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

The months Mr. Rogers spent watching allowed him keen insight into the personality of each child, but the Fitts children were his favorites.

Little Jade was just a few months over seven, and a beautiful little girl. Her eyes were deep blue and shone with a lively zest, and her hair was dark mahogany, with a slight curl.

Each morning she could be counted on to grab a scarf or book, or whatever else she could get her hands on, and run with it. She was always caught whenever she stole them from the older children, but that was part of the fun.

Her brother, Teddy, was nearing ten, and tried to act mature. He seemed to feel a real sense of responsibility towards his little sister, even to the extent of accepting his turn as the butt of her teasing, without animosity. Whenever he felt someone had been a bit too rough with her, he would step in with a sharp word or, if called for, a well-placed fist. Other than this, he waited patiently, as did most of the boys his age, feeling that it was beneath his dignity to indulge in the younger children’s pranks.

The Turner boys had always confused Rogers, because they were so different.

Seth was big for his age and, as sometimes happens, was a bully. Whenever there was a rain puddle, it was nearly certain that at least one child would flee home in tears to have their wet clothing changed because of Seth. There had been a great deal of complaints, and a few punishments for the boy, none of which seemed to have made an impression on him.

If someone could hate a child enough to murder, though the thought alone was baffling to Rogers, he would have expected it to be Seth, not his shy quiet brother Charlie.

Charlie was slightly built and wore heavy glasses. Judging by the sheer quantity of books he carried, Rogers thought his bad eyesight might have been caused by too much studying.

Charlie always stood far away from the group, clutching his books and his violin. Rogers understood that he played second violin for the school orchestra, but fortunately he lived far enough away from the Turner house not to have to listen to his practicing.

Charlie almost always wore a knitted hat and a heavy jacket with an upturned collar. Perhaps he was susceptible to colds, but the outfit made him look more like a little old man than a boy. Actually, none of his features or mannerisms stood out much, so he always seemed to blend into the background.

The old man set his knitting aside, stretched his hands and stared out at the quiet street. In a few of the houses the curtains were still drawn, even though it was nearing afternoon. The only person he could make out was a police officer, sitting alone in a parked patrol car along the curb. The unaccustomed silence sank him into a deep depression. So, with a heavy effort he heaved himself up out of the chair and made his labored way to the kitchen.

“Rose,” he said as he lowered himself into a new chair, “have you brewed any coffee?”

Rose Rogers turned around from the sink where she was peeling potatoes.

“Settle in. I’ll heat it up for you.”

She was an enormous woman, but she moved with quick grace and a light step. Even at the age of fifty-three, there wasn’t a single trace of grey in her satined, straight black hair, and her glowing olive skin was unlined.

A woman without the slightest suggestion of emotion, she was extremely fastidious about her person. Never a day passed by where she missed her bath, and whenever the weather was warm she often took two.

Brushing her hair was her daily ritual. Ten minutes each morning, during which she applied pomade to guarantee absolute smoothness to the heavy braids she fashioned into a coronet placed high on her head, then another ten minutes at night.

It seemed to Mr. Rogers that the reason she devoted so much of her time to her appearance was to compensate for his own untidiness. As much as he might try, his undependable muscles seldom allowed him to give himself a close shave, and oftentimes his food would slip from his fork, leaving grease stains dripping down his clothes. It was unavoidable, although nevertheless unpleasant.

“There’s a police car parked outside the Shepherds’,” he remarked, as Rose busied herself at the stove. “They’ll most likely come here, too.”

“Why? We already told them all we knew last night.” From her tone it was obvious she felt that she’d done her duty and no longer expected to be bothered.

“Police investigations don’t work like that, Rose. The men who stopped by last night were just officers. But we’ll eventually have to speak with the detectives they charged with the case. That’s how it works, especially in murder cases.”

“I’m prepared to do my duty as a citizen, of course, but I don’t intend to have policemen coming in and out of my house whenever they feel like it.”

“Now, Rose,” he said mildly, and busied himself with the coffee she’d set down in front of him.

She returned to the sink and let out an exclamation of annoyance. “I suppose you’re right. She’s walking toward our house right now.”

“We’ll help her all we can. You want to see the murderer caught, don’t you?”

“Of course,” she agreed wryly. She had just finished drying her hands and was idly waiting when McPherson rang the doorbell.

“Yes, how can I help you?” Mrs. Rogers asked through a partially opened door.

McPherson had always seen brown as a warm color, but the brown eyes looking back at her were harder and colder than she’d ever thought possible. And the tone of the woman’s voice did nothing to soften her icy inquiry.

“I’m Lieutenant Emma McPherson from police headquarters,” she said, flashing her credentials. “I’d like to speak with you and Mr. Rogers about the murder of Charlie Turner.”

“We