by Jim Fusilli
The policeman nodded. He would take help from any quarter to get back the Habishaw.
Teddy said, “What about me?”
"You can hang with me and Skeets,” Mr. Z said cheerfully. “I’m making cerkez tavugu. It’s a Turkish dish. A cold chicken salad with onions, walnuts, and paprika. Fresh parsley . . .”
Teddy groaned. In Turkey, it was probably very delicious. . . .
“You can come with us, Ted,” Marley said as she slid off the stool. “Dad, we’re eating out.”
As he collected his DVD, Sgt. Sampson wondered if it’d be okay to ask the Time Traveler’s creator for an autograph.
Maybe he’d get one for his son too.
Mr. Noonan was the last to arrive, and by then it was obvious Miss Otto’s little office near her father’s busy kitchen couldn’t contain the team Marley had assembled: In addition to Mr. Noonan, who seemed surprisingly spry in his sky-blue Oxford, khakis and boating shoes, Marley, Teddy and Miss Otto were joined by Marisol and her mother, who rushed over from the little storefront boutique where she worked, terribly worried but eager to help. She clasped her hands nervously on the lap of her long skirt, which was the color of a sunflower and ringed at the hem in ruby red that matched her cotton blouse and soft shoes.
Marisol, coincidentally, wore the same clothes she had on the security videos Sgt. Sampson had presented. Marley noted that her friend still seemed exhausted, as she had throughout the school day. The ordeal continued to weigh heavily on her mind.
“Pop,” Miss Otto protested now. “This isn’t necessary.”
“Not necessary!” he sang, with typical melodramatic flair. “My friend Marley is conducting an investigation. We cannot have six good people standing around a desk.”
Marley understood the vice principal’s point: Though it was a busy Friday night, her father had placed them at a prime space in his small dining room—the only table for six. This meant six customers would either have to wait outside or they’d just go off to another Italian restaurant. There were only about a million of them in New York City, and about half were on the Upper West Side.
To be honest, Marley knew Mr. Otto would do this if his daughter’s office couldn’t hold the team. She didn’t want to take advantage of his generosity, but she needed help from smart, well-meaning people who could look at things from different points of view. She’d try to make it a short meeting.
“Vivi!” Antonio said, as he tugged the bottom of his chef’s jacket. “You come with me.”
Five minutes later, the Ottos returned with two platters of Italian delicacies: mint frittatas that looked like slices of quiche; yellow peppers stuffed with anchovies and pine nuts; an octopus-and-potato salad; fried zucchini sprinkled with pecorino cheese; and more.
A tantalizing aroma rose to greet them.
“For our good neighbors!” Mr. Otto said, as he began to withdraw. “Tutti mangia! Everybody eat!”
“My father . . . ,” Miss Otto said, shaking her head.
“My word, Viv!” Mr. Noonan exclaimed. “Don’t you even think of apologizing for this.”
Marisol smiled uncomfortably. She couldn’t believe Mr. Noonan was showing such enthusiasm. I guess, she thought, you just never know about teachers. . . .
“I think,” Marley began, “we all agree that Marisol is not a thief.”
“An unwitting agent,” Teddy said. He was seated at Marley’s right elbow at the round table.
“Meaning somebody made her do it,” Marley continued. “Against her will.”
She waited until her algebra teacher finished a bruschetta made with fava-bean paste and flat-leaf parsley. “Mr. Noonan, we know you were interviewed by the NYPD and the FBI. Correct?”
“And the insurance company. They all told me they’re questioning dealers to see if there’s been any noise about the Habishaw. So far, no one has tried to sell it.”
“But don’t these dealers work with legitimate buyers?” Miss Otto asked. “How would they know—?”
“Oh, they know,” he said. “It’s their job to know what’s coming on the market, whether legally or not. It’s a fairly small community.”
“They would buy something from a thief?” Mrs. Poveda asked.
Marley noticed she had only taken a few thin breadsticks.
“They might, but at great risk,” Mr. Noonan replied. “That dealer’s reputation would be ruined if he were caught. The NYPD is being very aggressive.”
“After talking to the curator at the Met, I have the impression we’d be in worse shape if this wasn’t a professional job,” Marley said. “You know, if she just grabbed it and turned it over to a plain old thief.”
“Could be,” Mr. Noonan said. “Fifty years ago, a thief sold a Stradivarius to a violinist for only one hundred dollars. The violinist kept it out of public view for almost five decades.”
“One hundred dollars?” Miss Otto asked.
Mr. Noonan nodded. “Typically, they sell for one and a half million dollars or so.”
“Well, this scheme is too elaborate for that kind of block-head, ” Teddy said.
“The point is that the Stradivarius was missing for nearly fifty years,” Mr. Noonan said.
“At least it wasn’t destroyed,” Marley said.
Marisol moaned.
“If this is a well-organized plot conceived by a professional who wants to profit from the theft of the Habishaw, we’ll be fine,” Mr. Noonan said. “The police are looking over the shoulders of dealers who might be involved in that kind of scheme. They can intervene when a deal is struck. But if it’s some weirdo who likes to steal things for who knows what bizarre reason . . .”
“Going back to Marley’s earlier point,” Miss Otto said. “Since we agree someone made Marisol take the violin, I think the question we have to ask is: who? Whether he’s a professional thief or not.”
Marisol sighed in relief, pleased that Miss Otto, whom she had come to respect, believed she wasn’t a criminal.
“Or why, if it was not for the money?” Mrs. Poveda added.
“Who and why,” Mr. Noonan repeated. He lifted a paper-thin slice of prosciutto from the serving platter and placed it on his plate.
Marley edged her elbows onto the table. She nodded toward Mr. Noonan, who kept chewing as he put down his fork to reach beneath the table for his bag.
“Sgt. Sampson told us you remember nothing, Marisol,” Marley said while they waited.
“I don’t even remember not remembering,” she replied.
Teddy frowned in confusion.
“But I know what I did on Tuesday,” Marisol continued. “From the moment I woke up until the moment I went to sleep.”
“Even at 4:46?” Marley asked. That, according to the security videos, was the precise time the Habishaw was stolen.
“At 4:46, I was going from my violin lesson to the greengrocer, ” she replied. “I told Sgt. Sampson . . .”
“We know you did,” Miss Otto said gently, casting an eye across the table toward Marley.
Mr. Noonan passed a small manila envelope to Marisol. Her mother watched as she opened it
Carefully, she slid onto the table the photos of the Habishaw violin that Mr. Noonan had taken at the Fiske Museum and Juilliard.
Marisol studied the six photos, one at a time, spending almost a half minute with each. Then she looked at each one again, this time passing them one by one to her mother.
A waiter who had brought a bread basket to a table at the front of the restaurant stopped briefly to peer at the pictures too. So did Mr. Otto when he walked by with a bottle of red wine.
Her voice flat with resignation, Marisol said, “I know this is the Habishaw. I saw it online. It’s beautiful. Magnificent. And the bloodstain . . . But I don’t remember touching it.”
“Can you imagine it in your hands, Marisol?” Marley asked. “If you close your eyes . . .”
They all watched as Marisol closed her eyes. But rather than put her hands down near her belt when she held
the Habishaw after taking it from the display case, she held them high, as if she were about to play it—violin in her left hand and nestled under her chin, bow in her right.
Her mother’s bottom lip trembled.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I just can’t remember.”
Marley said, “Maybe it doesn’t matter if you played it. . . .”
“It does if the man who made her take it wanted to hear her play it,” said Miss Otto.
“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, Marisol,” Mr. Noonan said, “but as promising a musician as you may be, there are many violinists in New York more suited to an instrument of the Habishaw’s heritage. The police are considering the possibility that one would consort with a black marketer just to play it. I don’t agree, but . . .”
Marley said, “Well, that brings us to another question: Why Marisol?”
Mrs. Poveda said, “You mean why did this man . . . ?” She turned to her daughter and whispered, “Recluta.” When Marisol gave her the word in English, she continued. “Why did this man recruit my daughter?”
“Exactly,” Marley said.
“Oh,” Teddy groaned. “Now there’re three things we don’t know.” He counted on his fingers. “One: Who took the bloodstained violin? Two: Why did he take it? And three: Why did he involve Marisol Poveda?”
Marley looked beyond Marisol and her mother to the front of the restaurant. Even though it wasn’t yet seven o’clock, every table was filled. A crowd was waiting outside too, tempted by the scent of fresh seafood, garden-grown herbs and vegetables sautéed lightly with garlic.
Standing, she thanked Miss Otto and Mr. Noonan, who nodded as he continued to sample the scrumptious items on the platters. “I think we can continue this some other place,” she said.
Miss Otto stood too. “You’ve had enough, Ira, I hope.”
Mr. Noonan said, “Well, if you’re offering . . .”
With a simple flick of her wrist, she summoned a waitress who began to help her clear the table.
As the three students led Mrs. Poveda out of the restaurant, Marley heard a voice.
Antonio Otto’s, of course.
“Marley, wait.”
In his hand was a plastic bag, the kind used for take-out food.
“You were going to leave without saying good-bye?”
“You seemed awfully busy, Mr. Otto.”
His voice booming, he said, “Marley Zimmerman, I am never too busy for you!” He thrust his index finger toward the sky.
Marley and Teddy trailed the Povedas along Columbus Avenue. Their meeting would continue at their apartment, minus Miss Otto and Mr. Noonan.
“What’s in the bag?” Teddy asked. “Did you look?”
“Don’t have to. It’s stracciatella. Italian egg-drop soup. It’s fantastic.”
“Incredible,” he said, shaking his head, his mop of black hair reflecting the evening sun.
“What’s incredible,” Marley replied, “is every minute we spend coming up with more questions than answers—”
“—is another minute closer to when the Habishaw might be gone forever,” Teddy said.
“Gone forever,” Marley repeated, “and Marisol will be blamed.”
chapter 10
It’s frustrating,” Marley said as they sat on the floor in Marisol’s room, her parents at the door. “I mean, what is the motivation? That’s what I can’t figure. . . . The thief can’t sell it—at least, not for a ton of money. The police are watching the dealers and collectors who’d want it.”
“So it’s not a commodity,” Teddy noted.
Mrs. Poveda translated for her husband. In turn, he whispered something to her in Spanish.
“My husband says it could be a commodity one day,” she said. “It has great value.”
“Yes, exactly,” Marley replied. “But is this kind of thief patient? Can he wait years, maybe, to sell it? I wonder. . . .”
Marisol said, “Maybe it is someone who wanted to damage the reputation of Juilliard.”
“That’s a good suggestion,” Teddy said. “I bet Sgt. Sampson is looking into that. And Juilliard’s security, too.”
“On the other hand, anyone who loves—no, is obsessed with—the violin would want to have it,” Marisol said. “The Habishaw is very special.”
“But not everyone who fits in that category is a thief,” Marley said.
“So a violin lover who is a thief,” Teddy nodded. “Who also knows Marisol.”
“And who can undo the top of a display case and make smoke billow into Juilliard’s lobby,” Marley added. “And trick Marisol into stealing the Habishaw.”
Marley turned to Marisol. “Do you know anyone who fits that description?” she asked.
“No. Of course not,” Marisol replied. “How could there be such a person?”
Teddy agreed. “It does sound like one of your father’s characters, ” he said to Marley. “Maybe we should go back to the idea that what was stolen was five hundred thousand dollars sitting in the cube.”
“Yes,” Marley nodded, “and to the question Mrs. Poveda asked in the restaurant: Why did he involve Marisol, and not just any ol’ unwitting agent?”
“Perhaps because I could care for it?” Marisol suggested.
“Marisol,” Teddy said, “you were kind of rough with it.”
Marley jumped to her feet. “That’s key,” she said, pointing at Teddy. “Whoever told Marisol to steal it didn’t tell her to take care of it.”
As if encouraged, Mrs. Poveda said, “Yes. True.”
“So it’s not someone who loves the violin,” Teddy said.
“Scratch that off our list,” Marley said. “We’re talking about a thief who can get into Juilliard, open a display case and make smoke appear. And trick Marisol.”
Mrs. Poveda looked at her husband, who was struggling to follow the conversation.
Marisol said, “Papá, Marley dijo que es la persona— ”
Before she could finish translating, Marisol’s cell phone let out a distinctive ring.
“Miss Otto,” she said as she scrambled to her feet. The phone was on her belt, ready to be grabbed by her right hand, like a gunfighter in a cowboy movie.
“I told you,” Teddy whispered to Marley. “She knows who it is by the ring tone.”
They all did their best to avoid eavesdropping on Marisol’s conversation. Of course, they all heard every word she said. “Yes. . . . Yes. . . . Thank you. . . . I will. . . . Yes.” Taking a quick look at the phone, she added, “Yes. I have it now. . . . Yes. Good night.”
When she snapped the phone back on her belt, she said, “Miss Otto. I can call her for help, if I have to.” She turned to her parents. “You are always welcome at Antonio’s.”
Her parents nodded in gratitude.
Turning to Marley and Teddy, she said, “Violin Concerto No. 23. By Giovanni Viotti. It’s a way to help me remember composers. ”
“And Viotti and Miss Otto are both Italian,” Marley said. “A memory aid. Interesting. . . .”
Three hours later, Marley was back in her room. Down the hall, Skeeter was snug in her crib, plump stuffed animals with goofy-bright smiles watching over her. Their parents were out to dinner, enjoying their Friday night date. As Marley’s father once said, “Your mother is so busy, and travels so often, that I have to book time on her calendar.” Marley didn’t mind sitting for Skeeter. It made her feel like she’d earned her allowance.
In order to think hard and clear, Marley decided to block out all of her usual fun distractions. So she ignored the TV in the living room, and turned off the monitor on her computer so she couldn’t see if new e-mails and IMs had arrived. Face-book and MySpace would have to wait until tomorrow, and so would her crazy-quilt CD collection, which now included blues by Taj Mahal she downloaded and the Prokofiev piece her mother burned for her.
So Marley was surrounded mostly by quiet. She heard only the air-conditioning that hummed low throughout the house and, every now
and then, a car whooshing by. If there was any kind of event or celebration over in Central Park—and there usually was in the warm weather—she couldn’t tell.
Now, as stripes of light from the flickering lamp outside the Zimmermans’ brownstone spread across her rug, Marley sat on her bed and tickled the silence by strumming her guitar, forming chords without thinking about them.
A thief who can open a display case and make smoke appear. And trick Marisol, she thought. But no new images appeared, and time passed unproductively. Which annoyed her: None of the Zimmermans liked to waste time.
She wriggled off her bed and returned her guitar to its stand over in the corner where it was guarded by a framed poster of Mike Bartlett and a clunky robot from the 1939 World’s Fair. On the way back, she retrieved Marisol’s diary from her desk.
Where were you? Marley thought. You were supposed to be at your lesson before you took the Habishaw. Where did you go instead?
She looked at the paper:
Leave for Riverside Dr. for violin lessons
55 w/ Mr. Gabor
Food shopping
Home at 5:45, as usual—confirmed by my dad
You left school at 3:15, and you were at Juilliard at 4:46, Marley continued. Where were you for an hour and a half?
Interrupting the silence in her room, Marley said, “I have no idea.”
Flummoxed, she thought. That’s the word.
“I’m totally flummoxed.”
She dropped Marisol’s diary sheet on her desk and padded down the hall to see Skeeter. Tiptoeing into the room, she found her sister on her side, purring like a contented kitten, her hands folded together under her cheek. The sweet moon nightlight their mother had bought on a trip to Tanzania cast a gold glow onto the crib. The stars on the mobile Marley and her father had made with aluminum from soda cans reflected on the ceiling.
“Man,” Marley whispered, “Skeets even smiles in her sleep.”
The thought revived her drooping spirits a bit, and as she returned to her room, she decided to think about what she had achieved, and not so much about what she hadn’t.
The important thing was that Sgt. Sampson and Miss Otto believed in Marisol. And the man behind the theft had become a little bit clearer, at least to her mind.
