eleven minutes later, there is a knock at my door.
I wave off Mom’s offer of toast and juice, telling her that Margaret has promised to buy me a breakfast éclair.
“This all seems remarkably familiar,” I say to Margaret on the way down in the elevator. “Solving clues, early-morning phone calls, meeting Mr. Eliot at Perk. Will we be staking out a confessional or x-raying any old paintings for hidden messages?”
“No. Well, I don’t think so, anyway. But I did talk to our old friend Malcolm last night. We’re meeting him at a bar this afternoon.”
“A bar?”
“You’ll see. It’ll be fun.”
• • •
Mr. Eliot is at his usual table in Perkatory with his usual copy of the
Times
. When he sees us, he gives us a salute and a sly smile.
In addition to being our English teacher, Mr. Eliot has played an important role in our career as detectives. The whole ring affair got started when I looked out a window in his classroom and screamed (I had my reasons). He has helped us out with clues, smoothed over our troubles with Sister Bernadette, and on one memorable morning, let Margaret stand on his back (we had our reasons).
“The Misses Wrobel and St. Pierre, out on the streets before dawn. What are you two up to? Off to prowl the secret tunnels in Grand Central Station? Interrogate the doorman at the Plaza?”
I shove Margaret up to the counter to buy me a hot chocolate and an éclair.
The new girl, Jaz, takes our order. In contrast to her chipper attitude of a few days earlier, she looks and sounds like she would rather be just about anywhere else on the planet—in the sewers of Rangoon, tied to an anthill in the Australian outback, in that creepy, snake-filled chamber in
Raiders of the Lost Ark
—anyplace other than here.
“Here ya go,” she says, setting our food and drinks on the counter, sans smile.
“Thanks, Jaz,” I say. “You’ll be happy to hear that the Blazers had their first rehearsal the other day.”
“That’s great,” she says with absolutely zero enthusiasm.
“Maybe she’s just not a morning person,” Margaret whispers as we walk away.
Mr. Eliot folds up his paper when we join him at his table. He raises an eyebrow at my éclair. “In training, St. Pierre?”
“Yep.” I take a big, squishy bite, and I am suddenly wishing I had a bagel instead. When I’m an especially good girl, my daddy makes me the real thing; this is nothing more than a tube-shaped doughnut in disguise.
“What brings you two out so early this fine morning?” Mr. Eliot asks.
Margaret squints at him. “Can we trust you?”
“Like Abel trusted Cain.”
Margaret tells him about the package, the letter she received at Mr. Chernofsky’s, the bow, and what Leigh Ann and I learned about the Carnegie Hall theft.
Mr. Eliot whistles. “Holy mackerel. A hot violin!” He leans over and whispers, “How many people know about this?”
“Mr. C., Ben, the four of us, and you,” Margaret says. “And whoever sent the letters.”
“What about Malcolm?” I ask Margaret. “What did you tell him?”
“Only that we were working on something new. I didn’t give him any details. But I trust him.”
“I would think so,” Mr. Eliot says. “Now, where doyou go from here? Even if this Wurstmann is dead, and there’s no insurance, somebody must have a legal claim to the violin. Have you talked to the private investigator yet?”
“Can’t. He died ten years ago,” Margaret answers. “But you see, there’s also this other case we’re working on. It’s for Sister Bernadette. And we really need to get into the school before it’s open. Can you let us in, pretty please?”
“We wouldn’t ask if you weren’t the bestest English teacher who ever learned me,” I add.
Behold the power of mostly sincere flattery.
The basement door is unlocked, and I push it open, cringing as the hinges creak. I shine my light down the stairs so that anything scampering, skittering, or skedaddling
I wave off Mom’s offer of toast and juice, telling her that Margaret has promised to buy me a breakfast éclair.
“This all seems remarkably familiar,” I say to Margaret on the way down in the elevator. “Solving clues, early-morning phone calls, meeting Mr. Eliot at Perk. Will we be staking out a confessional or x-raying any old paintings for hidden messages?”
“No. Well, I don’t think so, anyway. But I did talk to our old friend Malcolm last night. We’re meeting him at a bar this afternoon.”
“A bar?”
“You’ll see. It’ll be fun.”
• • •
Mr. Eliot is at his usual table in Perkatory with his usual copy of the
Times
. When he sees us, he gives us a salute and a sly smile.
In addition to being our English teacher, Mr. Eliot has played an important role in our career as detectives. The whole ring affair got started when I looked out a window in his classroom and screamed (I had my reasons). He has helped us out with clues, smoothed over our troubles with Sister Bernadette, and on one memorable morning, let Margaret stand on his back (we had our reasons).
“The Misses Wrobel and St. Pierre, out on the streets before dawn. What are you two up to? Off to prowl the secret tunnels in Grand Central Station? Interrogate the doorman at the Plaza?”
I shove Margaret up to the counter to buy me a hot chocolate and an éclair.
The new girl, Jaz, takes our order. In contrast to her chipper attitude of a few days earlier, she looks and sounds like she would rather be just about anywhere else on the planet—in the sewers of Rangoon, tied to an anthill in the Australian outback, in that creepy, snake-filled chamber in
Raiders of the Lost Ark
—anyplace other than here.
“Here ya go,” she says, setting our food and drinks on the counter, sans smile.
“Thanks, Jaz,” I say. “You’ll be happy to hear that the Blazers had their first rehearsal the other day.”
“That’s great,” she says with absolutely zero enthusiasm.
“Maybe she’s just not a morning person,” Margaret whispers as we walk away.
Mr. Eliot folds up his paper when we join him at his table. He raises an eyebrow at my éclair. “In training, St. Pierre?”
“Yep.” I take a big, squishy bite, and I am suddenly wishing I had a bagel instead. When I’m an especially good girl, my daddy makes me the real thing; this is nothing more than a tube-shaped doughnut in disguise.
“What brings you two out so early this fine morning?” Mr. Eliot asks.
Margaret squints at him. “Can we trust you?”
“Like Abel trusted Cain.”
Margaret tells him about the package, the letter she received at Mr. Chernofsky’s, the bow, and what Leigh Ann and I learned about the Carnegie Hall theft.
Mr. Eliot whistles. “Holy mackerel. A hot violin!” He leans over and whispers, “How many people know about this?”
“Mr. C., Ben, the four of us, and you,” Margaret says. “And whoever sent the letters.”
“What about Malcolm?” I ask Margaret. “What did you tell him?”
“Only that we were working on something new. I didn’t give him any details. But I trust him.”
“I would think so,” Mr. Eliot says. “Now, where doyou go from here? Even if this Wurstmann is dead, and there’s no insurance, somebody must have a legal claim to the violin. Have you talked to the private investigator yet?”
“Can’t. He died ten years ago,” Margaret answers. “But you see, there’s also this other case we’re working on. It’s for Sister Bernadette. And we really need to get into the school before it’s open. Can you let us in, pretty please?”
“We wouldn’t ask if you weren’t the bestest English teacher who ever learned me,” I add.
Behold the power of mostly sincere flattery.
The basement door is unlocked, and I push it open, cringing as the hinges creak. I shine my light down the stairs so that anything scampering, skittering, or skedaddling
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