The Red Blazer Girls by Michael D. Beil Read Free Book Online Page A

Let's get out of here before we all end up with the bubonic plague or something from breathing in all these mold spores.”
    “The plague was spread by fleas,” says Encyclopedia Margaret.
    “I was trying to make a point. I
know
what caused the plague.”
    Teachers. They are
so
sensitive if you even suggest that they don't
always
know what they're talking about. Which they
don't!

In which I vow not to complain about the
card and $10 my grandfather sends me for
my birthday
    “We found it!” I blurt out the second Ms. Harriman opens her bright red door, looking a little frightened by my exuberant greeting. Dad says my rashness comes from Mom's side of the gene pool and that his side is far more refined.
    “Goodness! That was certainly fast work!” Ms. Harriman ushers us in the door and into the foyer, where, surprisingly, an elegantly dressed man stands, smiling.
    “My, my,” he says as the four of us crowd into the foyer. “Here's a sight I haven't seen in this house for more years than I care to admit—a veritable gaggle of gregarious girls in red blazers. Once upon a time, this was a fairly common sight in here, wasn't it, Elizabeth?”
    Margaret stops in her tracks, holding the book tight to her chest. “Sorry. We didn't realize you had company. We can just come back tomorrow.”
    “No, no, please,” says the man, who looks like one of those English country gentlemen from a PBS series—well over six feet tall, with a full head of thick, slicked-back black hair, a bushy mustache that covers most of his mouth, and about half an acre of tweed. He even has a carved walking stick, as if he is just back from a stroll on his Welsh estate. But still, here's the thing: something about him feels “off” and kind of creepy. His accent sounds like someone
pretending
to be British, and he has an odd odor—not cologne or soap. I can't quite place it.
    He insists that he is on his way out and that we should stay. Ms. Harriman looks like she isn't sure whether to introduce us or not, but I've noticed that with people her age, manners always seem to get the best of them.
    “Girls, this is Mr. Chance. Excuse me, that's
Doctor
Malcolm Chance. And this is Margaret and Sophie, and Rebecca, and—I'm afraid I haven't met your other friend.” She holds out her hand to Leigh Ann.
    “Oh, I'm sorry—this is our friend Leigh Ann Jaimes,” says Margaret, embarrassed at her breach of etiquette.
    “Elizabeth Harriman. So nice to meet you. Malcolm, these girls are doing a little research project for me.”
    “Ahhhh. Interesting. And apparently successful,” he says with a glance at me (and my big mouth). “Well, I will bid you all farewell and allow you to continue your report. Good-bye, Elizabeth. I will
definitely
be in touch. And Winifred,
always
a pleasure.”
    Jeez, I hadn't even realized it, but that Winifred is standing about six inches behind me, glaring over my shoulder at Malcolm as he bows dramatically and exits.
    Ms. Harriman closes and locks the door and starts to move back toward us. Suddenly, though, she stops in her tracks, turns back, and lets loose an old-fashioned “Bronx cheer,” a spitty, farty sound, along with the traditional dismissive wave of the hand. Seeing the slightly shocked expressions on our faces, she says, “Oh, I'm sorry, girls. That wasn't exactly the proper thing to do, but that man, he always gets my goat.”
    “He is—”
    “My ex-husband. Who still lives uncomfortably close by.”
    “Have you told him about the birthday card?” Margaret asks.
    “Oh, goodness no. And I don't intend to. At least, not now. I'm not sure why he stopped by. He said he was ‘in the neighborhood’ and thought he would ‘check up’ on me. Trust me, Malcolm has never checked up on me or anyone. He's snooping around for something, I'm sure. Well, anyway, enough about him. You found something? Wonderful! Please, come inside and sit, and tell me all about it.”
    On the way into the living room, Leigh Ann