Sergei pushes his chair back and stands, draining the last of his coffee. Then he brushes past our table on the way to the counter to flirt a little more with Jaz. When he leaves a few minutes later, Jaz joins us at our table.
“Well?”
“I think he’s our guy,” Margaret says. “He was acting a little too much like somebody who’s not listening.”
“But what if he really wasn’t?” I ask.
“Nobody’s that good an actor.”
“Ahem.”
“Present company excepted.”
“I would think so.”
Jaz has been eavesdropping on our exchange. “You two should be on TV.”
I stick my nose in the air as high as it will go. “I don’t do television. I am a thee-ah-tuh actor.”
“Oh, par-don moi, ma-de-moi-selle,” Jaz says. “I deedn’t know I was een the presence of one so great and powerful.”
I hold my hand out to her, turning my face away. “I accept your apology. You may kiss my hand.”
“All right, all right,” Margaret says. “Applause. Curtain. We have work to do.”
Mr. Chernofsky is leaning over his workbench, sanding the neck of a violin, when we come in. He looks up at us over his glasses and glances at his watch.
“So early, and on a Saturday.”
“Tell me about it,” I say.
“The early bird catches the worm,” Margaret says. “Or in this case, the thief. Mr. Chernofsky, we have a plan to catch the thief in the act.”
Mr. C. turns the piece of wood over and over in his hands, looking for imperfections.
“This thief, who is it this time?”
“Remember the guy we told you about? Sergei? He’s going to break in here again tonight.”
That gets Mr. C.’s attention. He sets the violin neck on the bench. “Again? You know that he is the one who stole the violin?”
“Well, we don’t have proof yet, but we kind of set a trap for him,” Margaret says. “We told him, er, actually, he overheard us talking about this great bow you’re working on here in the shop. We said it belongs to Chiang Li. We’re going to put a repair tag with Chiang Li’s name on my bow—the one that my ‘friend’ sent me—and we’re going to leave it right out in the open.”
“And then what? You are going to sit here all night and wait for him to come? No! It is too dangerous. You girls are too young for such a plan. I will not allow it. I will nail the hole in my ceiling shut and we will be done with this forever.”
“No, Mr. Chernofsky, you can’t! Listen to the rest of the plan first. We won’t even need to be here. Not physically.” She takes a miniature webcam out of her pocket and holds it out for him to see. “We’re going to attach this little camera to your computer and hide it in your office. That way, we’ll be able to watch what happens from Sophie’s apartment. And we’ll record it so that we can show it to the police.”
He takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes his forehead. He squints at the camera in Margaret’s hand and shakes his head.
“Look, even if we’re wrong about Sergei,” I say, “and Ben—or someone else—did steal that violin, and nothing happens tonight, then we’ll quit and let the police try to solve the case. But if we’re right …”
“Okay. One night. But tomorrow I nail the door shut and hope for the best.”
Margaret gets right to work setting up the camera and the link on the brand-new computer in the office. Perkatory has wireless Internet, so we go back there with Margaret’s laptop to make sure everything is working.
“What are you two up to now?” Jaz asks, peeking over my shoulder at the screen. The ceiling and desk in Mr. C.’s office are clearly visible. “Looks like a weird movie.”
“We’re hoping it gets better later,” says Margaret.
“Yeah, it’s supposed to have a wow ending,” I say.
On the way back to the violin shop, I ask Margaret the question that’s been bugging me since we conceived the plan.
“Shouldn’t we use another bow? Like a really cheap one? I mean, according to Ben, yours actually is kind of valuable. What if Sergei takes it and just disappears?”
“I thought about that, but if he knows anything at all about bows, he won’t be fooled by a cheap one. We have to hope that mine is attractive enough. And besides, he’s not going to disappear and desert Anna and Natalia. And don’t forget his crush on Jaz. The power of love and all that. Have some faith, Soph.”
The final step is to have Mr. C. fill in the information on the tag so that it looks authentic. When he’s done, Margaret sets her bow on the top shelf of the rack in the front room with the tag hanging just so.
“Voilà. We’re ready. When you leave this afternoon, make sure you don’t touch anything in the office. I have the camera aimed perfectly, and it’s completely hidden. We’ll be able to watch him when he comes through the ceiling and when he goes back up again.”
“Tomorrow we take the evidence to the police,” I add. “And pray he hasn’t sold that violin already.”
“I have a customer coming in early tomorrow morning,” Mr. C. says. “You will call me first thing, then?”
“No matter what happens,” Margaret promises.
We’re not quite out the door when he calls us back in. “Ach, I almost forgot. I have something for Margaret.”
“You do?” we ask in perfect harmony.
“This came for you last night. Slipped under the door.” He hands Margaret a large manila envelope, and for the first time in too long, I see him smile. Printed on the outside are Margaret’s name and the words FINAL CLUES.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Just a guess, but it looks like it might be the final clues,” she says.
“Brilliance!”
She carefully tears it open and takes out several pieces of paper. One is a photograph of a typical New York apartment building; the other six sheets are six-by-six grids with a letter in each of the thirty-six squares. Naturally, the letters don’t seem to form words. That would be too easy, I suppose.
A shake of the envelope and an index card falls to the ground. Margaret picks it up and reads,
When you are ready to claim your violin, write the day and the time you will come see me on the back of this card and tape it to Fred Lebow’s watch. I’ll be waiting.
She carefully replaces everything in the envelope.
“Do you recognize the building in the picture?” I ask.
“Nope. Could be anywhere.” She shows me the key that she keeps on a string around her neck. “I wonder if this is for that.”
“I’ll bet we know the answer by Sunday night,” I say. “I’m feeling very confident.”
“In the words of the esteemed Sophie St. Pierre, don’t count your chickens.”
Wise words, O Cautious One.
Later that afternoon, after a lengthy session with my mom and the rest of her string quartet, Margaret joins Becca, Leigh Ann, Mbingu, and me—a very different kind of quartet—at my guitar teacher’s studio. We start off with “Twist and Shout” and quickly follow that with the first half of my song.
Gerry is sitting back in a chair, hands folded behind his neck and grinning as we hit the last notes.
“Tell me again how long you guys have been playing together,” he says.
We look at each other, and I’m thinking he doesn’t like what he’s heard. “A couple weeks, I guess,” I mumble. “Except for Mbingu. She missed the first couple rehearsals.”
“Unbelievable,” he says. “You’re already better than some established bands. And, Sophie, I am really liking what you’ve done with your song. I have a few ideas for the bass line, so Rebecca will have a little more going on there, but you are on the right track with what you’re doing everywhere else. Keep it simple.”
“So you really don’t think we stink?” Becca asks.
“Not at all,” he says. “You’re not perfect, but you’ve got a nice clean sound. Just keep practicing, and play stuff
you like. What do you call yourselves?”
“The Blazers,” Leigh Ann says.
“Cool.” He picks up the microphone. “And now the main event, the band you’ve all been waiting for … from New York City … the Blazers!”
And the crowd goes wild. Someday.
Chapter 22
In which we take one step forward, two steps on a slight diagonal, pivot on our heels, and repeat
Saturday night starts with us gorging ourselves on Dad’s homemade pizza. As I’m cramming a second piece, Leigh Ann is already starting her third. Where does she put it? “Leigh Ann, I swear, the only time I see you eat is when you’re here. Everywhere else you just peck like a little birdie.”
“Ahgrow,” she says. “Ahcanthelpit. Issogood.”
Becca looks at me with a raised eyebrow. “Was that English?”
“Means she really likes my dad’s cooking. She keeps asking if my parents can do some sort of mealtime adoption.”
Leigh Ann nods eagerly. “Mmm.”
Mom sets another whole pizza on the table before us and quickly takes away the empty tray. “My. Goodness. I might have lost a hand. Sophie, someone called for you earlier.”
“I’ll bet it was Raaafff,” says Becca.
“Actually, it was your former swimming coach, Michelle. She’s starting a new swim team at Asphalt Green, and she wants you to join.”
“Really? Me?” In elementary school, I was on a kids’ swim team, but with everything else going on in my life, swimming kind of got pushed to the side. It has been a few months since I’ve been in a pool.
“I think it would be good for you,” Mom says. “You love to swim, and you are such a natural. Everybody says so. Michelle said you had tremendous potential.”
“You never told me you swam like that,” says Margaret.
I wave her off. “I’m not that good. Michelle must be desperate.”
“You’ve always seemed … buoyant,” Leigh Ann says.
Mom pats me on the shoulder. “You should definitely think about it. I don’t know what you’re waiting for. It’s a great opportunity.”
Weird! Mom just told me almost exactly the same thing that the Parisian waitress/St. Veronica told me in my dream.
“I promise,” I promise. “Now let’s talk about somebody else. Margaret, how did your practice go today?”
“Yeah, how was Andrew?” Becca taunts. “Is he just gorgeous?”
Nodding in agreement, Leigh Ann says, “He is.”
“Uh-oh. Love triangle alert!” says Becca the Instigator.
Leigh Ann blushes. “I’m not interested, Margaret—honest! I was just … just confirming his cuteness.”
Margaret holds up a hand to stop her. “It’s okay, Leigh Ann. Becca’s just teasing you and Sophie. Anyway, I don’t think Andrew’s interested in me. We had that one day when we did some texting, but he was all business at practice today. I mean, he’s friendly—not acting like a jerk or anything—but he’s not going out of his way to talk to me, either.”
“Well, if he’s not interested,” I say, “he’s an idiot and not nearly good enough for you.”
“Thanks, Soph, but it’s not like I’d be able to do anything about it anyway. Remember? My mother? My papa? My every-single-adult-relative?”
Mom laughs at that. “Don’t forget, there’s ice cream in the freezer when you’re ready,” she reminds us.
Pizza. Ice cream. The three best friends anybody ever had. Life is good if you’re me.
Midnight comes and goes, but the SergeiCam show never changes. By two in the morning, we’re all starting to fade. Leigh Ann and I are the most awake, so we volunteer to monitor the screen for at least another hour while Margaret and Becca sleep. We take turns keeping each other awake by telling stories, singing songs, and, in Leigh Ann’s case, dancing around the room. Even after all that pizza, she is still so graceful and light on her feet that she barely makes a sound. Totally unfair.
As we sit cross-legged on the floor facing each other, I tell her about my latest ring dream.
“What was your answer?”
“That’s just it—I don’t know. I am trying to say something, but I can’t talk. It’s like my lips are glued together. I’ve been racking my brain trying to remember what I was thinking, but it’s a blank.”
“You remember the last time we all slept over—the night we were taking turns wearing the ring? You said that if St. Veronica was going to answer your prayers like it says in the legend of the ring, you wanted us all to be friends forever—no matter what else happened. Maybe you were trying to say something like that.”
“Then why didn’t I just say it?”
“Maybe you did, in your own way. Maybe in your dreams, you don’t have to say everything. Just believing it might be enough.”
“Could be. I’m not psychic, but it’s like I know I’ll see her again in my dreams. The way she looked at me and smiled—I wish I could explain how it feels. It’s like, don’t worry—everything is going to work out. But not in the way that grown-ups are always saying that. And I totally believe her.”
“Wow, I wish she’d come and see me. I could use a little convincing of that myself.”
“What’s going on? Is your dad really going to take that job in Cleveland?”
“He still hasn’t decided. I mean, I’m positive he’s going to but just hasn’t told me officially. He keeps saying he’s thinking about it.”
“Sorry. That stinks. It has to be hard for him, too—moving away from his family. Even, you know, with the divorce and everything. Tell you what. Next time I see St. Veronica, I’ll tell her you need a little help,” I say.
“Thanks, Soph,” she says, sniffing a bit. “Hope it’s soon.”
A sliver of sunlight sneaks around the edge of the window shade and into my eyes, waking me from a deep, dreamless sleep. I lie there for a few more seconds, and then I suddenly remember the SergeiCam and jerk upright with a gasp.
Margaret, who is sitting at my desk, spins around when she hears me.
“Oh my God, I’m sorry, Margaret. I just closed my eyes for a second.…”
She shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. I just fast-forwarded through everything after midnight, and there’s nothing. He didn’t show.”
“You’re sure?” I feel better that I didn’t miss anything, but I know that Sergei not falling for the trap doesn’t help matters. Any hope we have of recovering that Frischetti violin seems to be fading fast.
“Positive. Not even a mouse went in that office last night.”
I rub the sleep out of my eyes. “Maybe he’ll do it tonight.”
“No, you heard Mr. C.—he’s going to nail that trapdoor shut today. We had our chance. I should call him,” she says, punching in the number on her phone.
A groggy Leigh Ann sits up. “What’s going on?”
“She’s calling Mr. C. Nothing happened.”
“Hi, Mr. Chernofsky, it’s Margaret.… What! How? … That’s impossible! … No, there is nothing on the camera.… Yes, I’m positive. I checked twice. We’ll be right there!”
Rebecca comes to life as Margaret shares the unbelievable news from Mr. Chernofsky: the bow with the fake repair tag—Margaret’s bow—has vanished!
I tell Mom and Dad I’ll explain everything later as the four of us run all the way to the subway. When we get to the violin shop, I realize not one of us has said a word since leaving my apartment. This has to be some kind of a record for four girls who don’t hate each other.
After Mr. C. silently points out the empty space in the rack where the bow was resting, Margaret goes back into the office to check the computer and the camera. Then she walks around the rest of the shop in a daze, finally dropping into a chair in the front room, where she can stare at the spot where her bow should be.
“I just don’t understand,” she says, rubbing her temples. “We did everything right. How did it happen?”
“The doors were locked, and Mr. C. said the alarm was still set,�
� I say. “Everything is just like it was yesterday except—”
“Except now I’ve gone and lost a really valuable bow. I suppose I’m lucky—at least it belonged to me, and not Mr. C. I don’t think I could handle that. Somebody is outsmarting us. But who?”
Who on earth could be outthinking Margaret Wrobel?
Mr. Chernofsky sits down next to Margaret. “But there is good news, no?”
“There is?” she mumbles.
He nods. “Benjamin.”
“What about him?”
“I think you are right. He was not the one who stole the violin after all.”
“That’s right!” I say. “Since you changed the locks and the alarm code, he couldn’t have done it. Does that mean he can come back to work here? Ohmigosh, he will be so excited. I can’t wait to tell him.” Then, realizing what I’ve said, I quickly add, “I mean, that is, if I ever, like, see him again, ever.”
Mr. Chernofsky chuckles. “So, it is as I suspected. You know where Benjamin is.”
For the second time in less than an hour, all four of us are speechless.
He decides not to push the subject. “Well, if you ever see him, tell him to come see me.”
I take charge. “We’ll tell him right now, Mr. C. We know exactly where he is. There’s no sense in him acting like a fugitive if he isn’t one.”
Rebecca looks at Margaret and me. “Okay, it’s all good for Ben. But what about the violin?”
“What do you think we should do?” Margaret says, eyes welling. “If you have any suggestions, I’m wide open. Obviously, I’m just a big failure. Finding the ring wasn’t real detective work. We were just lucky. I officially quit.”
“Come on, Margaret,” I say. “That isn’t true and you know it. And your theory about Sergei made perfect sense. The fact is, he could have stolen it just like you said.”
“But he didn’t and I was wrong.”
“Even Sherlock Holmes wasn’t right all the time, was he?”
“He’s not a real person, Sophie.”
Yeah, well, um, I don’t know what to say to that. (Confession: I thought he was a real person.)
The Vanishing Violin Page 16