Tut's Trumpet Read online

  I spooned the rest of my spaghetti into the cardboard box. “Do you think the trumpet is the reason Mr. Gordon was killed?”

  Grandfather’s movements froze again. His mouth dropped open and held for a second. He closed his mouth, smoothed his expression, and said, “Ridiculous. Let’s get home.”

  Resentment slowed my motions and my cheeks toasted. I wasn’t ridiculous. Not ever.

  Grandfather hurried to the door leaving me to grab the leftover box and slip on my coat at the same time. So much for his gentlemanly persuasion. What was going on? I wasn’t familiar with the neighborhood and didn’t want to get lost. Maybe he was acting strange and inconsiderate because of his friend’s murder.

  Following him out of the restaurant, the foggy San Francisco air chilled my cheeks. The Italian-food scent was taken over by the fishy smell of the ocean, so different from the smell of Lake Michigan in Chicago.

  Sadness seeped into my skin. I missed Chicago. Missed the few friends I’d had in the symphony. Missed my parents.

  Grandfather set a fast pace even for someone in his seventies. I trailed behind, the injuries from the accident forcing me to go slower.

  The houses sat stacked next to each other in a variety of pastel colors. Pink, blue, yellow. Most of the homes in Chicago were brick or stucco. I liked the colorful buildings.

  Short driveways led to small garages, with most of the houses situated on top. Front steps led to the front door above the garage. Even though Grandfather’s house didn’t have a garage, the steps led to the front door. The house didn’t have a basement, either.

  I walked several yards behind Grandfather on a sidewalk that lined up next to the street. Cars were parked along the street, probably because they didn’t fit in their tiny garages.

  “Hurry up, Aria.” Grandfather turned the corner.

  Pain circled my left knee, a constant dull throbbing. He knew about my injuries. I hurried around the corner and stopped. Grandfather’s street was dark. Weird for all the lights to go out at once.

  Grandfather glanced back at me. “I need to hurry home. Take your time.” He kept his fast pace up the steep hill.

  My brow furrowed, confusion playing a zippy tune in my head. Only having lived with Grandfather a couple of days, I didn’t know what was more peculiar, his speed or the fact he wanted me to stay behind. Did he want to get to the house first so he could hide the trumpet? Or had he finally remembered my injuries? I’d finished rehabilitation, but had physical therapy exercises I was supposed to do. Slow walking was part of the plan.

  He stopped on the sidewalk in front of the house and searched his pocket for keys.

  A big, black car screeched to a stop beside Grandfather.

  The shrieking hurt my ears. The smell of burnt rubber singed my nose.

  Grandfather swiveled toward the noise.

  The front passenger side door and the backseat door swung open in a choreographed move. Two men dressed in black jumped out.

  Halting, my eyes bugged. I stared at the car and then Grandfather.

  Grandfather shot a warning glare at me. His gaze seemed to say, stay back. Holding up his hands, he backed away from the men, pivoted, and ran in the other direction.

  My heart galloped in a funky rhythm. I darted toward Grandfather, my injuries screaming with the quick motion, my black ballet flats slipping on the sidewalk. I didn’t understand what was going on, but he needed help.

  Before I could reach him, the two burly men dressed in black grabbed Grandfather’s arms and dragged him to the vehicle. Grandfather fought, kicking and twisting. The two guys were too strong for an elderly professor.

  Terror hollowed my midsection. My legs couldn’t carry me fast enough to the car. I was two houses away. “Stop! Leave him alone!”

  Fury and fear knotted my mind in a knot. I couldn’t think. What would those men want with Grandfather?

  “Grandfather! Wait! Stop!” Each word I screamed sounded higher and higher, similar to a soprano reaching a top note.

  The men shoved Grandfather into the car.

  “No!” I sprinted forward.

  The black doors slammed.

  I pounded my fist on the side of the car. Throbbing radiated up my arm.

  The car squealed away from the curb.

  Shock scraped in my lungs. My pulse points beat in a fast, pounding rhythm. Bending at the waist, I tried to catch my breath. This couldn’t be happening.

  Grandfather was the only family I had left.

  And my grandfather…

  My grandfather had been kidnapped.

  Chapter Two

  Aria

  Grandfather kidnapped.

  The realization pounded in my skull, bouncing against the bone surrounding my brain. I had to do something.

  “Help!” My voice echoed off the neighboring houses.

  The small side street was deserted. There was no one walking past or driving by.

  I slapped my back pocket where I kept my cell phone. Empty. Since moving to San Francisco I hadn’t gotten a new phone yet. Grandfather didn’t understand how important they were in a teen’s life.

  Metal gleamed from the pavement.

  Grandfather’s keys.

  I scooped the key ring up and half-sprinted, half-limped toward his house. Air wheezed out of my chest. My heart continued to womp, womp, womp both from emotional upheaval and physical exercise.

  After climbing the steps, I inserted the key in the lock, turned, and opened the door.

  Eeeaahhh. Eeeaahh.

  Alarms sounded. Grandfather had set the security system.

  I dashed to the panel on the wall, flipped the cover, and started punching numbers.

  Eeeaahhh. Eeeaahh.

  The alarm reminded me of ambulance sirens. The jarring noise was a discordant symphony where the musicians tried to outplay each other. The noise quivered down my spine.

  My finger slipped and I punched the wrong number.

  Hitting reset, I began the process again. If nothing else, maybe the alarm would bring the police faster than a 9-1-1 call.

  I hit the final number and the alarm stopped.

  Silence filled the house.

  My shoulders dipped. A second of relief before preparing myself for what would come. Huffing, my pulse jumped and I jolted into a run. I grabbed the phone. Dialed.

  “What is your emergency?” The voice on the other end sounded remote, robotic.

  While my chaotic emotions of fear, and fury, and anger, and anxiety swirled and pounded and swayed. “My grandfather. He was taken. Kidnapped.”

  The operator read out my address and asked if it was correct.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m dispatching a squad car right now. Are you in danger?”

  “What? No.” I noticed the open front door. Cold shivered across my skin and not from the night air. “I don’t think so.”

  The woman continued to ask questions about myself and the situation. My mind was so fuzzed I don’t even know if I answered correctly.

  “The squad car should be arriving shortly.”

  Sure enough, a squad car pulled to the curb and two officers got out and headed up the front steps. “They’re here.” I hung up the phone and ran to the front door, panic sedating my physical pain. “You have to help. My grandfather was taken.”

  “Why don’t you tell us what happened?” The first officer had dark skin and a black mustache. His wrinkled uniform told me he’d been sitting in the squad car for a while. His gold nametag read: Officer Hill.

  “We were walking home from dinner and Grandfather was ahead of me on the street and this car stopped and two guys got out and they grabbed him and stuffed him in the car.” I talked nonstop, panic pushing the words out.

  “Slow down. Tell us your name, first.” The second officer took off his hat and ran fingers through his red hair. “I’m Officer Daley.”

  I puffed out a couple of short breaths. “Aria York. I’m his granddaughter.”

  “What’s you
r grandfather’s name?” Officer Hill took out a tablet and started typing in letters.

  “Professor Charles York.”

  “So explain to me again what happened.” Officer Daley glanced inside my house.

  “No time to explain.” My panic spiked, hitting the top of the scale. “They’ve taken him. You have to find him.”

  “Calm down. We need the facts first.” Officer Hill strolled into the foyer with a take-charge step.

  I stepped back, trying to put my faith in the police. These officers were professionals. They knew what they were doing. I just had to answer their questions and they’d find Grandfather. I had to believe.

  “You said they put him in a car. What kind of car?” Officer Daley scanned the room taking everything in.

  “It was a big, black car. Four-wheel drive.”

  “Do you know what make?” Hill smoothed his black mustache and continued typing on his tablet. “Or did you get a license plate number?”

  I felt like an end-plugged organ pipe. Blocked up and stupid. “No. I didn’t think…”

  “It’s okay.” The red-haired officer picked up a small bust of Bach. “Where did you say you were coming from?”

  I tugged on my collar. “From dinner at this Italian restaurant around the corner.” I didn’t understand why this was important. Having dinner had nothing to do with my grandfather’s disappearance.

  “Did you eat there frequently?”

  “I didn’t. I just moved here. Grandfather was a regular.”

  “So they’d know him at the restaurant?”

  “Why is this important?” The high and off-key note in my voice showed my distress.

  “Someone might’ve seen something.” Officer Daley set the bust down. “What about the men? Can you describe them?”

  Clearing my head, I pictured the men getting out of the car. “Big. They wore black clothes and beanies, too.” The description wouldn’t help.

  “I’ll call in the information and vague descriptions and get the patrols to start searching. Do you have a photo of your grandfather?”

  Halting the confused thoughts running around in my head, I focused. “I think there’s one in his office with my grandmother.” I treaded to Grandfather’s office.

  Officer Daley followed. “Where is she?”

  “She died when I was little.” I didn’t remember much about her. Picking up the picture frame behind his desk, my gaze lingered on the drawers wondering if the trumpet was inside. Feeling a pull.

  Stop. I shouldn’t be thinking about the trumpet. I need to think about my grandfather.

  “Do you have something more recent?”

  I picked up a frame of him and my dad from one of my last concerts Grandfather had attended. I’d barely spent any time with either my parents or my grandfather during the trip because I’d had rehearsals. The passion of music had taken over my life. I’d been so determined to be great and never enjoyed the small successes—learning a complicated piece on the flute, the audience’s applause, Mom and Dad’s proud expressions. Slow, sad funeral music played in my mind.

  Officer Hill took the frame. He scrutinized the photo. “He looks familiar. What does your grandfather do for a living?”

  “He’s a music professor at the university.”

  The officer surveyed the room, stopping at certain points, processing the degrees and awards framed on the walls, the artwork featuring musical instruments, the photos of Grandfather with famous conductors and musicians, and the variety of musical instruments laying on the shelves or propped on stands. “Musical instruments?”

  “Yes.” My voice quavered.

  “Does he know, or was he in a business deal with, a Mr. Gordon? He’s an antiquities dealer.” Officer Hill’s interests seemed to have changed from sympathy to suspicion.

  My senses stiffened on alert. “They were friends.” My tone sounded defensive.

  Officer Hill entered something into his tablet. The click-click-click grating on my nerves. “Did you know your grandfather was questioned about Mr. Gordon’s murder today?”

  “Y-y-yes.” I smushed my quivering lips together. Was he going to ask me if I knew Mr. Gordon? What about the trumpet? Mr. Gordon had left the trumpet with Grandfather. Would the officer ask where the trumpet was located?

  “Convenient your grandfather, Charles York, is a person of interest and he disappears.” Officer Hill’s words knifed into my chest.

  I staggered back. I thought Grandfather had been questioned because he was last to see Mr. Gordon alive. “Person of interest?”

  “Who else lives here?” Officer Hill ignored my confusion.

  “No one. Just me and…my grandfather.” My voice cracked. I hoped he was still alive.

  Stop thinking that. Grandfather will be fine. He’ll come home and have an adventurous tale to tell.

  “How old are you?” Officer Daley took the photo of Dad and Grandfather out of the frame.

  Wariness edged out my fear. Now that they knew my Grandfather was a person of interest in an investigation, would they try to help me or try to pin a murder on my grandfather? Would they take the trumpet into their possession?

  The questions and concerns nagged setting off internal alarm bells. I had to focus on this conversation and how best to protect myself and Grandfather’s interests.

  What did my age have to do with this investigation? Realization struck. If they knew I was only sixteen they could force me into some type of custody or foster care. I refused to be uprooted again. I had to stay here for when Grandfather returned.

  “Eighteen.” I lied.

  “Where do you go to school?” Officer Hill’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t believe me.

  Squashing a second of dread, I stood taller. Eighteen year olds were in high school. “I haven’t started school yet. I used to be homeschooled.”

  Because of my music.

  The guilt twisted in my stomach, sending acid into my lungs. Between my hours of practice and lessons and my travel schedule for concerts, I didn’t have time to go to a regular high school. We’d been late driving to a performance when the accident occurred. I’d kept telling Dad to drive faster and faster and faster and faster. The word put me in a trance, remembering that night, the rainy weather, the screech and screams.

  “How many times did Gordon visit Professor York?”

  “I don’t know. I only moved in a couple of days ago.”

  “Do you mind if we take a look around the house?” The question slid off Officer Hill’s tongue as if the question wasn’t a big deal.

  But it was a big deal.

  Didn’t cops need a search warrant? What if they planted evidence connecting Grandfather to the murder? I’d seen enough cops shows to know it could happen.

  Distrust plucked like a banjo. Stiffening my spine, I gathered my courage. “Yes, I do mind.” I walked out of Grandfather’s office and toward the front door. “I’d rather you go find my grandfather.”

  The two officers had no choice except to follow me into the foyer.

  “It will take a few hours to put a trace on your phone.” Officer Hill didn’t seem in a hurry to complete the task.

  “Is there a relative you can call?” Officer Daley asked. “Go stay with?”

  Loneliness shadowed me. I wanted to crumple to the ground like a tossed-away music sheet. No one was left but me.

  And Grandfather. I had to believe he’d be okay. I had to stand strong. “No.”

  “Will you be all right here by yourself?”

  What choice did I have? Social services had been discussed when my parents died. I’d rejected the idea. “Yes. I’ll be fine.”

  Officer Hill nodded.

  My chin quirked. That had been too easy. Why hadn’t they asked to see identification or haul me in to protective custody? Either way, I wasn’t going to question their actions. Or inaction.

  “We’ll have a cruiser patrolling the area throughout the night. Monitoring things.” Officer Hill’s words were meant to calm
, but suspicion rang from his tone.

  Suspicion of me and Grandfather.

  Shuddering, I felt I was under surveillance. This wasn’t going to be easy as I’d expected.

  “When we have officers available we’ll have them canvas the neighbors. See if anyone saw something.” There was no urgency in his voice. He didn’t seem to believe Grandfather had been kidnapped.

  “Lock the door behind us.” Officer Daley led the way out of the house.

  “I will.” I wasn’t an idiot. I’d lived in a city my entire life.

  “If you hear from your grandfather, or anyone else, call us.” He handed me his business card. “Have a good night.”

  “Right.” I tried to keep the sarcasm from my tone.

  How could I possibly have a good night? My parents had died a few months ago. My grandfather has been kidnapped. I was alone.

  Alone in the house. Alone in a strange city. Alone in the world.

  And the police didn’t believe me.

  Desperation slammed into me and I almost called the police back. I didn’t want to stay here by myself. Didn’t want to be alone. Didn’t want to be a suspect.

  Instead, I closed the door, turned the lock and the deadbolt, and leaned against the thick, wooden door.

  The silence in the house made my pounding heart sound louder. It thumped in my chest in a terrifying beat. Wounds from the car accident tortured my entire body.

  The shrill ring of the phone caused me to jump. For a second I froze, then I jerked into a gimpy run heading for the phone. Maybe it was Grandfather.

  My fingers strangled the receiver. “Hello? Grandfather?”

  “You shouldn’t have called the cops.” The deep, hoarse voice made my skin crawl. Whoever this was must’ve been watching the house.

  My muscles tensed. Even if I thought I was alone, I wasn’t. Whoever had Grandfather knew about me. Watched me.

  My mind flew in several directions similar to an a cappella group singing three different songs. “Who are you? What do you want? Do you know where my grandfather is?”

  Why else would the person on the phone complain about me calling the police?

  “I want you to get Tut’s trumpets and set them on the doorstep.” The creepy voice requested, as if I left packages for kidnappers every day of the week.