Jeez. How does he know this? “Look, I'm not admitting anything, but even if I knew anything about this thing you're talking about, why would I tell you about it? What's in it for me? I get my bag back? Big deal. I'm willing to take a chance that I can get new books and that L.L.Bean has a few more backpacks just like that one.”
Mr. Winterbottom takes a long puff from his cigarette and stares right back at me, with his version of a smirkle slowly pulling half of his mouth upward. Then he theatrically sets the cigarette in the ashtray and applauds me. “Bravo. Outstanding performance, Miss St. Pierre, truly. Really, I do admire your—dare I say it—your chutzpah, but it's not quite as simple as you think. You see, there is the matter of the candlesticks.”
“What about them? We already told Father Danahey we didn't have anything to do with them. And he believed us.” And that's when I notice his cigarettes. Short and stubby, homemade-looking things. Just like the one I'd seen burning in the ashtray at Ms. Harriman's.
“Then perhaps you would like to explain what they are doing in your backpack, which I discovered under the altar table—not five feet from where they disappeared.” He reaches under his desk and pulls out my bag, unzipping it just enough to reveal the tops of two wooden candlesticks.
“Hey, wait a minute.” I stand up, protesting. “That's not—”
“Fair? Is that what you were going to say? Look, I'm going to make this real simple. You have twenty-four hours. Tomorrow morning at seven o'clock sharp, you are going to meet me at the church, alone. We will have half an hour before the workers start; you're going to retrieve this item for me and then we're going to make a little trade. If you don't show up, I take the bag to Father Danahey, and thanks to your little friend's embarrassing disclosure of your past—well, I'm sure you can guess the rest. And oh, I almost forgot to mention the missing statue of St. Andrew—the very one you seemed so interested in the other day. I wonder when that will turn up.”
Oh, he is good.
“One question. What makes you so sure that we know where the, uh, this thing is?” I know the answer, of course; I just want to see if he'll admit it. Winnie has been spying for him all along, not Malcolm. But why—what is the connection between those two?
Unlike all those crooks on TV who always explain everything, though, he simply escorts me out to the front door, where Margaret stands waiting.
“Is everything all right? You look a little pale. And where's your bag?”
“Oh, she'll be fine. She just needs a little fresh air.” He blows some smoke our way for emphasis. “Good day, girls. I'll be seeing you soon. Very soon. Toodle-oo.”
Outside, Margaret takes me by the arm and leads me down the steps and around the corner to Perkatory. She doesn't say anything until we sit down.
“Okay spill it!”
“I'm so sorry, Margaret.” I fight back tears and can't look her in the eyes.
She takes my hand. “Sophie St. Pierre, what are you talking about? What happened in there?”
“It was him in the church last night, not Malcolm. He knows about the ring. Winnie has been spying for him. He says that I have to help him find it at seven o'clock tomorrow morning, or he'll take my bag to Father Danahey. And guess what ended up in my bag? Those missing candlesticks. And the missing statue that Father Danahey mentioned? It just happens to be the one I asked Winterbottom about while you were looking at the Christmas stuff. He's gonna say that he found the bag under the table, and they were all in it.”
“And you think Father Danahey's going to believe that you stole those things?”
“Admit it, Margaret, it looks pretty bad. My word against the word of the church deacon. Who would you believe? And now that Danahey knows about my, um, past, if Winterbottom takes him that bag, I'm toast.”
“Then we're a pair of… toast. We're in this together, Sophie, especially since it's my own stupid fault that anyone even knows about that silly St. Christopher medal. But there's no way we're handing that ring over to that sleazeball. There has to be another way. You know, I can't believe he turned out to be so … scummy. Don't you think it might be best to go straight to Father Danahey, like right now, and tell him what happened? How would Winterbottom explain your meeting?”
“Father Danahey's not there today. I overheard him last night talking to Father Julian. He's going to Pittsburgh or someplace to see his sister. He'll be gone until Monday.”
“Hmmm. I have to think.” She puts her hands over her ears, and a minute passes. Finally, she speaks. “We'll just have to get the ring out of there today.”
I shake my head. “Impossible. Winterbottom, the security guard, the construction workers, Malcolm, Father Julian, and all the other priests. There is no way we can go in there without getting caught.”
“Nothing is impossible. We need some help—and I think I know just the person to ask.”
It is all I can do to keep from laying my head on the table and sobbing. “Who?”
“Malcolm Chance.”
I stare at her. “An hour ago you thought he was the enemy.”
“I was wrong. He can help us. Remember, he has the ‘backstage pass’ to the church.”
“I'm sure he could help us, but why would he?”
“Well, for one thing, I'm pretty sure that he wouldn't want Mr. Winterbottom to have the ring any more than we do.”
Good point. “But how is Malcolm ending up with the ring any better than Winterbottom? Isn't one just as bad as the other?”
“It's entirely possible that we have misjudged Malcolm. Think about it. Has he really ever done anything to us? Sure, his ex-wife doesn't care much for him, but how many people out there go around saying nice things about their exes? Don't get me wrong; I like Elizabeth, but she is a bit batty.”
Margaret's plan to join forces with Malcolm has another element: we can play the “family card.” Her theory is that the ring truly belongs not to him, not to Ms. Harriman, but to Caroline, their daughter. After all, it was her birthday present.
I have my doubts about the plan, but I know I only have two choices: make nice to Malcolm or pack my bag for juvie hall.
In which my day grows curiouser and
curiouser and … I withhold a teensy-
weensy piece of information
And so my fate lies in the hands of the unlikely duo of Margaret Wrobel and Malcolm Chance. First, we go online in the library and find his office number at Columbia. Margaret leaves him a message to call her cell phone, and we cross our fingers and head back down to the cafeteria.
Leigh Ann, her perky little self, is studying for a vocabulary quiz with Rebecca. I spin around and try to head back upstairs to our locker, but Margaret won't let me.
“I know it's rude,” I admit, “but I already have too much on my mind to deal with her.”
“Soph, we're going to need her help tonight, so you're going to have to deal. Let's just get through this ordeal and the banquet Friday night, then we'll figure it all out.”
I plonk myself down on the chair and sigh deeply.
Rebecca yanks her thumb at me. “What's her problem?”
“You okay, Sophie?” asks Leigh Ann.
Why does she always have to be so damn nice?
“She's had a rough twenty-four hours,” Margaret says. “We kind of got busted in the church last night, and now her book bag is being held for ransom.”
“What?!”
When Margaret gets to the end of our whole sordid tale, Rebecca says, “Man, you guys are my heroes. What are you gonna do?”
“What we're going to do,” says Margaret, “is get the ring tonight, assuming that we get Malcolm to help.”
“How do you know this Malcolm guy's not going to scam you?” Rebecca says.
“Look, Sophie's future is at stake here, and I made things worse when I opened my grande bouche about that stupid St. Christopher medal. So either we get Malcolm to help or we break in after hours without him. If we got caught doing that—”
Leigh
Ann whistles. “We'd be expelled for sure.”
“You guys are coming with us tonight,” says Margaret, very matter-of-factly. “That table weighs a ton. Before you say anything, Rebecca, I will talk to your mom.”
“What! No way.”
“I'm serious. I'll tell her the truth—that we're helping out a woman in the parish.”
“And what are you gonna say we're doing for this lady?”
“That we're helping her … look for something important. C'mon, Rebecca, trust me. It'll work.”
“Look, I know you're Miss Goody Two-shoes and all, but my mom doesn't know that. I just … oh, fine! I'll come!”
Behold the power of peer pressure.
Margaret's phone rings in the middle of Mr. Eliot's class, just after he asks me to describe some of the changes Pip undergoes during his first few months in London. She lunges for it, knocking her books off the desk in the process.
“My, isn't this an interesting development? You know, Miss Wrobel, I'm under strict orders from Sister Bernadette to confiscate cell phones that are used during school hours.” He holds out his palm.
Margaret sets her phone in his hand. “I'm so sorry, Mr. Eliot. I forgot that it was on. Please don't take it to the office. It will never happen again.”
“I'll tell you what. If Miss St. Pierre answers the question to my satisfaction, you get the phone back. If she blows it, it's mine.”
I immediately start spouting everything I can think of. “Pip turns into an irresponsible jerk. He spends all his money, and he is always going to Jaggers for more. And on top of that, he is becoming a snob. I mean, the way he treats poor Joe when he comes to visit—”
Mr. Eliot holds up his hand to stop me and hands the phone back to Margaret.
“Very nice, Miss St. Pierre. I notice that you don't have your books with you today. I trust that is also a onetime-only event.”
Margaret turns to thank me and mouths the words “That was Malcolm.”
When the bell rings, we rush into the bathroom to listen to his message. He was “a bit surprised” to hear from us, and “more than a little curious,” and he agreed to meet us at Perkatory at four-thirty. And he promised not to mention it to anyone, a condition Margaret had insisted upon.
“You still think we can trust him?” I ask.
Margaret puts her arm around me. “As far as I can throw him.”
At two-thirty, Margaret and I are on our way up to Mr. Eliot's classroom on the fifth floor to meet Leigh Ann for skit practice when the principal, Sister Bernadette, looking highly, um, unpleased, intercepts us.
“Just the two I'm looking for.” She places a hand on each of our shoulders. “Come with me.”
We march up the stairs and into her office. What now?
“Sit,” she commands, as if we are cocker spaniels. “I'll be right back.”
Sister Bernadette has a tough-but-fair reputation. She isn't one of those “wrath of God” nuns, but she isn't exactly the Mother Teresa type, either.
I look to Margaret. “You think Father Danahey told her?”
“Shhh. Here she comes.”
Sister Bernadette strides into the room, and rather than sitting behind her desk, she sets a third chair right in front of us and sits down. “Ladies, I just had a rather interesting conversation with Father Danahey, who called me from somewhere in Pennsylvania, of all places. Ah, Mr. Eliot. Join us. Thank you for coming. Here, take this seat.” She yields her chair to him and moves behind her desk.
“Hello, girls. Sister.”
“Hi, Mis-ter El-i-ot.” We are so obviously trying to act cheerful and sickeningly innocent.
“Father Danahey has just informed me that the night security guard in the church caught these two coming out from under the table on the altar.”
“He what?”
We attempt to shrink ourselves down to microscopic size, but they can still see us. Sister Bernadette goes on with the distasteful tale.
“It was last evening. They claim to have been working on a ‘project’”—Sister Bernadette even uses air quotes when she says it!—“for their religion class. I have yet to check with their teacher about the existence of this mysterious project that allegedly has them crawling around the altar floor at all hours like church mice.”
Yipes. I look at Mr. Eliot, my eyes begging him not to betray us before we figure out how to weasel our way out of this one.
“You were under the table on the altar? Why?”
“We were hiding,” I say.
“From some guy who was sneaking around the church,” adds Margaret. “We were just looking around, not hurting anything, and suddenly there was this guy there. We got scared and hid under the table.”
Sister Bernadette scoffs. “What ‘guy’? And why did you feel the need to hide from him?”
Hmmm. A reasonable question. So, what would be a reasonable answer?
“Well, we knew that we weren't supposed to be in there, and when we heard him, we thought at first that it was the security guard. We didn't want to get into trouble,” Margaret explains.
Mr. Eliot leans in. “But it wasn't the security guard?”
“No. The man went into the dressing room at the side of the altar. And that's when we took off the other way and got caught by the security guard.”
Sister Bernadette holds up the stop sign. “I've heard enough. Strange men wandering in the church; girls—girls who should have been home—hiding under tables. I understand that Father Julian vouched for you, and that's why Father Danahey let you go.”
“Sister, we didn't have anything to do with those missing candlesticks,” Margaret says. “I swear. We would never steal anything, especially from a church.”
“I think I missed something,” says a bewildered Mr. Eliot.
“A pair of valuable candlesticks disappeared from the altar yesterday,” explains Sister Bernadette.
Mr. Eliot raises one eyebrow, first at me, then at Margaret.
“C'mon, Mr. Eliot. You know we'd never do anything like that,” I say.
Mr. Eliot sighs. Deeply. “Sister, I do know these two pretty well, and I really don't think they could have had anything to do with something like that. Of course, that doesn't excuse their sneaking around the church after closing, but—”
“All right, all right. But I can't let that go completely unpunished. I take it that they are both taking part in your Dickens event, Mr. Eliot?”
“Unfortunately,” he answers.
“Well, I'll suspend their punishment until after that, but starting Monday you each have one week's detention. The last thing I need around here is Father Danahey breathing down my neck because my girls are running wild in the church. In the meantime, STAY OUT of the church. Thank you, Mr. Eliot. You may all leave.” She just about shoves us out of her office.
“All right,” says Mr. Eliot when we are out of hearing range of the principal's office. “What haven't you told me? And by the way, I seem to remember you promising me that you weren't going to go sneaking around the church.”
“Actually,” Margaret says, “we promised not to break into the church. We never said anything about sneaking around.”
“Staying out of trouble was the main idea, Miss Semantics. So, talk to me. Did you find the ring?” He is excited!
Margaret smiles. “We're really close.”
“And?”
“And you'll just have to wait and see. I don't want to jinx it any more than I already have.”
“Just promise me, please, to not get yourselves arrested.”
“We prom-ise, Mis-ter El-i-ot,” we singsong, running up the stairs, where we spend the next hour and a half on our Great Expectations skit. I kind of hope it is going to take my mind off of, well, everything. I do momentarily forget about my bag, but it isn't easy being around Leigh Ann. I can admit it: I act like a complete rhymes-with-witch to her during our rehearsal. She is trying to get me to give Herbert a stronger British accent, and I'm just not feeling it. She pushes and pus
hes, and I finally snap.
“Jeez, Leigh Ann, what difference does it make? It's just a stupid skit for a stupid fake banquet. Get off my back and out of my face!”
I don't mean it, not all of it. God, she looks crushed.
“Maybe we should just quit the whole thing,” she says.
Margaret gives me a what-is-the-matter-with-you look and then turns to reassure Leigh Ann. “We are not quitting. This is a great scene, thanks to you, and even if we don't win, we can still have fun. Isn't that important, too? Sophie just has a lot on … what's left of her mind. Let's move on to the next part, after Herbert leaves. Sophie's going to take a little walk and try to purge some of her stress—aren't you, Sophie? And while you're at it, call Rebecca and see if she's on her way.”
I skulk off and call Rebecca. She had gone home right after school to drop her brother and sister at an aunt's so she could come back for the Malcolm meeting and, if all goes well, to stay at my apartment for the night.
“This had better be worth it,” she says. “I'm going to be babysitting my aunt's kid for the next year for free.”
“The biter?”
“Yep.”
And I thought I had problems.
At four-fifteen, four glum-faced, red-blazered girls shuffle into Perkatory and take seats around an unsteady round table. Margaret pulls up an extra chair, and we wait silently for Malcolm.
The girl behind the counter, a redhead in a Hunter College sweatshirt, greets us. “Hi, guys. What's with all the long faces?”
Margaret tries to be cheerful in spite of all the opposition. “Long day, long faces.”
“You wouldn't have a Sophie at this table, would you?” she asks.
I lift my head. “Yeah, I'm Sophie.”
“Somebody was in looking for you about an hour ago. Really cute guy. Said his name was … Ralph, er, Raf? Does that sound right? Waited around for a while, then said he had to go.”
“You sure he was tooking for me? Not her?” I point my poison-arrow finger at Leigh Ann.
“Why would he be looking for me?” Leigh Ann asks, a perplexed look on her face.
D. Michael Beil Page 15
