The Vanishing Violin

by Michael D. Beil

  Livvy and two of the Klackettes are taking up precious real estate at one of the best tables. Although Ms. Lonneman couldn’t technically prove that the girls had cheated, parents were called, tears were shed, and punishments were handed out. Becca heard through the grapevine that Livvy was grounded for months, had her cell phone taken away, and has to spend an hour after dismissal every day tutoring kids in the lower school. And Becca’s story about a second grader puking on Livvy’s brand-new shoes? Just a tiny bit delicious.

  Livvy is her usual charming self to Margaret when she and Andrew arrive together. She asks Andrew—loudly enough for us to hear—why he’s “slumming” with a bunch of losers.

  And that, finally, is the last straw for Andrew.

  “Livvy, you moron, Margaret is my friend. I know friendship is a strange concept to you, but do me and everybody else a big favor and just shut up.”

  We cheer wildly as Livvy and her “friends” skulk out the door. Margaret immediately snags their table for my parents, Becca’s mom, and Leigh Ann’s family, all of whom walk in a few minutes later. Margaret invites Jaz, who has the night off, to sit with her and Andrew, and when Mr. Eliot comes in (sans phantom wife, yet again), he sits with Sister Eugenia, Ben, and Mr. Chernofsky. Then Ms. Lonneman, who waves as she hurries inside, joins them, too. Just as I’m starting to worry that Raf isn’t going to make it, he and his friend Sean—who looks like he stole Bart Simpson’s hair—show up and squeeze in at Margaret’s table.

  Malcolm and Elizabeth share another prime table with Caroline and her husband, Roger, and daughter, Caitlin. I do a minor bit of meddling when I rearrange people so that Malcolm, Caroline, and Alejandro Jaimes can be seated near one another. “Malcolm and Caroline are both professors of archaeology at Columbia,” I say to Alex. “You know, it’s the only Ivy League school right here in New York. Malcolm, I’m sure I’ve mentioned Leigh Ann’s brother, Alejandro, to you. Oh! And what a coincidence! He just got asked to take part in some math program at Columbia. Probably has a million questions for you.”

  And so my work there is almost done.

  Leigh Ann drags me back to our “backstage”—a closet-size storeroom—where Becca is psyching herself up. “Guys, we have a little problem,” Leigh Ann says. “Mbingu’s not here. I tried calling her, but I can’t get through.”

  “Have you heard anything, Bec?” I ask.

  “Nope. Haven’t talked to her since rehearsal the other day.”

  “Well, what’s the plan if she doesn’t show?”

  “If who doesn’t show?” Mbingu sticks her head in the door, smiling sheepishly.

  “Mbingu!” we all shout.

  “I’m so sorry! My papa surprised us—he arrived from Tanzania a day early—and I almost forgot! I ran from the subway station.”

  “Did your parents come?” I ask. “I can make some room for them up front—”

  “No, they need some time to relax together. Papa has been away for six months.”

  “Wow. What was he doing?” I ask.

  “He still works there. He is a safari guide—you know, driving people around to see the lions and giraffes.”

  “So, have you ever seen a lion that was, like, not in a zoo?” Becca asks.

  Mbingu laughs. “Many. And leopards. And cheetahs.”

  “That is so cool. The only wild animals I’ve ever seen are pigeons and rats.”

  “That’s not true, Rebecca. Sometimes there are squirrels. And seagulls!”

  “And cockroaches!” Then she reaches into a plastic grocery bag and tosses something to each of us. “If you don’t like ’em, we don’t have to wear them,” she says with a very un-Rebecca-like shrug.

  I hold up a lipstick red, long-sleeve T-shirt painted to look exactly like my school blazer. It has the pockets, the crest, the buttons, and a triangle of plaid “skirt” showing at the bottom; it even looks like there’s a white button-down blouse with a red tie underneath. I was planning to wear my new denim jacket, but this thing is just way too perfect not to wear, and besides, it’s not just about me. It’s about the band.

  “Holy smokes,” Leigh Ann and I say together.

  “You like ’em?”

  “You made these?” Mbingu asks, incredulous.

  “They’re awesome,” Leigh Ann says. “They must have taken forever.”

  More shrugs. “Eh. Gave me something to do instead of homework. I hope you don’t mind—I added the ties. Makes it a little more—you know, punk. And check out the crest.”

  “Semper Rock,” I read.

  “It’s the only Latin word I know.”

  “Becca, you never cease to amaze me. All that grumbling and complaining, and look at you!”

  “Yeah, well, I’m still annoyed with you.” She tries, but fails, to keep a straight face.

  We pull the shirts over our heads and smile, smile, smile … and, um, smile.

  “You know, we are totally ready for this,” I say.

  “Let’s rock,” Rebecca growls.

  But first, a group hug. Hey, rockers do that. Don’t they?

  Chapter 27

  Venimus, vidimus, rockimus (that’s “We came, we saw, we rocked,” for you non–Latin speakers out there)

  Okay, first, about that group hug. I know what you’re thinking, and I agree 100 percent. We have some cooling up to do if we’re going to be real rockers.

  We take our place on the “stage” (aka a corner of the coffee shop). I throw my guitar strap over my shoulder and try not to look at the crowd. Everyone is clapping and shouting our names, but the blood pumping through my brain is making so much noise I can’t hear a thing. Leigh Ann, who has been through dozens of dance recitals and has starred in several school musicals, calmly steps up to the microphone, looking like she’s been doing this all her life, which, in a way, she has.

  “Hey, everybody. Thanks for coming to check us out. I’m Leigh Ann, and this is Sophie on guitar, Becca on bass, and Mbingu on drums, and we are … the Blazers.” She takes one step back to make sure Becca, Mbingu, and I are ready. “Two, three, four …”

  It’s the Blazers’ first public performance, and “Twist and Shout” goes almost perfectly. At first, I’m in such a state of sensory overload that everything seems blurry—my vision, my hearing, even my sense of touch. My fingers feel a little rubbery, and I flub a couple of notes. Halfway through the song, though, I start to have fun. I sneak a peek at Becca, who, despite her attempts to be the cool, unflappable bass player you’ve seen in a million bands, is grinning uncontrollably as she plays and sings along with Leigh Ann. My fingers begin to belong to me, and my pulse finally slows enough that I can hear not only my own playing, but the sound of the crowd singing along. And suddenly—I’m at Madison Square Garden, and twenty thousand fans are standing and cheering as we play the final notes of our opening number. Oh yeah. I like this rock-star stuff.

  We exhale and do fist bumps all around, and then Leigh Ann returns to the microphone. “This next song was written by our very own Sophie St. Pierre.” I try my hardest to fight off my very un-rock-star-like blushing and smiling when Margaret and Raf start chanting, “So-phie! So-phie!”

  I signal to Mbingu to start playing, and then Leigh Ann sings:

  You can bring me flowers, but I’m not gonna cave,

  Give me magic powers, I still won’t misbehave.

  Take me to France and Spain, don’t mean a thing,

  Stand outside my window, play guitar and sing.

  You can do most anything, if you’ve got time to waste,

  Just another desp’rate boy, and not the first I’ve faced.

  I wouldn’t, oh no I couldn’t,

  And no I haven’t and I don’t.

  He doesn’t, no no he isn’t,

  No way, he didn’t and he won’t.

  We shouldn’t, oh no we aren’t,

  No we can’t … no, no, no we can’t!

  Show up in Daddy’s car at seven-forty-five,

  Top’s down, the music’s up, y
ou even let me drive.

  Tires flat, out of gas, just get me to the dance,

  I’m tellin’ you right now, there’s not a snowball’s chance.

  Have to give you credit, you just refuse to quit,

  Keep tryin’, boy, no doubt you’ve got some style and spit.

  I wouldn’t, oh no I couldn’t,

  And no I haven’t and I don’t.

  He doesn’t, no no he isn’t,

  No way, he didn’t and he won’t.

  We shouldn’t, oh no we aren’t,

  No we can’t, but then he did!

  He held my hand, he closed his eyes,

  He kissed me once, he kissed me twice,

  Threw me clear off the track,

  And then, oh then,

  I kissed him back!

  We practiced it so that the song ends the instant Leigh Ann shouts that final line—and we totally nail it! There is this moment of (stunned?) silence, followed by cheering and clapping and a few shouts for encores, which is a small problem for a band that knows only two songs.

  “Um, unfortunately, we don’t actually know any more songs, but thanks for asking,” Leigh Ann explains. “And we promise we’ll be back.”

  “We don’t care,” my dad yells. “Play that one again!”

  Parents!

  The rest of the crowd likes the idea, though, and starts to chant, “Blaz-ers! Blaz-ers! Blaz-ers!”

  Leigh Ann turns to Becca and me; we shrug and kick the volume on our amps up a notch. Gotta give your fans what they want.

  The second time through is a little louder and a little sloppier, but no one seems to mind. We take our bows and run off the minuscule stage to be congratulated, hugged, and kissed. Malcolm, who swears that he saw the not-yet-famous Beatles play in Hamburg in 1962, tells us that we are definitely “the next big thing.”

  My parents—you know, my classically trained violinist mom and French chef dad—are in a state of shock. Mom gives me a big hug and then pulls back to give me one of those I’m-so-proud-of-you-I-think-I’ll-cry looks. “I had no idea you were so good. When you said you girls were going to play, I thought … well, I don’t know what I thought, but it sure wasn’t this. You were amazing!”

  “So you’re really okay with me quitting violin?” I ask.

  “Honey, I just want you to be happy doing whatever you’re doing. Now, about this song you wrote …”

  Uh-oh.

  Matters are made far worse by the arrival at my side of one Rafael Arocho.

  “Perfect timing,” I say under my breath.

  “Hey, Mrs. St. Pierre,” Raf says good-naturedly. “What’d ya think? Not bad, huh?”

  Mon père glares at l’imbécile.

  “I mean, they were totally awesome!” Raf corrects.

  Dad nods. “Much better. Now, young man, I think you and I should have a talk about this song my little baby girl wrote.” He puts his arm around a suddenly uncomfortable-looking Raf.

  “Dad!” I scream. “Don’t you dare. Mom, stop him. Please.”

  Margaret saves the day—and perhaps Raf’s life—by moving to the microphone and asking for everyone’s attention. “Excuse me, everyone—I have a little announcement and a request for some of you, but first I just have to say one word about my best friends: WOW! I hope when the Blazers are rich and famous, you guys will remember your old friend Margaret.”

  “Margaret who?” Rebecca shouts.

  “Exactly,” Margaret says. “As I was saying—I think everyone here knows that not long ago, a valuable violin was taken from Mr. Chernofsky’s shop next door. The police have been working on the case, but we Red Blazer Girls have been conducting our own investigation as well, and during the course of that, a second theft occurred, of a bow, for which I take all the blame.” She pauses for full dramatic effect. “Tonight, however, I am pleased to announce that we have solved the case. We know who stole the violin and the bow, and how the thief pulled it off.”

  People turn to one another in a sudden burst of conversation and questions. Becca elbows me. “We do?”

  “Just go with it. Act like you know everything Margaret knows.”

  She stares blankly at me. “As if.”

  “I’d like to ask everyone to move next door to the violin shop, where I will reveal the identity of the thief,” Margaret continues. “Oh, and by the way … it’s someone in this room.”

  Instant silence, followed by a moment right out of the movies. Eyes dart around the room, from table to table, trying to guess the identity of the violin villain.

  “How exciting! I feel like I just stepped into an Agatha Christie novel,” Elizabeth gushes. “Goodness—it’s not you, is it, Malcolm?”

  He smiles slyly, with a quick raise of his eyebrows, but like a great poker player, he reveals nothing.

  Margaret asks a still-speechless Mr. Chernofsky to open up the shop, and Ben offers to help set up a few chairs.

  “To make this scene completely authentic,” he says, “we ought to have a parlor room full of wing chairs and English antiques, but we’re going to have to make do with some of these metal folding chairs.”

  The other Blazers and I follow Margaret up to the counter, where Aldo teases her about taking all his customers away.

  “Just for a little while,” she explains. “They can come back afterward.”

  “So, this band of yours,” Aldo says. “Who does the talking for you?”

  We all point to Margaret. “She’s our manager,” I say.

  “Well, manager, do the Blazers have any other engagements for next Friday? There’s five free sundaes in it for you.”

  “What do you think?” Margaret asks. “Are the Blazers ready to turn pro?”

  “Oh yeah,” says Becca.

  Margaret shakes hands with Aldo. “I just have one little favor. You know that long pole that you use for changing lightbulbs? Can I borrow it for a few minutes? And promise me you won’t lock up for a while, okay?”

  “I’ll be here for another hour at least. And one lightbulb changer coming up.”

  Chapter 28

  Ah, Mademoiselle Wrobel! Monsieur Poirot and Miss Marple are waiting to welcome you into their club

  We settle in at Mr. Chernofsky’s.

  Margaret begins: “First, please note a few details about the security system Mr. Chernofsky has in place. Because he often works on very valuable instruments, his insurance company requires it. There are bars on all the windows. Each set is securely bolted to the brick. Each windowpane is also connected to the alarm system, so even if the bars were removed, a broken window would set off the alarm. The front and back doors both have extra-secure dead bolts and are also alarmed. Now, Mr. Chernofsky—at the time of the theft, who knew the alarm code?”

  Mr. C. rubs his beard, thinking. “Besides me? Just Ben.”

  “That would be Benjamin Brownlow,” Margaret explains, pointing Ben out to everyone. “Your new assistant.”

  Lots of suspicious looks at Ben.

  Margaret holds up her hand. “Don’t jump to conclusions like I did. I figured it had to be Ben, too. He knew the value of the violin, so he had motive. He knew the alarm code, so he had opportunity. And then there was the matter of his button. Ben always carries around a plastic button from an old coat—sort of a good-luck charm—and on the morning when Mr. C. discovered the theft, he also found that very button on the floor right next to the spot where the violin had been. It seemed like an open-and-shut case. But, and not for the last time on this case, I was wrong. We discovered that Ben had—well, let’s just say he had an airtight alibi. Sorry, Ben.”

  “No harm, no foul,” he says with a good-natured wave.

  “Which brings us, as they say on TV game shows, to door number three—this one.” She walks across the room to the door that leads directly into Perkatory—the door that can be unlocked only from inside the violin shop. She pulls on the doorknob once to show that it is locked. Then she twists the knobs on all three dead bolts and pulls the door open,
revealing the back of the identical door to the coffee shop.

  “As you can see, these dead bolts are accessible only from inside the shop. There is no place for a key, and it’s the same thing for the door into Perkatory.” She closes the door and makes a big show of relocking all three dead bolts, then makes it clear that they were locked the morning Mr. C. discovered the violin was gone.

  “And that leaves us with one more option, the site of my second big mistake on this case. If you go into Mr. Chernofsky’s office, you will see a trapdoor in the ceiling, just big enough for a small person to fit through, that is there for access to pipes and wiring. Once I had eliminated Ben from my list of suspects, I started to obsess about that trapdoor, thinking that if there’s one down here, there’s probably one above it, and they’re probably connected somehow. Kind of like those air ducts in the movies. Then we found out that a relative of the two women who live upstairs is a world-class gymnast and only a shade over five feet tall—small and agile enough to fit through the opening. Once again, I was sure we had our man. We set up a little trap using a webcam, making sure that he knew all about a valuable bow that was in the shop. We sat up all night staring at a computer screen, waiting for Sergei—that’s his name—to come crawling through the ceiling like a squirrel. But guess what? He never came. And boy, do we owe him—and those two lovely women, Anna and Natalia—an apology. All that wouldn’t have been so bad, but when Mr. C. told me that the bow—my bow—had been stolen right from under our noses, I figured my career as a detective was pretty much over. But then Sophie’s mom saved the day.”

  “I did?” Mom says.

  “Yep. I was waiting for Sophie—as usual—the other day, and you used that handy little gadget that lets you grab things to get something out of one of the high cabinets in your kitchen. And coincidentally, we had been at Perkatory the day before and Jaz was using this contraption,” she says, holding up the lightbulb changer from Perkatory. “It has a suction cup on one end that you can use to change lightbulbs, and it extends to about twelve feet long. And suddenly I knew. Well, I was ninety-nine percent sure I knew, anyway. So I came back in here, made a couple of quick measurements, and took a really close look at one very important detail I had overlooked before.”