Chapter 3 - THE LABEL BENEATH THE WOOD
The gala could wait.
At least for seven minutes.
That was how Eleanor Hayes operated.
When she wanted an answer, schedules became flexible.
She had the damaged violin brought into a private office behind the orchestra hall.
Vanessa tried to follow.
Eleanor stopped her at the door.
“You stay outside.”
Mom protested.
“She’s family.”
“So is Claire.”
The door closed.
I almost thanked her.
Inside, Maestro Cole stood beside a man I had seen around the orchestra several times but never formally met.
Dr. Julian Rosen.
Violin maker.
Restorer.
Appraiser.
The kind of person museums called before moving anything older than the United States.
He wore white gloves.
Grandpa’s violin rested beneath a lamp.
Seeing it again hurt more than I expected.
The neck had separated near the body.
The bridge lay loose.
One edge of the top plate had cracked.
Julian leaned closer.
“I need to ask you some questions.”
“Okay.”
“Where did your grandfather get this?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“Did he buy it?”
“I think so.”
“When?”
“Before I was born.”
Julian adjusted the light.
“There is a repair label inside from 1951.”
Eleanor leaned beside me.
Julian continued.
“That isn’t unusual.”
“Then why is everyone acting strange?”
He looked at me.
“Because beneath that repair label is evidence of an older maker’s inscription.”
My heart started beating faster.
“Who?”
“We don’t know yet.”
He carefully angled a fiber-optic light through the damaged section.
“But the construction is Italian.”
Maestro Cole folded his arms.
“Early nineteenth century?”
“Possibly late eighteenth.”
I stared.
“My grandfather said it was German.”
“Many old instruments were misidentified, especially decades ago.”
I almost laughed.
“So Vanessa may have broken something more valuable?”
Julian gave me a cautious look.
“Value is not the first concern.”
“It is definitely going to become my mother’s first concern.”
That made Eleanor smile despite herself.
Julian inspected the rib structure.
“I cannot authenticate it here.”
“How long?”
“Days if we’re lucky. Weeks if documentation is poor.”
I looked at the broken wood.
“Can it be repaired?”
That was the question that actually mattered.
His expression softened.
“Yes.”
My chest loosened.
“It will never be untouched again.”
“I know.”
“But damaged does not mean destroyed.”
I closed my eyes.
For the first time since the dressing room, I felt close to crying.
Not because of money.
Because maybe Grandpa’s violin was not gone.
Julian covered the instrument carefully.
Then he asked:
“Did your grandfather leave a case with it?”
“Yes.”
“Original?”
“I think so.”
Eleanor looked interested.
“Where is it?”
“The broken violin is usually stored in it.”
“No,” Julian said. “The older case.”
I frowned.
“There was another one?”
He pointed to a faint mark on the violin’s lower bout.
“This instrument once spent decades inside a case with a narrow pressure point here. The modern case you brought tonight cannot have made that mark.”
I thought back.
Grandpa’s attic.
Boxes.
Sheet music.
A long black case with brass latches.
Mom had wanted to throw it away after he died.
I stopped her.
“I think it’s in my parents’ basement.”
Julian’s eyes sharpened.
“Do not let anyone discard it.”
The office door suddenly opened.
Mom stood there.
She had obviously been listening.
“What old case?”
I turned.
“The one from Grandpa’s attic.”
Something flashed across her face.
Recognition.
Then fear.
“Claire, that case is gone.”
I stared at her.
“No, it isn’t.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“We cleaned the basement.”
“When?”
She looked away.
“Recently.”
My stomach sank.
“You threw it away?”
She didn’t answer.
Eleanor spoke quietly.
“Mrs. Bennett.”
Mom’s shoulders tightened.
“Where is the violin case?”
Finally, she looked at me.
“I didn’t throw it away.”
“Then where is it?”
Her lips pressed together.
“Vanessa took it.”
The room went completely still.
I stared at her.
“Why would Vanessa take Grandpa’s old violin case?”
May you like
Mom’s answer came reluctantly.
“Because she found something hidden inside it.”
