D. Michael Beil Read online

  “What's that for?”

  I mimic the posture and smile he had affected for Leigh Ann. “Hey.”

  “What?” he says, totally pretending not to know what I am talking about.

  “Could you be any more obvious?”

  Margaret nods her assent. “She's right, Raf. You were kind of obvious.” She leans forward and opens her backpack, ready for business. “But enough of this hormonal distraction.”

  Margaret and I tell him the whole story. If one of us leaves something out, the other jumps right in.

  “Can I see this letter?” he asks.

  Margaret hands him the copy.

  Raf reads silently. “Jeez, who was this kid?”

  “C'mon, you're supposed to be smart,” I tease.

  “Margaret is the smart one. I'm the good-looking one.”

  “Hey, what does that make me?”

  “You—you're the—well—”

  Is he blushing? Something strange is going on here. Another mystery?

  “Focus!” says Margaret. “Does it make sense to you, as a puzzle? See, that's what I don't get. You have these two simple equations with six blanks, but only one clue. Find the answer and you get the next clue. But let's say we're able to figure out the clues. How does that help us solve the puzzle?”

  “Yeah, shouldn't there be a map or something?” I say.

  Raf hunches his shoulders. “Maybe one of the clues leads you to the map. So, what's in this for you guys, if you find it?”

  “Well, nothing, really,” Margaret says, “if you are referring to financial compensation.”

  “So you're doing this out of the kindness of your hearts?”

  “We're doing this out of the kindness of our hearts,” I correct. “You're going to help.”

  “Okay okay, I'll do what I can. But I can't be coming over to this side of town every day. Crosstown buses are a nightmare.”

  Margaret shakes her head. “Oh, quit whining. You won't have to. This is a logic problem, and we're going to approach it logically—one step at a time, one clue at a time. No matter how smart this Caroline was, between the three of us and Rebecca and Leigh Ann, we should be able to solve it—unless …”

  Wait a second—is that a crack in her relentless confidence?

  “Unless what?”

  “Well, what if one of the clues refers to something personal—something that only Caroline and her grandfather knew about?”

  “Then we'll just have to ask Caroline,” I say. “We know enough about her to track her down. But other than something like that, you guys do think we can solve it, right?”

  Raf nods confidently. “Why not?”

  Margaret snatches the letter back from Raf. “You see how he says that it's one of a pair, and that the other one is in the Met? We should go to the museum and look for the other one!” She is getting really excited again, her confidence firmly reasserted.

  “Um, guys,” Raf says. “Have you been to the Met? It could take you a week to find it there. Or it might be in storage someplace, or they could have sold it to another museum.”

  “Au contraire,” I say. “We know exactly where to look. This guy, Caroline's grandfather, was an expert on early Christian relics, according to Ms. Harriman. That's where we'll go.”

  “Saturday?” Knowing that it is more command than question, both Raf and I agree to be on the steps of the museum at noon.

  “Now, let's take a look at clue number one.”

  Time Management Margaret. We're together and we have a task to complete, so why put it off?

  In which I solve the first piece of the puzzle

  (and perhaps take more credit than

  I deserve-what's it to ya?)

  The three of us put our brains together and figure out the first clue right there in Perkatory. Like that! I notice something about the letter from Caroline's grandfather that seems strangely coincidental. He said that he was certain that Caroline's knowledge of religion, classical languages, mathematics, literature, philosophy, and art should be sufficient to solve the puzzle. Six subjects, six clues. A coincidence? I think not. Were they listed in order? How the hell should I know? But it seems perfectly reasonable.

  We settle on the idea that the clue refers to something in the field of religion and feel thoroughly confident. We have gone to Catholic schools all our lives, after all. Using a Magic Marker, Margaret prints the clue on a sheet of notebook paper and sets it on the table:

  “It could be a sequence. You know, what comes next?” Raf suggests.

  “Or a date,” I say. “Isn't L used in Roman numerals?”

  “L is fifty,” Margaret answers. “But why mix types of numbers? What would it be, 502324? Doesn't make sense. L for ‘left’? Left side of the church? Are the pews numbered, maybe?”

  I scrunch up my face. “I don't think so. It kind of looks like a license plate number. Or a taxi number.” I sound out the letters in my head but get nothing.

  Raf sits up suddenly. “Oh my God. We need a Bible. It's a religion clue, remember? This is so easy.”

  Margaret immediately reaches into her bag.

  “You have a copy of the Bible with you?” Raf shakes his head. “What are they doing to you at that school?”

  “I have religion homework, you dope. Are you telling me you've never had one in your backpack? Wait—don't answer that. I don't even want to know how much homework you're not getting compared to us.” She hands him a well-worn paperback.

  “L is for Luke. L2324 is Luke 23:24,” he says, flipping through the pages. “And before we go any further, the only reason I even thought of this is that we were just studying Luke the other day in class. Okay, here we go. Luke, chapter twenty-three, verse twenty-four: And Pilate gave sentence that it should be as they required.”

  “Pontius Pilate sentencing Christ. The Crucifixion. Interesting.” Margaret is deep in thought.

  “That's the answer?” I ask.

  “No, no, no—remember the letter. The clues lead us to places in the church. This is just telling us where to look!” Margaret checks her watch. “C'mon, get your stuff together; we're going over there right now, and we've got to move fast, because there's a Mass in about twenty minutes.”

  We scramble off to the imposing entrance to St. Veronica's Church. The slate-gray, late-afternoon sky is doing little to illuminate the church interior, and Father Danahey, the pastor, is apparently trying to save money on electricity, as the only lights on are those behind the altar. The rest of the church is eerily dark and nearly empty. A few people kneel in the pews, but no one even turns to look at us as we walk up the aisle on the right, pausing to show Raf the door with the stained glass chalice—the portal to the world of Ms. Harriman's past.

  “What are we looking for this time?” I ask.

  “Well, we know it's something to do with that verse about Pilate, something about the Crucifixion.”

  Raf takes a good look around. “There's like a thousand crucifixes in here.”

  “Shhh. Let me think.” Margaret puts her hands over her ears to block out distractions and squints at the stone walls to our left and right. “The verse is very specific. If it were the verse where Jesus dies on the cross, then we would be looking for a crucifix. But our verse is about the sentencing. That's a totally different story. We're looking for Pontius Pilate.”

  “The paintings,” I say, not altogether realizing that I have just hit the proverbial nail on the head. “Those ‘station’ things. Oh my God, I can't believe I know this. Remember, the other day when we were pretending to look at the one by the door, and, oh, what is that guy's name? The deacon. Mr., uh, Winter-butt-something.”

  “Winterbottom.”

  “That's it! Remember how he came by and talked to us about it? Well, remember the name of the artist—what he showed us on the back of the painting? It was Harriman, I'm sure of it. Mr. Winterbottom said that the painter's granddaughter lived next door, which must mean that Everett Harriman—the guy who wrote the note—was
his son. C'mon, follow me. I'll show you.”

  I grab Raf by the arm and pull him, with Margaret following, to the first station and point at the brass plaque attached to the bottom of the frame. “Look at the title. I noticed it the other day while you were playing around with the lock.”

  Margaret bends over and in the dim light reads, “Jesus Is Condemned to Death. Sophie, you're a genius!”

  I feel so incredibly proud, even if I'm still not sure what exactly I have done.

  “Let's look at the back of the painting, or maybe the wall behind it.” Margaret checks to see if the coast is clear. She runs her fingers around the edge of the gaudy gold frame and then lifts one edge of the painting away from the wall and peers at the back side of the frame and canvas.

  “It's too dark. You wouldn't happen to have a flashlight on you, would you?”

  Raf reaches into his pocket. “How about a lighter?”

  “That'll work,” said Margaret. “Give it here.”

  “Are you crazy?” I immediately have this vision of the painting catching fire. There has to be a special place in hell for people who burn religious paintings—even mediocre ones. “And hey, how come you have a lighter, anyway?” I hiss at Raf. “Are you smoking again?” When we were in the sixth grade, Raf stole a pack of cigarettes from his uncle and went through this “I am cool, therefore I smoke” phase. His mom found out and told him that if she so much as ever smelled a cigarette in his vicinity, she would kill him more painfully than the cancer ever would.

  Margaret has her entire head behind the painting, moving from one side to the other. “Hey, I think I found something. Raf, do you have a knife?”

  I think I might just explode. “What! A knife? Oh my God.”

  “Oh, relax, Soph. I just need to pry something out. There's a thumbtack stuck into the wood in the back, and it looks like it's attached to something.”

  “How about a nice, nonlethal nail file?” I suggest.

  “That'll work.”

  I hand it to her and she disappears behind the painting again.

  “Got it!” She comes out holding a folded piece of yellowed paper, about one inch square, with a red thumbtack stuck through the center of it. “Let's take it out where there's better light. There's something written on it, but it's really tiny.”

  Almost on cue, more lights come on in the church as preparations are made for the five-thirty Mass. As a group, we move directly beneath a light fixture, and Margaret holds out her palm so we are all able to read the paper as she unfolds it.

  On the back, the lettering is in the opposite direction. It looks like this:

  S

  IE

  AR

  IS

  OV

  LE

  RB

  MA

  HE

  RT

  DE

  UN

  OK

  LO

  Oh, come on. I mean, the first clue is X? Who but a math teacher would make that an answer? Don't get me wrong, after English, math is probably my next favorite subject. I absolutely hate all those otherwise intelligent kids who insist that they're just no good at math, when the reason they're no good at math is that they sleep in class and then don't do the homework and—surprise!—they don't understand it and, gee, I wonder why they're having trouble. And yes, I know that is a run-on sentence, but I am trying to make a point.

  “You know, when you think about it, the X has an important place in the history of the treasure hunt,” Raf says. “X always marks the spot, right?” He checks his watch. “Hey, it's been great, but I gotta run. So, see you Saturday, ya losers?”

  “Saturday, dear butthead,” Margaret says. “At noon, on the Met steps.”

  As we turn for the back of the church, I catch a glimpse of a man exiting through the heavy carved wooden doors. I looked around the church just a few seconds earlier, and I swear he wasn't there. The hair on the back of my neck stands up—a terrible and ominous sign.

  In which the astounding shallowness of

  my character is revealed

  Rebecca calls me at home that night to hear about the meeting of the minds at Perkatory and to share her doubts about the whole thing.

  “But it's not just that the ring might be gone. It would take a miracle for all six clues to still be there.”

  “True. But finding that thumbtack comes pretty close to proving that nobody else knew about the ‘buried treasure.’”

  “Have you figured out what the deal is with the two equations? I don't get how filling in the blanks in those two problems is going to lead you to the treasure.”

  “No idea. Margaret and Raf think that when we need to know, we will. Until then—”

  “And speaking of your friend Rafael, how is he?”

  “What do you mean?” I say defensively. “He is just a friend.”

  “Uh-huh. Sure. Well, if that's true—tell me again, why is that true? Jeez, Sophie, he is like, better looking every time I see him.”

  Et tu, Rebecca?

  “Yeah, well, apparently you're not the only one who thinks so. You should have seen Leigh Ann flirting with him.”

  “Leigh Ann? Oh, God. When did she meet him?” The way she says it freaks me out even more than I already am.

  “When we were in Perkatory. She comes in, and she is all flipping her hair and being her stunning self—well, you know how she is. And Raf was just as bad. I wanted to kill him. I don't want to think about it. So, about the dance Friday, at Aquinas? You are still going to that, aren't you?”

  “Um …”

  “Oh, come on, Rebecca. Margaret's not allowed to go, so if you don't go, it's just going to be me and Bridget. Pleeeez don't do that to me. You have to go.”

  Bridget O'Malley is a notoriously boy-crazy friend. We were really close in elementary school, but over the last couple of years, her top priority has definitely shifted from school to boys, and frankly, she's kind of scary to be around.

  “C'mon. Lots of people you know are going.”

  “Nobody that I really care about, though. Won't your mom let you go?”

  “Actually, she said I should go, but I still know she's really not happy about it.”

  “Yeah, well, my dad still thinks I'm ten years old. He actually asked me if I was going to wear my uniform—to the dance!”

  “Sophie, I was thinking I should offer to babysit so Mom can go out and see a movie or something. Her friend Alice called here a little while ago and said something about it, but I know Mom, and she'll say no so I can go to the dance instead.”

  “So? Go to the dance,” I say, completely glossing over the generous thing that my friend is offering to do.

  “But that's not fair. She needs the movie and the time with her friend a lot more than I need to go to a stupid dance.”

  Slowly—at the speed of your average slug—I start to understand and appreciate the sacrifice that Rebecca is willing to make.

  “Ohhhhhhh. Man, you are a good kid. You're so nice. Now I feel bad for pushing you. Hey, how about I come over and hang with you?”

  “Sophie St. Pierre, you have to go to that stupid dance. Somebody has to tell me what happens at these stupid things! And besides, what about stupid Rafael? Isn't he going?”

  Damn. Yes, he is going, and yes, he'll be incredibly pissed if all three of us don't show, but I find myself saying out loud: “So? He'll get over it. I'm sure Leigh Ann will be there to fill in for me.”

  Oy. That last part hurts.

  “But my brother and sister will be here, and they'll want to watch Balto for like the millionth time. And I don't even have a decent Internet connection anymore. We're back to dial-up.”

  “I don't care. My parents were gonna give me money for the dance, so I'll have enough for pizza. And I'll stop by my dad's restaurant after school tomorrow and pick up some desserts. They're awesome, I promise.”

  “You're serious.”

  “In fact, I will seriously call Margaret and tell her she's coming,
too. We'll have a little party. She can bring her books with her if she wants, and maybe we can work on the skit for the Dickens banquet. Are you okay with this? I mean, I guess I kind of invited myself over.”

  “It's very cool,” Rebecca says. “Bring dessert. And, Soph?”

  “What?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Duh. You would do the same thing for me.”

  “Eh. Maybe.”

  “Maybe?”

  “Well, definitely not if Raf was waiting for me.”

  “Jerk.”

  “Loser.”

  “Just for that, you are not getting out of this Dickens thing.”

  “G'night, Soph.”

  In which Wile E. Coyote and Balto fight

  to the death. Well, not really, but wouldn't

  that be cool?

  On Friday night, while everyone who is someone (at least at St. V's) is headed for the West Side and a night of dancing and who knows what else (will I ever know?), Margaret and I take the subway down to Canal Street and do a little shopping before heading over to Rebecca's apartment. You can find just about anything you need, and a lot of things no one in their right mind would ever want, on Canal Street. In its own way, it is a fabulous budget-shopping experience. Designer knockoff handbags? Check. Cute little Chinese ballet shoes? Got 'em, any color you want for a buck! Jangly dangly earrings? Right here, miss—two for five dollars. We resist the urge to buy illegal movies that are still playing in the theaters, but I do pick up a beat-up-looking disc with a bunch of cartoons for Rebecca's little sibs and, well, a really cute belt and a pair of big sunglasses that I just can't resist.

  Margaret had agreed to go with me to Rebecca's, provided that I left her alone after school from four to seven so she could catch up on her studying. Her grandmother and parents went to Queens to visit some relatives, so she had three hours of serious “quiet time.” I was forbidden to contact her or bother her in any way. In addition to my temporary exile from Margaretland, Rafael is miffed at me for bailing on the dance. But the first thing he did after I told him that we weren't going was ask whether my friend Leigh Ann would be there. AAAAAAGGGGHHHHH! Is this the cost of “doing the right thing?” I may not be cut out for it.