The Vanishing Violin Page 8

  A barrage of boisterous boys bangs into Perkatory, making so much noise that we miss the punch line. Ben must have heard the boys, too, because the next thing we hear is the sound of him rattling the handle of the vent control over in the violin shop. And then nothing.

  “Well, that was interesting,” Jaz says. “And I’d love to sit and chat, but I suppose I ought to take care of my other customers.”

  We all stare at each other for a few moments after she leaves.

  “Too bad that’s not the violin we’re trying to find,” I say. “Sounds like it could be worth a fortune.”

  “Yeah, Margaret, what would you do if you knew all these goofy clues were leading to something like that?” Rebecca asks.

  “Well, I don’t think I’d be sitting here with you three drinking sodas and eating chips—”

  Leigh Ann interrupts her. “Hey, what was that about Sophie being a genius—right before you heard the voice from next door?”

  “That’s right! Thanks, Leigh Ann. See, Sophie, I told you I’m losing it. I’m forgetting things from thirty seconds ago.” She sets the letter on the table in front of us, smoothing it out with her hands. “Look at the first letter.”

  I make a face at her. “Uh, Margaret, this is the second letter.”

  “No, no,” Margaret says. “Look at the first letter of each word.”

  I read the first part:

  To hear each beat,

  Amid sounds she omits,

  Only names please leave,

  And yearn each return.

  She copies the first letter from each word of the nonsensical verse across the top of the page:

  THEBASSOONPLAYER

  “You see it?”

  Okay, so maybe I’m not technically a genius, but anyone can see that it reads “the bassoon player.”

  She copies the rest of the letters:

  LIVESINTWOJBUTNOTONGRANDORESSEX

  All of which breaks down into “The bassoon player lives in 2J, but not on Grand or Essex.”

  “Right in front of my nose all this time,” Margaret remarks. “All those experiments. Honestly, Sherlock would rightfully sneer at me.”

  “C’est vrai, mademoiselle, but now we’re experts on writing invisible messages. And you just never know when that will come in handy,” I say.

  On our way home, we walk past the small boat pond and over to the bronze sculpture of Alice, the Mad Hatter, the Cheshire Cat, and other characters from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, where Margaret tapes our solution under the biggest of the mushrooms.

  She crawls out from beneath the colossal fungus and spreads her arms wide. “Bring it on, Mr. Violin-Stealing Tricky-Clue-Writing Weirdo!” she shouts.

  Chapter 11

  Help! I’m being held captive by a knife-wielding Frenchman. And he’s trying to serve me!

  The weather on Saturday morning is just about perfect. It’s one of those Winnie-the-Pooh-style blustery days with big, dramatic clouds chasing one another across a preposterously blue sky. Margaret is busy practicing scales and getting ready for quartet rehearsal. Rebecca is painting or sculpting something incredible at her art class. And Leigh Ann is singing and dancing her heart out at a studio over on Broadway. Which leaves me with a beautiful morning, a good book, and not a care in the world. I’m up and out of the apartment at a full gallop, ready to soak it all in.

  And now, a confession. (No, not that kind—although, come to think of it, I’m probably overdue.) The fact is, I’m glad everybody except me has something to do. I’m ready for a little “me time,” something that can be hard to find in a city of eight million potential friends and acquaintances. Within minutes of my mad dash out the door, I am stretched out like a lizard on a sun-warmed rock in the park’s Cedar Hill area and diving headfirst into “The Red-Headed League,” the second story in the collection of Sherlock Holmes stories that Margaret has loaned me. It’s the one where the naive redheaded shopkeeper hires a new assistant, who tells him about this incredible opportunity for anybody with red hair. But it’s all a scam, because—well, I’ll stop there. Don’t want to spoil it for you.

  Two hours later, the sun is behind the clouds, my rock has cooled off considerably, and I begin to wish for a surprise visit from the blanket fairy or for a heavy sweater. I’m gathering my stuff when I see something unexpected. It’s Ben and Sister Eugenia (!?) walking together on the path a hundred feet or so down the hill from where I’m sitting. Sister Eu is one of the few nuns at St. Veronica’s who still wears the full habit—and I mean the whole enchilada, including the hat—so she is kind of hard to miss, even in New York, where noting tragic fashion choices is a blood sport. Even stranger, she is smiling, no, laughing! I am dead certain I have never even seen her smile before now. I always have a hard time talking to her face to face—I swear she could win a stare-down with a hoot owl. And she’s a better lie detector than any machine they’re ever going to invent. Criminals would be begging for mercy after five minutes in a room with her.

  The Dubious Duo sit on a bench with their backs to me, chatting away and drinking coffee from paper cups with the Perkatory logo. Dying of nosiness, I do my best to eavesdrop, but I can’t hear them above the constant rustling of the leaves above me. So I wait until their heads are turned enough to identify them both, and do what we modern spies always seem to do. I take their picture with my phone. At least this way I have some proof for Becca, who will never believe it. She is convinced that Sister Eugenia is a nun-bot (think the Terminator) created by a supersecret Vatican organization dedicated to tormenting young girls who roll up their uniform skirts (to make ’em shorter) and wear their blouses untucked.

  When I get home, I send the picture, without a word of explanation, to Margaret, who calls me within seconds. She stopped by Mr. Chernofsky’s shop after quartet rehearsal to have a buzzing in her violin checked out, and walked in just as Ben was leaving for the day.

  “He did seem like he was in kind of a hurry. Just rushed past me and jogged around the corner. I figured he was trying to make a train. Walking in the park with Sister Eugenia, though? I have to admit, I didn’t see that coming.”

  “What’s wrong with your violin?” I ask.

  “Nothing big. It’s an okay violin, but it’s not great. Mr. C. is taking a look at it, but he says that for now, I’m probably going to have to live with the buzzing whenever I play an F-sharp.”

  “Can’t you just buy a better violin?”

  “Good violins cost a lot of money.”

  “Then just don’t play F-sharp.”

  “Excellent solution, Beavis.”

  “Or, I know where we can steal a really nice violin. A Frenchetti.”

  “Frischetti. Oh, sure, I don’t think Mr. Chernofsky would mind. Or David Childress.”

  “Well, unless Ben told them what he found, neither one of them knows it’s a Fren—a Frischetti. So they wouldn’t really miss it, right?”

  “Your logic, Soph, is almost Rebecca-like. I suspect they’d both mind. I’m sure Ben has told Mr. C. by now and he has told Childress. And besides, I would mind playing a stolen violin.”

  “Hey, wait a minute. What about the one in the letters? That’s a stolen violin. Will you be able to play that?”

  “I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”

  “So, what do you think about that picture? I mean, who knew Sister Eu was a real person? I was actually starting to believe Becca’s Vatican nun-bot conspiracy theory.”

  Margaret laughs at that. “Becca kills me. She has a theory for everything, usually involving the Vatican or the CIA or Gollum or Voldemort—or all four.”

  “Which means that Ben must be CIA,” I say. “Think about it. It’s the perfect cover. Violin shop. Nun friendship. Who would ever put it all together?”

  “Well, you, for one.”

  “Yeah! I mean, indeed I did, my dear Holmes.”

  My guitar lesson actually gives me hope for the Blazers. At first, I hesitate to tell my teacher, Gerry, about
the band because I’m afraid he’ll say I’m not ready, but when I finally work up the courage, I get this:

  “Go for it, dude. You are totally ready! Get out there in front of some people and play. There’s nothing like it. What are you guys gonna play? You writing your own stuff?”

  I laugh at that. “We’re gonna cover some other bands’ stuff for now. Some Ramones. Some Beatles. I’ve never even tried any songwriting.”

  “Wait, you telling me you never wrote any poetry? C’mon, who’s the guy you were on the phone with when you came in?”

  I feel myself blushing. “That’s Raf.”

  “So, write a song about him.”

  “Seems kind of cheesy.”

  “It doesn’t have to be. I’m not saying it has to be ‘You Light Up My Life.’ Please, please, don’t make it like that. Just write about what’s going on in your life. How you feel, what you want, who you want. Give it a shot and bring something in next week. I’ll help you with the music part. And bring the rest of the band along. We’ll get you guys rockin’ before you know it.”

  I make a promise to try to write something, but deep inside, I have my doubts. It’s one thing to play somebody else’s songs; spilling my guts about my love life—or any other part of my life—is a whole different story.

  Raf is supposed to meet me outside Gerry’s apartment after my lesson so that we can hop on the crosstown bus and head for the East Side. When I get out there, he is nowhere in sight. I dig out my cell phone and call him.

  “Where are you?” I scold.

  “I’m right where I said I’d be.”

  “I’m right where you said you’d be, and you’re not here.”

  “You’re cute when you get mad and put your hand on your left hip like that.”

  “Say what?” I scan the sidewalk on both sides of the street, but there’s no sign of a too-cute-for-his-own-good boy talking on his phone. As I’m standing on the edge of the curb, a scooter almost runs into me as it pulls in to park.

  “Watch it!” I shout.

  The scooter driver revs his engine, and I turn away, annoyed. “Jerk.”

  “What did you call me?” Raf says in my ear.

  “Oh, not you. Some idiot on a scooter almost ran me over.”

  “I am that idiot.”

  I turn around again and find myself staring openmouthed at Raf, who has taken off his helmet and is aiming that knee-buckling smile of his at me from the seat of the scooter.

  “What the—who—how did you—what are you doing on that thing? Oh my God, Raf. Did you steal it?”

  “It’s my uncle’s. He’s out of town, and he told me I can use it whenever I want.”

  “Um, isn’t that … illegal? Don’t you need a license or something? You’re twelve!”

  “Yeah, but with the helmet on, you really can’t tell. C’mon, get on. I have another helmet for you.”

  “Do you even know how to drive it?”

  “How do you think I got here? Uncle Luis taught me. There’s nothing to it. Like riding a bike. Except you don’t have to pedal, and you actually have to stop at red lights.”

  “Rafael …,” I start, which gets his attention.

  “Uh-oh. She’s serious. It’s ‘Rafael.’”

  “Do you have any idea what would happen to me if my parents found out that I had been on a scooter with you? For one thing, you would never see me again. They would pack me and my stuff up and send me to a boarding school someplace in another galaxy, like New Hampshire.”

  “Well then, I guess we’d better be careful,” he says. “Just put the helmet on. You don’t want to miss the movie, do you?”

  “You’ll be careful? And park far away from my building?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  I am putting on the helmet, I am throwing a leg over the scooter. “Um, what am I supposed to hold on to?”

  “Um, me,” he says, pulling my arms around his waist. (If you’re keeping score, that makes it Scooter 273, Bus 0.)

  And off we scoot!

  What a blast! When we get to the East Side, I’m having so much fun that I beg Raf to take one more lap around the park. When the ride is over, I make him park eight blocks from my building, on a street where my parents, or anyone who knows them or me, is unlikely to see us. Thanks to the scooter, we’re ahead of schedule. But that’s about to change.

  Mom greets us at the door. “Hi, honey. You just missed Margaret. Rafael, nice to see you again. Are you hungry?”

  I jump in before he has a chance to say anything I’m going to regret. “No, we’re going to grab a slice before the movie.”

  “All right, but I think I should warn you, your father made macaroni and cheese. I’ll bet Rafael has never had anything like it. Remember the first time Leigh Ann tried it? She was ready to move in.”

  Dad comes out of the kitchen waving his favorite knife. “Did I just hear someone turn down my macaroni au fromage?” Dad’s mac and cheese is nothing like “the orange horror,” as he refers to the stuff that comes in a box with powdered (sacrebleu!) cheese.

  Raf takes a good long look at that knife. The glint of razor-sharp steel and the incredible smell wafting from the kitchen convince him. “Sure, I’ll try some.”

  Dad points the knife my way, squinting menacingly. “Mademoiselle Sophie?”

  “Oui, mon père. Bring it on.” I plunk myself into a chair next to Raf at the kitchen table.

  “You will be thrilled you succumbed,” Dad says.

  Mom sets a plate in front of me. “Oh, Margaret said to call her as soon as you can. Said it’s important. And to be sure to tell you that she ‘got another one.’”

  “Agrnother wab?” Raf asks through a mouthful of macaroni. “Mmm.”

  “Just eat.” After a struggle to dig my phone out of my slightly tight jeans, I call her. “Hey, Marg.”

  “Where are you? Aren’t you supposed to be out with Raf?”

  In a loud voice, I say, “At the moment, I’m being held captive by a demented Frenchman with a gnarly-looking knife and an enormous tray of mac and cheese.”

  “Where’s Raf?”

  “Oh, he’s here, too.”

  “You know, Sophie, after he tastes your dad’s macaroni and cheese, he’s going to want to marry you.”

  Oh, reeeaaallly. Hmm … mmm.

  “Speaking of that—boy, do I have a story to tell you!” I say. “But I can’t tell you now. So, what’s your big news? You got another letter?”

  “Yep. When I stopped by Mr. C.’s this morning, there was another note waiting for me. Same as before—no return address, no postage. Just dropped through the mail slot.”

  “And what challenge have the clue gods chosen for us this time?”

  “It’s in some kind of code. All symbols, no letters or numbers.”

  “Weird. I just read that Sherlock Holmes story with the code. ‘The Adventure of the Dancing Men.’ Is it like that?”

  “It doesn’t look like that one, but I assume it’s the same basic idea—a substitution code. You substitute a symbol for a letter. I just have to figure out which symbols equal which letters. In fact, I may need the book back to see how Sherlock did it. But you’d better get back to Raf and your engagement entrée. Have fun at the movie. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Wait a second—just out of curiosity, did Mr. C. say anything about that violin? You know, the one that Ben was talking about, being so valuable and all.”

  “No, he didn’t mention it. That is interesting. I saw it hanging in the back. It still has the tag with David Childress’s name on it. I wonder if he knows about the Frischetti initials.”

  “It seems like the sort of thing he’d know you’d be interested in,” I say. “Oh well. I’d better go before my dad decides to invite himself to the movie.”

  “Eek,” Margaret says. “Run, Sophie, run!”

  Chapter 12

  Where’s Vanna White when you really need her?

  My movie pick stinks, but I don’t really care.
The weird part of the evening—okay, the other weird part, after an illegal scooter ride across town, and after having dinner with my parents and Raf—is when we’re standing in line waiting to go in the theater and we run into Livvy Klack. She’s with a group that includes three other girls from St. Veronica’s and some boys I don’t know—except for one. That one is Andrew.

  “Hey, it’s Andrew, right? I’m Sophie. My mom is your—”

  “Oh yeah, hi.”

  “You two know each other?” Livvy asks, incredulous.

  “We just met,” I say. “He’s in this quartet with Marg—” I try to pull the name back into my mouth, but it’s too late.

  Livvy turns the sarcasm knob all the way up to ten. “You know the great Margaret Wrobel? Gosh, Andrew, what’s she really like? Please tell us. Is she as perfect as everyone says? Where is she, by the way? Off feeding the homeless, or reading to the blind, I’ll bet. She’s just so super.”

  I know Andrew just met Margaret and all, but it kind of ticks me off that he doesn’t do or say anything. He just lets Livvy yammer on and on about Margaret. I suppose it’s not fair of me to expect him to defend her, but I can. I get right in Livvy’s grille and say, “Margaret Wrobel is a better person and a better friend than you’ll ever be, Livvy. You’re just jealous because she has about sixty IQ points on you and you know you can’t beat her at anything. She’ll be first in our class at St. Veronica’s, and then she’s going to go to Harvard or Juilliard and she’ll be first in her class there. And you’ll be at Cheap and Mean University, still trying to figure out how to beat her.” I take a deep breath. “And at least everything about her is real,” I add, staring right at her chest, which seems to have grown a cup size or three in the last twenty-four hours.