The Vanishing Violin (31 page)

In which the truth comes out and our friends and families are exposed for what they really are: outstanding, unsurpassed, superlative, preeminent, and brilliant (thank you, “Word Power”!)

When Malcolm finishes reading, he removes his glasses and wipes his eyes. He then folds the letter, places it in its yellowed envelope, and turns to Margaret.

“Harvey told me about Mr. Bartoszek and this letter the very day you and your friends recovered the Ring of Rocamadour. Call it fate, call it providence, or divine intervention, a coincidence—but whatever you call it, it was clear to me that you and Anna’s violin are destined to be together. Mr. Chernofsky, would you do the honors?”

“It will be my pleasure,” Mr. C. answers.

Margaret opens her mouth, but no words emerge as Mr. Chernofsky holds out a violin case to her.

“You have earned this, Margaret,” Mr. Chernofsky
says, choking up just a little. “And now you must never forget Janos Bartoszek’s story. Every time you play, Janos and Anna and their parents are all playing along with you.”

Margaret holds the case as if it were made of spun glass, seemingly afraid to move, afraid even to breathe.

“Go on, open it up,” Malcolm says, smiling.

She flips up the latches and lifts the lid of the case. Her eyes grow wide as she struggles to comprehend what she sees.

“But … wait, this isn’t possible,” she stammers.

“What isn’t possible?” I ask, looking over her shoulder.

It is the violin, the very one Jaz stole from Mr. C.’s shop and the one we—well, Margaret, actually—recovered Friday night. The one on which she played “Ave Maria” so beautifully that day in the shop. The one with the tag saying it belonged to David Childress of the Longfellow String Quartet.

“So all this time,” Margaret starts, “and all those clues that led us here …”

Malcolm bows deeply. “Those were my handiwork. I knew you and the violin were perfect for each other, and Harvey agreed but had to clear up all the legal paperwork before we could turn it over officially. We had to make sure there were no claims on the violin from insurance companies or even the Wurstmann family. I know how you love a challenge, so I thought some new puzzles would keep you interested for a while. On top of
that, Anna’s violin hadn’t had a good checkup in about fifty years. We wanted it to be in perfect condition when you got it—cleaned up, with new strings and such, so we gave it to Mr. Chernofsky for a good going-over.”

“And that’s when things got complicated,” Elizabeth adds. “Not that it was Anton’s fault. No one could have foreseen it being stolen in such a … creative manner.”

“I think you can imagine how we felt when it disappeared,” Malcolm says. “Especially Mr. Chernofsky. That caught us completely off guard. We didn’t know what to do.”

“But the Red Blazer Girls swooped in and saved the day,” Mr. Eliot gushes.

Wow. I mean, he has gushed before, but never about us.

Margaret lifts the violin out of its case. Her eyes well up and she sniffs back tears as her parents come closer to hug and kiss her.

Her father’s smile fills his face as he squeezes her. “You see? I tell you that one day soon you will play at Carnegie Hall. Now you have a violin that will show you the way.”

“That’s right, Margaret,” I say. “This thing has already been there, done that. Now it’s your turn.”

“I’m still confused about one thing,” she admits. “Actually, I’m confused about a lot of things, but one in particular. I left the message that we would be here today, that we had solved all of the clues, on Thursday afternoon. We didn’t get the violin back until Friday night. If
you didn’t have the violin, what were you planning to do when we showed up here today?”

“Wow,” I said. “That is a good question.” I turn to Malcolm for an explanation.

Ever suspicious, Rebecca says, “You guys set up the whole robbery thing with Jaz, didn’t you? It was just another test for Miss Sherlock here. I always knew there was something funny about it.”

“I wish I could say you’re right, Miss Chen,” Malcolm says. “But believe me, that whole vanishing violin act was a complete surprise. My friend Harvey was definitely not pleased that his client’s final wish would not be fulfilled. No, it was all too real. But in answer to your question, Margaret, we did come up with a Plan B. Frankly, when we learned the violin had been stolen, we didn’t hold out much hope for its recovery. After all, the last time it was stolen, it was gone for fifty years! I called a meeting of everyone who’s here today, and we made a decision. Mr. Chernofsky had one other violin available—a beautiful example of his own work, a masterpiece that he offered at a fraction of its real value. We asked Kate St. Pierre to give it a test-drive to determine whether it would be suitable for your needs, and she gave it a glowing review. And I should tell you: every single person in this room—even your young friend Rafael—promised to pitch in to pay for it. You are a very fortunate young lady, Margaret, to have friends and family like these.”

Poor Margaret. She’s practically hysterical, sobbing
and hugging her f’s and f. I take the violin out of her hands so that it doesn’t get tear-warped, and then step back with Leigh Ann and Becca to watch and wonder as we try to put all the pieces of this strange case together.

As the hysteria begins to settle down, people try to persuade Margaret to play something on her new, second-best friend. (I’m numero uno—it’s in my contract.) She’s in no shape to play, however. Not yet.

This gives Elizabeth a chance to stand and get everyone’s attention.

“If I could just have my girls join me here for a moment. Margaret, Leigh Ann, Rebecca, Sophie. Please.”

I see a bag in Elizabeth’s hand and swap my worries for greedy anticipation. You see, it’s not just a bag; it’s a little blue bag. A Tiffany blue bag. Oh, calm down, I tell myself. Just because it’s in a Tiffany bag doesn’t mean it’s from Tiffany. It could be bagels and cream cheese, and that would be nice, too. Right?

Elizabeth pulls the four of us together, facing our friends and families, while she stands behind us, arms on our shoulders. “These four girls have done more for me than you can imagine. In just a few weeks, they managed to find the ring that was hidden so cleverly by my father and helped bring my daughter and granddaughter—and this old coot, Malcolm—back into my life. As you know, the ring they recovered, one of the two Rings of Rocamadour, is now in the Metropolitan Museum, where it belongs.”

Dad leads everyone in a cheer, and as ever, I am Ms. Uncontrollable Blushface. A peek in Raf’s direction (he’s keeping his distance from my dad) confirms it: he is loving this moment.

“However,” Elizabeth continues, “before we delivered the ring to the museum, I took it to an old friend who owed me a favor.” She reaches into her little blue bag and hands each of us a tiny, blue-wrapped box. “Girls, from Malcolm, Caroline, Roger, Caitlin, and me, thank you again, from the bottom of our hearts. Wherever life takes us, I know we’ll always remember the wonderful thing you did for my family. And I hope these help you remember how grateful we are. Go on, open them up.”

My pulse is pounding in my ears as I tear away the paper. Inside is a blue cardboard box, and inside that, a black jewelry box. I flip the lid up and my jaw drops open. It is the Ring of Rocamadour: that familiar gold band with its cross of rubies. Becca, Leigh Ann, and Margaret hold out their boxes; they each have one, too.

“They’re perfect copies,” Elizabeth explains. “Made by a friend of mine at Tiffany’s. And guaranteed to be the only ones ever made. That was part of the arrangement we made with the museum—that the ring would never be duplicated except for these four.”

Here’s something else that will never be exactly duplicated: the feeling I have at that moment as I slip the ring onto my finger and look up at my three best friends.

Maybe not worthy of a chapter all to itself, but epilogues are like that sometimes

After the celebration, I take a cab uptown with Mom and Dad so that I can quickly change and head to Asphalt Green for my first practice with the swim team. Michelle, the coach, greets me enthusiastically as I come through the door to the pool. She is in her fifties, swims a couple of miles a day, and still has energy to burn.

“Great to see you, Sophie! I am so glad you decided to join us. You girls have so many things going on these days that I truly appreciate your commitment. I don’t know if I can promise it will be fun, because it requires a lot of work, but it will be good for you. For the record, I wasn’t just trying to flatter you when I said you have real promise as a swimmer. You were one of my strongest juniors. You look like you’ve grown a few inches, which will help, too. I think we’re going to try you out in the one hundred and two hundred individual medleys and some of the relays. How does that sound to you?”

“Sounds great.” I look around the pool deck at a sea
of unfamiliar faces. “Is there anybody here from my old team? I don’t see anybody I know.”

“Nobody from your junior days, but there’s one other girl from your school who will be joining us. In fact, you two will be on the relay teams together. Ah, here she is right now.”

I turn in the direction Michelle is pointing and find myself face to face with—of course—Livvy Klack. My face reveals all, and Michelle immediately says, “Oh good, you do know each other.”

“Oh, I know her,” Livvy says. “Don’t I, Sophie?”

“Um … yeah.”

“Excellent,” says Michelle. “Why don’t we get started? Let’s do an eight hundred warm-up, and then we’ll take it from there.”

I start to bend down to feel the water temperature before jumping in, but stop myself halfway. Nope. I promised I would take the plunge, and here I am—hot or cold, Livvy or no Livvy.

And with a splash, I dive into the deep end of the pool.

Appendix: How to Solve the Final Logic Problem

Start by making a copy of the next page—you don’t want to write in a nice, new book, do you? I didn’t think so.

How to use the chart: Once you determine a street, address, or apartment number, circle it. If you know that a musician
can’t
live at a specific location, cross it out. The crossing out part is
very
important! Many of your answers will be revealed by your new best friend, POE (no, not Edgar Allan). “POE” stands for “process of elimination.” If you eliminate all the wrong choices, you will be left with only one possibility—the correct answer!

First, read through the clues for the given information.