The Vanishing Violin (20 page)

I go into immediate cardiac arrest and then struggle to turn around to get a look at my captor.

“What was that code word again? I forgot,” Rebecca whispers.

“Becca, I am going to kill you,” I hiss. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m helping you with your contact lenses.”

“I don’t wear contact lenses.”

“Yeah, well, if anyone asks, just go along with it. Did you find it?”

“Uh-huh, but I can’t open it. We need something to pry with.”

“How about a key?” She gets down next to me and starts digging around the edge of the trapdoor. We are both completely inside the closet, and just as we get a good grip on one edge of the trapdoor, the closet door closes with a click. We’re too absorbed in the trapdoor to care, though, finally pushing it up far enough for her to stick her head through.

“Well? Whaddya think?”

“Oh yeah,” she says. “I could do it. I think. It would be really tight, but it’s possible. The opening to the ceiling in the violin shop is not exactly right under this one. It’s over about a foot, so you’d have to go in at kind of an angle. And there are a couple of big pipes in the way. It would have to be somebody who can bend like a pretzel.”

“Like a world-class gymnast? Good enough for me. Let’s get out of here.”

Becca reaches for the doorknob and tries to turn it, but nothing happens. “Uh-oh.”

“Stop fooling around, Becca,” I say. “Open the door.”

“Fine. You try.”

Annoyed, I grab for it, quickly realizing that she’s telling the truth. We’re locked in a closet in the apartment of two nearly identical, retired Romanian gymnasts. What are the odds?

Oh, I’d say about even.

This one is for all those people who think a cell phone is not an absolute necessity

“Now what?” Becca asks.

“I’m thinking, I’m thinking,” I say. “And get off my foot.”

“I’m not on your foot.”

“Yes you are. Move!”

“Maybe I can pick the lock,” she says, kneeling on my hand.

“Oww!”

“Well, get outta my way.”

She takes out her library card and tries to slide it between the door and the frame, but because the door opens out, there is no room for it. “It won’t work in this direction. From the outside it would be easy.”

“Oh, that’s helpful.”

“Hey, don’t get all biffy with me. It’s not my fault.”

“Oh, I suppose it’s mine? I was doing just fine until you came in here, Becca.”

I gasp.

“What?”

“I just felt something—alive!—buzzing right next to my leg. Arrgghhh! There it is ag—oh! It’s just my phone. Sorry.” I dig the phone out of my blazer pocket and check the screen. Margaret.

“Um, hello. What are you guys doing in there?” she asks.

“We’re locked in the closet.”

“No way.”

“Get us out of here before we kill each other.”

Ten seconds later, the closet door opens. Margaret looks down at us with a goofy smile and mercifully doesn’t say a word until we’re almost back in the living room.

“Just out of curiosity, before I called, did you two have a plan to get out of the closet?”

Becca and I glare at her and each other.

“Now, please tell me you didn’t leave anything behind this time, Sophie.”

Grrrr. Grrrr.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Margaret says. She then reminds me of the problem I’m having with my contact lenses. We return to the living room with me rubbing my eyes dramatically, and Anna asks if everything is okay.

I reassure her that I’m fine; I’m still adjusting to my new lenses and I got something in one eye. (That one’s going to cost me a couple extra Hail Marys.)

“Anna was just telling us that Sergei comes and visits
every Saturday and stays the night,” Margaret says. “Isn’t that nice?”

“He is good boy,” says Natalia, obviously proud of him. “He helps us.”

“You know, he looks kind of familiar,” Leigh Ann says. “I think I’ve seen him in Perkatory.”

Anna beams. “Ah yes, Sergei always stops for coffee on Saturdays. Sometimes I think he comes first for the coffee, second for the girl who works in the coffee shop, and third for us.” She laughs. “No, not really. I make a joke. Natalia is right. He is good boy.”

Margaret stands up and motions for the two women to move closer to each other. “Do you mind if we take some pictures? Sophie, maybe you can get one of them holding up the picture of Sergei. Maybe even take a close-up of him, too.”

Okay, on three, everybody smile and say “Sergei!”

Mad rush back to the violin shop, where we find Mr. C. in the workshop varnishing a violin that he made. He listens to our story without taking his eyes off his brush or saying a word. When he finishes, he hangs the violin on the wire that’s stretched across the shop, and then sits in the only seat in the room, a simple wood stool that he also made.

“So, you believe that this young man—”

“Sergei,” I say, as if the name itself implies a certain degree of guilt.

“Yes, that this young man named Sergei, who you have never met, climbed down through the hole in my ceiling, stole a violin that only a few people in the world know is valuable, and then crawled back through the ceiling without a ladder. And while he’s down here, he drops a certain special button on the floor so that I will think that my assistant is guilty. Tell me why he does this?”

Ah, that pesky button again.

“There must be an explanation,” says Margaret. “I just haven’t figured it out yet. Give me a little time. But in the meantime, don’t you think you should ask the police about the hole in your ceiling? They could at least look into it, ask a few questions of their own. Maybe Sergei has a criminal record that he’s hiding from his aunt.”

“Here is what I will do. When the police come back tomorrow, I promise you I will point out the opening in the ceiling so that they can investigate. I think it’s best if I don’t tell them that you girls were in the closet up there without permission of the two very nice ladies. That might be hard for you to explain.”

Oh yeah. Hadn’t thought of that.

“Any, um, new letters for me?” Margaret inquires.

“Nothing today. I hope he has not changed his mind.”

“Don’t worry. It’s only been one day,” I say. “Those clues and codes and things must take some time to figure out. Or maybe he didn’t find your answer. Maybe he’s in the hospital. Or in prison. Or—”

Margaret pats me on the back. “Easy, Soph. I’m not giving up. We’re going to find both of these violins. Let’s start by talking to your friend Jaz, to find out if she was working last Saturday.”

Jaz worked all day Saturday, and provides us with what might be the missing piece of the puzzle: the link between Sergei the gymnast and Ben’s button. We show her the picture of Sergei and she smiles, recognizing him instantly.

“Oh, the little guy with the accent. He’s a sweetheart; kinda has a crush on me. Saturday, let’s see. Yep. Twice. The first time was right after I opened at seven. Had his usual extra-large coffee with a double shot of espresso thrown in.”

Rebecca whistles in admiration. “Wow. A total java junkie.”

“Yeah, he always leaves wired.”

While we’re talking, I note that Jaz is fiddling with a long, expandable aluminum pole. It has a rubber suction cup on one end, which she wets with a little spit. Then she reaches up over our table, sticking it to a burned-out lightbulb. “Sorry, guys, I’ll be done in a second. This thing is easier than dragging out a ladder.”

“I’ve never seen one of those before,” I say. “Pretty handy.”

She twists the handle slowly, unscrewing the old bulb, and then lowers it to the table with the pole. She then sticks a new one onto the suction cup and screws it
in. “There. All done. Why are you guys looking for my little buddy? Wait a minute. Don’t tell me he had something to do with that break-in.”

“We’re not sure,” Margaret says. “Maybe. We’ve been sort of, um, unofficially working on the case. Mr. Chernofsky is a good friend, and we’re just checking out all the possibilities. You say Sergei came in twice on Saturday?”

“Yeah, the second time was probably a little before noon. He was sitting over there.” She points the lightbulb changer at the very table where we were sitting the day we overheard Ben talking on the phone.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” I say to Margaret.

“That he heard Ben and Mr. Chernofsky talking about the violin through the vents? That’s about the time I saw Ben leaving the shop on Saturday,” Margaret says. “That would explain how he knew. But we still need a connection between those two.”

“Who’s Ben?” Jaz asks.

“Mr. C.’s assistant.”

“Ohhh, I know who you mean. He’s the other little guy. Kinda preppy-looking?”

“That sounds like him,” Leigh Ann says.

“The cops are lookin’ for him right now,” Rebecca blurts out. “He’s a fugitive from justice.”

Margaret sends her a pointy look. “Becca, that’s a little overdramatic, don’t you think? As far as we know, the police just want to ask him some questions. They simply don’t know where he is.”

“And neither do we,” I add, in case anyone has forgotten that it’s supposed to be a secret.

“Well, he comes in here every once in a while—a small decaf and a hazelnut biscotti. But not since … hey, you know what? He was here Saturday, too. Same time, a little after noon. He was sitting on that couch over there, right behind double-espresso guy, reading the
Times
. They even talked a little bit. I remember now because I was thinking how much alike they seemed. Both sorta small, both sorta cute, and—oops, customer! Gotta go.”

When Jaz is out of range, I lean over the table and motion for everyone to huddle closer together. “Maybe Sergei and Ben know each other. They could have set this whole thing up.”

“Maybe they met in prison,” Becca says.

“Think about it, Margaret,” I say. “It’s kind of like that Sherlock Holmes story ‘The Red-Headed League.’ Maybe the only reason Ben went to work for Mr. C. was to steal stuff, and that whole story about being locked in the basement for three days is just a convenient alibi. Or—”

Margaret cuts me off. “Slow down, Soph. That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I hope you’re right.” I’m picturing Elizabeth tied to a chair in her house, and her entire art collection packed up and on its way to Romania.

Margaret motions for us to follow her to the places where Ben and Sergei sat on Saturday, according to Jaz.
“Here’s what I’ll bet happened. Ben is sitting here, drinking his coffee, minding his own business, and reading his paper. Sophie, let me ask you a question. What happens every time your dad sits down on the couch?”

“He falls asleep?”

“Okay, but what happens to the stuff in his pants pockets?”

“Ohhh. All his change falls out! That drives my mom crazy. Why does that happen?”

“I don’t know why, but it happens with my dad, too. Something about the way men’s pants are made. And I’m willing to bet that when Ben sat here on Saturday, all his change—and the button—fell out of his pockets.”

“And ol’ Sergei picked it up when he left,” Leigh Ann finishes.

“When they talked, Sergei probably found out that Ben worked in the violin shop,” Margaret continues.

“So now what?” Rebecca asks. “Are we gonna tell the cops?”

“It wouldn’t do any good,” Margaret says matter-of-factly. “Even if we could prove that Sergei picked up Ben’s button, it wouldn’t prove a thing.”

We all stare down at the table, chins in our hands and fresh out of ideas.

But gradually our collective craniumachine comes to life. With a screech and a puff of steam, the gears begin to whir. Wheels spin. Lights flash. Synapses fire. Eyes meet. Knowing nods are exchanged.

A plan is born.

•    •    •

Margaret and I make a quick stop at Elizabeth’s to talk to Ben, who confirms Jaz’s version of events from last Saturday. He was at Perkatory and did talk to someone who was sitting at a nearby table. And he is positive that the button was in his pocket when he reached into it to pay for his coffee. When I show him the picture of Sergei, his eyes light up.

“That’s the guy I talked to in the coffee shop. He’s Romanian. A gymnast.”

“Well, you’re gonna love this,” I say. “He’s also the nephew of one of the two ladies who live right over the violin shop.”

He is impressed but a wee bit disturbed by our little snooping adventure. “You can’t be doing stuff like this for me. You hardly know me. What I mean to say is, I’m really grateful for everything you and Elizabeth and Malcolm are doing, but it’s just not right. I should just turn myself in now and take my chances with the police.”

Is he bluffing? I wish I knew!

“No, no, please don’t do that—not yet,” Margaret pleads. “Give us a few more days. I have a plan to catch Sergei in the act, but we can’t put it into action until Saturday.”

Ben sighs and looks us in the eyes. “All right. Saturday. But after that—”

“Make it Sunday. Morning. I promise. We’ll know by then. Now, tell me about the computer you installed at Mr. Chernofsky’s.”

“What do you need to know?”

“Its capabilities. It’s part of the plan. The Red Blazer Girls Detective Agency is going high-tech.”