The Vanishing Violin (15 page)

“Sometime yesterday. Maybe late Saturday night. I was here until eleven p.m. on Saturday. I locked the doors and set the alarm like I always do. When I come in this morning, the door is still locked and the alarm is still on. But the violin, it is gone. This is where I left it.” He points to an empty space between two new, unvarnished violins.

“What’s this about Ben? Where is he?” I remember the overheard conversation from the vent in Perkatory. “Maybe he just took it somewhere to have it looked at?”

“Benjamin has vanished,” Mr. Chernofsky says. “I have not seen him since Saturday, about noon. I think I made a big mistake. A young man comes to me, tells me about his past, tells me that those days are behind him. That he’s changed. And I believe him, I put my trust in him. This is what happens when a foolish old man trusts someone new.”

“What do you mean, about his past and those days being over?” Margaret asks.

“Before he comes to me, Ben worked down on Wall Street and got mixed up in some dishonest business with stocks and bonds. Many good people lost all their savings, and the company he worked for was to blame. He testified for the government, but they still sent him to
prison for three years. This is where he learns about violins. In the prison, they have a workshop and he teaches himself how to repair, even how to build, violins.”

I can’t get the image of him and Sister Eugenia sitting on that park bench on Saturday morning, drinking coffee and sharing laughs, out of my mind. There must be another explanation. I want to think that it’s a long way from a little stock fraud to breaking and entering and grand theft fiddle.

“What did the police say?” Margaret asks.

“Once I told them about Benjamin, and that he is the only other employee, they seem to make up their minds. He has keys and the code for the alarm. They are looking only for him. But the officers who just left tell me that the phone number I have for him is no good, and I only have a post office box, no address. He could be anywhere by now. South America. Japan. It will be a difficult item to sell here. I have given the police pictures and a description.”

Margaret rubs her temples for a few seconds, deep in thought. Then she tells Mr. C. about the half conversation we overheard through the vents. “And he said he is positive it is a Frischetti. Just when he was saying how much it might be worth, we couldn’t hear because there was so much noise around us. But I got the sense that it was a lot. Is … it true? That it’s really a Frischetti?”

Mr. Chernofsky nods. “I believe Ben was correct. But I am not one hundred percent certain, because I did
not have the opportunity to fully examine it. Now we will never know.”

“But he did tell you,” I say. “Don’t you see? Why would he tell you what he discovered if he was planning to steal it? It doesn’t make sense. I’ll bet he took it to someone else for a second opinion, and something happened that kept him from calling you or coming in to work.”

Rebecca chimes in with her opinion. “Or he didn’t decide to steal it until yesterday, and now he’s long gone.”

“There is one more thing,” Mr. Chernofsky says quietly, reaching into his apron pocket. He holds out a perfectly ordinary button, walnut brown and about one inch in diameter; it’s the size and color you might find on a barn jacket from L.L. Bean. “Have you seen this before?”

Margaret takes a close look and nods. “Sure. That’s the button Ben’s always tossing and catching.”

“I always thought that was a coin,” I say. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. The other side of it has something written on it.”

Mr. Chernofsky turns the button over in his hand. The number 33 has been scratched deeply into its surface.

“How did you know?” Leigh Ann asks.

“I observed,” Margaret answers.

“Margaret is right, it is Ben’s. And this morning, I
found it right here.” Mr. C. points to a spot on the hardwood floor directly below the gap where the violin used to be.

I suggest another possible conclusion for people to jump to. “Maybe he lost it there on Saturday morning. Or even Friday afternoon. It could have been there all weekend.”

Mr. Chernofsky shakes his head sadly. “Impossible. I swept the floor in here before leaving Saturday night. My broom and dustpan are right where I left them. I would have seen it.”

It doesn’t look good for Ben. But in my gut, this conclusion doesn’t feel right to me, and I always trust my instincts. After all, they’ve let me down only … fifty or sixty times.

An alibi uncovered. Literally

We help Mr. Chernofsky retrace his steps from Saturday afternoon, hoping that he has simply misplaced the violin, or that Ben moved it to another location inside the shop for safekeeping. By my count, there are nineteen empty violin cases, twenty-three cases containing violins—most of which belong to customers—and twenty-eight violins not in cases, including partially completed ones. We check every one.

“Rule number one of detective work: eliminate the obvious. Violins all look pretty much the same. Once we determine it’s definitely not in the building, then we can expand our search,” says Miss Marple.

Twenty minutes later, Rebecca perfectly sums up our progress: “I’m stumped.”

We huddle up while Mr. Chernofsky is back in the workshop. “Look, I know we’re all busy with school and music and everything,” Margaret says, “but remember what that cop told us. They aren’t going to kill themselves over one violin that may or may not be valuable.
And we already know one thing about this Ben Brownlow guy that the police department doesn’t. We know he has at least one friend in New York.”

“That’s right!” I say. “Sister Eugenia could lead us to him.”

“Hoo-yah! I knew the Vatican was mixed up in this!” Becca cries triumphantly.

“Becca, just because the guy knows a nun doesn’t mean the Vatican is involved. It doesn’t even mean the nun is involved,” Margaret says.

Becca scoffs. “You’re so naive, Margaret. They only control everything.”

“Well, all right, then. You’re officially in charge of the Vatican connection in this investigation.”

“Eggggs-cellent,” Becca says, rubbing her hands furiously.

“Let’s put our brains together,” says Margaret. “Our suspect had means and opportunity, and a really obvious motive: money.”

Leigh Ann looks puzzled. “But how are we supposed to find him? Mr. Chernofsky said his phone number and address are fakes.”

I put my arm around her shoulders. “Ah, that’s where Sister Eugenia comes in. She must know how to contact him. Tomorrow, you and I are going to become Sister Eugenia’s new BFFs.”

Margaret grins at that image. “And I’ll see what else I can learn about our Mr. Benjamin Brownlow. Maybe someone saw him coming or going on Sunday.”

“You know what?” Rebecca starts. “I was wrong. It’s not the Vatican. I think a supersecret anti-Vatican organization has infiltrated the school, and now they’re branching out. Think about it. That room in the basement, all that cleaning and painting—it’s all part of their grand plan to confuse us. That’s how they work, you know. I’ll bet there are secret messages—coded messages—all over the school. We’re being brainwashed and don’t even know it.”

“That’s a really, um, interesting theory, Becca,” Leigh Ann says.

“So why steal the violin?” I ask.

“The conspiracy business ain’t cheap, honey.”

Indeed it ain’t.

Tuesday. St. V’s cafeteria. Last period. Me. Leigh Ann.

Normally, we have PE, but the roof over the gym is leaking, so we have a rare free period. Margaret uses the opportunity to go to the computer lab to work on an essay, leaving me with a chance to talk to Leigh Ann alone.

“So, what’s the latest with your dad and Alex?”

“You know, it’s funny—Alex told me yesterday that he got invited to take part in this thing at Columbia. Some kind of math program for geniuses. He’s really excited about it—said it just came out of the blue.”

“Maybe one of his teachers recommended him,” I say.

“Yeah, that’s what he thinks, too.”

“Well, it’s good news, anyway—right? Maybe he’ll love it there. And then, who knows?”

“Now if I could just change my dad’s mind.”

“Cleveland, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“You know, I was looking online, and Cleveland isn’t so bad. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is there. And Lake Erie!” I take a paper from a folder in my book bag. “Look! Fifty fun things for kids to do in Cleveland!”

She takes the paper from me, smiling. “Sophie, you are the best.”

“Is any of this helping?”

“Yeah. And what about you? What’s going on with you and Raf?”

“I have to tell you something,” I whisper, afraid that girls at the other tables can hear me. “I haven’t told anyone, even Margaret, and I’m gonna bust if I don’t tell somebody.”

“Oh my gosh. Tell me now!”

I tell her about my little scooter adventure.

“That is so awesome. Were you scared?”

“A little at first. But then—no! I wanted to keep going and going. But I was afraid somebody would recognize me. My parents will kill me.”

“And Raf. I’ve seen your dad’s knife. So, does Raf still have the scooter? I mean, are you guys going to—”

“I don’t know,” I say. “It was so much fun. But it’s too … I don’t know. So many people out there know my parents. That’s why I can’t tell Margaret. It’s kind of
like the thing with the
Seventeen
magazines; I can’t face the look she would give me if she knew. Plus, she sees my mom all the time, and I don’t want her to have to lie for me.”

“Well, I’m glad you told me. And don’t worry, I’ll take it to the grave.”

“Thanks. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that!”

“Well, I suppose we ought to get to work. You ready?”

“Ready.”

“You have the stuff?”

“Check.” I hold up a sturdy plastic grocery bag from Eli’s Market containing the St. Veronica’s uniform skirt, blouse, and sweater I borrowed on my wet ’n’ weird Monday, all freshly cleaned and folded.

Operation Sister Shakedown is under way.

We walk with terrified determination toward Sister Eugenia’s office. I knock twice on the door. She opens it and says nothing. Just stares at us. Oh, she’s a cool customer, this suspicious sister.

I am cheerful. I am friendly. I am oh-so-grateful for what she did for me yesterday, letting me slide in two seconds late without a tardy slip, and then finding me warm, dry clothes to wear. I am so flippin’ sincere I’m making myself sick.

“Anyway, thank you again, again,” I say, handing her the plastic bag. “I washed everything.”

Wait, is that a raised eyebrow I see?

“And you’re welcome, welcome,” she says. “I trust
that with all this sincerity and sorriness, there will be no repeat performances.” And so our little bonding moment has come and gone. She turns crisply away and starts to head back toward her desk.

“Uh, Sister?”

“Yes?”

“Just one more thing. You know my friend Margaret Wrobel, right? Well, she’s friends with Mr. Chernofsky, who runs that little violin shop over on Sixty-sixth Street, and he’s kind of worried because he has this guy who works for him, Benjamin Brownlow, who hasn’t shown up for work for a couple of days and hasn’t called, and Mr. Chernofsky doesn’t know how to get in touch with him—”

“And how does this concern me?”

Wait, is that a bead of sweat on her forehead?

“Well, first off, I have to tell you, I swear I wasn’t snooping. I was just minding my own business reading in the park the other day, and I saw you and Ben together, so I know you know him, and thought you would know how to get in touch with him.”

“Because, you know, Mr. Chernofsky is really worried,” Leigh Ann adds. “He’s afraid something terrible or tragic might have happened.”

I watch her closely, waiting for her to reveal … something, but this sister, she is a rock. I’m talking igneous.

“I do know the young man you’re speaking of, and yes, we spoke the other day in the park. He happens to
be a former student, from my days at a boys’ school, if you must know. But even if I knew where to find him, I would not tell you girls. Mr. Brownlow has the right to be left alone if he wishes. Now, on your way, please.” She shoos us out of her office and closes the door. Decisively.

Leigh Ann and I smile at each other. Sister Eu knows exactly where to find him. I press my ear to her door, hoping to hear her call him, but instead I hear her chair scraping on the floor and the unmistakable sound of sensible sister shoes coming right for me.

“Run!”

We duck around a corner and wait and listen. The door opens, followed by the jangle of keys as she locks up behind her. Leigh Ann peeks around the edge of the wall.

“Well?” I whisper.

“Come on!” She waves me forward, and we creep down the hallway, jumping into a doorway whenever she stops or slows down. When she strides through a set of swinging doors, we stop to peer through one of the small rectangular windows.

“She’s headed for the basement.”

Leigh Ann’s shoulders sag at the thought of a return to Ratland. “Do we have to follow her down there?”

“You don’t have to go.”

“But you’re going, right?”