Crescendo Read Online Free PDF Page A

given her that first day—the stuff already passed over by the police and, now she felt sure, Charlie himself. Mostly it was her daily tasks, notes about what needed doing next.
    Then she hit it.
    Â 
    Find magic flute
    Â 
    A chill of certainty ran over her scalp. The flute—and Matt said it had gone missing yet again—that Carla had been so determined to find. Her heart thumping, she flipped over the next sheet. These were hurried notes, not at all orderly.

    Found flute— not in Mozart room. Bad news: I think I’ve found human remains. A mummified hand with an opal ring. Glass-topped box. I have a bad, bad feeling about this. Just by looking at it, I know it’s not a prop or an artifact. Will discuss with Carla. Keeping this record as CYA.

    Eureka.
    â€œOnly it didn’t save your ass, did it, Tara?” Christine murmured. She turned to the next page, but it stared back at her, resolutely blank. Where did she find it? The note was dated the day before she disappeared. However Carla had reacted, it had been enough to scare Tara into hiding the notepad.
    A loud knock right behind her head made her jump, and the doorknob rattled. She held her breath, hoping the person would go away.
    â€œChristy?” Matt yelled through the door. “Are you in there?”
    With a sigh, she carefully closed the precious notepad and pushed it deep into her back pocket, then opened the door. Matt, a brilliant grin transforming his somewhat homely face, held the notebook, one arm wedging the pages open.
    â€œHow much do you love me?” he demanded.
    â€œGet in here!” She hurried him in, checked up and down the hall, and locked the door again.
    â€œI meant love in a metaphorical sense.” Matt’s gaze followed her nervously. “You know I don’t bat for your team, right?”
    â€œHush. Show me.”
    He laid the notebook on a gilt credenza and pointed ostentatiously to the line. It was inked in between two other lines, nearly illegible. Angel’s Hand: Egyptian artifact, possibly for Aida . CJD L6-Verdi.
    â€œSo are we going to look for it?”
    â€œNo!” Christy slammed the notebook shut, as if prying eyes might see too much. “I mean, we still don’t know what it really is or what it looks like—and the Verdi room is worse than the Mozart room.” It was amazing how much easier lying became, the more you did it. It also felt, however, like removing yet another brick in the divider between reality and fantasy. How would she remember which version was true?
    â€œMostly because someone stuck all that stuff from the Cavalli operas in there.”
    â€œNo kidding! No—you go help Steve and the other guys. I’ll look for the hand after I find that flute. Who keeps moving it?”
    Matt did his spooky finger wiggle. “The theater ghost! Where will you look?”
    â€œI’ll start with where I found it last time.”
    â€œWhere was that, anyway?”
    â€œOh,” she waved a vague hand at the floor, “in that one storeroom downstairs, at the far end.”
    After he left, she waited a while; wanting to be sure he wouldn’t double back. Or head to the Verdi room himself. While she waited, she made herself a fake list, so if anyone stopped her, she could look busy. Though she wanted to check the hallway, she forced herself to play the role of busy props assistant instead.
    She dodged various groups, taking her preferred route down the spiral staircase, rubber soles squeaking against the metal grate. The big freight elevator was in constant use, clanking and grinding with protests, so she ran into a few other people on the tight curves—one of them teetering on the narrow inside edge, while the one on the outside turned sideways and pressed against the handrail to slide by.
    The negotiating happened mainly via smiles and quick hand signals, as the cacophony of last-minute rehearsals, buzz saws, and other