Murder in the Choir (The Jazz Phillips Mystery Series) by Joel B Reed Read Free Book Online Page A

move slightly, as if nudged by the movement of air, but I knew it wasn’t that. There was no breeze that morning, and the door was held closed by a spring latch.
    “Let’s take a look inside,” I suggested. Dee followed me into the center and we stood there for a moment, letting our eyes get adjusted to the dim light. Dee started to switch on the lights but I stopped him. Turning on the lights might draw more attention than I wanted at the moment.
    As dark as it was, there was still plenty of light to show the layout of the center. One big room took up most of the space inside and this was divided into two equal sections. There was no ceiling in the room, only bare rafters with ceramic light fixtures strung down the center of each section. Wooden benches took up most of the space under the lights, but aside from those, that part of the room was bare.
    At the end of the room opposite where we stood, there was a low platform with a wooden podium and four wooden chairs. To one side of the platform, in the corner nearest the outhouse, there was a door set at floor level, and an old piano stood facing the podium at the other side. There was a large blackboard directly behind the podium, but as far as I could see, there was no chalk nor any erasers. Except for the blackboard, we could have been in a traditional country church.
    The sun must have been breaking through the clouds, for there seemed to be a little more light coming in through the windows. I walked to the center of the room and stood quietly. The light rain falling on the roof made a soft murmur, but I could hear nothing else. Nor was anyone there. I glanced at Dee, still standing by the door, and saw him nod toward the back corner.
    The back door was open part way now. Against the light I could see the dark silhouette of someone’s head craned around the door. I couldn’t see the features or the eyes, but I was sure it was the boy I saw coming out of the store.
    We stood like that for full minute, looking at each other and neither making a move. Then the door opened wider and the boy came into the room. He stopped a dozen feet away from me and looked at me gravely. I smiled but said nothing.
    “Who you?” The words sounded like balloons popping in the still room.
    “I’m J.S. Phillips,” I told him gravely. “This is Officer DiRado. Who are you?”
    He ignored my question. “He police?”
    “Yes,” I answered. “State Police. I’m just a guy who’s helping him out.”
    The boy thought about this for a moment. “I got sumpin,” he said. I nodded, but didn’t reply. After a moment, he added, “Sumpin you wont.”
    “What is it?” I asked, taking a seat on one of the benches.
    The youngster moved a bit closer. “How much you give?” he demanded.
    “That depends on what it is,” I answered. “If it’s something good, I’ll give you a dollar.” I reached in my pocket and pulled out some change.
    “Three dollar,” he told me.
    I put the change back in my pocket and shook my head. “No, if it’s really good, I’ll give you two dollars, one to look and one if I want it. But you got to show me first.”
    He considered this for another long moment. Then he nodded and held out his hand. I could see what looked like a spent rifle shell casing. What caught my attention was the color. Brass dulls with age, turning green as it weathers. Even if it’s kept inside in its original box it changes color slightly, taking on a dull patina that grows darker over months and years. This casing the boy held out in his hand was still bright, which meant it was brand new. I felt a thrill of excitement, but tried to keep it off my face and out of my voice.
    I took my time, as if I were giving the matter careful consideration. I reached for my wallet and took out two ones, holding them in my hand. I laid one of them on the bench in front of me and said, “All right I’m interested. Turn it around so I can see the open end. Again, he thought for a moment, then