The Silent Boy (Emma McPherson Book 1) A.J. Flynn (ebook reader play store TXT) 📖

“Why do you think he’s a phony?”

“Oh, lots of little things. Take for instance, his clothes. He’s always dressed to the nines. My son Ben always calls him ‘The Dude.’ He even wears nice slacks to garden in, and I mean, even if they’re both working and neither of them have any children to worry about, I’m sorry to say, but that’s just silly.”

McPherson struggled to suppress a smile, but was forced to agree with Ben’s moniker. Valentine had impressed her as somewhat of a dude, as well.

“Do you happen to be acquainted with the Rogers?” she asked.

“Somewhat. They’re not particularly neighborly. But I guess it must be because of his illness.”

“Do you have any reason to believe they may have disliked Charlie?”

“Heavens, no,” she gasped, “it’s unthinkable. The only time Mr. Rogers ever leaves the house is for about five minutes, just after dark. That’s when he takes a short walk.”

“After dark?” McPherson’s eyebrows rose questioningly.

Mrs. Shepherd plucked a piece of loose tobacco from her lip and nodded. “He’s sensitive about his affliction, I think. His back is all twisted up and he walks with a limp.”

“Do you know what happened to him?”

“He was in an automobile accident back some years ago. I believe his back was fractured or at least badly injured. It eventually evolved into some kind of spinal disease that grows progressively worse. There’s nothing they can do about it.”

McPherson looked puzzled. “That must make walking quite painful for him. You’d think he’d want to move as little as possible.”

Mrs. Shepherd thought for a brief moment, then answered, “All I can offer you is my opinion, but I think it boils down to willpower and hope. I think he just refuses to accept the fact that there is nothing to be done for him, and so he keeps up the best he can in case of a medical miracle. I can’t say I blame him. Miracles do happen.”

“Yes, I suppose that could be the reason, but isn’t it possible someone might have made fun of his condition? Children can be quite cruel, you know.”

She stared at McPherson as though her mind had suddenly fogged over. “You mean Charlie? Oh, now I grant you there are children that would make fun of Mr. Rogers, but I don’t think there are any around here. Mr. Rogers makes a regular point of sitting in the window, and all the children wave at him as they walk to the school bus. Also, he makes small wood carvings and knits as a hobby. He’s always handing out little figures to the kids along with the doll clothes he makes. Even if one of them were nasty enough to make fun of him, I can guarantee you it wouldn’t have been Charlie. That boy wouldn’t hurt a fly,” she concluded in a vehement tone.

“Well, so much for the Rogers. What about the Johnsons?”

“Oh, I know Colleen very well. She’s a regular member of our coffee club.”

Mrs. Shepherd shifted into a different position and crossed her legs before continuing.

“Colleen is a southern woman and a marvelous cook. As for Mr. Johnson, I can’t say I see too much of him. He’s a used car salesman, and is always out at night. The few times I’ve met him he’s been pleasant enough, though. He has a typical salesman way about him. You know what I mean. And he’s able to turn it on or off as it suits him. As for what he’s really like, I can’t say. Marla thinks he’s the devil… Colleen is sweet and kind, but not all that bright. What I mean is anything outside of her home just doesn’t interest her. She’s unique in this world of wives who want to express themselves outside of the home. She’s a completely content housewife.”

“Yes, but aren’t you?” McPherson asked wryly, as she wondered to herself what the woman would think if she were to tell her where the husband of the completely happy housewife spent the night of the murder.

At this question Mrs. Shepherd tossed her head back and laughed. “Lieutenant, you see before you the bane of our city’s fathers, an ardent clubwoman. I’ve never been truly happy without a cause to suffer for. Making things uncomfortable for those responsible for injustices is my hobby. People around here generally refer to me as a busybody.”

McPherson grinned and rose to her feet. “When you consider the fact that the police department is subject to the whims of the administration, and they to the voters, I better not bother you any further.”

“Fear not,” Mrs. Shepherd assured her as they walked together to the door. “A good clubwoman appreciates a job well done.”

They shook hands, and McPherson left and started towards the Rogers’ home.

X

Mr. Rogers sat in an old overstuffed chair. As he sat he knitted steadily. The slight sensation of his muscles moving gave him a deep feeling of peace. True, they had said he would be bedridden before long, completely paralyzed, but the movement gave him a sense of hope that they might be wrong.

Most of every single day he spent tucked away in the old comfortable armchair, with a black-and-green afghan draped over his knees. The afghan had been one of his very first knitting projects.

From his chair he could see out through the large front window of his house and watch people going about their daily activities, but most of his enjoyment came from the passing children.

Every morning on school days they would gather along the corner to wait for the bus and indulge in pushing, shouting and teasing one another, as children do. It always amused him to watch them walk to the corner, washed and scrubbed, only to climb aboard the bus a little while later caked in dirt.

The youngest members of the neighborhood would join the school-age group and watch with envy as the lucky ones hurried onto the bus. The year or two they were fated to wait for their