The Midnight Mystery Club plucked up the nerve to head to the Green Hotel the following morning. The old hotel loomed over the street - all those tall windows catching the morning light, ivy creeping up the walls like it owned the place. The place still had that fancy, old-timey feel to it, even with the tarnished brass letters hanging crooked above the door. Inside the lobby, the harsher tang of rosin blended with the subtle scent of dust and polish. The faint sounds of a violin scale faded into quiet somewhere deep inside.
Following the sound, they discovered Mr. Hargrove in a side lounge with a number of cases. Bending over a violin on a stand, he carefully rotated it in the light to examine the varnish. Nearby, a number of other instruments were lying on velvet cloths, shining like carefully guarded secrets. For a man whose frown lines appeared to be chiseled into stone, his long, bony fingers moved with a startling delicacy.
Hargrove's brows knitted when he saw the children gathered in the entryway. With a dramatic sigh that could have rocked the strings themselves, he put down the violin.
"Good morning, Mr. Hargrove!" Clara said, stepping forward with the poise of someone determined to win his favor. Her voice carried a brightness that felt at odds with the stiff atmosphere of the room. "We'd like to ask you a few questions, if you wouldn't mind?"
Hargrove straightened slowly, dusting off his sleeves as if brushing away not just lint, but also the audacity of the request. His sharp eyes narrowed on Clara. "Weren't you the ones causing a ruckus at the festival yesterday? The group of meddling children who disrupted an official police investigation?" His voice was bone dry - like he hadn't had water in days.
Clara's smile slipped for just a second, then she plastered it back on even bigger. "Well... yes. That was us. But we do have a very good reason. It's important. Would you—just for a moment—be willing to chat with us?"
Hargrove gave a humorless chuckle that seemed to echo off the violins. He stood up stiffly, his tall frame towering over them, and crossed his arms. "The questions you're about to ask will no doubt be ridiculous. So I won't waste my time answering them. You children would be better off skipping rope, or flying a kite, or... whatever it is that children should be doing. Go on, off you go."
He waved his hand dismissively and strode passed them, his coat hem flaring slightly with each jarring step.
Max, who had been fidgeting behind Clara, suddenly piped up, "Actually, we do have a pretty important game to play." He leaned casually against the doorframe, grinning. "It's called solving a mystery. And for us, Mr. Hargrove, you're the key piece."
The others turned on him in unison. Ivy muttered, "Max..." under her breath, while Tom rubbed his temples as though trying to massage away the disaster. Even Biscuit gave a low whine, tilting his head as if embarrassed on Max's behalf.
Hargrove paused mid-stride. He glanced back, his lips twitching—not into a smile, but into something sharper, more like disbelief. "A mystery?" His voice dripped with scorn. "What nonsense. Don't waste your time on me. I've already wasted more than enough of mine in this foolish town."
With one more scoff, he grabbed his violin bag, snapped it closed, and strode to the door. It smelled faintly of old wood and varnish behind him, as if even his instruments could not stand kids.
Clara exhaled slowly, her determined grin fading into a frown. "Well... that went brilliantly."
Max scratched the back of his neck, still smirking despite the collective groans of his friends. "Hey, at least he didn't say no. He said we're wasting our time. Which means we're on the right track."
Ivy, notebook already in hand, smoothed a page with the edge of her pencil. Her calm voice carried just enough weight to hold Hargrove's attention without provoking him. "Mr. Hargrove, we heard you say something yesterday—about finally getting deserved. Did you mean some kind of talent? Like a violin? Or..." She tilted her head, choosing her words carefully. "...or was it something else?"
Hargrove's spine stiffened as if the inquiry had touched a nerve, and he paused in mid-step. He turned to them slowly. His jaw tensed, his stance straightened, and the slight murmur of the hotel lobby seemed to subside for a moment.
"The treatment I was referring to," he said, his voice clipped but forceful, "was recognition. Respect. Self-esteem. You have no idea what it's like—being seen by so many people, but never truly seen. The crowds applaud performers because it makes them feel cultured, appreciative. They clap out of habit, out of fashion. But genuine admiration?" He shook his head bitterly. "That belongs only to a chosen few. And meanwhile—Renaldi. Ha!" He let out this harsh laugh that made everyone wince. "People are infatuated with his so-called brilliance, swooning over his talent, even though he stole my work years ago."
The children exchanged uneasy looks. Ivy's pencil scratched furiously across the page, while Clara leaned forward, her voice steady but tinged with curiosity. "So you believe you've been wronged by Mr. Renaldi?"
"Believe?" Hargrove barked, his eyes flashing. "Why should I believe when I know! He stole from me, plain and simple!"
A few patrons turned their heads as his voice reverberated over the lobby's lofty ceiling. Two females by the front desk stopped talking and whispered under gloved hands. As he balanced a pile of bags, a bellhop slowed his pace and strained to listen.
Hargrove either didn't notice or didn't care. He stepped closer to the children, lowering his voice but not his fervor. "Listen carefully. I composed a piece of music—a masterpiece, far beyond anything Renaldi could dream of. A sonata, delicate as glass and fierce as thunder. I showed it to him once, in confidence. I trusted him, foolishly. And within a month, he unveiled a nearly identical composition. Perfectly executed. Lauded by critics. And mine?" His lips twisted. "Mine was dismissed. Forgotten. Reduced to ashes in the minds of music lovers."
Clara's brows knitted together. "That's... terrible. But did you ever tell anyone? Did you try to prove it?"
For a second, the children could see it in his face - that wounded pride, still stinging after all these years. He gripped for identification that had long since eluded him, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as if he were clinging to invisible notes.
"I told people," he hissed. "I told the guild, the patrons, the critics. But no one cared. No one listened. Why would they? To them, I was merely Hargrove—another craftsman, another violinist in the shadows. Renaldi was the golden star, the darling of the stage. They preferred his version, his name, his shine. Not the truth."
Inquisitive patrons craned their heads as the whispering in the foyer increased in volume. As if sensing the weight of bitterness in the air, Biscuit whined softly.
Hargrove's voice hardened, his eyes fixed on something far away, something only he could see. "So yes," he said, almost spitting the words. "I deserve appreciation. Even if it's only once, only for a fleeting moment. And if Renaldi—" his tone sharpened, bitter as a knife's edge "—if he should lose his precious violin, then perhaps he, too, will know what it means to be stripped of what you love most. To finally get what he deserves."
His last words just hung there, heavy and creepy, like they were still echoing around the room. There was silence for a long time. Even Clara, who took great satisfaction in making fast comebacks, was paralyzed.
Finally, Max broke the silence in a low mutter, "Well... I don't think that makes you sound any less guilty, sir."
"Max!" Clara hissed, elbowing him hard, while Ivy scribbled furiously in her notebook, underlining the words violin... stripped... deserves.
Max ignored Clara, sliding his weight over Tom's shoulder until he could whisper in a voice made for eavesdroppers and small rebellions. "Just enough," he said, the words loud enough that the edge of the room caught them. "That could be motivation. I bet it makes him guilty — at least in someone's eyes." He smirked, watching the ripples his suggestion sent through the circle.
Hargrove's face tightened; the old man's jaw worked like a gate. He turned a long, slow glare on Max that seemed to measure not just the boy's insolence but the audacity of the entire room. "You insolent brat!" he barked, the words skittering against the tent poles. "If I wanted revenge, I'd have announced it on the news, not sneaked around like some common burglar." He took a step forward; his cane tapped once on the boardwalk, a metronome that made the air feel colder. "Do you think I would soil myself with petty theatrics? Do you think I'd stoop that low?"
Max straightened as if the glare were a gust of wind; his grin didn't leave his face, but the color drained slightly from his cheeks. He folded his arms, trying to look unbothered. "Maybe you would, maybe you wouldn't," he shot back, the retort sharp but practiced. "People do odd things when they're furious, Mr. Hargrove. And when they don't want to be seen for it."
Clara stepped forward before the exchange could widen into something uglier. Her voice was small at first — a practiced calm, the sort of sound that pulled attention without demanding it. "Oh, forgive my friend, Mr. Hargrove," she said, smoothing the edge from her words with a faint, conciliatory smile. "We're not accusing you of being the perpetrator. I suppose that's what I was trying to say." Her eyes flicked to Max, then back to Hargrove, gauging, soothing. "But your testimony does give us an idea of who's been burning for attention. Someone who fears their reputation more than their safety is exactly the sort who would..." She let the sentence hang, a soft trap set for the unwise.
Hargrove's expression softened a fraction — enough that Clara's diplomacy earned a nod — but the warmth didn't reach his eyes. He returned to his usual bearing, a man folded into habit and habit into armor, but the flush of anger was still there, like a private fire. He jabbed a finger toward Max with the slow precision of a man making an accusation into a formal record. "You lot should be grateful," he said, voice taking on the lectern cadence he used in interviews. "I didn't sue you in court — thank whatever fortunate star for that. But you..." He paused, the pause loaded. Then, pointing directly at Max, he finished with a new, colder edge: "If I see your face around here again, I won't bother confronting you in some hall of justice. I won't give you that courtesy. I'll find other — less public — ways to make you remember who I am."
Tom stiffened next to Max, his fingers gripping his satchel's strap till the leather made a creaking sound. With a worrisome whimper, Biscuit, who had been nibbling at a dropped churro, raised his head and glanced from Hargrove to Max. As individuals took stock, the whispers around the tent faltered; some leaned forward, eager to hear the fallout, while others withdrew slightly away.
Max's grin thinned into something sharper, an expression that hinted at both defiance and calculation. He opened his mouth, then closed it, deciding against inflaming the old man further. Instead he angled himself toward Tom, whispering, barely audible, "He doesn't scare me. Not really." But the words were thin, and somewhere under them hummed the small, nervous sound of a boy who'd been told in different ways that he should behave.
Clara watched Max for a beat, then let her attention return to Hargrove. "We didn't mean to upset anyone," she said, softer this time, the apology not so much for the accusation as for the temperature the conversation had taken. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear, an oddly vulnerable movement that made her look younger than she was. "We're trying to understand what happened to Mr. Renaldi. If you have anything else — anything at all — that could help, we'd appreciate it."
Hargrove's mouth curled, not a smile but a calculation. He looked at Clara with something like reluctant respect; then at the group as a whole, as if he were weighing whether to withdraw his threat or let it sit like an ember. "Fine," he said finally, voice low enough that only those leaning in could hear. "I'll tell you what's necessary — but not because I like you. Because I'm tired of people dragging my name into the dirt." He tapped his cane twice, an endnote. "And you," he added, directing his last glance at Max, "remember what I said."
After the stone was dropped, the gathering relaxed, the talk flowing back like a stream. However, the underlying message persisted: a warning, a promise of peril, positioned between them like a fresh, thin line. Max acted as if he hadn't heard it, but when he stepped back, his steps were slightly shorter, as if he had recently discovered a new method of measuring distance.
Under the glare of the visitors who had seen the interview with Hargrove, the Midnight Mystery Club filed out of the hotel lobby. The fancy marble floor gleamed under those crystal chandeliers, making them feel like they were on display - and not in a good way. Even though his ears were still scorching from the embarrassment, Max tried to appear unconcerned by shoving his hands into his pockets.
"Huh... Well, that was a bust. Our investigation failed," he muttered, his tone defensive, but there was a crack of defeat under it.
Ivy adjusted her satchel strap, her voice cutting sharper than usual. "Yeah. Failed spectacularly — all thanks to you." She didn't even try to hide the exasperation in her tone.
Max blinked at her, incredulous. "Me? Oh, come on. He was guilty of something. You all saw his face!"
Clara exhaled, pinching the bridge of her nose as if she had been waiting for this exact moment. Her tone was firm, not cruel, but the weight of a leader tired of patching holes. "Max, listen. If you speak carelessly while interviewing someone — especially someone like Hargrove — you're not just risking the case. You're risking all of us. You could've ended up in handcuffs."
Max's jaw worked, but he didn't answer her. Instead, he turned to Tom, his last lifeline. His eyes said it before his mouth did: Back me up. Just this once.
But Tom only shifted awkwardly and gave a slow shake of his head. "She's right, Max. You pushed him too far."
The disappointment stung sharper than anger. Max barked a laugh, short and bitter. "Wow. Can't believe this. You're all blaming me for something so trivial. I was trying to help!"
"Max..." Tom reached out, resting a large hand on his friend's shoulder, steady and warm. "We're not—"
But Max shrugged him off immediately, taking a step back. "Don't. Don't act like you care about me now. I know I messed up, okay? I'll just keep quiet next time. Maybe I'm just useless to this group anyway."
The final syllable caused his voice to break. He turned abruptly on his heel and stormed off, his footsteps resonating across the marble floor of the hotel, before anyone could stop him.
As Biscuit saw Max vanish toward the spinning door, he let out a pathetic cry, his ears drooping. Uncertain, his tail swept low. Then his nose twitched abruptly. He looked at something on the floor. The golden retriever sprung with a zeal that relieved the stress, sniffling vigorously and wagging its tail once again.
Tom knelt beside him. "What've you got there, boy?"
Biscuit picked up a crumpled, filthy envelope and pawed at the ground. He slammed his tail into Tom's shin with his fierce tail-wagging.
Holding it by the corner, Tom picked it up gingerly. The paper was old, stained with a dark ink stain, and the edges were mushy from handling. The words To Renaldi - Payment in full were written across the back in unsteady handwriting.
However, it was empty when Tom raised the flap.
Clara leaned in, her brow furrowing as her voice dropped low. "An envelope addressed to Renaldi... with nothing inside. That's not an accident."
Ivy slipped her notebook open, already scribbling as she spoke. Her eyes scanned the worn paper like it might give her the answers if she stared hard enough. "Could've held a contract. Or money. Something worth hiding. And the fact it's empty means someone wanted it gone."
Max had returned, appearing behind them like a shadow. He still carried his half-eaten churro, chewing moodily, but his voice was laced with sarcasm. "Or maybe it was just a receipt for Belcroft's latest velvet gown. Not every piece of trash is a clue, you know." He tore another bite from the churro, chewing with exaggerated indifference.
Clara turned to him, holding the envelope delicately between her fingers. "Maybe not. But Biscuit doesn't pick up anything. He knows when something matters."
As if on cue, Biscuit waggled his tail and barked enthusiastically in agreement before lunging for Max's hand to try to grab the remaining churro.
"Hey!" Max yelped, stumbling back as the dog's nose pressed against his fingers. He tried to lift the pastry high, but Biscuit jumped, paws scrabbling against Max's jacket.
Tom chuckled, reaching to steady the flailing Max. "Looks like Biscuit doesn't think that churro is useless."
Ivy smirked, closing her notebook with a snap. "Maybe he's trying to remind you not to waste things — especially clues."
Max scowled, though a reluctant laugh cracked through his sulk. "Fine, fine! Take it, Biscuit." He handed over the last bite, and the dog devoured it with a triumphant wag of his tail.
Finally, the gloomy atmosphere that had pervaded the hotel started to dissipate into laughing, the sound of which reverberated warmly against the silent street. The Midnight Mystery Club felt complete for the first time since Hargrove's tantrum, even though they were still troubled by the thought of the empty envelope in Clara's hands.
...
After returning from the hotel, the Midnight Mystery Club retreated to their sanctuary — the treehouse that stood behind Clara's house, perched between the thick arms of an old tamarind tree. The night was humid, heavy with the scent of damp leaves and wood. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, buzzing faintly, casting their faces in uneven light. Biscuit sat near the ladder, his ears perked, while papers and empty lemonade cups littered the table in front of them.
Clara was pacing, her notebook open in one hand, pencil tapping against her chin. "I think Hargrove had a reason to steal the violin," she said finally, her tone clipped but certain. "Jealousy. Anger. Revenge. All the classic motives. He spent years in Renaldi's shadow, watching him take all the applause he thought he deserved."
Ivy, sitting cross-legged near the window, tilted her head. "Maybe. But didn't you notice how calm he was when we accused him? Almost too calm." She frowned, fingers idly tracing the rim of her cup. "It's like he wanted us to suspect him — like he was playing a part in a story only he knows. Isn't it weird for a suspect to invite suspicion unless he's covering up something... or someone else?"
Max leaned back in his chair, balancing it on two legs while sipping lemonade straight from the bottle. He looked unconvinced. "Or maybe he's just an old guy who likes hearing himself talk. Some people just love drama, Clara. Not every cryptic line means a crime."
Clara stopped pacing and turned sharply toward him. "No, Max. You saw his eyes when we mentioned Renaldi's name. That wasn't an act. His jealousy is real — it's deep. Whether he actually stole the violin or not, Hargrove's tangled up in this somehow. And now we have that envelope..." She lifted the crumpled thing from the table, the faint words To Renaldi — Payment in full barely legible under the weak light. "This proves there was some kind of transaction — money, or something valuable enough to keep hidden."
Tom, who had been unusually quiet, cracked his knuckles and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "So what's the plan?" he asked. "We go after Belcroft next? If that envelope's connected to her, we might corner her into admitting something — about the payment, or the missing violin." His tone was eager, the kind of energy that always pushed their investigations forward but sometimes landed them in trouble.
Clara's gaze sharpened like a blade catching light. "Yes. Tomorrow, we'll investigate Belcroft again. She was nervous back at the fair, remember? The way she kept checking her luggage? She's hiding something. But we won't drop Hargrove, either. He's too proud to confess easily, but secrets like his don't stay buried forever."
"Two suspects," Ivy murmured, tapping her pencil. "One jealous, one scared. The question is — who's desperate enough to steal something in public?"
Max raised his hand lazily, a smirk playing at his lips. "Maybe it's both of them. Like a team-up. You know — jealous old man, fashion-obsessed lady, secret violin heist. Sounds like the plot of one of those TV thrillers."
"No one's teaming up with you, Max," Ivy said dryly. "Especially not criminals."
"Hey," he said, lifting his hands in mock surrender. "I'm just brainstorming. That's what detectives do, right?"
Tom chuckled, trying to break the rising tension. "Only if the brainstorming doesn't end with another suspect yelling at us."
Clara's lips twitched into a small smile but quickly flattened again. "This time, we'll be careful. We ask, we observe, and we don't provoke anyone. Got it?" She shot a pointed look at Max.
He slumped slightly but nodded. "Got it," he muttered.
A low hum from outside broke their focus. The light bulb flickered, stuttered, and dimmed — shadows stretching long across the walls, cutting through their faces like dark stripes. The wind outside shifted, rattling the branches, making the wooden floorboards creak.
Biscuit lifted his head, ears pricked, tail stiff. He gave a soft growl, then barked once — loud, sharp, echoing through the yard.
Everyone froze.
Tom glanced toward the window. "Probably just the wind," he said, though his voice didn't sound entirely sure.
Clara moved closer to the window, peering down through the slats. The yard below was empty, but the garden gate was swaying slightly, as though someone had just passed through.
"Still," she said quietly, "maybe Biscuit's right to be cautious. The deeper we go, the more dangerous this feels."
Ivy looked up from her notebook, her eyes glinting under the flickering bulb. "Then that means we're close."
The light flickered once more, then steadied — a fragile calm. Clara glanced at each of them, her expression resolute. "Tomorrow, we will continue. We find out what connects Hargrove, Belcroft, and Renaldi. Because someone out there wants this mystery to stay hidden."
Outside, Biscuit barked again — not playful this time, but warning. His tail bristled as the sound carried into the night.
And for a moment, even Max went silent, listening. The laughter from earlier at the hotel seemed far away now. The night around the treehouse felt heavier — as if the shadows themselves were waiting for them to make their next move.
.
.
.
.
.
To be continued