Читать книгу The Drowned Violin - H. Mel Malton - Страница 4

A bright green canoe sliced through the waters of Steamboat Lake, the three canoeists paddling hard, as if they were racing. There was no other boat in sight, though.

“Hey, you guys! Stop paddling for a second,” said the kid in the stern. He plunged his paddle straight down into the water, putting on the brakes. “There’s something weird floating in the water over there, see it?”

Alan and Josée, in bow and centre, quit and turned to look at Ziggy, who was pointing with his paddle.

“Zig, come on! We have to get to the dock before my mom shows up,” Alan said. Then he turned back to his work, making a face like a camel to blow a flop of hair out of his eyes, a habit that drove his mother crazy. They were all eleven years old—classmates and summer friends. It was Ziggy’s canoe—on permanent loan from his grandfather.

“No wait, I see it,” Josée said. “It looks dead, whatever it is.” Alan stopped in mid-stroke and turned back to look. Dead? His heart told him that if he wasn’t there on the dock at five o’clock, his mom would have a nuclear meltdown, but his brain wasn’t listening. Something was floating there, for sure—off to the right, or starboard, as Ziggy would insist on saying. Something too interesting for a detective-type like himself, destined to be a private eye, to ignore.

Ziggy and Josée did something complicated with their paddles to bring the canoe closer. The thing in the water did look dead, as Josée had said, but it wasn’t a beaver or a duck. In fact, Alan didn’t think it was an animal at all. It looked oddly familiar.

The bow of the canoe came within a paddle’s distance, and Alan reached his paddle out to bring the thing in. It was floating just below the surface, with a smooth curve like a belly poking up and catching the late afternoon light, shining in a way that suggested something hard—not fur, but wood, maybe, or plastic. He placed his paddle across the gunwales and stretched his right arm out over the side of the canoe to get hold of it. It wasn’t a dead animal, that was for sure, or he would never have put his hand anywhere near it. It looked like a box. A jewellery box, maybe, from some long-ago sunken steamer trunk? Something full of diamonds, or stolen rubies? The wake from the canoe was making the thing bob further away. Alan’s imagination went into overdrive, and he stretched just a little more than was smart.

“Hey, watch it, Nearing, you moron. You’re tipping us.” Almost too late, Alan pulled his hand back and shifted his body back into the centre of the canoe. At the same time, the thing turned over, like a hooked trout does just before it makes a dive for the bottom.

“Holy cow—it’s a violin!” Alan shouted. There was no doubt about it. It was obviously broken—the whole bottom half of the thing was smashed in, but what remained of it was unmistakably violin-shaped—that distinctive curve, the long neck (broken, too) with the curly wooden carving at the end, and the pegs to hold the strings.

“Sans blague?” Josée said, doing another sideways paddle-stroke. “Let’s move in again, Zig, so Alain can grab it. Just don’t lean out so much this time, hey?”

“What’s a violin doing in the middle of Steamboat Lake?” Alan said, reaching again.

“How should I know? I’m just the driver,” Ziggy said, doing his grandfather-impression. “Okay, grab it now!” Alan tried, and this time his fingers closed around the neck, but the violin gave a slight twitch, as if it were alive, and slipped out of his grasp. And this time, the thing didn’t turn over, it simply sank, quickly and decisively, like the Titanic.

“Crud,” Alan said. “So much for that. We’ll never know what that was all about now—it must be about fifty feet deep here.”

“Too bad,” Josée said. “But you have one of your own already. That one didn’t look like it could be fixed.”

“Oh, I don’t think it was a valuable violin,” Alan said. “The pegs were plastic, I think, and it had that look, you know, like the cheap ones have. Still, it was very weird to find it floating out in the middle of the lake.”

“Yeah, well, weird or not,” Ziggy said, “we’d better get going. You’ll be lucky if your Mom doesn’t break your neck just like that drowned fiddle.”

“Hey, you were the one who had to stop . . .” Alan said.

“Mes amis . . .” Josée said. “Don’t argue, paddle!” They did.

They were quite a long way out from shore, just coming around a rocky outcrop before preparing to make a straightaway for McGregor beach. From there, it would be a brief paddle up the Kuskawa River to the dock by the boathouse, where Ziggy had permission to keep his canoe for the summer. Without the delay, they could have made it on time. Alan could just hear his mom—“you are such a difficult person,” she would say. “I can’t rely on you, and that means it’s difficult for me to give you any leeway.” What she would mean was that he was about to be grounded until he was twenty-seven. Especially if she found out they’d been canoeing out of bounds, out on the lake past the beach.

The green canoe entered the channel at MacGregor Beach at a pretty impressive speed, considering the size of the paddlers.

Alan and Ziggy had been spending their summers in Ziggy’s canoe out at Mud Lake since they were nine. This year, for the first time, Ziggy’s grandfather had allowed them to keep the canoe in town, by the river. Josée’s mother was okay with it (she had said “my daughter was born in a canoe”), so the three of them had been given the go-ahead to paddle down the river as far as McGregor beach, as long as they wore life jackets absolutely always.

They had taken a safety course. They had been given certificates. They were also very determined people, which is why Alan’s mom (the only holdout) had eventually said, “Okay, you can paddle your own canoe,” which she seemed to think was extremely funny.

On the river, they could go wherever they wanted, no yellow lines to keep to one side of, no pushy mountain bikers or big speeding cars or skateboard bylaw officers. The only thing they had to watch out for on the water was the Weem Team.

Unfortunately, just as they rounded the bend and canoed past a small group of kids on the beach, the Weem Team found them, and they were toast in two minutes.

They had come from nowhere, like they usually did, riding their jet skis in formation like a bunch of bikers in a gang. Dylan Weems was their leader, a big fifteen-year-old. Dylan and his gang of four spent each summer on the water, chasing loons, ducks and kids in canoes. So far, the marine patrol hadn’t caught them, but Alan and his friends hoped it would only be a matter of time.

They buzzed across the bow of the canoe, Dylan in the lead, howling like a wolf and creating a circle of heavy waves. Alan, Josée and Ziggy did their best to stay upright, but it was no use. It was like trying to ride out a storm on the ocean, the waves coming at all angles. Over they went, to a chorus of loud “Woo-hoooo” noises from the Weem Team. The kids watching on the shore had stood up to get a better look, pointing and putting their hands up to their mouths as if they were watching a nasty road accident and expected to see blood.

“They’re probably hoping we’ll drown,” Ziggy muttered through a mouthful of water. This was just like the worst-case-scenario they had been taught to deal with on the canoe safety course, but it was way harder in the middle of the Kuskawa River than it had been on that safe, sandy beach last summer. It was harder, too, with a bunch of people watching and a gang of bullies on jet skis like a swarm of angry hornets, waiting to see if they had stung you hard enough. There was an adult on the beach, too, who started waving his arms and yelling, but the Weem Team just laughed at him and roared away, heading back out to the lake.

Treading water, the kids worked together on one side, rocking the canoe back and forth rapidly so that the water sloshed out of it in waves like soda spilling from a too-full cup. After a moment or two, there was enough water removed for the canoe to be a little bit buoyant again, and Alan and Ziggy vaulted back into it on the count of three—one from each side at the exact same moment so that they didn’t tip it again. Then they leaned out on opposite sides to steady the boat as Josée clambered in. They had kept hold of their paddles, thank goodness (because as Ziggy said afterwards, they would have looked like complete morons, trying to paddle to shore with their hands). Also, fortunately, Ziggy, the smart guy, always kept a small bail-bucket (a scooped out Fleecy bottle, with a handle) on a line attached to the rear seat. As soon as they were in, Josée started bailing, and Ziggy and Alan started paddling, heading for shore.

The really unfortunate part of the whole thing was that the closest landing-place was the one at MacGregor beach, where about a dozen people were standing by, gawking. Nobody looked familiar. Summer visitors, most likely—city kids, who probably thought they were bumpkins anyway, little Laingford versions of Red Green.

The canoe reached the shore quickly, and they got out, and together hoisted the boat to waist height, tipped it to get rid of the rest of the water and launched it again. Then an amazing thing happened. The people on the beach applauded—all of them. They clapped and cheered as if Alan, Josée and Ziggy had just won a marathon or something.

“Way to go!” one of them shouted—a red-haired girl about their age in a green bikini.

“Those guys should be arrested,” another girl called.

“Woo hoo!” the others sang. This was different from the “Woo hoo” noise the Weem Team had made while they were buzzing the canoe. This was a cheerleader kind of noise—a “Yay for our side” noise. Alan looked up in surprise and saw that Ziggy and Josée were grinning as widely as he was.

“Hey,” Ziggy said. “Good work, guys. They like us, eh?”

“That’ll cheese off the Weem Team,” Alan said.

“Sans blague. That redhead is Dylan’s sister,” Josée said.

“We’d better get going,” Alan said. “We still have about two minutes before my mom goes totally postal.”

The red-haired girl waved as they paddled away, and Josée waved back.

“Her name’s Monica,” she said. “She’s in my ballet class. She’s sympathique, even though she’s a rich kid with a creepy older brother.” They were paddling hard now, going fast enough to create a bow-wave. Around a bend in the river, they could finally see the boathouse dock.

“There’s your mom,” Ziggy said. “Set your phasers on stun, people, she’s ready to blow.”

“Alan Michael Nearing, you are such a difficult person,” she said, as soon as they got close enough for her to be heard. “I can’t rely on you, at all, can I?”

“I’m really sorry, Mom,” Alan said at once. Excuses were worth trying, but it was always a good idea to apologize first. Mrs. Mary-Anne Nearing had a thing about manners.

“I should blooming well think so,” she said. People sometimes asked Alan how come he didn’t have an English accent, like his mother did. “It’s because she was born there,” he said. “I was born in Laingford, so I sound like this.” He could do a pretty good English accent, though, if he tried. He didn’t try anything like that now, though.

“We got swamped, Madame Nearing,” Josée said. She was the best of the three of them in dealing with parents. Alan thought it was because she always called them Madame or M’sieu. “A boat went past trop vite, and the waves tipped us over.”

Mrs. Nearing’s attitude changed from annoyance to worry in a split second, but that was a problem, too.

“I just knew it was dangerous letting you three out there on your own in a canoe,” she said. “I knew we were taking a big risk—you’re too young. You could have drowned. Are you all right?” Alan gave the others a warning look, which meant “no details”. No telling her they were being harrassed by Dylan Weems and his thugs, and no telling her that the dunking had been on purpose. If they told the whole story, they’d never be allowed back in the canoe all summer—at least nowhere further than the end of Ziggy’s grandfather’s dock, out in the wilderness on boring old Mud Lake.

“We’re fine, Mom. Really. We did the routine, you know, the bail and scoop thing, and we were back in the boat in about two minutes. Everything’s okay, and we were wearing our life jackets the whole time.”

Mrs. Nearing’s eyes narrowed as she absorbed this information. “Well, if you were back in the boat in two minutes, then it wasn’t that which made you late, was it?” Ouch. Too much information, handed over too quickly, without thinking it over first, Alan thought, referring to a handbook he had at home called “How to be an Effective Operative”.

“I guess we just lost track of the time,” Alan said. “Really, we’re sorry.” They were out of the boat and up onto the dock. Together, they pulled the canoe up out of the water and carried it into the boathouse, Ziggy locking the door behind him with his own key. Then Alan hugged his mom—sort of an air-hug, as she was dressed in nice clothes, and his T-shirt and shorts were soaking wet. This was the right move, and he saw that she was softening. He decided to press his luck.

“We still have time to change before the train gets here, though, right? And can Ziggy and Josée come to this thing with us? I have to have someone to talk to, you know. Candace will be all over this violin guy.”

“She’d better not be,” his mom said. “I don’t want either of you pestering him. He’s a virtuoso, and they’re very highly strung.”

“Like his Stradivarius violin, eh?” Ziggy said, who had heard all about the famous violinist from Alan. The virtuoso, Hugh Pratt, was coming to town to perform in a concert specially arranged by the Laingford Music Appreciation Society. A local businessman had donated a huge amount of money to hire a whole orchestra and a conductor to come up from the city, Alan had said. Mrs. Nearing, who was the vice-president of the Society, had volunteered to pick Pratt up at the train station and had volunteered her kids to help carry the luggage. They would be expected to attend the welcoming reception, too. Alan knew his sister Candace would be into it, but he wasn’t. He liked the Music Society concerts, but their social events were boring—definitely not kid-friendly.

That was why Alan had promised not to be late—not to hold things up so that Hugh Pratt would not be left waiting at the station. He looked at his watch (still ticking after being dunked in the river), and it was only a quarter after five, so they were only fifteen minutes later than he’d said they would be.

“When’s the train, Mom? We do have time still, right?”

Mrs. Nearing grinned suddenly, a sly glint in her eye. “The train’s not till six,” she said. “I knew you’d be late, my lad, no matter what kind of threats I threw at you. So you three have exactly half an hour to dry off and put on something decent before we have to leave. Yes, Ziggy and Josée can come, if you have something clean in that disgusting room of yours that will fit them.”

“Sweet!” Alan said.

“Indeed. You’ll be sweeter after a shower, I think. You smell like gasoline, all of you.”

“It’s that pure, clean Kuskawa water, Mrs. Nearing,” Ziggy said, grinning. “With a little jet ski fuel mixed in.”

“Don’t get me started on the environmental stuff, Ziggy,” she said. “I can’t afford to let my blood pressure rise right now. I need to be all calm and pleasant and civilized for the Society’s reception.”

“Where’s the party being held this year, Mom?” Alan asked. “It was at the Mooseview last year,” he added in an aside to the others. “The food was amazing.”

“Oh, you’ll like it, I promise you, love,” she said. “It’s at Giles Weems’s place—that enormous mansion on the lake. I believe he has a teenaged son, Dylan. Do you know him? And I know they’ve got a pool table down in the basement. You’ll find plenty to do.”