A few days after the Midnight Mystery Club was formed, Brookhaven was abuzz with excitement. Posters and flyers littered the streets, showing the sharp gaze of the world-famous violinist Maestro Renaldi, holding his priceless Stradivarius as though it were a crown jewel.
"Come to the Brookhaven Music Festival! Witness a special performance by Maestro Renaldi!" shouted the festival staff, handing out flyers. Clara snatched one eagerly and held it up for her friends to see.
"Come on," she said, her eyes gleaming, "let's show the world we're ready."
The others exchanged curious glances. They still didn't know what "ready" meant—but Clara clearly had a plan.
…
Meanwhile, inside a grand hotel suite, Renaldi practiced with the Stradivarius. The notes should have soared, golden and pure—but tonight, something was off. The tone wavered, the resonance weak.
Renaldi frowned. "Strange… this violin has never failed me before." He tightened the bowstring, tested another scale, and still the sound betrayed him. For the first time in years, unease settled in his chest.
A sudden knock broke his concentration.
"Who's there?"
Silence.
He opened the door and found a young man leaning against the frame, arms crossed, smirk sharp enough to cut glass.
"Hargrove," Renaldi muttered.
"Enjoying your practice?" Hargrove's voice dripped with mockery.
Renaldi's eyes narrowed. "I don't want trouble before the festival. Not now."
Hargrove stepped closer, invading his space. "You'll see, Renaldi. The audience will finally realize you're overrated. That Stradivarius doesn't make you a genius—it just makes you lucky."
Renaldi shoved his hand away. "This festival isn't a duel. It's about music."
Hargrove laughed bitterly. "Music? Or glory?" With a cold glance, he turned and stormed off down the hall.
Renaldi shut the door, unsettled. Was it just jealousy? Or did Hargrove know something about the violin's failing voice?
…
Moments later, another knock. This time, the door opened to reveal an elderly woman draped in silks, her jeweled fan flicking lazily. Mrs. Belcroft—the patron who had organized the festival—glided inside like she owned the place.
"Ah, Maestro Renaldi," she cooed, her smile razor-thin. "I do hope you're prepared. The audience expects perfection… and so do I."
Renaldi bowed stiffly. "I'm honored to perform. Thank you for the invitation."
"Of course," Belcroft said, eyes glittering. "But don't forget—without my influence, you'd still be playing to half-empty halls. You owe me, Renaldi. Remember that."
Renaldi clenched his jaw but nodded. "Understood."
Belcroft's gaze flicked past him, to the quiet figure lingering in the hallway. A young woman with downcast eyes, a golden "Nora" emblem pinned to her uniform.
Renaldi's voice softened. "Nora—wait. I need a word."
Nora froze, wide-eyed, as though being noticed was dangerous. Belcroft arched a brow.
"Business with my maid, Maestro?"
"Yes," Renaldi replied carefully. "Just for a moment."
Belcroft's fan snapped shut with a click. "Very well. But Nora—don't be long. You know where to find me."
"Yes, ma'am," Nora whispered, her fear obvious.
When Belcroft swept away, the silence between Renaldi and Nora thickened. He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"Tell me, Nora. Has anyone touched my violin?"
Nora's hands trembled at her sides. Her lips parted as though to speak—but then she shook her head quickly, too afraid to answer.
Renaldi studied her pale face, the knot in his stomach tightening. Something was wrong. The violin. The festival. The people around him.
And someone—he was certain—was waiting for him to fail.
…
The day before the festival, the streets of Brookhaven buzzed with rumors. Vendors set up stalls, musicians tuned their instruments, and posters of Maestro Renaldi's face were plastered on every lamppost.
Clara, Ivy, Tom, Max, and Biscuit had gathered at the clubhouse with a pile of festival flyers spread across their table.
Max licked sugar off his fingers. "So, when do we start solving mysteries? Or do we just eat festival food until something weird happens?"
"Something is happening," Ivy said, tapping a newspaper she had borrowed from her dad. "Listen to this: 'Whispers surround Maestro Renaldi's Stradivarius as reports claim the instrument no longer sounds the same. Festival organizers assure the violin is safe and unharmed.'"
Tom leaned forward, eyes wide. "You mean his violin is… broken?"
"Or stolen and swapped with a fake!" Clara's voice rose with excitement. "This is our chance! If someone's trying to ruin the maestro, we'll be the first to figure it out."
Max raised a brow. "Or maybe he's just out of practice. Ever think of that?"
"Biscuit doesn't think so," Clara shot back. The dog barked once, as if on command.
Still, there was more. That afternoon, as they walked past the hotel where the performers stayed, they caught sight of something odd.
A tall young man stormed out of the front entrance, muttering angrily to himself. They overheard a fragment: "That violin won't save you, Renaldi…"
"Whoa," Tom whispered. "Did you hear that? Sounds like a villain straight out of a comic book."
"Maybe not a villain," Ivy said slowly, "but definitely a suspect."
Clara's eyes gleamed. "The Midnight Mystery Club has its first official case: The Stradivarius Sabotage."
Biscuit barked again, tail wagging furiously.
None of them knew it yet, but the violin would become the key that pulled them deep into the secrets of Brookhaven—the rivalries, jealousies, and dangers far bigger than a children's game.
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To be continued