Band Room Bash (3 page)

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.

“What are you writing?” he asked me irritably.

“Notes.” I chewed on the pen.

“I knew it.” Detective Scott sat down hard on the chair with an exaggerated sigh. “Trish.”

I looked up at him. “Yes?”

“Why are you making notes?” His expression hadn’t changed from earlier in the band room.

“Well, it helps me remember everything, and then I can help you better.” Unfortunately, he knew about my mystery lists. Me and my big mouth. I’d told him during the investigation into Jim Bob’s murder.

“Listen to me,” he said. “I just need your statement. I don’t need your help.”

“There’s a difference?” I asked.

“You know exactly what I mean, you’re just being obtuse.” His right eye twitched. “I don’t want to have to worry about you. Especially now that you’re expecting. Last time was plenty for me. I’m sure Max would agree.”

“Oh, I get it.” I gripped my pen tighter. “You’re threatening to tell Max that I was sitting here making notes. And you hope he’ll keep me under control and make me stop.”

“Got it in one.” Detective Scott pulled a notebook from his pocket.

His attitude was reminiscent of the way he’d acted in the past. So was my immediate annoyance with him. “Your reaction must mean that this was a murder,” I said.

He eyed me. “We don’t know anything yet.”

“Sure. As usual. And you really won’t know anything until the case is solved, at which time you’ll tell me everything I need to know.” I looked at my list, fighting a growing sense of irritation.

His breath hissed through his teeth. “Trish, would you please pay attention and answer my questions?”

“Of course.” I laid the pen and paper on my knees and folded my hands on my stomach. “I’m listening.”

The nerve at the corner of his eye continued to twitch. “Why do I feel like you’re just tolerating me?”

I shrugged.

He tapped his pen on his notebook. “Were you alone when you found Georgia?”

“No. Tommy was with me.”

He jotted a note. “Did you and Tommy arrive together?”

I frowned. “No, he was already here.”

The detective’s eyes narrowed, and he bounced his pen on his leg.
Tap, tap, tap.
“Was he with you when you discovered Georgia?”

“Yes. . .well.” I met his gaze. “He got to the band room right after I did, but he noticed her first.”

“I want to know everything you saw from the moment you pulled into the school parking lot.”

I took a deep breath, pointedly picked up my pen, lifted the paper, and shook it for emphasis. I heard him sigh as I began to read. He interrupted me when I mentioned Connie.

“Connie who?” he asked.

“Gilbert. She does the costumes for the play. I spoke to her in Georgia’s classroom before I went to the band room.”

He made a note. “All right. Proceed.”

He didn’t interrupt me again, and when I finished, I put the paper down and stared at him.

“Thank you,” he said as he jotted down notes. He glanced up at me. “Now, tell me again exactly what you saw when you were walking up to the victim. You skipped that part.”

I swallowed. I didn’t want to talk about that. I didn’t want to remember Georgia Winters’ dead body.

“I’m sorry, Trish,” he said in a softer tone. “This is very difficult for you, I know. I can arrange for you to talk to a victim advocate if you’d like.”

“No!”

He looked startled, but I didn’t want to talk to her. I’d met her once. She was very sweet, with one of those soft voices pitched just right to be soothing. Anyone who acted like that couldn’t possibly be real, and that made me suspicious.

“No, thanks,” I said with less emphasis. “I’ll be fine.” I told him exactly what I’d seen in the band room. “My biggest question is how whoever murdered her—if she was murdered—got out of the band room. There was a chair behind the door to the room, you know.”

He asked me to describe that to him again, which I did. “I didn’t even look at the door in the instrument storage room,” I said, “but you said it was locked, right?”

“Is that all?” Of course he didn’t answer me, just tapped his pen hard on his leg.

“Yes,” I said.

“Are you sure?”

“Aren’t I always sure?” I slapped the paper on my lap, irritated at him again.

“Unfortunately.”

But before I could ask him what, exactly, that meant, I heard the library door open. I turned and saw Tommy holding it for the pretty teenage girl he’d been talking to in the hall. Now I remembered where I’d seen her face. From a photo in Detective Scott’s office.

“Hey, Daddy,” she said. “You remember my car is in the shop?”

Tommy looked at me then at Detective Scott, who wasn’t smiling.

“I remember,” he said.

“Well, Tommy was supposed to drive me home so we could practice for the play. I’ll wait until you’re done talking to him.”