Band Room Bash (10 page)

“Yeah. That’s why Georgia wanted to put Granny Nettie in a home and sell everything. Besides, she didn’t want the responsibility anymore. And she wanted Connie to go back where she came from.”

“Where was that?” I asked.

“Some town in Virginia. Charlotte something or other.”

“So did Connie move here to help with Nettie?”

April nodded her head. “Sort of. But she was also friends with that principal. You know the one? At the high school? I think she lived in that Charlotte place for a while, too.”

A group of six construction workers walked through the front door.

“April!” Gail hollered. “We need you.”

“Be there in a sec.” April took a last sip of coffee and shoved the rest of the biscotti in her mouth.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Your mom said you’re going to solve this mystery.” April stood and picked up her coffee cup. “I think you should. Even if it makes my family look bad. I feel really bad for Granny Nettie. I don’t know what’s going to happen to her now, but I’m glad I don’t have to take care of her.”

As she walked back behind the counter, I pulled my clue notebook from my purse. As I finished my sandwich, I studied the clues I’d already written. Then I jotted down what April had told me.

Nettie treated Connie and Georgia like her own kids. Connie and Georgia fought about selling the farm and putting Nettie in a home. Georgia wanted to sell. Connie didn’t. Nettie is losing her memory and losing things. (Is that important?)

I chewed the end of my pen. Money was a great motivation for murder. Had Connie killed her cousin? When she came to the self-storage facility the day before, she acted upset about Georgia’s murder, but maybe that’s all it was—an act. And Connie and Carla knew each other from. . .where was it? Was it Charlottesville? I made another note in my notebook.

A glance at my watch told me I’d better move on. I had a meeting to attend and more investigating to do.

Before I left, I convinced my mother to run a full-page ad in the play program. Really, all I had to do was tell her that the Cunninghams were doing the same. That’s one area where my mother and I are in perfect agreement. The way we feel about Max’s family.

I arrived a bit early for the play committee meeting, pausing for a deep breath at the band room door. My gaze slid around the room. To my relief, everything was in order.

“Marvin?” The baby was kicking my ribs and making it hard for me to breathe.

He didn’t answer. The room was empty. I laid the boxes of doughnuts on a table and decided to take a quick look around before anyone arrived. I needed to see how the lock worked on the door in the instrument storage room that led out to the main hallway.

The storage room hadn’t changed since I had been in the band. The various-sized wooden slots held instrument cases. There were only two high windows in the room. No way to escape through them. I walked over to the door that led from the room to the hall. When I had attended school here, the door was left open, and we could come and go as we pleased. Now a lock had been installed—a dead bolt that had to be unlocked with a key.

Whoever killed Georgia had to have escaped the scene through this door, leaving the band room blocked by a chair.

A sound behind me made me jump. I spun around, and Marvin was standing in the doorway to the storage room.

He took a step into the small room. “Mrs. Cunningham, what are you doing here?”

“Call me Trish, please,” I said quickly.

I’d done just what I promised Max I wouldn’t do. Put myself in a dangerous situation. How easy it would be for Marvin to bash me over the head with an instrument right now and leave me here, then claim he’d been somewhere else. Everyone would think we had a serial instrument basher at the school.

“Uh. . .I used to play the clarinet in marching band. I wondered if things had changed since then. They haven’t.” I pointed in the general direction of where I’d stored my instrument. “That’s where my slot was.”

He nodded. “Not a lot has changed around here at least in terms of the physical building. Lots of other things have changed, though.”

His body language wasn’t that of someone ready to attack me, so I relaxed a bit and motioned toward the door to the hall. “I guess that’s one of the changes. We used to be able to come in and out of that door.”

“That was done before I came. I keep it locked so that kids can’t use the room to make out or steal instruments and pawn them.”

“Pawn them?”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “They use the money to buy drugs.”

My little ideal world just kept crashing in around me. Was I so naive?

He looked over his shoulder. “Say, did you bring the doughnuts?”

“Yes,” I said. “Help yourself.”

“I’m really hungry.” He turned and walked back into the band room.

I took a deep breath of relief, but I could see that keeping my promise to Max to stay out of danger while I gathered clues was going to be harder than I thought.

By the time I walked out of the storage room, Marvin was stuffing his face with a doughnut as if he hadn’t eaten in a week. With powdered sugar on his lips, his dress shirt hanging limply on broad, bony shoulders, and pants resting low on his narrow hips, he looked a bit like a scarecrow.

Carla strode into the room and greeted me with a nod and Marvin with a cool glance. She had a clipboard in her hands with papers half an inch thick piled on it. I guessed Max had already talked with her, but she gave me no indication either way, just acknowledged me with that slight nod. I had a feeling she had difficulty focusing on more than one thing at a time. What I didn’t understand was why the principal of the school was so involved in the play. Didn’t she have office things to do?

When she noticed the boxes I’d brought, she put the clipboard down and chose a cake doughnut, which she delicately nibbled, dabbing her lips with her napkin after each bite.

Other people arrived, including a woman who looked so much like Detective Scott, I knew she had to be his sister. She headed straight for me. That’s when I noticed she walked with a cane and a decided limp.

“You’ve got to be Trish Cunningham,” she said when she reached me. “I’m Elissa Scott.”

She held out her hand, which I automatically clasped. Her grip was firm and strong. She was tall, with gray eyes and an assessing gaze. I wondered why she was here.

“I’m glad to meet you. I heard you were living with Detective Scott.”

“Ah yes.” She glanced around at the people gathering in the room then back at me. “News does fly around here.”

“Yep.” I grinned. “But that’s not how I know. Your niece told me.”

She smiled. “She speaks highly of you and your family.”

“She might like me, but I’m not sure your brother does.”

Elissa laughed. “Don’t worry about him. If he didn’t like you, you’d know for sure.” Her gaze swept over me. “So, when is your baby due?”

“Less than a month.”

“All right, ladies and gentlemen, we need to start this meeting.” Carla slapped her clipboard down on Marvin’s music stand, interrupting my conversation with Elissa. Marvin’s baton fell to the floor, and anger flashed in his eyes as he bent over to pick it up. I was trying to figure out the dynamics between him and Carla when, from the side of my eye, I saw motion at the band room door and turned to see Sherry waving wildly through the window.

I nudged Elissa with my arm. “Does Sherry want me or you?”

Elissa looked over at her niece, who was now pointing with thrusts of her index finger in our direction. “You, I think.”

“Excuse me,” I murmured. I crossed the room and opened the door. “What’s up?”

“Mrs. C., I have to talk to you.” The tone of her voice was low and urgent.

“Trish?” Carla said behind me. “We must start this meeting now.”

I glanced around and realized that everyone was seated and staring at me. I turned back to Sherry. “All right, why don’t you call my cell phone in about an hour?”

“You don’t understand,” she said. “My dad is on a rampage.”

Her anxiety was catching, and my stomach clenched, but I needed to be cool. “I’m not surprised. He’s rampaged before.”

“No.” The poor child was wringing her hands. “Not like this.”

“Trish?” Carla repeated in her bossy tone.

“I have to get back to the meeting. I’ll call you when I’m done.” I patted Sherry’s arm. “Don’t worry. Things will be fine.” I was trying to assure her even though I didn’t believe it myself.

Her shoulders slumped. “Just be prepared, okay?” She turned and walked slowly down the hall, leaving me feeling anxious.

I tried to ignore the dread that settled in my stomach as I shut the door. Elissa saved me a seat next to her and patted it. She’d hung her cane on the back of her chair.

“What’s up?” she whispered.

“She says her dad is on a rampage.”

Elissa harumphed, which relieved some of my tension. I had a feeling I was going to like her, but she didn’t have a chance to say anything, because Carla glanced at us and pointedly cleared her throat.

“I have drawn up a tentative schedule of when everyone’s tasks should be completed.” She motioned imperiously at Marvin. “Please hand this out.” Then she frowned and looked around the room. “Where is Connie? Marvin, do you know?”

“No, I don’t,” he said in a flat tone without looking at her. He continued passing out papers as Carla had ordered.

“Well, that’s. . .” Carla took a breath. “Well, we’ll just work around her, then. You.” She pointed at Elissa. “You said you wanted to help somehow. You can help Connie with costumes. You’ll need to get in touch with her.”

She turned to me. “Now, Trish, please tell us whom you have approached for advertising.”

I pulled a folded piece of paper from my purse. It wasn’t really a list—I was just pretending—but I didn’t need a reminder of the two whole people I’d already talked to. I would just do some quick faking for the rest.

I had opened my mouth to begin my recitation when the door flew open and Detective Eric Scott strode into the room.

Everyone stared at him. I thought Carla was going to have a stroke.

“We’re having a meeting here,” she said.

“Sheriff ’s office business.” He scanned the room, his eyes skimming over his sister, then locking with mine.

“Trish,” he said. “I’d like a word with you. Will you please come with me?”

Chapter Nine

Detective Scott motioned for me to go ahead of him and pulled the band room door shut.

“Why do you do things like this?” I demanded. “Everyone’s going to think I killed Georgia or something.”

He pointed up the hall as if I hadn’t spoken, which didn’t surprise me. “Let’s go outside to my car.”

I stopped midstep. “Can’t we talk here? I don’t feel like going outside. I need to be in that meeting.” The truth was I couldn’t have cared less about the meeting, but I was in no mood to talk to him. Sherry had correctly called it. Her father was on a rampage, although it wouldn’t be apparent to the casual observer. Self-controlled types like Detective Scott and Max, and even my father, show their emotions in subtle ways, like clenched jaws, stiff bodies, and deceptively low- pitched voices. Not in loud outbursts like my mother. Subtlety was much more intimidating to me.

“We’re going outside,” he said in a flat tone.

I met his intimidating gaze and shrugged. I would go with him because he was an officer of the law. He had the badge and the gun. However, I would not let myself be browbeaten.

“I’ve been thinking about all of this,” I said breathlessly as I tried to keep pace with him. “Because of that chair behind the door to the band room, there’s no way anyone could have left after they bashed in Georgia’s head. . .unless they went through the door in the instrument storage room. The door to the instrument room is locked with a dead bolt that you need a key to unlock. Who all has keys? I imagine Marvin does. So would Carla. Actually, so would anybody who had school access. Keys can be copied.”

He grunted.

“I wish you would slow down,” I grumbled. “I can’t breathe.”

He did, just a smidgeon.

“This way,” he said when we reached the front doors. He held one open for me, and I walked through.

My thoughts were gaining momentum. “Really, now that I think about it, I can’t be sure Georgia was bashed with the bassoon. I didn’t look at it closely, but I should have. It seems to me there should have been more blood all over the place. And she had thrown up.”

He was walking more quickly now, ahead of me. I trailed behind him, down the sidewalk to his car. When he got there, he turned and faced me with crossed arms.

“What?” I was trying to catch my breath. The baby was kicking my ribs and pressing up against my lungs. “So? Was she bashed with the bassoon?”

“You know I can’t give you details.”

“Well, you should. I’m not my mother. I’m trustworthy. I could help you.” The look in his eyes would have frozen most people to death, but not me. I was too keyed up now to be immobilized by the likes of a rampaging detective. “So what do you want, anyway?”

He looked down at me. “You’re investigating the attack on Georgia Winters even though I told you not to.”

“Max knows. I told him. Besides, I’m just checking up on things and writing down notes.” I stretched my back muscles, which felt like massive, twisted rubber bands.

“Like my daughter is checking up on things?” He said the words so softly, I almost missed them.

Suddenly everything was clear. Detective Scott’s rampaging. Sherry’s fear. She’d been caught, and she was probably in trouble.

Oh, who was I kidding? I was in trouble. I wondered how he’d found out she was looking into things. Then I realized that was stupid. He was a master interrogator. He probably tortured her with his tapping pen.

I met his scowl with crossed arms, mirroring his stubborn stance. “Writing down notes won’t hurt anybody.”

A satisfied gleam filled his eyes. “So you knew what she was doing?”

“I didn’t say that.” When would I ever learn to keep my mouth shut? “And writing things down isn’t dangerous,” I reiterated.

“That depends on how the information is obtained. And it sometimes shows a decided lack of good judgment, especially when people are dabbling where they shouldn’t.”

“So why don’t you tell me exactly how you feel?” I snapped. “Like you don’t think I have good judgment?”

He took a deep breath. “Listen, my daughter is stubborn—”

My snort of laughter stopped him.

“What do you find so amusing?” he asked. “There is nothing funny at all about this situation.”

“Well, yeah, there is. It’s you saying Sherry is stubborn. Did you expect something different? She’s your daughter. That alone is enough, really, but come on, Detective. She’s also a teenager. And teenager is synonymous with stubborn.”

“What do you mean she’s my. . .” He shook his head and took a deep breath. “Her age has nothing to do with this. Poor judgment is poor judgment.” His eyes flashed.

“So both of us have poor judgment?”

“You said it, not me,” he growled.

Poor Sherry—having to deal with him on a regular basis. If only Abbie knew how badly they needed a steadying influence.

“I’m here to ask you about her, Tommy, and this—”

“Her and Tommy?” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Is that why you’re so snippy? Because of Tommy and your daughter? And what about Tommy, Detective Scott? Is he a suspect? Because this whole thing is ruining his reputation. Today my mother informed everyone within fifty miles that you’d questioned him. Not that I should be surprised about that. She has a big mouth. But I really need to know. Is Tommy a suspect?”

The emotion in the detective’s eyes died, and his expression flattened. “You know I’m not going to discuss that.”

Now I was starting to lose my temper, and, unfortunately, I couldn’t control myself nearly as well as he could. “Tommy is my son!”

“And he’s almost eighteen,” Detective Scott said.

We stared at each other, both of us breathing hard. “Well, your daughter
is
eighteen. She’s officially an adult, so she can do what she likes.” I dropped my arms and frowned at him. “And Tommy isn’t guilty. How could he be? Even your daughter likes him. That has to mean something.”

“Sherry is still immature and doesn’t have good sense—”

He snapped his jaw shut. He must have seen the look in my eyes.

We glared at each other. A true standoff. He gave in first.

“I’m sorry. This isn’t personal. Or it shouldn’t be. Tommy hasn’t been charged with anything. But I’m not going to discuss that any further with you.”

“I consider your attitude very personal.” I backed up a step. “Are we done?”

“No,” the detective said. “I want to know who you’ve been talking to.”

I stared up at him. “Besides Abbie, you mean?” Touché. He stared at me like a dog with a new food dish.

I tried not to smile with satisfaction. “I’m sure that whole experience put you in a bad mood, but just because she’s my best friend doesn’t mean you have to take it out on me and Tommy. Besides, why should I tell you anything I find out? You won’t tell me anything.” Even as I said the words, I knew how immature I sounded. Anger had a way of doing that to me.

His fingers twitched, and he inhaled several times. “I can arrest you for obstruction.”

“I doubt that,” I said. “I watch television. I’m not obstructing anything. You have no proof I even know anything that would help you with the case. In fact, you’re obstructing me. You pulled me out of a meeting and—”

I heard footsteps. The detective’s gaze flickered over my shoulder.

“Hey there, Mrs. C. You feelin’ okay?” Corporal Fletcher’s voice boomed at us.

I turned my back to Detective Scott and faced the corporal. “No. I’m not okay.”

Behind me I heard Detective Scott’s ragged sigh. “Great timing, Fletcher.”

Corporal Fletcher’s round face drooped. “Sorry, Sarge. Did I interrupt?”

“Yes,” Detective Scott said.

“No,” I said.

Corporal Fletcher’s eyes widened, and his bushy brows rose nearly to his hairline.

“I’m not done talking to you,” Detective Scott said.

“Well, I’m done talking to you.” I was too mad to even pray and ask God to help me get rid of my anger.

“Trish, please.” Detective Scott said. “If you insist on investigating, be careful.”

He sounded so worried I wanted to cave in, but I didn’t. No way would I share my notes or my best friend with someone who thought my son was a criminal and a bad influence.

I was walking past Corporal Fletcher, who looked as worried as the detective sounded.

“Mrs. C., we mean it,” the corporal said. He glanced over my head at Detective Scott in some sort of unspoken communication. “Maybe you could even avoid, er, socializing at the school for a while.”

As I walked away, I wondered what that meant, but I wouldn’t lower myself to turn around and ask.

On my way home, I talked to Sherry on the phone, and she apologized for her father’s actions. She sounded as if she were about to cry, so I didn’t tell her how mad I really was—at her and her father. I didn’t like being stuck between the two of them. When I tried once more to talk her out of investigating, she just argued with me. Truthfully, I could understand Detective Scott’s frustration with her, and I ended the conversation a little abruptly, ignoring her hurt tone.

Max’s car was in the driveway when I got home. I was still steaming mad and ready to dump everything on my husband. I wanted him to sic one of his flashy lawyer friends on Detective Sergeant Eric Scott the know-it-all.

I slammed the door between the kitchen and the garage and flung my purse down on the kitchen table. “Max?” I yelled.

No answer. I stalked down the hall to the front of the house where his office was. The door was shut.

“Max?” I grabbed the knob and pushed. Locked.

After a stunned moment, I pressed my ear against the door. I heard murmurs from inside. He was on the phone. My temper, which was already in high gear, roared into overdrive. I wanted to pound the door with my fists, but instead, I took a deep breath and waited.

The murmuring stopped, and then I heard the sounds of Max’s shoes on the wood floor. The lock clicked, and he opened the door.

“Why did you lock me out?” I demanded.

“Because I didn’t want to be interrupted.” Max looked even more tired than he had that morning.

“What’s wrong? Did the talk go badly with Carla? Is Tommy going to be expelled or something?”

“The cheating isn’t going to be a problem. She knows he didn’t do that.” He put his hands on my shoulders and turned me around. “Let’s go to the kitchen. I could use a glass of lemonade before I go back to work.”

“But—” I stopped. “You’re going back to work? Why?”

“Because I have to.” Max gently prodded me down the hall.

“What if I wanted to spend time with you? I hardly ever see you anymore.” The words reminded me of my mother, which wasn’t a good thing.

“We’re both pretty busy,” Max said as we walked into the kitchen.

“Well, do you have time to talk right now?”

“A few minutes,” he said.

I bit back a sarcastic comment about making an appointment in the future. “Well, you wouldn’t believe what happened today.”

“What?” Max murmured as he pulled open the refrigerator and pulled out the pitcher of lemonade. “Want some?”

“Yes, please.” I crossed my arms. “Sherry is insisting on investigating Georgia’s murder. To save Tommy. And now Detective Scott is mad at me.”

Max set the pitcher on the counter and turned to face me. “Sherry is investigating? Because of Tommy? You knew this?”

I nodded. “Yes. And what choice did I have? Last night she told me she wanted the two of us to investigate together. I told her no. She argued and said she’d do it without me if I wouldn’t agree to work with her.”

Max frowned at me as if it were all my fault.

“Stop looking at me like that.” I dropped into a chair and waved my hand. “What was I supposed to do? I knew she’d do it on her own anyway. She’s stubborn.”

His green eyes narrowed. “I guess you would know.”

“That’s not nice.”

“Well, maybe you should have told Eric. Wouldn’t you have wanted someone to tell us if it were one of our kids?”

Max had a point, and I didn’t like it. “I guess I was just burying my head in the sand. But Detective Scott found out today and yelled at me.”