The next day, Brookhaven glittered with excitement. Banners stretched over the streets, music floated from every corner, and the air smelled of roasted corn, candied apples, and fried dough. Families poured in from neighboring towns, laughter echoing under the late-summer sky.
"Finally—the summer music festival," Clara said, standing straighter as if she owned the moment.
Max's eyes glazed over the second he caught the aroma of cinnamon sugar. "I want churros!" He bolted toward the food stalls before anyone could stop him.
Clara, Ivy, Tom, and Biscuit strolled through the festival, weaving past jugglers and balloon-sellers. They whispered about what they had heard.
"So," Ivy began, lowering her voice, "Renaldi's been struggling with his violin. Some people say it doesn't sound the same anymore."
Clara frowned. "And we know he has enemies. But who's bold enough to actually go after the Stradivarius?"
"There are at least three suspects," Ivy replied, scribbling something in her notebook. "His rival Hargrove. Mrs. Belcroft, who practically owns this festival. And…" She trailed off.
Max came skipping back, his arms full of food. "So, what did I miss?"
"Nothing yet," Clara muttered.
"Woof!" Biscuit barked, tail wagging.
"Can we stop obsessing about suspects?" Tom interrupted. "I just want to see the fireworks. That's what I came for."
But Clara's eyes narrowed. Across the crowd, Mrs. Belcroft was sweeping past in her silk gown, Nora following obediently behind with a large bag slung over her shoulder.
"That girl…" Clara pointed. "She could be important."
Tom blinked. "Nora Finch? I know her. She's Belcroft's intern." He hesitated, then added, "I've heard Belcroft treats her staff badly. Nora especially."
Ivy leaned in, whispering, "So she's stuck with Belcroft, whether she wants to be or not."
Nora glanced nervously at the children as she passed. Her shoulders slumped under the bag's weight, and when Belcroft snapped her fan shut, Nora flinched.
Clara was about to follow when Biscuit suddenly perked up. Nose to the ground, he let out a sharp bark and darted away.
"Biscuit, wait!" Clara shouted.
The kids chased him through the crowd until he stopped outside the performers' tent, growling low.
"What is it, boy?" Clara asked. Biscuit sniffed the ground, then pawed at a spot near the flap. Ivy knelt and noticed something faint on the grass—mud smeared into the trampled earth.
Before she could point it out, a booming voice interrupted.
"Hey! Get that dog out of here!" A security guard stormed over, waving his arms. "No children near the performers' tent! Go on, move!"
The four kids reluctantly backed away, Clara shooting one last look at the ground. She didn't know what Biscuit had found—but she was sure it mattered.
After failing to find any clues, Clara and her friends decided to buy tickets to see Renaldi's much-anticipated performance. The theater was buzzing with restless whispers—speculation ran wild about whether the young virtuoso could play flawlessly when his Stradivarius no longer sang as it once did.
The lights dimmed. A hush fell over the hall before the spotlight revealed Renaldi standing center stage, violin poised beneath his chin.
The first notes cut through the silence—harsh, uneven, almost grating.
"Ew, why does his violin sound so strange?" one audience member muttered loudly.
"Yeah, just like the rumors," another agreed, followed by scattered murmurs of disapproval.
Clara and her friends exchanged uneasy glances. Ivy leaned closer, whispering, "This isn't just nerves."
Clara's sharp eyes narrowed. "No. Someone sabotaged the performance."
High above, in a reserved viewing room, Belcroft leaned forward in her seat, her expression dark with concern. Nora, sitting stiffly beside her, swallowed hard.
Belcroft's gaze flicked toward her. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, ma'am," Nora replied too quickly, shaking her head.
Belcroft snorted. "Typical of the young—never saying what they really think." She turned her attention back to the stage, though her eyes remained sharp.
Then, just as the audience began to lose patience, the melody shifted. The harshness softened into a gentle, flowing tune. Gasps of relief rippled through the crowd as the hall filled with a soothing resonance.
Renaldi's fingers steadied, his bow dancing gracefully across the strings. The audience relaxed, leaning into the beauty of the music. Applause erupted between movements.
But Clara didn't applaud. Her eyes fixed on Renaldi's face, and a chill slid down her spine. His eyes looked different—glazed, almost too focused, as though he was no longer entirely himself.
Backstage, Hargrove stood with his arms crossed, watching from the shadows. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He didn't look surprised. The break arrived, and Clara and the others gathered near the refreshment booths, still unsettled by what they had witnessed.
"I know someone must have switched his Stradivarius," Clara said, her brows furrowed.
"What's your proof?" Max leaned back, holding a half-finished churro like it was a pointer stick.
"Clara, the performance was pretty standard," Ivy countered. She had her notebook open, scribbling quick notes. "It's normal for people to feel like something's missing in live shows. You can't conclude the violin was swapped just like that."
Clara crossed her arms, staring at the ground as if replaying the concert in her mind.
"Tom, what about you? Do you agree?" she asked.
Tom looked up mid-bite, cinnamon sugar clinging to his cheek. "Hm? About earlier? Yeah… I mean, I think it's pretty common."
"I'm telling you," Clara insisted, lowering her voice. "Renaldi's gaze after the last note wasn't the same as usual."
"Empty?" Max offered, munching loudly.
"No," Clara said, her voice steady now. "Like… scared."
The group fell silent, her words hanging in the air.
Then a piercing cry shattered the festival noise.
"Help! Help!"
Everyone froze.
"That's… isn't that Renaldi's voice?" Max stammered.
"Let's go!" Clara commanded, already sprinting. The others followed, Biscuit barking wildly at their heels.
They found Renaldi stumbling out of the performers' tent, his hair disheveled, his hands trembling. Clara rushed to him first.
"What's wrong, Maestro?" Ivy asked gently.
"My Stradivarius…" His voice cracked, and he clutched his chest as if it were a wound. "It's gone!"
The group gasped.
"Oh no!" Clara exclaimed.
Renaldi shook his head, panic rising. "I'm supposed to perform a duet with Hargrove. Without my Stradivarius… I can't! I won't!"
"Maybe you can tell Hargrove," Max suggested cautiously. "He'll understand, right?"
Renaldi's expression hardened, his eyes darting back toward the stage. "You don't understand. Hargrove isn't what you think he is."
Before anyone could ask, he turned and ran toward the stage, muttering frantically. "It has to be canceled—it has to be!"
Clara and the others exchanged worried looks. Something deeper was unfolding, and it wasn't just about a missing violin. When they returned to the stage, they saw Renaldi standing rigidly beside Hargrove, who towered over him like a shadow.
"Oh, this is going to be bad," Clara muttered.
Renaldi stepped up to the microphone, his knuckles white around it. "I'm sorry, but… unfortunately, this performance must be canceled due to… technical difficulties."
Gasps and murmurs rippled through the audience.
"What's he talking about?"
"We paid to hear the Stradivarius!"
"Careless fool!"
The sound of disappointment spread like wildfire, but before Renaldi could say another word, Hargrove seized his arm and hissed into the mic. "What are you doing? You cannot cancel this performance."
"My Stradivarius is gone, Hargrove," Renaldi whispered hoarsely, his voice cracking.
The crowd erupted—some booed, some shouted accusations.
Then, as if on cue, a sudden burst of flame flared from the side curtain. Within seconds, the fire began climbing the fabric. Screams tore through the air as panic gripped the crowd.
"Fire!"
People scrambled to escape, chairs toppled, and smoke filled the air. Clara clutched Biscuit's collar as the group bolted from the chaos.
By the time the fire was extinguished, police cars and ambulances had swarmed the festival grounds. Paramedics hurried away with stretchers. Clara froze when she spotted one familiar figure among them.
"Belcroft…" she whispered.
They watched as the elderly patron was carried into the ambulance, her face pale from smoke inhalation.
"Belcroft even made it to the hospital," Tom muttered, shaking his head.
Nearby, Renaldi was being questioned by a stern-faced officer.
"So your violin went missing while you were in the bathroom?" the officer asked, scribbling in his notepad.
"Yes, officer! I searched everywhere—the Stradivarius is gone!" Renaldi's panic hadn't eased; sweat still streamed down his forehead.
Later, while the police busied themselves with crowd control, Clara and the others slipped into Renaldi's tent. Inside, they found the violin case, open and empty, its lock dangling loosely.
"There's no sign of forced entry," Ivy observed, crouching beside it.
"This was too clean," Clara agreed. "The thief must've had the key."
"Maybe Hargrove?" Tom guessed.
"No," Ivy shook her head. "He was on stage the whole time."
Before they could discuss further, a familiar voice barked from the entrance.
"You kids again? Out!" The police officer waved them away.
Reluctantly, they filed outside. But as Clara stepped through the flap, her sharp eyes caught something in the dirt. Footprints.
"Biscuit, sniff," Clara whispered.
The golden retriever wagged his tail, lowered his nose, and darted forward. The children hurried after him, weaving past festival debris.
"Clara, what did you see?" Ivy asked.
"Footprints," Clara explained. "Small ones. Not fresh, but Biscuit picked up the trail."
The trail ended at the edge of the tents—where a young woman stood, startled by their sudden appearance.
"Nora Finch?" Clara called.
Nora turned, her expression stiffening.
"Yes? Who are you?"
Clara introduced herself and her friends. Nora's eyes fell on Tom, and her expression softened instantly.
"Tom? Tom Parker?"
Tom blinked. "Nora? It's been… forever."
Before anyone could react, Nora rushed forward and hugged him tightly.
"I can't believe it. After all these years…" she said breathlessly.
The others exchanged looks of disbelief.
"You didn't mention you two were that close," Max muttered under his breath.
Tom flushed. "We were… childhood friends."
Nora smiled faintly, though her gaze darted nervously toward the festival grounds.
"Nora," Ivy asked gently, "did you see anything near Renaldi's tent? His violin was stolen."
At once, Nora's smile faltered. Beads of sweat glistened on her forehead.
"I… I don't know anything about that," she stammered. "Sorry, I really have to go."
Without another word, she turned and hurried off.
"That was suspicious," Clara whispered.
"Too suspicious," Ivy agreed.
Max suddenly snapped his fingers. "Wait! Before Renaldi's performance, I saw Nora pacing near his tent. She looked pale—like she wanted to go in but didn't dare."
"Really?" Tom asked.
"I'm sure of it."
The group fell into thoughtful silence. Then Tom spoke up. "What about Hargrove? Everyone knows he and Renaldi can't stand each other."
"Maybe…" Ivy said carefully. "But I overheard something in the crowd. Belcroft had a spare key to Renaldi's violin case. She said she kept it to make sure things went smoothly."
"A spare key?" Clara murmured.
"That changes everything," Ivy said. "Belcroft could've given it to someone… maybe even Nora."
The pieces of the mystery were beginning to align—but not neatly.
The festival was winding down, lanterns dimming as the last of the crowd dispersed. Clara and the others lingered near the empty stage, unwilling to leave just yet.
"This isn't just an ordinary case," Clara said firmly. "We have to solve it. If we don't, Renaldi's career could be ruined."
Ivy flipped open her notebook, scribbling down the scraps of alibis she'd gathered earlier. Tom crossed his arms, determined. "I'll follow those footprints, no matter what."
Max, however, was distracted, clutching his stomach. "I'd rather follow the churro stand," he muttered. Biscuit barked, tail wagging, as if seconding Clara instead.
But unknown to the club, a shadow slipped quietly back into the festival grounds. With deliberate steps, the figure dragged a branch across the dirt, brushing away the footprints Tom had vowed to follow. When the figure vanished into the night, the trail was gone.
Moments later, as the club started home, Max slapped his forehead. "Wait—my wallet! I dropped it back at the food booth!"
Clara groaned. "Really, Max?"
"Hey, it's important! All my allowance is in there!"
Sighing, they turned back. The festival grounds were eerily silent now, only scraps of paper and half-eaten snacks left behind. Max searched frantically while the others spread out to help.
"Instead of solving the violin case, we're solving the case of the missing wallet," Clara muttered.
Then, just beyond the trampled earth where the footprints had once been, something caught her eye. She crouched down and picked it up carefully: a thin, frayed violin string.
Tom leaned over her shoulder. "Is that from Renaldi's Stradivarius?"
Clara shook her head. "No. His strings are perfectly straight, but this one's broken."
Ivy adjusted her glasses, peering closer. "So… either another violin was here—or someone planted a decoy."
Biscuit gave a low growl, nose pressed to the ground near the string, as if urging them onward.
Clara tightened her grip on the clue, her mind racing. "Whoever erased those footprints didn't erase everything. This case just got more complicated."
The mystery deepened, and with it, the Midnight Mystery Club's resolve. They weren't just chasing a lost wallet anymore—they were chasing the truth.
.
.
.
.
.
To be continued