Band Room Bash

by Candice Speare Prentice

  “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.

  A few minutes later, a deputy appeared to direct me to the school library. I walked into the room and saw Corporal Fletcher attempting to clear the library of the one person who hadn’t run down the hall to gawk at the band room door. If the clam-faced librarian ever had a curious bone in her body, she’d shelved it in the reference room’s prehistoric section. I had to look closely to make sure she wasn’t the mummy of the same librarian who had manned the desk when I attended high school here.

  She sniffed and looked askance at the corporal’s uniform and gun. “I told the other police officer that I don’t think the library is an appropriate place for a police investigation. Someone needs to be here to man the front desk.”

  As if the library were Mission Control.

  Corporal Fletcher shrugged and smiled at her as she stood, hands on her hips, glaring at him. “Sorry, ma’am. We’re appropriating the library for sheriff ’s office use with the permission of the principal. You’re going to have to leave.”

  The librarian swiped a stack of books off the desk and held them to her bosom defensively. “This library is the place where our students come to study. We shouldn’t have to close the doors. This is absolutely the last straw. There have been far too many disturbances today. I’m tired of listening to people argue. And now we have you police officers.”

  “We’re deputies,” he murmured, eyes sharp with interest. “You say someone argued in the library?”

  She sniffed. “People should know better. We need peace and quiet.”

  I expected her to pound the countertop for emphasis.

  “Who was it?” The big man balanced on his toes, reminding me of the first time I met him—right after I found Jim Bob Jenkin’s body.

  She frowned. “What people do in a library is protected. I don’t have to tell you.”

  “Uh-huh.” The corporal glanced at me then pulled out a notepad. “What’s your name?”

  She wouldn’t give him her name and adamantly refused to leave the library. It wasn’t until he threatened her with arrest that she finally told him who she was. After that, she turned her back to him and grabbed her square, black pocketbook from her office. “I won’t be intimidated.” She tilted her chin as she walked out from behind the desk in a huff.

  “Oh yeah, I got your number,” Corporal Fletcher murmured just loud enough for me to hear. “Liberty for all, and no cops.” He winked at me, cleared his throat, and followed her to the door. “I’m sorry. You can take up your complaints with my boss, Sergeant Eric Scott. I’m sure he’d love to discuss proper police procedure with you.”

  The irony in his voice made me smile, especially since I knew Detective Scott and his method of dealing with annoying people.

  She didn’t catch on. “I will speak to him. This is highly inappropriate. The unmitigated gall. . .” She snatched at the handle and yanked open the door. “And to think that a crime has occurred here, on school property. That’s because we open our doors to you people. I just don’t know. . . .”

  The door closed, effectively shutting her up.

  “Fruitcake,” Corporal Fletcher mumbled. “Probably reads too many of those commie books by weirdo political professor types. Sergeant’ll slice her to bits.”

  “Yeah. He’s good at slicing. I’ve experienced a bit of that myself.” I felt keyed up and crabby. Probably a result of finding Georgia, hunger and pregnancy hormones, topped off by bad library memories.

  The librarian clone who had just walked out was like the one who had banished me from the hallowed book cloister when I was in school. That was because I hit a classmate with a sacred National Geographic and inadvertently ripped the cover. When strange things started happening to the librarian, like the day she discovered a formaldehyde-preserved frog in place of the meat in her sandwich, I was briefly expelled. I never discovered who turned me in, but that was the first and last time my daddy ever grounded me. Usually my mother handled the discipline.

  “Say, Mrs. C., don’t you worry about Sarge.” Corporal Fletcher must have seen the scowl on my face, but he misinterpreted it. “You’ll be fine.”

  I flexed my shoulders and stared out the window. I dreaded talking to the sergeant, especially since Tommy and I had moved the body. “Detective Scott isn’t acting real nice today.”

  “Umm. . .yeah, well, probably,” the corporal said behind me. “To be expected.”

  I faced him. “Why?”

  From the way he was looking at the ceiling, I could tell he was thinking about how to answer me. That made me suspicious.

  “Well, a possible crime in a school is bad news,” he said. “Real political. We got a couple of new county commissioners who are being a real pain right now. That and the citizen advisory board. Now this.” He finally met my eyes.

  “That’s no excuse for grumpiness.” Even as I said it, I realized it was the proverbial pot calling the kettle black. I wasn’t little Miss Sunshine today myself.

  Corporal Fletcher glanced over his shoulder then sidled up closer to me. “You gotta give people leeway, Mrs. C. Things happen. I’m sure you’re aware of that. You have good. . .sources. You hear things. Now, why don’t you sit down?” He pulled a chair out from under a table.

  I opened my mouth to ask what he was talking about, but he avoided my gaze again.

  “I’m going to get you a bottle of water,” he said. “We can’t have you fainting or something.”

  That was sweet of him. He probably recalled the time months ago when I nearly fell at his feet after being threatened by Jim Bob’s murderer. But I also thought it was a handy opportunity for him to prevent me from asking questions. What wasn’t he telling me?

  “I need to call Max.”

  “You do that. I’ll be right back.”

  I pulled out my cell phone and reluctantly speed-dialed Max’s cell. He was overly protective on a good day, but with me being pregnant. . .

  I braced myself for a lecture, but Max didn’t pick up. Perversely, I felt annoyed with him, and I left a message that probably let him know how I felt.

  After I snapped my phone closed, Corporal Fletcher’s words ran through my mind. He’d implied that I might know something
by way of gossip. Too antsy to sit, I began pacing the library. What did he mean? Had I missed something important?

  I was sorely tempted to make notes. During the investigation into Jim Bob’s murder, I’d discovered I liked making mystery lists and solving crimes. Afterward, I bought a stack of steno pads, just in case— they were small enough to tuck into my purse but large enough to keep decent notes.

  The mental debate began. Should I or shouldn’t I? Georgia’s death intrigued me as much as it chilled me, and somehow, being that interested didn’t seem quite proper.

  By the time Corporal Fletcher returned and gave me a bottle of water and package of crackers, intrigue had won over propriety. I was jotting down my thoughts on an old grocery receipt I found in my purse. I told myself that my motives were noble. I knew Detective Scott would want to know in detail what I had observed, so this would serve to jog my memory.

  I thanked the corporal for the crackers and ripped them open. I hate packaged crackers, but I ate them because Corporal Fletcher had been nice enough to buy them. Besides, they would stave off my hunger pains. He disappeared again, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

  As I swallowed the last dry crumbs, Detective Scott burst into the room, followed closely by the corporal. “I’m going to interview Tommy,” the detective said when I looked up. “I need your permission since he’s a minor.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Fletcher, send someone to find my daughter. Then get Tommy. The medical examiner said that. . .” His voice trailed off as he glanced at me, then he motioned toward the hallway with his head. Corporal Fletcher followed him out the door. Well, that was a pointed and not very nice way to let me know I wasn’t in the loop.

  When he walked back into the library, I glanced up. “We didn’t move the body on purpose.”

  “I know that,” he said.

  “So I’m not in trouble?”

  “Not as far as I can tell right now.” He yanked a chair from under a table and dragged it in front of me.

  Since trouble and Trish are synonymous, that wouldn’t last. I stared back down at my list.