Band Room Bash (2 page)

“Whoa.”

“Whoa what?” I rushed inside, nearly tripping on the bassoon. Then I skidded to a stop.

We’d found Georgia. She was lying in the space behind the door next to the chair and a fallen music stand. The weight of her prone body must have been what held the door shut.

I swallowed hard then shook the strap of my purse off my shoulder and dropped it to the floor. “Tommy, call 911.”

“Mom, you gotta be careful. Dad said to watch out for you and—”

“Thank you, but please, just call.” I knelt next to Georgia, trying to keep my awkward, pregnant body balanced. Blood oozed through her thick, black, shoulder-length hair, gathering in a puddle on the floor, which was drying around the edges. She’d been sick—I saw remnants of that, too. Her eyes were open and sightless. I was raised on a farm. I’d seen the eyes of enough dead animals to recognize no life when I saw it. Still, I felt for a pulse.

Behind me, Tommy was talking on the phone. “It’s Ms. Winters. Uh, that would be, uh, Georgia Winters.” He put his finger over the mouthpiece. “Mom, the 911 people want to know what’s wrong.”

“Tell them she’s dead.”

Chapter Two

Sirens wailed nearby, making my ears ring and my nerves twitch. Help was arriving quickly because the fire department was just down the road from the high school. The 911 dispatcher told Tommy and me to stay put, so I sat on a chair next to Marvin’s desk in the front of the band room, biting one of my fingernails. Tommy slouched against the wall, hands in his pockets, and stared at the floor.

Despite my best efforts, my gaze kept wandering to the spot where Georgia lay.

Six months ago I had found the stabbed body of Jim Bob Jenkins in the milk case of the local supermarket. That image was forever imprinted in my mind, and I’d only lately reached the point that memories of his lifeless body didn’t crop up at weird times. And while I love solving mysteries, death disturbed me, no matter whose it was. I always wondered if the deceased was ready to meet God.

I deliberately turned my gaze to Tommy. “We need to call and let your father know what’s going on.” I wasn’t sure I wanted to talk to Max right now. He hadn’t reacted well to Jim Bob’s murder and the ensuing investigation, poor man. I wanted to get hold of my own emotions before I talked to him so he wouldn’t worry. I clasped my hands together. “Would you mind calling him?”

I closed my eyes to breathe a quick prayer for Max as Tommy reached for his cell, but we were interrupted by the entrance of Carla Bickford who stood just inside the doorway of the band room, hands planted on her hips, glaring at me. “What’s happening here? Someone told me an ambulance is on its way. Are you having your baby?”

“No.” I pointed in the general direction of the body. “Georgia Winters is dead behind the door.”

Carla whirled around and stared at Georgia, motionless, as if she’d been turned into stone. The sirens stopped their hideous shrieks, and moments later paramedics rushed into the room, ordering Carla out of the way. She came to life and walked purposefully from the room, calling Marvin Slade’s name.

I wondered where Marvin had been all this time. Music and instrument catalogs covered the surface of his desk, along with a travel mug, two Styrofoam coffee cups, and some other papers. I scooted my chair closer so I could study what was there without disturbing anything.

As the sound of different sirens, probably police, pierced my eardrums, I glimpsed what looked like a receipt sticking out from under a grade book. The top bore the name of a business, but I could only partially read “op” at the end of the name. A distinctive fleur-de-lis decorated the top corner of the paper. I’d reached over to look more closely when two deputies rushed into the room. One made a beeline for Georgia. The other stared at me.

“Are you the one who found her?” he asked, body tense.

“Yes.”

“Did you touch anything?”

“We probably moved her when we pushed the door open.”

“Who’s—”

Someone began barking orders from the hallway, and the deputy raised his hand. “Just a moment, ma’am.”

A familiar male voice inquired, “Who was first at the scene?”

Both deputies turned toward the doorway as if yanked by invisible leashes. Detective Eric Scott walked into the band room. I couldn’t imagine how he’d gotten here so quickly from the sheriff ’s office.

The three men spoke briefly, in hushed tones, one deputy motioning toward the body. The other must have said something about me, because Detective Scott’s gaze sliced the room to meet mine. He didn’t look happy.

He turned back to the deputies and pointed at a door behind me that led to the instrument storage room. “There’s another entrance in the storage area. I’ve been informed it’s kept locked. Find out who has keys. Work with Fletcher. Make a perimeter, and make sure nobody leaves. Set up places to interview people. Wait for the crime scene unit.”

“Yes sir,” they replied and left the room.

“You.” The tall, blond detective pointed at me. “Don’t move. Wait for Fletcher.” Then he motioned at Tommy. “Go out into the hall and wait.”

As Tommy hurried from the room, Detective Scott turned and watched the paramedics.

I didn’t bother to say anything. It would do no good. The detective and I were well acquainted from close contact during the investigation into Jim Bob’s murder. I knew he could be unbearably bossy when he had a mind to be, especially when I was involved in his investigation.

One of the paramedics turned to him. “She’s dead, sir.”

I could have told them that. But had she been murdered? And if so, was the weapon the bassoon? I had seen no blood on the instrument, but that didn’t mean anything. I hadn’t examined it, fearful of messing up evidence.

The sudden sound of yelling filtered through the door from the storage room, and Carla burst back into the room with a deputy on her heels.

Detective Scott whirled to face them.

“Sorry, sir,” the deputy said. “She unlocked the door and ran right past us.” He tried to grab her arm.

She evaded his grasp and marched across the room. “Detective.”

“Stop right there.” His irritation was obvious in his scowl.

She obeyed, but her lips were pursed in displeasure. “I want to know what is going on.”

“You need to leave the room immediately,” he said. “Talk to my corporal.”

As if on cue, Corporal Fletcher strode into the room. Both he and the deputy stood behind Carla. Corporal Fletcher’s Santa Claus–like appearance probably fooled some people into thinking he was a jovial softie. That impression would be a mistake.

“This is my school,” Carla snapped, totally ignoring the corporal. “You know that. And that woman was one of my employees. She was also my friend. . . .” Her voice broke, then she took a deep breath and grew angry again. “I have a right to know what’s happening. Was this an accident?”

“You need to leave like everyone else,” Detective Scott said, ignoring her question and her emotions.

I leaned forward, watching the exchange with interest, and, if I were honest, enjoyment. If anyone could halt a seemingly unstoppable principal, Detective Scott could. Unfortunately, there’s nothing I like better than a good fight, a remnant from my past and something I constantly remind the Lord is not appropriate for a churchgoing mommy. As if He didn’t know that already.

“I insist on staying here until I get some answers,” she said. “The school board will want a full report. I have a right to know.”

Detective Scott’s stiff spine was body language I understood. Carla would do well to pay attention. “You’ll leave the room on your own or with our help. I don’t care. But you’ll leave the room.” I had experienced the detective’s cold civility, but I’d never heard him on the verge of losing his temper.

Carla squared her shoulders more, which I wouldn’t have thought physically possible and stood nose to nose with Detective Scott. “I’m the principal.”

“And I’m the detective in charge of this scene.” He nodded almost imperceptibly at Corporal Fletcher and the deputy, who closed in on either side of her.

She finally deigned to glance at them and crossed her arms, as if daring them to touch her.

This was more fun than watching parents squabble with referees at the high school football games.

Detective Scott sucked in a deep breath. “I understand you’re the principal and you’re concerned about your school. I’m sorry, but it’s sheriff ’s office procedure to clear everyone from a scene like this. I assure you that I’ll keep you notified of everything you need to know.”

I was impressed. He’d caught his temper before he lost it, but he’d still won. That took skill. A couple of seconds ticked by, then Carla heaved a sigh. No doubt she realized she was in the presence of someone whose word and will were backed by his badge and the authority given to him by the sheriff ’s office. What Carla probably didn’t understand was that “need to know” meant she’d find out very little. Experience had taught me how the detective worked.

Before she left the room, Carla pointed at me. “What about her?”

Oh, now that was mature.

Detective Scott glanced from me to Carla and back again. “I’m questioning her.” Then he looked at the corporal. “Fletcher. Interviews. Trish first.”

“Yes sir,” Fletcher replied.

By the time Carla had walked out of the room, head held high, Detective Scott was standing over the body. Most of the time he wore a suit, but today he had on his uniform, and his black belt bristled with attachments—a telephone, a gun in a holster, handcuffs, and other things I didn’t recognize. I didn’t notice Corporal Fletcher was back in the room until he appeared at my elbow.

“Mrs. C.?” He called me by my nickname as he waggled his finger at me, indicating I should follow him. I snatched up my purse and obeyed.

Members of the crime scene unit arrived as I left the room. Detective Scott greeted them. I heard him say, “The medical examiner is on the way. I want to know time of death. I don’t think it’s been long.”

We walked through the storage room and into the hallway where deputies were herding people around. I caught a glimpse of Tommy, as well as Marvin Slade, whose deep-set, dark eyes looked like black marbles in his narrow, blanched face. If a person ever lived up to the platitude “He looked like he’d seen a ghost,” it was Marvin.

Corporal Fletcher led me up the hallway, away from everyone, then pulled out a notebook.

“We didn’t move the body on purpose,” I said before he could ask me anything. “And I have a good reason to be here. It’s because of the school play. I’m on the committee. I’m helping with the advertising for the play program. We were supposed to have a meeting today. They’re doing
Arsenic and Old Lace.
You know the story? Cary Grant starred in the original black-and-white movie. It’s a dark comedy about Mortimer Brewster who finds out his aunts poison their boarders. Tommy’s in the play and. . .” I paused for a breath.

“It’s okay, Mrs. C. Just relax.” The expression in Corporal Fletcher’s eyes was kind under his bushy eyebrows.

I rolled my knotted shoulders, but it didn’t relieve the tension. “How did you guys get here so fast, anyway?”

“Sarge and I were on our way here for a meeting with the principal,” he said. “The parents are pushing to up the security at the school, and the school board wanted her to talk to law enforcement. The sheriff sent us since Sarge’s daughter attends this school.”

“Well, they should be concerned—if Georgia was murdered.” I rubbed my arms, momentarily chilled, and stared at him. “Do you think she was? Like bashed in the head with the bassoon?”

“We don’t know anything right now.” He pulled a pen from his pocket. “Just tell me who you were going to meet with.”

I dropped my arms to my sides. “I was supposed to be meeting with Carla, Marvin Slade, the band director, Connie Gilbert, and. . .Georgia, and a few other people.”

“So, no one was here when you found the victim except for you and Tommy?” he asked.

“Right. The meeting had been canceled.”

“And why was the meeting canceled?”

While I told him, I leaned against the wall to support my suddenly shaky legs. I guessed it was a delayed reaction to finding Georgia.

He glanced at my protruding tummy. “Oh, boy. My apologies, Mrs. C. Inconsiderate of me to make you stand in your state. Let’s get you somewhere to sit down.” He tucked his notebook and pen into his pocket. “Wait here.”

As he walked away, I noticed that the crowd in the hallway was considerably smaller. Carla had disappeared. Marvin was gone, too. One deputy was talking to a football player and Kent Smith, the football coach. Kent reminded me of one of my father’s favorite bulls, a short and stocky Hereford with a massive chest and head.

Tommy’s face was dark with an emotion I couldn’t identify. Maybe fear, which I didn’t understand. I wanted to go hug him, but I knew that wouldn’t be cool. When I finally caught his gaze, I tried to reassure him with a smile, but he didn’t return the gesture. He just looked away and stared at the floor. That disturbed me more than anything else. Tommy had always been the steadiest of my stepchildren.

I was distracted by a tall teenage girl rushing down the hall past me. Her face looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Tommy’s expression softened into a smile as she approached. When she stopped in front of him, he bent his head to talk to her in quiet tones. I recognized the look. Tommy was smitten.