THE MAIN LINE IS MURDER
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By Donna Huston Murray
THE MAIN LINE IS MURDER
ISBN #978-0-9856880-0-4
Copyright by Donna Huston Murray 1995
Revised 2017
Originally published by St. Martin’s Press
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share it with another person, please purchase it as a gift. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
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You are invited to contact the author at donnahustonmurray.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
The Main Line Is Murder (The Ginger Barnes Main Line Mysteries, #1)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Ginger Barnes Main Line Mysteries:
FINAL ARRANGEMENTS #2
SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKS #3
NO BONES ABOUT IT #4
A SCORE TO SETTLE #5
FAREWELL PERFORMANCE #6 (e-book pending)
LIE LIKE A RUG #7 (e-book pending)
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The Lauren Beck Crime Novels:
WHAT DOESN’T KILL YOU, Book #1
Hon. Mention 2015 Writer’s Digest Self-Published Book Awards
GUILT TRIP, Book #2
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DYING FOR A VACATION, a traditional mystery
Chapter 1
WHEN LT. NEWKIRK quizzed me about the hour before I discovered the body, I scored a disappointing U for Unsatisfactory. But, hey, it was my first interrogation, there were cops in my kitchen, more witnesses in the living room, and a lawyer I heartily disliked on his way to the morgue. I was proud of myself for remembering how to make coffee.
“Sorry,” I told him. “I’ll make notes when I remember.”
Exasperated, the man finally said something sincere. “Please,” he begged. “Help us do our job.”
So I did, just not the way he meant.
The next morning I realized what I’d been doing around three the afternoon before–crashing around under the kitchen sink.
"Ginger Struve Barnes, the fool who rushes in," I’d muttered with such disgust Barney, our aging Irish setter, stopped wagging his tail. When I slam-dunked a bottle of all-purpose cleaner into my canvas carryall, he ran out of the room.
“Never volunteer!” I shouted after him.
Before I left I stuck a Post-it note on the TV. "Mop Squad duty–again. Love, Mom." At ages nine and twelve Garry and Chelsea were more than capable of finding the cookies by themselves. Also, a ninety-second jog would put the kids inside their father’s office. Finding me would be only slightly more difficult.
Soon after my husband agreed to become Bryn Derwyn Academy’s head of school, Rip ushered me into its lobby with a sweep of his arm. Green eyes flashing beneath an unruly shock of straight dark hair, his proud grin transported me back to his college apartment, a decrepit eyesore that literally made me itch.
"Has possibilities, don't you think?" he remarked again.
“Absolutely,” I answered again. The school’s old carpet reeked, the drapes were visibly dusty, and the furniture belonged on the curb. “A little TLC and it could be great.”
Such is the seduction of a chronically understaffed, under-endowed private school. It needs you. Like the National Debt needs taxes, it needs you.
Now a seasonal six-foot pine loaded with mittens for orphans graced the reception area. An antique mirror and some sturdy walnut chairs lined the wall outside the auditorium, and behind me cream-and-blue Waverly-print drapes softened the tall front windows. I had pirated everything but the tree from other parts of the building in August, when anyone who might have wanted to form a committee was on vacation.
This afternoon uniformed teenagers showing the wear and tear of the day milled around waiting for transportation. Parents leading weary lower-school children by the hand headed for the queue of Jeeps and Mercedes. Only Joanne Henry, Rip's assistant, still looked morning perfect. Beige helmet of hair unmoved, knit dress still contouring her compact middle-aged body like a dark blue glove.
"Aren't you about done?" she asked, eying my carryall. "The place looks great."
"Two more weeks, kiddo–then never again." Parents were invited to tour the "new improved" school prior to the holiday concert, so that became my personal deadline.
Joanne's attention had strayed, causing me ask what was wrong.
"Oh, Gin," she lamented. "I spilled coffee on my keyboard,” she confessed, her eyes widening until they were distraught, gray puddles. “We have to get a new one,"
No big deal. The school wasn't rich, but it could probably afford one measly keyboard. "I'm sure you didn't mean to..."
"Gin," she interrupted. "I wasn't there when it happened. I mean, I must have been, but I don't think I was." The tears behind her glasses sparkled.
"Where do you think you were?"
"Assembly. It’s Peggy’s birthday. Everybody was there."
Morning assembly was where announcements were read, birthdays fussed over, and academic achievements and sports victories cheered. With only two hundred thirty-nine students and twenty-seven faculty members, it was also where attendance was taken.
"Maybe you did it without realizing?"
"I guess I must have," she reluctantly agreed.
“Hi, Ms. Barnes,” chirped a fifth grade girl, who I swear used her pink glasses to look straight through me. Her mother had chosen Bryn Derwyn for its sheltered, family-like environment, and rightfully so. The little darling looked capable of blackmail.
“Hello, Elaine,” I replied as if I weren’t the least bit afraid of her. She smiled smugly, pivoted at the tree and swaggered down the hall to the left. Below her dark-green uniform sweater, her white shirttail blocked out a sizeable patch of plaid kilt.
I wiggled my fingers goodbye to Joanne.
Along the right-hand hallway lay two offices and my destination. The newly hired business manager, Kevin Seitz, was on the phone with his back to the door. Since his family knew my family, I usually stopped to say hello. Maybe later.
Randy Webb, the Director of Development, nodded as I passed. Not yet thirty, he had wavy blond hair, blue eyes feathered with curly lashes, nice bones. His rolling stride made women notice his athletic body, but overall he struck me as detached, even a bit arrogant.
It didn’t help that I’d c
aught him pulling out of a clinch with Tina Longmeier, the aunt of one of the students. Both parties were married to other people, and both were horrified that I chose that particular moment to check whether the copy room needed tidying.
I didn’t mention the incident to Rip because all I’d really witnessed were two adults looking guilty. Yet Randy and still behave like polite strangers.
At the end of the hall an all-purpose Community room contained a rectangular table surrounded by a dozen chairs and a messy coffee niche. In a corner someone, probably Randy Webb, had deposited a box of pamphlets and a brand-new groundbreaking shovel adorned with a large green bow–the optimistic symbol of the current capital campaign. My main interest was a stash of school merchandise nobody had touched in years. I planned to put the best of it on sale the night of the holiday concert.
Dumping my coat and purse on a chair, I dropped the tote bag, unlocked the far left cabinet, and started to shift the merchandise to the table for sorting—XL T-shirts in the school’s signature green and white, a spool of telephone cord, partial boxes of pencils and notebooks, eyeglass cases and even shot glasses sporting the school logo, and finally a gross of wool baseball caps.
When the first shelf held nothing but dust balls and mummified bugs, I grabbed my purse and set off to borrow the Dustbuster strategically placed in the Faculty Room, one of three purchased in the hope that they would be used.
When I returned, the Community Room door was shut. I couldn't tell whether the quiet conversation going on inside was coffee talk or a meeting, so I rapped with a knuckle.
Kevin Seitz peeked out through an eighteen-inch opening. "Hi, Gin. What do you need?" the business manager inquired. Behind him I could see the school's attorney, Richard Wharton, showing papers to a couple I knew to be three years behind on their tuition, so I assumed that payment arrangements were being discussed.
I waved the Dustbuster in the direction of the junk on the table. “I can come back.”
“Thanks, Gin. Give us an hour, will you?” He closed the door.
The Dustbuster was too bulky to carry around, so I set it down against the wall. Then I wandered back to the lobby where I heard the off-key, off-beat voices of a bunch of kids singing "Silent Night" in the adjacent auditorium. Why not kill time listening to them rehearse?
Rip slouched in a seat about five rows from the stage, his fingers tented in front of his lips. Rather than disturb his concentration, I slipped in two rows back.
Three gangly sixth grade boys energetically launched into "We Three Kings." Never mind that they were off-key, the parents would swoon.
Rip shifted in his seat to relieve some tension.
Tension? A closer look told me he was angry as hell.
During "Joy to the World" I monitored faces, especially the precocious Elaine Wrigley, who sang with the sobriety of the entire Salvation Army.
Halfway through "O Little Town of Bethlehem" I got it. For the next twelve minutes I stewed and squirmed and desperately wished I could leave.
Leaving, however, would have insulted those who sang. It was the ones who mouthed only a few words who would have understood, and it was on their behalf that Rip was furious.
After the final "Jingle Bells" with full and enthusiastic participation, Rip congratulated the kids, dismissed them, and circled the music director with a fatherly arm. She was two-thirds his size and twice his age, and she gazed up at him as if she expected praise.
I sat still, several yards away from their pocket of privacy, made more private by the racket of children dispersing.
Rip's head wove back and forth sadly as he delivered the bad news. The woman stepped away, shock freezing her features.
"But we've always..." she began her defense.
More murmured discussion, then an audible, "We're a non-sectarian school, Nora."
Nora's eyes widened. By now only the three of us remained in the huge room. "Well, I'm sure no one minds singing a beautiful carol. Why would they mind?"
Rip stepped back, summoning patience. "I'm sorry, Nora," he said. "You'll have to change the program; and if there isn't time to do that, you'll have to cancel."
Nora inhaled. I could hear her huffing from the middle of the auditorium. "No, Mr. Barnes. No. I'd rather quit," she said. Then she scooped her purse off a chair and marched up the aisle. The door compressor wheezed with relief as it swept her through.
"Hi," I said, finally alerting Rip to my presence.
"Oh," he said. "You heard."
"What will you do now?"
Rip stuffed his hands in his pockets. His eyes were puffy with fatigue.
"I really hate to ask this," he said. "Really hate to ask. But do you think Didi could fill in? Just until the concert?"
My first thought was, why not? Didi, my dearest friend, could sing, and every moment of her life was conducted as if she were on stage.
However, Rip appreciates Didi the way Mozart might have enjoyed rock and roll–in very small doses, if at all. Quite obviously, Rip was desperate.
"You sure?" I pressed.
He pushed my reddish bangs off my wrinkled forehead with a smile. "Even Didi's got to be more politically correct than Nora."
Chapter 2
SHIVERING FROM MY underdressed run from the school, I shut the front door to our house behind me. Barney rushed to sniff me over while conveying a hopeful, "Is it dinner yet?" with his eyes. I ruffled his neck with two hands and told the dog, "Hello to you, too."
With one last shiver I called to the kids to reassure myself they were home. Thanks to the first Bryn Derwyn student who greeted Garry with a snide, "So you're the headmaster's son," we had decided not to transfer either of our kids from the private school where Rip previously worked. Their bus was reliable, but delivery times varied with traffic.
Garry emerged from the kitchen, a cold pizza crust in his raised hand.
"What's the matter?" I asked, instantly alerted by his expression. The dog began to hop around under the crust.
Rip's spitting image shuffled into the living room and flopped into a TV chair. When Barney delicately removed the pizza crust from his fingers, Garry didn't even notice. Deep, nine-year-old depression.
"Dave lost my World Series hat."
His beloved, expensive, commemorative hat from when the Phillies won the Pennant, inches from reaching the top of the top. The hat had been integral to Garry's persona for almost a year now, adjusting as he grew, resting on his bedroom shelf at night, dusted, caressed, folded in the professional batter's manner during school, popping back into shape upon its owner's head at every opportunity. Garry looked adorable in that hat...
"How did that happen?" I asked.
"Dave's Mom got him one of those haircuts, you know, sort of long on the top?"
I knew. Long on top, shaved close from about the eyebrow level down. The current dust-mop style required a certain je ne sais quoi personality to bring it off. Since Dave was a relatively shy fifth grader, it was safe to assume the haircut made him unbearably self-conscious. "He asked to borrow your hat," to ease the adjustment, no doubt.
"Yeah, for outside after lunch. That big guy Christopher from sixth grade was giving him a hard time..."
"So you said yes."
"Yeah, but just for one hour, one time. And he lost it, Mom. Put it down somewhere and lost it. How could he do that?"
"I'm sure Dave didn't mean to be careless."
"It was my favorite, Mom. How could he be so...so stupid?"
I was sitting across from Garry, the dog now at my feet, irresistible conditions for a mother.
"So which do you think is more important," I opened. "Your best friend or your best hat?"
"But, Mom..."
"I know. You're really angry."
"Yeah. He knew I liked that hat, and he lost it." Allowed it to be stolen, was probably more accurate, but I didn’t plan to mention that.
"Not on purpose, he didn't."
Garry fidgeted. "Yeah, but..."
"
So which is more important–your best friend or your hat?"
No answer.
"Okay. Then which is more important, Barney or the rug?"
Grudgingly, "Barney."
"My purple sweater or my elbow?"
"Your elbow," said with a grimace.
"Dad's golf clubs or your sister?"
"Tough call," delivered with a smile.
I slapped him on the knee. "Go feed the dog before he faints."
"We decorating the tree tonight?" Garry asked on his way into the kitchen.
"You bet," I replied. "Why don't you dig out the decorations from the attic room upstairs while I finish up at school."
The slightly asymmetrical white pine we'd bought at a Boy Scout stand waited in front of the already faded burlap drapes I'd made for the living room.
If the school had needed cleaning and redecorating, the headmaster's house had needed–everything. With the retiring head living elsewhere, the campus house got loaded up with cartons of textbooks and assorted junk. Now, in spite of the booby-trapped fixtures, the clunking heater, and all the nest-feathering yet to do, I counted on trimming our Christmas tree to finally make this former storage dump feel like home.
"Hi, Mom." Our daughter hopped down the stairs from her bedroom where she had changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. I watched closely, looking for signs of more trouble on the school bus. The eminently popular Beth-something, the only girl Chelsea’s age who lived nearby–her back yard met our side yard–had excluded Chelsea to the extent that it had become difficult for her to converse with anyone. Now that it was a few months into the school year, I wondered whether the situation had improved; but our daughter seemed pretty well adjusted so I decided not to ask.
She settled down at the dining room table with a bottle of pink nail polish and a box of tissues. Winter afternoon sun set off her golden red hair with a candlelight glow. Against the new wallpaper–thick strips of flowered branches and stylized birds–our blossoming pre-teen appeared painfully young.
I leaned against the doorway. "Listen, ducky," I said, "I have to call Aunt Didi then go back and work at school for a while. Can you please make sure Garry doesn't eat our dinner before I cook it?"
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