The Vanishing Violin (8 page)

Personally, I’m in favor of telling Sister Bernadette so that she can just weld the door shut and be done with it, but Margaret just has to know the who and the why—so we’ll sit on this, for now.

And in the meantime, if another room or two get painted, let’s hope he picks a nice color.

On our way to Spanish class, I duck into the bathroom to check my phone for messages. (Yes, I’m aware that using my phone on school property is against the rules. Confession is next week.) Still nothing from Mbingu, but I do have a really sweet text from Raf, who wants to know if we’re actually going to see each other in person ever again. See, we have a very modern-modem relationship: we talk on our cell phones, and we text. Beyond that, our relationship is still … becoming.

I mean, Raf is definitely more than a friend. But a boyfriend? That sounds so … not yet. And my dad has absolutely forbidden me even to say that word. The fact is, with Central Park being the geographical obstacle it
is, our actual personal contact is pretty minimal, which is probably the reason my parents haven’t objected too much—so far. When I tell Margaret about Raf’s text message and sigh woefully about the complications that go along with a long-distance relationship, she bops me a good one on the forehead.

“Soph, he lives a mile away.”

“Technically, that’s true, but in Manhattan, a mile across town is like fifty miles anywhere else. The Upper West Side might as well be in Albany. And you know how I hate crosstown buses.”

“Still, if you want to see him …”

“I’ll see him Saturday, after guitar. We’re going to a movie. I have to pick this time, and I’m actually kinda nervous. When it’s his turn, he always finds these amazing old movies that I would never watch if it weren’t for him. Last week, we saw
The Ghost and Mrs. Muir
—I went through, like, a box of Kleenex. It was soooo good.”

“I can do a little research if you want,” Margaret offers. “We’ll find a movie without any beheadings. Hey, why don’t you have him meet us after school today—down at the St. Regis Hotel on Fifty-fifth? We’re seeing Malcolm there, remember?”

“Actually, you didn’t tell me exactly where. I’ve never actually met anyone at a bar.”

“It’s the King Cole Bar. The back wall has a mural painted by Maxfield Parrish in 1906. I’ve always wanted to see it, so this is the perfect chance.”

“Are you sure they’re going to let us in?”

“Malcolm said he’d take care of that. Becca has to go home right after school, but I’ll check with Leigh Ann to see if she can come—if that’s all right with you.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Oh, I just kinda remember how you were when you thought Leigh Ann liked Raf. It cost me a fortune in ice cream.”

I wave off the very idea. Me? Jealous?
C’est impossible!

(But the ice cream part is undeniable.)

Bartender, another round for my friends!

Raf is waiting for us outside the entrance to the St. Regis Hotel, leaning against the wall in his khakis, navy blazer, and green and gold striped tie. Oy. I’m not exaggerating—I literally have to hold on to Margaret when I first see him.

For Margaret’s sake, and because the entrance to the St. Regis is kind of intimidating, we keep the PDA to an absolute minimum. A hug. A quick hand squeeze. Inside my red wool blazer, my heart is ker-thumpin’ and I suddenly feel a little … sweaty.

A few seconds later, we spot Malcolm and Leigh Ann strolling down the sidewalk. Together they’re wearing enough plaid to outfit a Scottish wedding party. With plenty left over for napkins.

“Hey, isn’t that—” Raf starts.

“Malcolm Chance,” I say.

“And Leigh Ann,” Margaret adds. “You remember Leigh Ann, don’t you, Raf?”

I dig a pointy elbow into her ribs.

Malcolm gives Margaret and me grandfatherly hugs, and shakes Raf’s hand. “My, you’re all looking well. A veritable vision in vermilion. Elizabeth will be jealous when I tell her I’ve seen you.” He winks at me. “Leigh Ann and I have been having a nice chat about her brother, Alejandro. Apparently, sharp minds run in the Jaimes family.”

A uniformed doorman holds the door open for us as we enter the hotel lobby, which is beautiful in that don’t-touch-it-it’s-too-too-perfect kind of way.

“How is Elizabeth?” Margaret asks. “Any news for us?” Since the conclusion of the ring case, Malcolm and his ex-wife, Elizabeth Harriman, have been “seeing one another” again, a development that I find quite ironic. After all, the first time we met him, I thought he was a total creep, and Elizabeth gave him a hearty Bronx cheer as she practically kicked him out the door of her townhouse.

Margaret’s inquiry puts a cryptic little smile on Malcolm’s face. “Always the detective, eh?” he says, not answering the question. At all.

Hmmm.

He leads us to the entrance of the famed King Cole Bar. There are only a couple of people in the bar, so he motions for us to come in for a better look at the mural on the wall behind the bartender.

“Now, what can I get everyone to drink? Then we can sit and you can tell me what you are all up to.”

“I would like a martini,” Margaret announces, straight-faced.

Malcolm laughs out loud. “Oh, would you, now? How about something that won’t get me thrown in jail?”

“Okay, I don’t really want a martini; I just want to hear what the bartender says when someone orders one.”

“And I’m sure you have a very good reason for wanting to know that.”

“An excellent reason.”

“It’s settled, then. I’ll have a martini. Purely for the sake of research.”

“Of course,” says Margaret.

Raf, Leigh Ann, and I sit at a table and listen while Malcolm and Margaret get the bartender’s attention.

“Yes, sir. And miss. What can I get for you?”

“Four piña kid-ladas,” Margaret says.

“And for you, sir?”

“A martini.”

We all swivel our heads to catch what comes next. What does the bartender say to the martini drinker?

“Olive or twist?”

Malcolm asks for two olives and then looks over at Margaret, whose head is tilted back, staring off into space.

Across the table from me, I watch Leigh Ann. First comes a smile, then her mouth opens in an oh-my-God-I-know-this expression. “Of course. Charles Dickens. Again. It’s always Dickens!”

“Is anybody else confused?” I ask.

Raf and Malcolm raise their hands.

Leigh Ann explains. “Don’t you get it? The question he asked was ‘Olive or twist?’ Now say it faster.”

“Oliveortwist. Ohhhh! Oliver Twist!” I shout. Dickens, he loved his orphans.

Margaret hugs Leigh Ann, who looks like she might just spontaneously combust with pride.

“I love that story,” Leigh Ann gushes. “Last year, I was Nancy in the musical
Oliver!”

Rebecca, who has sneaked up behind me, whispers in my ear, “What did I miss?”

“Becca! You made it! I thought you had to babysit,” I say.

“Eh. They’re fine on their own. No—I’m kidding. My mom came home early and said I could come. Course, I didn’t tell her I was going to a bar.”

“Well, Miss Jaimes here just solved another clue,” I say. “The bartender said ‘Oliver Twist.’”

“Of course he did.”

Margaret then turns to Malcolm. “I guess you deserve an explanation.”

Over two rounds of sticky-sweet piña kid-ladas and one martini, she fills him in.

“The story about a violin being stolen from Carnegie Hall sounds vaguely familiar,” Malcolm says. “Sounds like you girls have stumbled your way into another quest for lost treasure.”

I have to agree—it all seems a very strange coincidence. Is someone playing a game with us?

“What’s the next step?” Raf asks.

“There’s still one more of these rows to fill in,” Margaret replies, unfolding the paper with the grid drawn on it. She reads the final clue: “She longs for the coldest season.” Then she says, “When we get that, we’ll have the two words that go in the blanks. Then we write those on the sidewalk in the park and wait for the next clue.”

Raf takes the paper from Margaret. “So you have everything except number five? I’m guessing ‘she longs for’ means ‘she misses,’ and the coldest season seems pretty simple: winter. The problem is that ‘Mrs. Winter’ and ‘Miss Winter’ are both too short. You need eleven letters.”

All of a sudden, Becca puts on her sassy face and says, “Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again”—with an accent straight out of Bensonhurst (a neighborhood in Brooklyn, for you non-Gothamites).

Raf’s face brightens. “I think you’re right, Becca. Mrs. de Winter. Like ‘misses the winter,’ but with a Brooklyn accent. She misses da winter.”

“Who is this Mrs. de Winter?” Leigh Ann asks.

“She’s in a book called
Rebecca
,” Becca says. “I saw it in the Strand Book Store one day and just had to have it because of the title. I never finished reading it, but I did watch the movie.”

“I didn’t even know there was a book,” Raf says. “I’ve seen the movie a few times. It was one of my grandfather’s favorites. Laurence Olivier and Joan Fontaine. Grandpa was hot for her.”

I smile inwardly, knowing that it’s only a matter of
time before Raf and I will be sharing a tub of popcorn and holding hands as the opening credits for
Rebecca
roll.

“The girl in the story doesn’t even have a first name,” Becca adds. “She’s just Mrs. de Winter.”

“And she is the second Mrs. de Winter, as I recall,” Malcolm adds.

“If the girl in the story doesn’t have a name, then who the heck is Rebecca?” I ask.

“Rebecca is the guy’s first wife,” Raf says. “The first Mrs. de Winter. She’s dead.”

“She’s dead? Then why is the book called
Rebecca?
Shouldn’t it be
What’s-Her-Name?
And where is Manderley?”

“I’ll explain it later,” Raf promises.

Good enough.

Meanwhile, Margaret fills in the remaining blanks on the grid, which now looks like this:

“The letters in the outlined boxes are P-I-A-N-O-H-E-S-T-E-R. ‘Piano’ and ‘Hester.’ The piano player lives on Hester Street.” Margaret looks up, smiling proudly.

“And that means something to you?” I say.

“Is that even a real street?” Leigh Ann asks.

“Hester Street is on the Lower East Side. As for what this all means, however, you’re on your own. Your young brains are far sharper than mine, I’m afraid.” Malcolm gulps down the last of his martini. “Ahhh. But age does have its advantages.”

I’m skeptical of Mr. Columbia Professor for Thirty Years’ modesty. His brain is plenty sharp.

“This is just one clue,” Margaret begins. “If someone really has this violin, they’re going to make us jump through many hoops before they hand it over. We’re supposed to prove we’re worthy of it. I can respect that.”

Rebecca corrects her. “I think what you mean to say is that
you’re
going to have to jump through some hoops to prove that
you’re
worthy.”

“Well, I still think there’s something fishy about the whole thing,” I say. “It’s kind of creepy. Either someone’s spying on us, or they have someone else doing it for them.”

“Suspicious much?” Raf says.

“It’s not suspicion if people really are spying on you.”

Malcolm roars with laughter at that. “Sophie, I do like your perspective on life. You are truly one of a kind.”

“Why, thank you, Malcolm.”

I’ve always thought that one of me is more than enough.

We have met the enemy, and she is part of our group project