The Vanishing Violin Read Free

hand did he use to grab the cleaning supplies?”
    I raise my hand, excited because I think I know the answer. “Call on me! Call on me!”
    Rebecca clunks me on the head with her flashlight. “Suck-up.”
    “Go ahead, Sophie, tell them,” Margaret says primly.
    I point to the shelves where our suspect has stepped with his or her right foot, and then to a shelf at eye level where a right hand has made a clear imprint in the dust. “Based on the angle of the fingers, he was holding on to this shelf with his right hand … which means that he grabbed the bottle of cleaning stuff with his left.”
    Applause from Leigh Ann and Margaret and a hearty Bronx cheer from Becca.
    “There’s one big problem with all this,” she scoffs. “How do you know it wasn’t just the janitor coming down here to get cleaning supplies? Isn’t that what he does? He’s probably down here getting stuff off that shelf every day.”
    Leigh Ann beams. “I’m starting to get this detective stuff. Think about the janitor for a second, Becca.”
    “What about him?”
    “How tall is he?”
    “I dunno. Pretty tall. Definitely over six feet. So?”
    “Soooo, he wouldn’t need to stand on this shelf to reach the top one.”
    “Ohhhhhh,” we chorus.
    “Now can we get the heck out of here?” pleads Leigh Ann. “It’s going to take a gallon of Cleen and Shinee to get these cobwebs out of my hair.”
    As we backtrack through the basement, I give a secret wave at my whiskered friend and whisper, “We’ll be back.”

Chapter 3
Brainiac. Prodigy. Rock band manager. Object of clandestine admiration. Margaret’s résumé continues its relentless expansion
    There is a crowd at Perkatory, the coffee shop just around the corner from St. Veronica’s that is also our favorite after-school hangout, so we don’t get our usual cool-kids’ table. Instead, the four of us squeeze into a love seat covered with fabric that instantly makes me itchy and fidgety—fiditchety.
    “Stop wriggling,” complains Rebecca, who is halfway on my lap.
    “I can’t help it,” I say. “This couch is gross. Let me up—I’m gonna sit on the arm.”
    Rebecca claims my abandoned real estate. “And as long as you’re up, why don’t you go order for us?” She smiles sweetly and flutters her eyelashes at me.
    I bow deeply. “Your wish is my command, O Socially Challenged One.”
    Leigh Ann stands up and takes me by the arm. “Come on, Soph, I’ll go with you.”
    Leigh Ann and I got off to kind of a rocky start, thanks to my irrational, conclusion-jumping alter ego (who looks exactly like me). You see, there’s this boy, Raf, who’s been my friend, like, forever. But while we were busy chasing down the clues to find the ring, I started having these I-want-to-be-more-than-friends thoughts. Constantly. And then I just happened to see Leigh Ann’s cell phone with his number in it, and I basically totally freaked out. Trust me, if you could see the future supermodel that is Leigh Ann, you would understand why I lost it. But everything worked out—for me! (My knees still go a little weak when I think about how well it worked out.) She forgave me for my little journey to jerkdom, and in the weeks since the Unfortunate Misunderstanding, Leigh Ann and I have become great friends. In fact, it feels like she’s been part of our group for ages and ages.
    “Expect a little something extra in your cup,” I say, pantomiming a spit at Rebecca.
    The girl behind the counter is new; she has spiky black hair with a streak of orange, and she’s wearing a faded purple NYU sweatshirt. Leaning over the counter for a closer look at my blazer, she reads the crest.
    “Ah, St. Veronica’s. And the green ones are Faircastle. And maroon is Our Lady of Victory. I had no idea there were so many girls’ schools around here. It’s crazy.”
    While she goes to work on our order, I ask her how she likes NYU. One of my many dreams is to live in the Village, go to New York University,