Читать книгу The Drowned Violin - H. Mel Malton - Страница 7

Alan felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around, and it was Monica.

“I thought you’d like to know, Mr. Pratt is playing for the guests out on the patio in a little while, if you want to stay and hear it. We can go down to the boathouse later, okay?” She smiled and slipped away.

“Great. She snuck up on us,” Ziggy said. “She wouldn’t even have seen us if we’d been doing it the right way.”

“That was nice of her,” Josée said. “I wouldn’t mind hearing what a million dollars sounds like.”

“I doubt you could tell the Stradder is worth a million bucks, just by hearing it,” Ziggy said.

“Can you imagine—all that money for a musical instrument?” Josée said. “When there are children starving in the Third World?”

“Do you think these people care about that?” Ziggy said. “How could you live in a house like this and at the same time be worried about starving Third World people?”

“Monica cares,” Josée said. “She’s really into that stuff. She joined the Peace Child International website and everything. You should ask her about it, Zig.”

“It must be hard to be rich if you feel like that, eh?” he said. “Does she send them her allowance or something?”

“Ask her—here she comes.”

“Let’s go and grab a bench before they all get taken,” Monica said, grabbing Josée’s arm and dragging her up the stairs onto the patio. Alan and Ziggy followed. Monica looked at Alan. “He asked your sister to go get the violin from his room. Is she like his personal assistant or something?”

“She seems to think so,” Alan said.

“Sucks being her,” Monica said. Alan wasn’t allowed to use that word, and neither were the others. “Anyway,” Monica went on, “he’s going to play a caterpillar or something.”

“A capella, probably,” Alan said. “It means unaccompanied. By himself.”

“You sound just like your violin teacher,” Ziggy said, laughing.

“A capella . . . that sounds like what he said. I always feel stupid at these things, but Mother always wants me to ‘mingle’. She says it’s a social skill I’m supposed to learn, but I’m not very good at it.”

“Hey, you can mingle with us any time,” Josée said.

“Yeah. We’ll be the four minglers,” Ziggy said. Traitor, Alan thought.

“Regarde, Alain. Not every female in the world is a big fan of Mr. Pratt, I see,” Josée said.

Mr. Pratt was having some sort of confrontation with a very angry young woman with short blonde hair and glasses, who was standing very close to him.

“What do you think, Monsieur le détective? Lovers’ tiff?”

“I think she’s one of the members of the orchestra,” Alan said. “I helped do the set-up stuff when the orchestra members came up to Laingford a couple of days ago, for the rehearsal. And I remember meeting her. She’s the first chair violin. She’s really good.” And she—her name was Annette something—had also been really nice to Alan, treating him like someone whose opinion mattered. He had been setting up the strings of little clip-on lights that were attached to the orchestra music stands, so that they would be able to read the music when the stage lights were dim. She had come onstage early, had her case open and was cursing quietly to herself, and he’d looked up to see if he had done something wrong.

“Oh, it’s not you,” she’d said, when she saw his stricken face. “I just forgot to loosen one of my bows yesterday. Really stupid. Now the hairs are stretched, and it’s toast. I’ll have to get it restrung.”

“Oh, I do that all the time,” Alan had said, without thinking.

“You play, do you?” They had chatted about music and instruments, and Alan had given her the name of the violin guy who did repairs for the music shop in Laingford.

“Well, whoever she is, she’s really mad, I think,” Josée said.

Annette wasn’t shouting at Mr. Pratt, exactly, but people were looking.

She suddenly seemed to realize they were being watched, laughed a little recklessly and turned to go, almost knocking over Candace, who had returned carrying the Stradivarius case. Mr. Pratt leaped forward to save the instrument, which had started to fall to the ground, throwing his arms around the instrument and Candace herself.

Annette spun around to face him again, with a snarl on her face that Alan, even some distance away, thought was frightening.

“Flirting with the girls again, Hugh? Haven’t you learned yet?” This time her voice was loud enough to make sure everybody heard. Conversations stopped. “But oh, yes, I forgot,” she went on, still at full volume, “that’s how you won the competition in the first place, isn’t it? Too bad you didn’t win based on your talent.” With that she turned once more and made a fast exit, almost tripping on the steps by the patio doors. A man wearing a black leather jacket—Alan thought he was one of the other orchestra players—stepped out of one of the silent, watching groups and followed her.

“Wow,” said Ziggy. “That was better than Masterpiece Theatre. Flirting with the girls, eh? I bet Candace doesn’t mind.”

“My mom would,” Alan said, looking around to see if he could spot her in the crowd.

Monica made a choked, laughing sound.

Mr. Pratt watched Annette retreat up the steps, shook his head sadly, then touched Candace’s shoulder.

“An old flame,” he said, loudly enough for everybody watching to hear. “And she’s probably had too much to drink. She’s a little on the flaky side at the best of times. Sorry about that. You’re okay, eh?” Candace just nodded and gave him a radiant smile.

Alan remembered the way he had felt when they came into the house, like he was in the middle of a movie set, everything too big and shiny. He felt like that again, now. The whole day had been so—dramatic. Starting from the moment that he and Ziggy and Josée had found the broken, drowned violin in the water, then Dylan Weems and his friends swamping the canoe, then meeting Mr. Pratt at the train station, and all the stuff about the stupid Stradder violin, and now this scene like a soap opera right in front of them. He felt tired, suddenly.

Still, there was a plus side. He was with his friends, he was anything but bored, and Hugh Pratt, virtuoso violinist, was about to give everybody a free concert. He may not be a great violin student, but he did like to hear good playing—it made shivers run up and down his spine. He didn’t want to be a concert violinist himself, but hearing one made him feel like he was part of a special kind of club.

Mr. Pratt had tuned the violin quietly in a corner of the patio, and stood now with head bowed, holding the Stradder at his side. Mr. Weems got up to speak again. He was a very large man, with steel grey, crew-cut hair and one of those necks that seemed to be as wide as his head.