The Vanishing Violin (19 page)

“Well, me and Soph and Leigh Ann are starting a band, and we’re having a hard time finding a place to practice. And I was just wondering …”

“Anytime you want. You won’t bother us at all. If you close the door, we won’t hear a thing. But I can’t imagine the three of you make that much noise anyway.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” I say. “But thank you. That would be awesome.”

“We’ll definitely be stopping by one day this week,” Rebecca promises. “Won’t we, Sophie?”

“Yes, Becca.”

Malcolm gives Elizabeth a nudge. “We’d better keep moving. We don’t want to keep the kitchen magician waiting for these groceries.”

“Tell him we might have a break in the case,” Margaret says. “We should know more tomorrow.”

Elizabeth winks at me. “You girls take all the time you need. And I’ll take good care of Benjamin.”

We’re just starting to walk away when Elizabeth calls out to me. “Sophie, this might seem odd, and I’m probably mistaken, but I could swear I saw you the other day on the back of a scooter with a boy that looked like your friend Raf. You had a helmet on, but I caught a glimpse of your beautiful smile—or at least I thought it was yours.”

Gulp. “On a scooter? Me? Where?” I’m sure the look on my face is a mixture of confusion and terror, but lucky for me, Elizabeth seems to notice only the confusion.

“Oh, it must have been somebody else. I have to admit, it did seem a little strange. Toodle-oo, girls.”

As Malcolm and Elizabeth continue on their (mostly) merry way, and I try to do the same, Margaret and Becca, arms crossed, block my path.

“Sophie Jeanette St. Pierre. Have you been scooting?”

Trapped. Exposed. Betrayed yet again by my tomato red face.

“A scooter? With Raf? What were you thinking?” Whoa, this is a Margaret who is really mad at me.

“I dunno. I wasn’t going to, and then—”

“Sophie, do you know how dangerous that was? How stupid? Raf doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

Sucker punched, I fight back the tears that are coming because of the overload in my emotional fuse box. Why can’t I tell her how much fun it was?

“He does, too! His uncle taught him. He was careful. And it was only the one time. It’s no big deal. And at least Raf is the kind of boy who would stick up for me.”

It’s an Andrew slap, and I regret it the second it hits her, but …

I have to cry. And so, I run.

In which the blazers do get us in the door

Leigh Ann calls me at nine-thirty, late for her.

“You okay?” she says.

“Yeah.”

“Have you, um, talked to, um, Margaret?”

“No. She might have tried to call, but I had my phone off.”

“Sophie, when you ran off, she was crying, too. You’re her best friend, and she’s afraid something bad might happen to you. That’s all. She’s not mad at you.”

“She called me stupid.”

“She said riding the scooter with Raf was stupid.”

“Was she mad about what I said about Andrew?”

There’s a long pause on Leigh Ann’s end of the conversation. “Um, what did you say about Andrew?”

“That at least Raf would stick up for me.”

“That was about Andrew? I’ll admit, we were all kind of confused when you said it, but we just figured you were upset and not making sense. What did you mean?”

“See, I can tell Margaret likes him, and sorry to put
it this way, but I think he’s kind of a jerk. Twice I’ve seen him with Livvy when she was either talking about Margaret or being rude to her, and he didn’t do anything.”

“Soph, you need to call her about this—right now. Call me later if you want.”

I’m still debating the pros and cons of calling Margaret when the phone rings.

“I just thought of how to get Livvy back!” Leigh Ann exclaims. “It’s a beautiful plan, if I do say so myself.”

I’m immediately interested, and besides, I really don’t want to deal with my Margaret situation right now. All recent evidence to the contrary, I am not a big fan of confrontation. “Okay. Does it involve anything illegal, immoral, or unethical?”

“Um, no, no, and probably not.”

Revenge without guilt? Seems unlikely. “Okay, let’s hear it.”

“See, it’s all about appearance. Livvy just has to believe that we—well, Rebecca, actually—did something illegal. I think we’ve proved that we can act, right? It’s time for another performance by the Red Blazer Players. Okay, you know that big science test we have next week? Multiple choice, on everything we’ve covered so far this year? We’re going to convince Livvy that Becca hacked into Ms. Lonneman’s computer and stole the test and the answer key.”

“But why would we tell Livvy? She’ll never believe we’d help her.”

“This is the beautiful part. Livvy is going to intercept
a note from Becca to me, talking about what she did, and how we have to keep it a secret from you and Margaret because you guys are such goody-goodies that not only would you not cheat, you’d probably tell Ms. Lonneman what was going on and ruin it for the rest of us. Livvy will believe that.”

“Are you kidding? I believe that.”

“Then, at the end of Becca’s note, she’ll say that the copy of the answer key will be under the books in the top of our locker, which everyone knows we never lock.”

“And you think Livvy will steal it?”

“I guarantee it. She’s a sneaky one.”

“Ohhh. Then she will totally bomb the test. And it’s not like she can complain. An answer key supposedly hacked from a teacher’s computer, which she stole from a locker. Good plan, Leigh Ann! Hey, I’m writing a song that’s kind of inspired by Livvy.”

“Ewww.”

“Well, not so much by her. More the dreaded apostrophe project.”

“Your song is about apostrophes?”

“You’ll see. I’m done with the lyrics, and I think I’ve got the music figured out. Gerry is going to help with that part when I see him for my lesson Saturday. But I promise, I’ll bring what I have to our next rehearsal. You know, I’m going to be really happy when we find this violin, so we can all get back to our normal crazy schedules.”

•    •    •

Leigh Ann hangs up again, and this time I don’t hesitate; I speed-dial Margaret. As I listen to the phone ring once, twice, three times, I realize my heart is pounding. I’m calling my best friend in the world for, like, the gazillionth time, and I’m nervous. The fact is, I know she’s right, essentially. Getting on a motor scooter to ride across the city with a twelve-year-old boy, even a reasonably responsible one like Raf—I shouldn’t do that. The fact that I was discovered proves—yet again—that I am the world’s worst criminal. I have been caught every single time I have broken the law. First, there was that incident with the St. Christopher medal at the St. Patrick’s gift shop, then getting busted in the church by a half-blind, hearing-impaired security guard, and now the scooter. I wasn’t on that stupid thing ten minutes, and Elizabeth Harriman spots me. Some people just aren’t cut out for the shady side of the street.

Margaret answers on the fourth ring. “Hi.”

“Hey.”

“I tried calling.”

I grunt. “I turned off my phone so I could think.”

“Oh.”

“Margaret—”

“Wait. Let me go first. Look, I’m—I just freaked out a little when I thought of you and Raf zooming across town on a motorcycle—”

“Scooter.”

“Fine. A scooter. Sophie, what if something had happened to you?”

“But nothing did.”

“This time.”

“Look, Margaret, I know the scooter thing was dumb—but it was also a-MAZ-ing! And don’t you have to do something crazy once in a while? I mean, sailing across the Atlantic Ocean in 1492 was dumb, too, but look where it got Columbus.”

“You’re comparing yourself to Columbus?”

“I’m trying to make a point—that you have to try new things. Sometimes you have to take chances. Even if I never get on another scooter—”

“Which you won’t, if I have anything to say about it.”

“I have that experience to carry with me. Forever. And you don’t have to say anything about it.”

“Hmmm. I understand what you’re trying to say. You’re wrong, but I understand.”

“So, should I call Raf? He can take you for a ride, too.”

“How ’bout we start with some not-too-exotic sushi?”

“Deal. And for your thirteenth birthday—a subscription to
Teen Vogue?”

“Don’t push it, Magellan.”

All that day-before drama is mostly forgotten as four girls in red blazers and plaid skirts climb the stairs to the apartment directly above Chernofsky’s Violins. No matter what perils await us on the other side of the door, we’re ready.

Margaret pauses before knocking. “Remember, we’re reporters for the school paper. Sophie, you have the camera? Leigh Ann, a notebook?”

“Check.”

“Got it.”

She knocks firmly, and to our surprise, the door opens almost instantly. Two women, both about four and a half feet tall, with short gray hair and trim, athletic-looking builds, stand side by side. They’re not quite identical, but the resemblance is close enough that I blink a couple of times to make sure I’m not seeing double.

“Hello,” says the one on the left. “Can we help you?” Classical music is playing on the radio in the background, and the smell of just-baked cookies perfumes the air.

Margaret introduces us and explains the “purpose” of our visit, and we are invited into a comfortable, simply furnished room. Margaret is right about the power of the school uniform. It’s the equivalent of top-secret security clearance. Could I walk into a bank vault simply because I’m wearing a blazer and a plaid skirt?

The two women are Natalia and Anna Mendlikova, and it turns out they are cousins—not sisters—from Romania. Anna is the talkative one, while Natalia is a little skittish; she smiles and nods, but rarely makes eye contact with any of us. Every few seconds, she looks nervously at the door as if she’s waiting for the KGB to come crashing through and arrest them.

“Everyone thinks we are sisters,” Anna says. She moves her face even closer to Natalia’s to emphasize the similarity. “We grow up together in Romania. We leave Romania together. Now we live together in America.”

“How long have you lived in the United States?” Rebecca asks, taking notes like the good little reporter she isn’t.

“We defect in 1976, but we spend almost one year in Canada before coming here.”

“You defected?” I ask. I start to regret that I don’t actually write for the school paper. Even if they have nothing to do with the violin, this might make a great story.

They nod in unison, and then Anna begins to speak very deliberately. “From the Olympics, in Montreal. Natalia and I were gymnasts, on the Romanian national team. You have, of course, heard of Nadia Comaneci, winner of many gold medals? She was our teammate. After the final events, Natalia and I disappear. Everyone pays so much attention to Nadia, so it is not so hard to do.”

Leigh Ann leans forward in her chair, captivated. “And then what happened?”

“We are lucky. We have friends in Canada who help us. It was difficult time. We tell our families what we plan to do before we go to Olympics, but still, it is very painful. We do not see them for many years.”

“But now you can see them, right?” Margaret asks.

“Yes, yes. Some come to America, too. My nephew Sergei lives here in New York. This is picture of him.” Anna takes a double frame from the table behind the sofa and hands it to me. “Now we make some tea for you girls and bring out some cookies. Then we will answer all your questions.”

As they disappear into the kitchen, I get my first look at the photographs. And guess what? Sergei is a gymnast, too. The first picture shows him hanging from the rings in a position that seems humanly impossible—well, at least for this human. In the second, he is in a suit and tie, standing between Anna and Natalia, both in floral-print dresses; he is only slightly taller than the two women. Making sure that they are out of hearing range, I whisper to Margaret, “I’ll bet he could climb through a trapdoor.”

Her eyes widen when she sees his picture, and she grins as she shows Becca and Leigh Ann. “We need to find that door and make sure it’s possible to get through it and into the violin shop.”

“I’ll ask to use the bathroom,” I say. “I think I can find the spot that’s right over Mr. C.’s office. It will only take a second.”

Did you just hear me? I really should know better than to say things like that.

“Just be careful,” Margaret says. “Don’t leave anything behind.”

One time I left my stupid book bag with my ID under
a table in the middle of a secret mission, and I’ll never hear the end of it.

“We need a code word,” I say. “If someone’s coming my way, just say, um, ‘book bag’ really loud.”

“That’s not a code word,” Rebecca says. “‘Enigma.’ Now, that’s a code word.”

“Just say ‘book bag’ if someone’s coming.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to make it—”

“Becca!”

“All right. ‘Book bag.’ Jeez.”

Do you see what I have to put up with?

After asking for permission to use the bathroom, I go down the hall and peek in the first bedroom. My quick calculations tell me that the trapdoor should be about where the closet is, so I step inside. I open the louvered closet door and get down on my hands and knees. Naturally, it’s one of those New York closets that extend beyond the door in both directions. The good news is that the floor is clear, and I can see the outline of the trapdoor; the bad news is I can’t open it. I can’t tell if it’s jammed or if it has been nailed shut. I’m lying on my stomach, with only my feet sticking out through the closet door, and wishing I had a screwdriver—when someone grabs my ankle and pulls.