Band Room Bash (14 page)

Chapter Thirteen

That I would willingly appear in Detective Eric Scott’s office was a minor miracle. He must have thought so, too, because his face was screwed up in a quizzical frown.

“Have a seat.” He pointed to the chair in front of his desk. “You know we were out at Four Oaks Self- Storage this morning, right? We talked to Max.”

“Yes, and that’s why I’m here.”

He took a deep breath. “We had a warrant.” Dark, puffy circles under his eyes and the tension lines creasing his forehead made me inclined to feel sorry for him.

“I don’t care about that. It’s fine. I’m just here to help you.”

He winced. “To help me?”

By his tone of voice, I could tell my offer of help wasn’t welcome. My sympathy faded, and I bit back an angry retort. “Don’t panic. It’s just something you should know.” I reached into my purse and pulled out my steno pad.

“Is that what I think it is?” he asked.

“My clue notebook.” I licked a finger and flipped the pages.

A stream of breath hissed through his lips.

I glanced up at him. “Oh, come on. Stop with all the sighs. Can’t you just accept the fact that I collect clues and quit making a big deal out of it?”

He shook his head. “No. You’re a civilian. You’re not a trained police officer. It isn’t safe.”

“You sometimes use informants, don’t you? Besides, I came here of my own free will, out of the goodness of my heart, to tell you something. The least you could do is be friendly.”

He tapped his pen on the desk and stared at me. “Fine. What is it?”

I put my finger on the page. “Connie just got her new unit last Tuesday. The day after the murder.”

He pursed his lips. “Okay.”

“On Thursday, Marvin came to Self-Storage with a key to look inside one of Connie’s units.”

“Shirl told us that,” Detective Scott said. “And Max assured us that’s on this side of legal. If someone has the key and the code.”

“Yep. The thing is, he insinuated he was there for school play business.” I stared at the detective. “But he was already on administrative leave. He had no business there. If I had known that, I probably wouldn’t have allowed him in.”

“So?”

“Well, I did wonder if he was planting something or hiding something.”

“Mmm,” Detective Scott’s eyes narrowed. “Anything else?”

I flipped to the page in my notebook that I’d just filled out. “I was at the dry cleaners just a few minutes ago. Connie had a bunch of costumes there to be cleaned. Marvin went to get them on Wednesday. That was the day before he looked in Connie’s unit.”

The detective stopped moving. “And?”

“The girl who works there said she had pulled some papers out of the pockets of a few of the costumes. She handed them to him. He got upset. Then he took all the costumes and left.”

Detective Scott leaned forward. “What kind of papers?”

“She said some bills and some receipts and things like that.”

He tapped his pen harder. “Trish, you shouldn’t be—”

“I didn’t purposely try to dig up this information. I went to the dry cleaners to ask them to advertise in the play program.” I flipped through my notes. “Were you aware that people are saying Coach Smith helped football players cheat so they could stay on the team? And there are rumors that he used steroids.” I bit my lip for a second. “In fact, some bagger kid at the Shopper’s Super Saver insinuated that the coach was giving the players something.”

Detective Scott cleared his throat. I met his gaze, but his eyes were shuttered. “What kid told you this?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know his name. Spiky hair, piercings, tattoos, smoker, says ‘dude’ all the time, and looks and acts like he’s done his own share of drugs.”

“I see.”

“That’s all.” I stuffed my steno pad back in my purse. “I’m trying not to get into trouble.”

“Right.” His sarcastic tone left little doubt of his opinion on that matter. He got up, walked around his desk, and stood by the door to his office. “Trish, I do appreciate the fact that you came to talk to me. That’s good.”

“But? I can hear a but in there.”

He sighed again. “But I’m worried. This isn’t a game.”

“I’m not playing a game.”

“Maybe you don’t think you are, just like my daughter doesn’t think she is.”

I hiked my purse strap higher on my shoulder. “May I give you a piece of advice about your daughter, Detective?”

“Can I stop you?”

I glared at him. “Yes, you can. Just say no.”

He closed his eyes and pinched the top of his nose; then he looked at me again. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”

“Yes, it was.” I debated saying anything at all, since he’d irritated me once again, but then I remembered the bitter tone in Sherry’s voice when she talked about her father. “One thing I have experience with is being a parent to a teenager. It’s not like sleuthing. It’s something I really understand.”

“So go ahead.” He leaned against the door frame. “I might be able to use some advice.”

His admission surprised me, and for the first time since I’d met him, he looked vulnerable.

“Sherry is angry right now. What she could use is some unconditional love from you. Do some fun things together, Detective. Spend time with her, but don’t spend that time nagging her or lecturing her.” I took a deep breath. “Have you ever listened to her laugh? She’s got a wonderful laugh.”

He swallowed and blinked hard.

I smiled. “In order for a parent to really make an impact, a kid has to know how much they care. Communication with understanding is the key, even when the kid doesn’t act like they’re listening.” I walked out the door, then I stopped and glanced at him over my shoulder. “That goes for adults, too, by the way. You can’t expect people to read your mind about all the things you don’t say. Have a good weekend, Detective Scott.”

My mother’s farm kitchen smelled of roasting meat, boiling potatoes, and green beans cooked in ham stock, making me feel homey.

“I hope you’re feeling better now,” my mother said to me as she handed me a baking sheet for rolls. “I found out some things to help you solve this mystery, but I don’t want to be blamed for killing my grandchild by putting you into shock.”

“If finding Georgia didn’t put me into shock, I doubt what you have to say will.” I placed refrigerator roll dough that Ma had made earlier on the baking sheet.

“You can never tell,” she said. “Could be something simple added to everything else, like building blocks. One last block on top of the pile and the whole thing falls to pieces all over the place.”

“Well then, be gentle with your blocks.” I rinsed off my hands and put the rolls in the oven.

“Don’t be smart with me, missy,” she said.

“Sorry. But you can tell me.”

Ma put her hands on her hips. “Well, if you pass out, don’t blame me.”

Sounds of the television came from the family room where the men were assembled. Men didn’t work in the kitchen at my mother’s house.

Ma put tea bags in a pitcher and poured boiling hot sugar water over them. “Gail was talking to her hairdresser, whose daughter, Twila, is the principal’s new secretary at the school.”

“Mmm-hmm.” She must have been the poor person Carla had called and barked at the day I’d been in her office.

“Well,” Ma continued, “seems Twila comes home mad most days. That Bickford woman is impossible to work for.”

“I can imagine. She comes across like a dictator.”

“Hitler. Everything has to be her way. No one can have any thoughts but her.” Ma turned and stared at me. “Thing is, that Carla was all buddy-buddy with Georgia, but not at the end.”

“Really?”

“Yep. They had a big fight the day before Georgia up and got herself killed.”

“What about?”

Ma shook her head. “Who knows? But Twila says Georgia tore out of Carla’s office like she’d stumbled onto a yellow jacket nest.”

Right then, Abbie’s shadow appeared at the back door. I had a sense of déjà vu. From the time we became friends in kindergarten, Abbie loved coming to my house. She was raised by her grandmother, a very rigid woman who demanded more perfectionism than any kid was capable of. The woman had held grudges like kittens, bringing them out daily for feeding and petting. My mother might have a sharp tongue and be a master of manipulation, but at least I was allowed to be a kid.

Hi.” Abbie stepped into the kitchen, and I gave her a big hug. She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Glad you could make it,” my mother said to her. “Put your pocketbook down and cut the pork roast, please. You always do it best. The platter is right there.”

Abbie obeyed. I checked on the rolls.

“You working on another book?” Ma asked Abbie.

“Yes.” She sliced through the meat with a firm hand.

“Some crime thing?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

Ma pointed at the beans, and I took the hint, turning off the heat.

“Well, you need to be careful with all that kind of thing,” Ma said. “Crime and cops and things.”

Abbie glanced over her shoulder. “Why?”

“Well, for one thing, that sheriff person was asking about you.”

Abbie’s body went stiff. I glanced at my mother.

“Detective Scott?” I asked.

“No, no,” Ma said. “Not that one. He says he knows you, Trish. He’s shorter, rounder. Looks like Santa Claus.”

“That’s Corporal Fletcher,” I said.

My mother nodded. “That’s the one. He’s a pervert.”

I choked and laughed at the same time, and it turned into a coughing fit. When I finally recovered, I stared at my mother in disbelief. “Corporal Fletcher? Ma, there’s no way. He’s a really nice guy. Why would you think that?”

She pursed her lips. “He was asking after Abbie. Did I know her? Was she available?”

“He asked you that?” I couldn’t believe he would be so blunt.

My mother snorted. “Well, not in so many words, but I can read between the lines.” She clucked her tongue and turned an indignant glance on Abbie. “He’s married. Gail said he’s got four kids and two grandkids. You, young lady, need to be aware he’s got his eye on you. Hard to believe, isn’t it? He should be upholding the law, and here he is, an old married man, looking at you with lust in his heart.”

I started laughing.

“It isn’t funny.” Ma’s nostrils flared in indignation.

“I think you misunderstood,” I said. “He wasn’t asking for himself. He was asking for Detective Scott.”

Abbie glared at me over her shoulder then turned back to the roast, slapping slices of pork on the platter as if she were swatting flies.

“How do you know that?” my mother demanded.

“Trust me,” I said. “I know.”

Sammie bounced into the kitchen. “I’m starving. When are we going to eat?”

“Let’s talk about this after dinner,” I suggested.

Abbie didn’t say a word and avoided my glances while we carried food to the table.

After we were all seated and the food had been blessed and passed around, Ma inhaled dramatically. “I heard more about that new housing development someone’s building,” she said. “I don’t know what things are coming to.” She jabbed at a piece of pork roast on her plate.

“Can’t say I’m real keen about a change like that, either,” Daddy said.

Max glanced at me. “Change is inevitable.”

I laughed. “Well, maybe Daddy can sell the farm and make a million.”

My mother’s head jerked in my direction. “Trish, how could you say that? I can’t imagine. . .why—”

“I’m sure Trish was joking.” Daddy’s narrowed eyes gleamed a warning at me.

“Well, I should hope so.” Ma glowered at me. “This farm will be sold over my dead body.”

“Come on, Ma. Don’t take everything so seriously.” I hadn’t expected such a strong reaction.

She grabbed the bowl of mashed potatoes and slopped some onto her plate. “Well, it’s just that so many people are selling out. What’s going to become of us? And what about my grandchildren? What if one of them wants to be a farmer?” The tone of her voice rose a notch. “What if all the farmers sell out?” Her voice broke from emotion.