The Vanishing Violin (29 page)

“I still don’t get it,” Leigh Ann says. “When Mr. Chernofsky came in that morning, he said the locks were definitely locked. I don’t see how she can—”

Becca cuts her off. “Never mind that. What about the big hole in the window? The cops would have noticed that.”

Malcolm, however, has complete confidence in my best friend. “If I know Margaret Wrobel, she has an answer for both of you. Stay tuned.”

The words are barely out of his mouth when we hear the locks on the Perkatory side click open, and Margaret strolls into the violin shop, takes a violin from the rack of inexpensive student rental instruments, and carefully places it in a case, snapping the lid shut. From her pocket, she takes out a plastic button, just like Ben’s, and places it on the floor right by the violin rack. Then, with a quick wave, she disappears out the same door.

“Is that it?” Becca asks as we wait once again for something to happen.

“Hang in there,” I say. “I have a feeling the best is yet to come.”

A minute later, it feels like we’re watching the same
movie in reverse. The bulb changer begins to levitate again, moving up to the three locks, locking each in turn, and then disappearing back out the hole in the window. When it is gone, the piece of glass attached to the suction cup begins its slow rise to the window frame. As it approaches the opening from which it came, I can’t help myself—I jump up to see just how she’s going to pull this off. How is she going to reattach the glass? Bubble gum?

Close.

The pointy white nozzle of a tube of silicone glue—like the clear, rubbery stuff that goes around your bathtub—comes through the hole. As Margaret holds the blue triangle of glass firmly in place with the suction cup, she squeezes a line of the clear glue around its perimeter and then oh-so-carefully pulls the string, and with it the glass, into place. From inside the room, it is absolutely impossible to tell that the window has been tampered with.

“Holy crap,” Becca says.

Exactly.

Becca, Leigh Ann, and I arrive at the same conclusion at precisely the same time. We spin around to stare at Jaz.

A loud knock sounds from the front door, and I gasp before realizing it’s just Margaret. Mr. Chernofsky lets her in to a chorus of cheers and applause that rivals what the Blazers received. (Not that I’m, you know, measuring the difference or anything like that. Merely
an observation.) Jaz is totally quiet. Then she stands as the crowd settles down, holding her chin up defiantly.

“You can’t prove anything,” she says boldly.

“That may be true,” Inspector Wrobel says, “but I’m willing to bet the police will be very interested—interested enough to make your life miserable for a while. That is, unless, say, a certain violin and my bow were to just happen to … reappear in the next few minutes. In that case, I think we would all be willing to forget what happened. Chalk it up to ‘youthful indiscretion’ like they do with politicians’ kids. What do you think, Mr. Chernofsky? Sound good to you?”

Mr. C. nods, and Malcolm clears his throat, addressing Jaz directly in that firm, authoritative voice of his. “Young lady, if you have possession of the violin and bow that disappeared from this shop, it is certainly in your best interest to return them immediately. You have already caused a great deal of trouble, and now you have an opportunity to set things right without significant consequences—other than the loss of trust these fine girls may have had in you.”

Everyone fixes on Jaz as she considers her options. A faint, disbelieving smile creeps across her face.

“One question,” she says to Margaret. “How did you do it? It was … perfect.”

That famous all-knowing smile of Margaret’s. “Nothing’s perfect. In the end, it was simple logic. The dots were all there, I just had to figure out how to connect
them. The lightbulb changer. Ben’s button, which he last saw in Perkatory the morning Sergei was there—a morning you were working. Just a guess, but he probably dropped it, and when you realized he worked here, you knew you had a red herring that would point right to him. And you were also working that day we overheard him on the phone, so you knew the violin was special. Once you knew it was a Frischetti, I’m sure it didn’t take much effort to figure out how much it’s worth. When we set up the operation to catch Sergei, you knew the location of the hidden camera because you saw us testing it. Remember, you even said something about it looking like a weird movie. The only thing I wasn’t sure of was how you knew about the locks and the window, and the distance between them. Mr. Chernofsky, though, remembered that you had been in the shop. It was a few weeks ago. He was in the workshop and didn’t hear you come in. He found you snooping around, and you told him a tale about a violin that you wanted to have appraised—but you never came back. You must have already been planning a break-in when fate brought that Frischetti into the picture. As for the rest, the locks were easy once I saw the bulb changer and the freshly cut notch in the end. I’ll admit that the window had me stumped for a while, but when I came back for a closer look, I noticed that the blue piece of glass sounded different when I tapped on it. The silicone glue is like rubber; it doesn’t get brittle like other glue. It sounds different. It even smells different. From the outside, I
could see where you had scratched the lead when you pried the glass free, and on top of that, some of the glue had seeped out. Fresh glue.”

Jaz shakes her head in amazement.

“Now I have a question for you,” Margaret says. “Why? I mean, why a violin, of all things to steal? If you’re smart enough to plan all this, you’re smart enough to know that it would be almost impossible to sell it for anything close to what it’s really worth. In the end, it would hardly have been worthwhile. Why take such a big chance?”

Jaz’s eyes narrow as she turns to find someone in the crowd. “That’s easy. Because of him.” She points right at a very surprised Ben.

Raf rubs his hands together. “The plot thickens.”

“Me? What did I do? I don’t even know you,” Ben says.

Jaz takes a step toward him. “Oh, not much. You just ruined my life, that’s all. Three years ago, I was all set to go to NYU. I was accepted, found an apartment in the Village with great roommates … and then … and then … nothing! It all came crashing down, and I’m left working in some crummy coffee shop and living and going to some rinky-dink college in … Queens.”

I feel Leigh Ann squirming to get up and defend her homeland. “What
is
it with people slamming Queens?”

“What on earth does any of that have to do with me?” Ben asks.

“One word. TechnoQuake.”

By the number of blank faces around the room, it’s clear that Ben and Jaz are the only two people for whom that one word means anything.

“I thought that might ring a bell. My father was one of your best customers. He put his life savings—my college money—into TechnoQuake stock, which you sold him, and which you went to prison for.”

“So all this was about revenge?” Margaret says.

Jaz nods. “I had to. He made my life miserable. It was my turn to do the same to him.”

“What about the three years he spent in prison?” I ask. “Doesn’t that count as miserable?”

“Look, I’m truly sorry your life isn’t going the way you planned,” Ben says, “but in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly living the high life, either. I gave back every penny I made from that stock, and until a few days ago, I was living in a closet in a basement with a bunch of rats.”

Leigh Ann pokes me. “I knew it!”

“And I know you won’t believe this,” Ben continues, “and it certainly doesn’t excuse my actions, but I didn’t know I was selling your father stock in a doomed company. The TechnoQuake executives lied to everyone.”

Jaz is unmoved. “What, you expect me to feel sorry for you?”

“Not at all. If you want to spend the rest of your life hating me, fair enough. But don’t drag innocent bystanders into it. Mr. Chernofsky and Margaret haven’t
done anything to you, but as it stands, they’ve both lost something valuable because of what you did.”

Malcolm stands, addressing Jaz again, and for the first time, I see him as Professor Chance. “If I may, young lady, I would like to offer a little advice; ignore it if you will, but know that I give it with the best of intentions. Life, as a wise man once said, is what happens while you’re busy making other plans. I know of no one whose life has turned out exactly as planned. Yes, you had a bad break. But it is time to get on with your life. Do you have any idea how fortunate you are? You’re young, presumably healthy, and obviously bright. You live in a city of infinite opportunities. Instead of making excuses, make something of yourself. Anyone with the ingenuity to plan and carry out what you did here is certainly capable of great things. It’s up to you to make your life extraordinary. Sometimes we just need a determined girl in a red blazer to remind us how important that is.”

Malcolm’s little speech has the stuff.

“All right, all right, I’ll return them,” Jaz says quietly. “And you’re serious, no police?”

“No police. I promise. As long as everything is undamaged,” Malcolm says.

“They’re fine. Okay, I just need to make a call. They’re not here, but very close by.” She turns to the wall to call her coconspirator. I’m unable to hear most of what she says, but before hanging up, I hear her snap, “Just bring it to the coffee shop. I have a buyer right now.”

We follow Jaz back to Perkatory, and guess who strolls in ten minutes later, violin case in his hand, looking for Jaz?

Mr. Winterbottom!

Malcolm greets his old nemesis with a huge grin. “Well, this is just perfect. Gordon, I can’t even say I’m surprised to see you. After all, who has more experience in shady dealing than you?”

“Malcolm Chance! You again.” And then he sees Margaret and me. “And—and you.”

Always polite, we wave at him. “Hi, Mr. Winterbottom.”

“What was the arrangement, Gordon? You sell the violin for the girl and you get to keep half the money?”

Winterheinie grunts, tucks the violin case under his arm, and turns like he’s going to make a run for it. Except with those smoker’s lungs of his, he’s not running anywhere. I’m guessing a brisk walk would probably be fatal.

“Don’t do that, Gordon,” says Malcolm. “Just hand them over and I’ll make you the same deal I made your little friend: no police.”

He thinks about it for a second, sets the case on a table, snarls something about Malcolm under his breath, and stalks out as the rest of the crowd returns to Perkatory.

Moments later, Mr. Chernofsky smiles broadly as Margaret hands him the case containing the violin and
her bow. He caresses the top, then opens it and gingerly hands the violin to Margaret.

“Maybe you will play us a little something,” he says.

Becca starts chanting, “Mar-ga-ret! Mar-ga-ret! Mar-ga-ret!”

“Something Polish,” Mr. C. suggests. “Perhaps a little Chopin?”

Margaret clamps the shoulder rest in place, tightens the horsehair of the bow, and pulls it across the strings, closing her eyes and smiling to herself as music fills the room.

All in all, it has been a very good day for the Red Blazer Girls.

One last letter

I’m dreaming about the Blazers. We’re rehearsing in Elizabeth’s basement, and Mbingu is tapping out some new rhythms for a song we’re working on.
Tap, taptap. Tappity-tap, taptaptap. Taptaptaptaptap
.

I open my eyes, but the tapping continues. Odd. My eyes slowly come into complete focus, and across the room, I spy my “blazer” shirt hanging from the back of the desk chair. Odder still, there sits Margaret, pecking away at my computer keyboard.

“Wh-what are you doing?” I ask.

“Finally. I thought you were going to sleep all day,” she says.

“What time is it?”

“Seven-fifteen.”

“Unnnhhh. How did you get in here?”

“I knew your mom would be up. Get dressed. We’re going out for a bagel—I have to tell you something.”

Five minutes later, we’re on our way out the door. When we hit the sidewalk in front of my building,
Margaret grabs my jacket, stopping me. “I can’t wait. If I don’t tell somebody soon, I’m going to burst!”

“Something else happened last night?” After the celebration at Perkatory, Raf had to run to catch a crosstown bus—yeah, that’s right, a bus—in order to make it home for his ludicrous nine o’clock curfew. Margaret then ditched me to walk home with Andrew, leaving me alone with my parents. On a Friday night. Heavy sigh. To make matters worse, on the way home they threatened to keep a far closer eye on me after hearing my song.

But enough about stupid, stupid, stupid me.

“So, tell me, tell me, tell me! What happened?”

She buries her face in her hands. “Arrghh. I’m so embarrassed! We were walking home, and having a really nice conversation, and then—then we got to my building.”

“And?”

“We were just saying, you know, good night, and how we’d see each other today at our lesson, and then …” She reburies her face, groaning.

“Margaret!”

“I kissed him!”

“What!”

She nods. “I. Kissed. Him.”