Band Room Bash

by Candice Speare Prentice

  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 sou
nds 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.”

  “Did you get it straightened out?” Max pulled two glasses from the cupboard.

  “Not really,” I said. “I, uh, sort of yelled back at him.”

  Max glanced at me over his shoulder. “You yelled at him? That probably wasn’t real sm— Um, productive.”

  That hurt. “Detective Scott deserved it. He insinuated that Tommy was guilty and that he didn’t want Sherry involved with him.”

  Max poured the lemonade and handed me a glass. “Are you sure you didn’t misunderstand him?”

  “Well, it’s possible,” I said grudgingly and slouched in the chair and took a sip as I considered how I felt. “It’s really possible. I’m afraid, Max, and my fear could be coloring everything. I don’t like the way things are going right now. Not with the kids involved.”

  “Yeah, me, too.” He leaned back against the counter.

  “Do you think they’re safe at school?”

  He hesitated before he answered. “I want to think so.”

  “Did you know that Karen wanted to investigate, too?”

  Max put his glass down hard on the counter. “This keeps getting worse. I hope you told her no.”

  “Of course I did, but I can’t stop what they do at school. And Detective Scott keeps questioning me.”

  Max stared at me. “I don’t think Eric seriously believes that Tommy murdered Georgia.”

  “Well then, why won’t he leave us alone?” I asked.

  “He’s doing his job, that’s all. And I suspect he’s making sure you tell him everything you saw that’s relevant. The faster he gets this crime solved, the faster some things get back to normal.”

  Max turned around and stared out the window above the sink. Something else was bugging him. Could today’s conversation behind a locked door have anything to do with what he had hidden from me on his desk at work? He took a deep breath then picked up the pitcher.

  “Max, what’s wrong?”

  He opened the refrigerator and slipped the pitcher onto the shelf. “That’s a silly question.”

  “Well, you act like you’re keeping secrets from me,” I said. “Remember when Jim Bob was murdered? We agreed. No more secrets. I kept my word. I told you when I was keeping notes. Today you had your office door locked. You were also shoving something around on your desk at work yesterday. What was that about?”

  The fridge door thumped shut. Max took a deep breath and turned to face me. “I have a lot of things on my mind right now and—”

  The door to the garage flew open and banged against the wall. Karen burst into the kitchen, followed by Sherry.

  “Tommy is at the sheriff ’s office,” Karen said.

  “What?” Max and I said at the same time.

  Sherry started crying. “My dad took Tommy in for questioning. This is all my fault.”

  Chapter Ten

  Max knows lawyers with Harvard educations because he went to Harvard, and he takes

  full advantage of their services when he needs them. I was familiar with the man he hired to represent Tommy. Calvin Schiller had represented me during the investigation into Jim Bob Jensen’s murder months ago.

  I hadn’t liked Calvin’s attitude back then, and it hadn’t changed. When we arrived at the sheriff ’s office, he was waiting for us in the lobby. He glanced at me as if I were a wad of gum stuck on the bottom of his shoe. Then he smiled at Max.

  “Everything is fine,” he said in his newscaster quality voice. “They can’t question him until I get to the interview room. It’ll be short and sweet, believe me.”

  I imagined Calvin came across well in court. His gray suit hung on his portly body with the perfection one can buy only from a personal tailor. He looked to be the perfect combination of sophistication and aged wisdom.

  “Should we go with you?” I asked. “I’d really like to be there.”

  Calvin lost his self-possession for a moment and looked horrified. “No,” he said quickly. “I’ll take care of everything.”

  I glanced at Max and read his thoughts. I should butt out.

  I tamped down my protective nature while the two of them talked in hushed tones. Max had relaxed.

  I guessed everything would be fine. Calvin might be a snob, but he was a smart snob. If he said things were okay, I believed him. I told Max I’d meet him outside, then I went out to the SUV. I had some thoughts to put in my notebook.

  As I walked to the vehicle, I pulled out my phone. Before I could do anything else, I had to console Sherry, who had begged me to call her with any news.

  She answered on the first half of the first ring. “Mrs. C., is Tommy okay?”

  “The lawyer is here and assures us things are fine.” I unlocked the doors to the SUV and plopped into the passenger seat and shut the door.

  Her rapid breaths hissed through the speaker. “Well, this is my fault.”

  I was relieved she thought so. She should leave the investigation in more capable hands. Like mine and her father’s.

  “So you’ll stop sleuthing, right?” I asked. “Stop asking questions?”

  “No way,” she said.

  I was momentarily speechless, which was just as well, because she obviously had more to tell me.

  “I have to keep going on this. I’m in a great position to hear things at school. Like I said, no one pays much attention to me. I can find out stuff even you can’t. I’ve already learned a couple of interesting things.”

  As much as I wanted to know the interesting things she’d found out, I was more afraid of her father’s reaction.

  “Sherry, you, uh, said Tommy being hauled down here was your fau
lt for investigating. What did you have in your notebook?”

  “Not much. Just a few things. But enough that Daddy knew what I was doing.”

  “But if your investigating got Tommy in trouble, shouldn’t you stop before something else happens?”

  She laughed—just a little maniacally, I thought. “Oh, I didn’t mean it was because I investigated. It was my fault because I was stupid enough to leave my notebook where Daddy could find it.”

  Her statement was illogically logical. Shades of me. That was scary.

  “I don’t know about this—”

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. C. I’ll be fine.”

  “Your father is frantic with worry. I understand how he feels.”

  I felt anger in her silence. “Sherry—”

  “Does that mean you don’t want to hear what I’ve found out?”

  “If I can’t talk you out of investigating, will you promise me something?”

  “What?” she asked.

  “Keep your cell phone with you at all times. Don’t put yourself in any dangerous situations. Make sure your dad knows where you are.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  She had agreed too quickly, and her promise was about as useless as mine was to Max. Sometimes dangerous situations just happen. I had to think of a way to get her to stop, but in the meantime, I wanted to know what she had discovered.

  “All right. Tell me what you learned.”

  “I volunteer in the library sometimes, and the librarians are always gossiping. They think Mr. Slade likes the costume lady.”

  “Connie Gilbert?”

  “Yeah. And Ms. Winters and Ms. Gilbert, the costume lady, had a huge fight the day Ms. Winters was murdered. In the library. Ms. Gilbert was in there using the computer.”

  “The librarian said something about an argument.”

  “Well, Ms. Winters made Ms. Gilbert get off the computer and leave the library.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Nope, but they were both really mad. I wonder if there was some sort of love triangle going on between Ms. Winters, Mr. Slade, and Ms. Gilbert.” Sherry’s breath came faster. “Maybe Mr. Slade and Ms. Gilbert were. . .you know.”