The Silent Boy (Emma McPherson Book 1) by A.J. Flynn (early reader books .txt) 📗

A quick trip down to headquarters to sign out and she could finally head home.

She parked the car and walked into the dreary office. She intended to check and see if the shoe repairman had been able to identify any of the pictures, then go home, but like most days, her plans suddenly changed.

To the left of the office entrance two men were seated, waiting.

One was Tommy Flint, who referred to himself as the lead crime reporter of the Sunday paper. In all actuality the paper was too small for one reporter to specialize in crime, but Tommy seemed to think the name gave him an air of glamour. He was a good kid even if he pretended at cynicism. McPherson had known him ever since he’d first started at the paper, and was wholeheartedly convinced that the greatest disappointment in Flint’s life had been when he’d first realized that reporters seldom rushed into the room yelling, “Stop the presses.”

Tommy hopped to his feet when the lieutenant appeared. “Got anything for the readers?”

“No, and if I did it wouldn’t be for the press.”

“I could put your picture in the paper.”

“Then I guess I’ll just have to make due without the publicity.”

The reporter sighed then returned to his chair. McPherson was always less than a fountain of information and there was no use in bucking her. There were plenty of others on the force who liked seeing their names in print.

McPherson started for her desk again, but heard her name being called. She turned and was surprised to see Hardwood, Charlie’s music teacher.

“Good evening,” Hardwood said in his clipped manner. “Can you spare a few minutes?”

“Hello, Mr. Hardwood. Come in.” They walked through the gate and McPherson motioned with her thumb. “Take a seat over there. I have to see if there are any messages. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Hardwood took his seat and crossed his legs with care. Somehow, the man gave one the impression that his every move for the day had been planned out accordingly first thing in the morning, and anything that disturbed the schedule would have to be dealt with.

There were no messages for McPherson so she returned, straightened some papers on her desk and sat down.

“Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Hardwood?”

“It’s more like what can I do for you,” he answered and flipped through a zippered notebook he was carrying. “When the police took Charlie’s things from his locker, this wasn’t among them. I can’t say whether or not it’s of any importance, but I thought I better bring it in.”

McPherson took the large manila envelope and bent the metal fastener back. “Where did you find it?”

“The old school auditorium. An old piano bench is kept there, and the students who use the piano either for practice or accompaniment like to keep their music there. It saves them from having to carry it around with them. One of the students discovered this and brought it to Mr. Lewis’s attention. He figured you should have it.”

McPherson dumped the contents out on her desk. There were sheets scored for music, on which notes had been inked. She took a cursory glance at them but they meant nothing to her, so she flipped to the paper that looked as if it was meant to be a letter, but there wasn’t any salutation.

“Here’s my song without words,” she read aloud. “The contest dictates that we can heed suggestions but we mustn’t seek help, so please give me your suggestions. Yours, sincerely. PS - I have to have it back by tomorrow.”

McPherson glanced up at Hardwood. “Do you know which contest Charlie’s talking about?”

“Yes. There’s an advertisement for it listed among the papers.”

“Oh yes, here it is. The Hannah Gryffindor Music Festival Contest. ‘Attention Young People. Enter our contest. Send us your best “Song Without Words.” You will be eligible to win two wonderful weeks in the Rocky Mountains.’ Is this what Charlie was entering?”

“Yes. It’s quite a reputable contest. Mrs. Gryffindor used to sponsor the festival every year, and ever since her death her husband has gone along with it. Her main interest lies in helping young, talented people get their first bit of recognition, and Mr. Gryffindor added the contest as a kind of tribute to her memory. The public schools don’t really come out in the open and endorse the contest, but we give what little help we can unofficially.”

McPherson continued reading the advertisement. “They offer several prizes for different age groups, and an opportunity to hear some of the best musicians, fresh mountain air, mountain lakes and a hundred dollars to boot. Not bad for the winners.”

“Yes, they are very acceptable prizes. I wouldn’t mind winning one of them myself.”

“About this letter. Did he send it to you?”

“No. I wondered about that as well, but perhaps there was someone else he’d found more confidence in.”

“There’s no date. I wonder what he must have meant when he wrote ‘tomorrow’?”

“It most likely has to do with the closing date of the contest.”

McPherson took another look. “Here it is. It says here that all of the entries have to be in the mail by midnight. Thursday, the fourteenth. That’s today. He never spoke to you about it?”

“Oh yes. We spoke together about the contest on several occasions. He showed me a few of the tunes he was considering and told me about all of the things he wanted to do once he had won. It never seemed to occur to him that he might not win. In reality it was almost certain that he would not win, but of course I never told him that.”

“If he didn’t intend the letter for you, I wonder who he sent it to. This looks like it was a first draft, and he didn’t even bother addressing it.”

“Perhaps he sent it to his violin teacher. I’ve heard the man’s name before, but I can’t remember it now.”

“We’ll find him. Did he mention anything about the contest on his