The Vanishing Violin (14 page)

And here’s what you know:

The piano player lives on Hester Street, but not in Apt. 4M and not at no. 127 or no. 301 (the orphan clue)
.

The bassoon player lives in 2J, but not on Grand or Essex (the first-letter clue)
.

The xylophone player lives on Bleecker Street, but not at no. 288 (the first pigpen clue)
.

The violinist does not live in the building located at 456 Grand or in Apt. 7A (the second pigpen clue—the one you were supposed to solve on your own)
.

“You do see where this is going, don’t you?” Margaret asks.

“Um, I think so,” I lie.

“It’s a logic problem. These clues are like lights on an airport runway. Except he’s turning them on one at a time instead of all at once. Right now we’re in a holding pattern, metaphorically speaking, but at some point we’re going to have enough information to know where this goes.” She holds up the key that was taped to the back of that very first message wrapped around the bow, and that now hangs from a black cord around her neck. “We just have to figure out how to put it all together. I assume we’re looking for the violinist’s address, but we definitely don’t have enough information to find it yet. There must be at least one more clue.”

“I kind of like that pigpen code,” Leigh Ann says. “We could use something like that to send each other secret messages.”

“Um, Leigh Ann,” Rebecca says, “you can send text messages. Why do you need a secret code? Do you really think anybody wants to snoop on anything we have to say?”

“All right, so maybe we don’t need it. But it seems cool.”

“I’m with Leigh Ann,” I say. “If we’re serious about being detectives, we need our own code. No pigpens, though. Our code will be based on ice cream. Twenty-six flavors.”

“What flavor is
A
?” Leigh Ann asks.

“Fudge swirl?” I suggest.

“I don’t know—fudge swirl has more of a consonant feel to it,” says Margaret. “How about mint chocolate chip?”

“Yuck!” Becca shouts. “Mint chocolate chip is, like,
X
. Or
Q
. Definitely not a vowel.”

This could take a while. So I’ll get back to you. Someday.

Monday. Hoo boy, what a day.

Here’s how it starts for me: I’m already late as I scuttle out of the building and toward the subway stop at Eighty-sixth Street. Halfway there, it starts to drizzle. I don’t have an umbrella, but no worries, right? Here in New York, the trains run underground.
C’est fantastique!

Except when I get there, the station is closed. I hear something about a police investigation as I start the trek down Lexington to the stop at Seventy-seventh, and just to make things special, it starts to pour. Luckily, a few doors down Lex there’s a shoe repair shop advertising umbrellas for sale for five bucks, and I duck in the door and out of the rain. Which is when I realize my wallet and all my cash are on the corner of my dresser and not in my book bag.
Zut alors!
Deep breaths, Sophie.

The Seventy-seventh Street station is open, but there’s a cop in an orange poncho announcing that the 6
train isn’t running, and if we head back up to Eighty-sixth, the 4 and the 5 are moving. Thanks, Officer!

By this time, I’m mega-soaked, so I schlep the remaining twelve blocks down to the school at Sixty-fifth Street, swearing and shivering every step of the way. I walk in the door two seconds after the first-period bell rings, and—
bingo!
—Sister Eugenia stands before me.

“Just a moment, young lady. You’re tardy. You’ll be needing a late pass.”

Seven years without a tardy or an absence. And just like that, my perfect record is kapowed.

“Oh, please, Sister. I know I’m late, but it was only a couple of seconds.” I feel tears welling up in my eyes. “The trains weren’t running [
sniff
] and it’s raining [
sniff
] and I’m soaked because I forgot my umbrella [
sniff, sniff
] and my wallet—”

“All right, all right. I get the picture. Just get a move on.”

I feel kinda like hugging her, but I wisely pass. “Thank you so much, Sister. I really appreciate this.”

A barely perceptible smile and shake of the head. “Move it!”

Because we have a school Mass later in the day, the class schedule has been changed and I have English first period. I run all the way up to the fifth floor. The door to Mr. Eliot’s class is already closed, and he is writing on the board with his back to the door. I try to tiptoe in without making too much commotion, but my shoes are
squishing and squeaking like mad, and the whole class busts out laughing.

“Ah, Miss St. Pierre. Good of you to join us.”

“Sorry, Mr. Eliot. Please don’t make me go back downstairs for a late pass.”

He takes pity on me, no doubt because I am so pathetic standing there in a puddle growing bigger by the second as my hair and uniform continue to drip. “Well, you can’t stay in here like that, for crying out loud. Go down to Sister Eugenia’s office and see if you can find some dry clothes. And take the elevator; we don’t need you spreading Lake St. Pierre on the stairs.”

Although I am totally skeeved out at the idea of wearing somebody else’s clothes, I find a blouse, a skirt, and a sweater that fit and feel a heck of a lot better than my own sopping uniform.

But stay tuned. There’s more.

Back to class, and the first group is just finishing its presentation on the semicolon (which I’m truly sorry I missed; I happen to love the semicolon). They are followed by the period people, who are surprisingly entertaining. Everyone applauds, then Mr. Eliot thanks them and turns to Margaret.

“And that brings us to the apostrophe. Miss Wrobel, is your group ready to go?”

You can practically hear the blood rushing out of Margaret’s face; she turns absolutely white. Leigh Ann looks at me, those big brown eyes of hers opened wide, and I spin around to see Livvy already moving toward
the front of the room, carrying a poster board and a handful of index cards.

“I’m ready, Mr. Eliot,” she announces, glancing over her shoulder at me, a grin of pure malice contorting her stupid face.

“What about the rest of your group?” he asks.

“We’re not supposed to go until tomorrow,” I protest. “It was on that paper you gave us. We’re not prepared—we all agreed that we would work on it after school today.”

Mr. Eliot consults his notes. “Nope, I have semicolons, periods, and apostrophes today, and everyone else tomorrow. Do you still have that paper with the assignment?”

“I have it right here,” Livvy says. (My goodness, isn’t that convenient?) “Let’s see. Gee, it looks like you’re right, Mr. Eliot. Apostrophe, Monday.”

The wheels of the bus she has just thrown us under roll over our stunned bodies.
Ka-thump. Ka-thump. Ka-thwomp
.

“You told us it was Tuesday,” Margaret hisses at Livvy. “Mr. Eliot, this isn’t fair. She did this on purpose.”

He looks at Livvy, who shrugs innocently. “I don’t think so. It says Monday right here. Why would I tell you Tuesday?”

“Because you hate us,” I say. “You totally sabotaged us.”

Accusations. Denials. Screams. Smirks. Tears.

Finally, mercifully, Mr. Eliot holds up his hand to
silence us. “Stop. Everyone. We’re not going to waste time arguing about who said what and why in the middle of this class. I’ll see you all after school today. We’ll deal with this then.”

More time with Livvy Iscariot. So I have that to look forward to.

Although Rebecca says she knows some people who could “take care of our Livvy problem,” we agree to take our punishment silently. For now. Mr. Eliot knocks ten points off our project grade for being unprepared, even though I get the feeling he believes that Livvy deliberately misled us. And we still have to finish the project—with Livvy.

The hardest part, however, is when he drops the d-word bomb on us.

“I’m very disappointed in you girls. The whole point of group projects is for you to work together. To delegate and share responsibility. I don’t know whose fault it is that you got the date wrong, but I can’t help thinking that if you had just tried to get along well enough for one little project, this wouldn’t have happened. Not to mention that you chose to wait till the last minute to do the work. So I want you to get together right now and finish up what you need for tomorrow.”

Margaret, Leigh Ann, and I stare glum-faced and glassy-eyed at our desks.

While Klack Butt files her nails, totally ob-Livvy-ous.

•    •    •

If ever there has been a day the Red Blazer Girls need ice cream, this is it. We consider splurging and going to Serendipity, but decide to go with the more geographically and economically desirable choice, Perkatory. Four mocha floats later, Rebecca finally gets us to smile when she performs a pitch-perfect dramatic re-creation of me sobbing to Sister Eugenia in my dripping-wet uniform.

Jaz stops by our table to ask if we want anything else.

“Tempting, but no,” I say.

“At least you’re all smiling again. I thought somebody had died when you came in. Hey, have you heard the big news about next door? That little violin shop?”

Margaret perks up. “What news?”

“The cops have been over there all day. I don’t have any details, but I heard some stuff through the vent about a stolen violin. And one of the employees has disappeared. I’m, like, dying to know what’s going on.”

“Oh my gosh,” Margaret says. “Poor Mr. Chernofsky. Let’s go.”

Leigh Ann and I slurp up the last of our floats and run after Margaret and Becca, who are already out the door.

We walk in as two cops in nearly identical gray suits are leaving. Mr. Chernofsky, leaning against the wall and rubbing his beard, looks like he’s had a day he would like to forget, too.

“Ah, girls. You know.”

“We just heard,” Margaret says, giving him a hug.

“What happened?” I ask.

Mr. Chernofsky looks at me with sad, tired eyes. “It’s gone.” He then turns to Margaret. “That violin you liked so much. Gone. Disappeared. With Ben. I’m so sorry.”

Her hand goes over her mouth in surprise. “David Childress’s violin? But how? When?”