it to you as soon as you got here. Said you'd be in early.” He turns back to “Ten Things He'll Never Tell You About His Past!”
Margaret peers through the doors that separate the foyer from the nave of the church. Construction workers are setting up ladders, portable lights, and other equipment, and covering the pews on the left side of the church with acres of drop cloths.
The security guard shakes his head. “Can't let you inside, girls. We'll only be open for a few hours today, two o'clock to five o'clock. They're going to be doing some work on the ceiling. Only the chapel down the hall here is open.”
“I don't care what the letter says; I'm going with you,” asserts Margaret. We march out the door and up the stairs to the rectory, where we pause to collect ourselves.
“Maybe he just wants to warn me about Malcolm.” I press the buzzer.
A few seconds later, Mr. Winterbottom's unnaturally tanned face appears behind the door. He opens it partway and says, “Which one of you is St. Pierre?”
“That's me.”
“Just you.”
“Can't I wait inside?” Margaret says. “It's cold out here.”
He opens the door and lets us in, directing Margaret to the room where we had waited for Father Danahey and motioning for me to follow him to his office.
“Now then,” he says, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. “Let's get right down to brass tacks. We each have something that the other wants. I have your bag, and you—well, you have something very special.”
“Look, Mr. Winterbottom, I swear I didn't take those candlesticks, if that's what you're talking about.”
“We'll get to those in a minute. I'm much more interested in some information that you have and that I need.”
“Are you sure you have the right girl?”
“Quite sure. Sophie St. Pierre. Lovely name, by the way.”
“What kind of information?”
“Don't be coy.” He taps his ashes into an overflowing ashtray. “It concerns the whereabouts of a certain valuable item—a religious relic. One that has been hidden in the church for a long time—twenty years, to be precise.”
D. Michael Beil Page 14
