Читать книгу The Drowned Violin - H. Mel Malton - Страница 6

A lan and Ziggy and Josée put the luggage down by the door. The virtuoso had deposited Candace on a bench in the entranceway and was swallowed up by a group of adults, who were all shaking his hand. Alan carried the violin case over and handed it directly to Mr. Pratt, who took it with a nod.

“Go on in,” Mrs. Nearing said, and they slipped past the crowd and into a big hallway.

Candace stayed on the bench in a dreamy haze, although Alan privately thought that she was mostly faking the foot thing.

The hallway opened onto a huge living room, crammed with people. There was a floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace and a wall of windows, leading out to a stone patio big enough for a hockey game.

An enormous gas barbecue stood in one corner, by a railing overlooking the lake. To Alan, it looked like a backyard cookout in a movie: too glossy to be real. Everything seemed to be three times its normal size, from the barbecue itself, which was bigger than the whole kitchen counter at home, to the tall stacks of steaks, shrimp, burgers, sausages and vegetable kebabs waiting to be cooked on the grill. No matter how boring the evening might turn out to be, at least the food would be good. Alan’s mouth started watering.

“I’m starving,” he said.

“Me, too,” Ziggy said. They started weaving through the crowd, making for the barbecue.

“What if we meet up with Dylan Weems?” Josée said.

“You won’t—he’s down at the boathouse,” came a girl’s voice from beside them. They turned, and there was Monica Weems, the girl with the red hair from the beach. “My mother said there would be kids my age coming. Hi, Josée.”

”Ça va, Monique?” she said. They both slipped into French, and Alan and Ziggy were lost for a sentence or two.

“Sorry, guys,” Josée said after a moment. “Monica’s in French immersion at her school in Toronto, so we do this sometimes.”

“Makes me feel like a moron,” Ziggy complained.

“It’s not my fault you hate Madame Simard,” she shot back. At their own school, Josée was the French teacher’s pet, according to Ziggy.

“You guys hungry?” Monica said. Good move, Alan thought. Josée and Ziggy were no fun when they got on to that subject.

There was a bar with a friendly bartender, who offered them four kinds of pop, and there was a whole banquet table crowded with salads, breads and desserts. A man in a chef’s hat was in charge of the grill, waving a spatula in the air and occasionally splashing stuff from a bottle onto the cooking meat, which made fragrant flames shoot up into the evening air.

Soon, they all had plates of food. “Let’s go out on the lawn—there’s a place we can eat where there won’t be so many people,” Monica said.

But before they managed to make their way to the end of the patio, someone clinked a glass with a fork to get everybody’s attention, and the crowd went quiet.

Mr. Pratt made his entrance.

“He’s changed his clothes already,” Josée whispered. “Quel show-off.”

“How come you notice these things?” Alan whispered back.

“I’m just observant, that’s all—the way you should be, if you’re planning to open your own detective agency.”

“I’m observant. I just find it hard to look at him. He’s creepy.”

“I’ve met him before,” Monica whispered. “You’re right. Who’s that girl with him?”

“My sister,” Alan said. An adult in front of them turned around and shushed them.

The man who had tinked the glass made a long speech. Alan knew the man must be Monica’s father, Mr. Weems, because she kept making little huffy, embarrassed noises, the longer he went on. Finally he finished, and everybody clapped and started talking again.

“I hate it when he does that,” Monica said. “Come on.” They followed her out onto the lawn to a secluded picnic table by the side of the house.

“This is a staff area, but I like it because it’s quiet,” she said.

Monica told them about her school in the city—the one her mother had attended.

“I don’t know many people up here,” she said. “That’s why I take summer ballet. I’m supposed to make friends.” She said it sadly, as if she hadn’t found any.

“You can come with us when we do stuff, if you want,” Josée said. Alan and Ziggy exchanged dark looks. Monica seemed okay, but four in the canoe would be crowded, and Josée acted more, well, like a girl when there was another girl around. It wasn’t as if Alan and Ziggy were interested in ballet. Alan’s violin lessons were bad enough.

“If I’m allowed,” Monica said, “that would be great.” Alan figured she probably wasn’t allowed to hang around with local kids, anyway. Except for ballet dancers.

“Who were you at the beach with, then?” he asked. Monica looked surprised.

“Oh, I was sort of babysitting—our gardener’s little girl. It was her day off, so my mother volunteered me to go along and look after Taylor. I think mother just wanted me out of the house.”

“Aren’t you a bit young for babysitting?” Ziggy said.

“I’m twelve,” Monica said. “Mother says I act like I’m twenty, though.” There was no answer to that, and anyway, she did seem a lot older than they were. Maybe it was because she was dressed up like Candace was.

“You said you’d met the violinist before,” Alan said. “Have you heard him play?”

“No—I’m not really into classical music,” Monica said. “My father plays opera CDs full blast Saturday mornings and it drives me crazy.”

“Ouch,” Ziggy said.

“Do you like that kind of music?” Monica asked Alan.

“He plays,” Ziggy said.

“I’m lousy at it, though,” Alan said at once. “But I like it if the person playing knows what he’s doing. Or she. My sister’s pretty good.”

“She’s amazing,” Josée said. “She’ll probably be famous like Mr. Pratt, one day.”

“Is that why she was following him around like a puppy dog up there?” Monica said. Yep, Alan thought. Monica Weems acts a lot older than she looks. A lot snobbier, too.

A woman in a glittery dress called to them from the balcony and beckoned to Monica.

“Shoot,” she said. “Mother wants me. You can go get more food if you want. I’ll probably be awhile. Maybe later you can come down to the boathouse with me. See ya.” She left her paper plate on the table and made her way back up to the patio.

“She’s weird,” Ziggy said.

“She’s lonely, that’s all,” Josée said.

They went back for seconds and watched as the guest of honour strolled around, being introduced to people, shaking hands. Every so often he would throw back his head, toss his floppy black hair and laugh at something someone had said. When he did so, every head would turn. He had a weird laugh, slightly metallic, as if the laughter was being piped in through a really tinny pair of speakers.

“Monica was right, Alain,” Josée said, suddenly. A kind of shadow was following the musician around—well not a shadow really, because she was perfectly solid. Candace. She was carrying that black leather briefcase thing, and they saw her bring him a pen when he asked for one, beckoning to her like she was a servant.

“What is with her?” Alan said. “She’s acting like his maid. Is she nuts?”

“A brush with fame will bring you shame,” Ziggy said, in his grandfather voice. “Look, I bet now she’s being asked to do something else.” Mr. Pratt had taken the pen (to autograph a CD), then muttered something quietly to Candace, leaning down to whisper in her ear. Candace became even more radiant as he did so—sort of eager, Alan thought. Like she’s picturing herself as a rising star and Mr. Pratt as the famous coach. She started moving in their direction, although she didn’t notice them as she passed. With a determined look in her eyes, Candace headed for the bar, the leather briefcase slung like a big purse over her shoulder.

“A glass of white wine for Mr. Pratt, please,” she said with confidence. There were two men standing at the bar table, who looked like they were waiting to be served, and she butted right in front of them.

“There’s no way she looks old enough. Even with the makeup,” Josée said.

The bartender picked up one of the open bottles sitting in the ice barrel and poured some wine into a long-stemmed glass. He handed it to Candace without a word and took the next drink order from the man standing behind her. She obviously wasn’t interested in drinking it herself—anyone could see that just by looking at her, Alan thought. She looked like she was carrying something holy. First it was his briefcase. Then his wine glass. What was next? His violin, probably. Which she’d break, then go to jail.

Carrying the Stradivarius violin case in from the van had not been such a big deal. It wasn’t heavy, and he hadn’t felt any strange alien vibrations from the instrument nestled inside. Still, he had to admit he’d felt relieved when he had handed it over to Mr. Pratt in the hallway.

“Hey, we could try what your sister just pulled off, eh?” Ziggy said. “Just go up and ask for a glass of wine for Mr. Pratt.”

“I doubt it would work,” Alan said. “Anyway, who wants to drink wine? Yuck.”

“I’ve tried it,” Josée said. “It’s sour and awful.”

“I just like doing stuff I’m not supposed to do,” Ziggy said.

“Well, not here, okay?” Alan said. “Mom would kill us.”

“And you’d puke,” Josée added.

“So what do we do if Dylan shows up?” Ziggy said when they had refilled their plates. Josée and Alan had slices of chocolate cake, and Ziggy had another pile of shrimp, as well as cake. Alan thought his friend might be sick anyway, even if he didn’t get to try a glass of wine. They stayed up on the patio to eat. The picnic table had felt too private, not a good place to be if Dylan found them.

“Monica said he was in the boathouse,” Josée said.

“Yeah, and she wants to take us down there,” Alan said. “Why?”

“Maybe she wants to lure us into the Weem Team’s torture chamber,” Ziggy said.

“Ew. Quel thought.”

“There she is,” Alan said a few minutes later, pointing. Monica was threading through the crowd, heading straight for Mr. Pratt, who was signing autographs again. Candace was standing at his side like an honour guard. They were standing under a tree at the furthest corner of the patio, just in front of a set of stairs leading down to the waterfront. At the bottom of the stairs was a complicated series of docks, several boats and the boathouse, which was bigger than many of the houses on Alan’s street. The tree was a huge maple, with its branches reaching out over the party-goers, tiny white lights twisted in the branches. A sunset was beginning to develop like a photograph over the lake—it was still light out, but it was that kind of golden light that reminded Alan of warm maple syrup.

When Monica walked up and touched Mr. Pratt’s arm to get his attention, Alan thought he saw his sister stiffen slightly, like Picasso the family cat did when a neighbouring cat invaded his territory.

“What’s she saying, do you think?” Ziggy said.

The violinist bent his head to hear Monica’s message, putting his arm around her shoulders as he did so. Monica leaned away, not looking very happy.

“Hmm,” Josée said. “He is creepy. Touchy-creepy.” Mr. Pratt put his other arm around Candace, who looked a bit unsteady. Alan wondered if her hurt foot was real, after all. The three of them seemed to be having an intense conversation.

“You know, this would be good practice,” Ziggy said.

“For what?”

“For when you’re a detective and you have to keep someone under observation. We should sneak up real close from the other side of the tree without them seeing us, and try to hear what they’re saying.”

“That would be eavesdropping,” Josée said.

“Not for the detective, it wouldn’t be,” Ziggy countered. “We’ll be his assistants. Information gathering, eh?”

“And if they catch us spying on them?”

“We just pretend it was a coincidence. Come on. It’ll be fun.” They wouldn’t really have to do much skulking around, just make their way around the edge of the crowd to where the tree was, then stand behind it. They’d be able to hear everything Mr. Pratt and the girls said.

There were a few people wandering around on the lawn, admiring the flower beds and strolling down the grassy slope, or taking the stairs to look at the boats. Alan began to make his way towards the tree, weaving his way past the chattering groups of adults. Maybe he didn’t have to sneak around at all—real detectives didn’t hide what they were doing, at least not the ones in his favourite books. The P.I. types in books just walked up to a suspect and asked them all sorts of nosy questions. And the people usually answered them, too. But that was when there was a crime under investigation. The only crime here was that Mr. Pratt was being creepy, and probably none of the adults noticed.

“Hey, I thought we were sneaking up on them,” Ziggy said, as Alan changed course.

“I thought it would be easier to go up and say hi, instead of sneaking around,” Alan said. But there was no point in doing either by then, because the next time they got a clear view of the spot under the tree, Hugh Pratt was talking to a husband-and-wife couple in matching shirts, and both girls had disappeared.