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

grabs my arm and pulls me aside. “You didn't tell me she was crazy.”
    “Do you really think she's crazy?”
    “Are you kidding me?
What
is she wearing? Is that a wedding dress?”
    “Nah, it's just a long white dress. With buckles. And fringe. And matching cowboy boots. An odd choice, I'll admit, especially for November, but definitely not a wedding dress.” My otherwise modern mom insists that one simply does
not
wear white after Labor Day.
    We take our seats in the living room, and as Winifred brings us more tea and cookies, Margaret leads Ms. Harriman through our basement adventure. Then she opens the book with a triumphant flourish and holds out the envelope to her. “Do you recognize the handwriting?”
    Ms. Harriman takes the envelope in her hands, holding it gingerly, seemingly afraid to touch it. “Father's writing. Oh my goodness. I don't know what to say, girls.” Her hands are shaking and her eyes water as she caresses the envelope, running her finger over the script. It's hard not to feel sorry for her.
    “We didn't read it,” I assure her.
    Ms. Harriman smiles at that. “That's very kind of you, but it would have been all right if you had. I trust you girls.”
    Okay. Very nice. Touching, even. But if
someone
doesn't open that stupid envelope in the next ten seconds, I am going to explode. Ms. Harriman picks up a mother-of-pearl-handled letter opener from the desk and slices the envelope open. She pulls out a folded note card embossed with the initials EMH and reads:

In which I determine that King Tut lives
in the blue pyramid and smokes
unfiltered Camels
    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