Band Room Bash

by Candice Speare Prentice

  Spyglass Lane Mysteries presents:

  The Mayhem in Maryland Series

  Book Two

  Band Room Bash

  By

  Candice Speare Prentice

  Copyright 2011

  Spyglass Lane Mysteries

  Smashwords Edition

  Discover other Spyglass Lane titles at SpyglassLaneMysteries.com.

  Published in association with MacGregor Literary Inc., Portland, Oregon.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 Biblica. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

  This is developing into a very bad habit! I don’t know if I can explain it to you. It’s not only against the law, it’s wrong.

  —Mortimer Brewster in Arsenic and Old Lace

  Chapter One

  No matter how old I get, when I stand in front of the doors of Four Oaks High School, I have flashbacks. Like today, the crisp fall air reminded me of playing in the marching band during halftime. Of course, the good memories are interspersed with memories of rampaging insecurities—something I still struggle with.

  I yanked open the doors and turned my focus to my reason for being here—a play committee meeting. The drama club was planning a performance of Arsenic and Old Lace, and Tommy, my teenage stepson, had a role. Somehow I’d been coerced into collecting advertising from local merchants for the play program. Not that I resented doing things for my kids, but I was eight months pregnant and feeling slightly irritable because I’d originally taken off the afternoon to prepare for a romantic evening alone with my husband.

  I headed down the locker-lined hall toward the band room at the end of the building, where I was supposed to meet the other committee members. When I rounded a corner, I saw Carla Bickford, the school principal, walking toward me. She held a clipboard stacked with papers in one hand and a Styrofoam coffee cup in the other.

  “Trish, I’m glad I caught you.” Her chest moved with rapid breaths. “The play committee meeting has just been canceled. Marvin is feeling poorly and has to go home. He’s integral for our planning, so I’ve rescheduled for Wednesday, same time.”

  “That works for me.” Things were looking up. Even though I’d have to take time off work again to attend the next meeting, the extra time this afternoon was a gift. I glanced at my watch. I could make it home in plenty of time to make a special dinner for my husband, sans kids.

  Carla cleared her throat. “I’ve tried to get the message to everyone, but I could only find Marvin. He was down in the teacher’s lounge getting a Coke.” Her lips tightened. “I told him that was foolish. He’s had indigestion for weeks. He probably has an ulcer because he’s so high-strung. You never know what he’s going to do next.”

  Her comment surprised me. Marvin was the best band director the school ever had, leading the band to honors at prestigious contests. A miracle for a small town high school. And though he’d impressed me as an intense musician, he never seemed flaky.

  “I hope he’s feeling better soon.” I turned to go, my mind already focused on the cute black maternity dress I’d bought to entice my husband.

  “Wait,” Carla said. “We can’t put the play program advertising on hold for two days.”

  I turned back around to face her. “No problem.”

  I already had several potential contributors in mind, including our family-owned self-storage business.

  “Good. Come to my office for a moment. I have some forms that I was going to give to you today. You can take them now.”

  I stared at Carla. “Forms?”

  “Yes.” She walked past me toward the front of the building. “I’d like you to get people to fill them out when they agree to advertise.”

  I wondered why we had to go to the extreme of having people fill out official forms, but I said nothing, just followed her. Her gray suit fit her like a military uniform. Her broad shoulders didn’t need the shoulder pads in her jacket. Everything about her was boxy, including her brown hair, which reminded me of a helmet.

  In her office, Carla put the cup on a credenza. On her desk, piles of papers lay in neat rows, their edges perpendicular with the edges of the desktop. She picked up a stack.

  “Here. You can ask one of my secretaries to make copies for you if you need more.” She stretched out her arm to give them to me, and I saw a delicate gold watch on her desk.

  “That’s pretty.” I took the papers from her hand.

  She snatched it up. “It needs some work.”

  “Is it broken?” I asked.

  “Yes.” She opened her middle desk drawer and dropped the watch into it.

  She frowned and opened the drawer wider. I noticed scattered pens and mechanical pencils, along with a tube of lipstick, a compact, and a couple of prescription bottles. She slammed the drawer shut.

  “That’s too bad. It’s a very nice watch.” I glanced at the forms in my hand and thumbed through the top one, thinking that a two-page agreement for a simple advertisement in a school play program was overkill.

  “It’s from my fiancé,” she said as she picked up her phone and punched in a number.

  I glanced up at her. She didn’t bother with niceties when someone answered. “Have you been in my desk again?” she demanded.

  I heard murmurs from the receiver in her hand. A red flush worked up Carla’s cheeks. “I know I was away. That’s no excuse.”

  More murmurs came through the receiver.

  Carla glanced at me and took a deep breath. “Well, I’ll let it slide this time because you’re a new employee, but I don’t like anyone in my desk. It’s mine.”

  I thought it likely Carla had never lived with children. If she had, she’d be used to having her desk and everything else in her life ransacked.

  After slapping the phone down, she looked at me. “I don’t understand why people can’t comprehend the idea of personal property.” She sniffed and pointed at the stack of forms in my hand. “I want those filled out completely.”

  I nodded.

  Her gaze fell to my stomach. “When, exactly, are you due?”

  “In—”

  “Soon,” she interrupted me. “I can tell by your size.” Her eyes met mine. “Are you sure you can handle the advertising?”

  “Well, I—”

  “A birth in the middle of planning would be detrimental, you know. This has—”

  “I’m fine.” Interrupting her in return was the only way I’d be able to stop her. “I have one more month. The advertising will be taken care of before the baby comes.”

  She raised her brows. “Well, if you’re sure.”

  “I’m absolutely sure.”

  Like the job of getting advertising for a small town high school play program was the equivalent of being an ad exec for a huge corporation. I stared at the wrinkles on Carla’s forehead. She’d been principal for two years. She had always been pushy, but lately her behavior reminded me of a big-wheeled monster truck at the fair, running over everything in its path.

  I stood to go.

  “Wait one more minute, please,” she said. “I haven’t been able to find Connie Gilbert to notify her about the meeting cancellation. My new secretary informed me that she was here with some sample costumes for us to look at, but I was on the phone and couldn’t catch her. S
he also said that Connie was searching for Georgia Winters. Apparently, they are quarreling.” She made a note on the top paper on her clipboard.

  “I don’t have time to continue the search, and I don’t want to get involved in their personal issues. Will you please try to find Connie for me?” She pointed at another stack of forms on her desk. “These are for her. I’d like her to pick them up today. They’re forms for each of the play participants to fill out with their measurements.”

  The phone on her desk rang.

  “I don’t—”

  “Thank you, Trish. Oh, and perhaps you can find Georgia, as well. Tell her to meet me in my office. We have a dinner engagement.” Carla snatched up the receiver. “Yes?”

  I had been dismissed after being given orders. I felt like saluting. Oh, well. I’d fulfill her requests while I looked for Tommy. Besides, as tense as Carla seemed to be, maybe this would ease some of her pressure.

  Ten minutes later, after a fruitless visit to the teacher’s lounge, I found Connie Gilbert in Georgia Winters’ English classroom. Connie had her back to the door. There was no sign of Georgia.

  I hesitated in the doorway. “Hey, Connie.”

  She whirled around, body stiff, mouth in an O. Then she met my gaze and relaxed. “Trish.” She held a folded piece of paper in her hand and slipped it into the pocket of her blue linen jacket.

  As I stepped into the room, the strong scent of floral perfume made me feel ill. I wondered if it was Connie’s or Georgia’s. Georgia’s desk was covered with papers, but unlike Carla’s, everything here was a mess. A white coffee mug sat there with lipstick on the rim. A black grade book was partially covered by a paper plate on which lay a half-eaten powdered sugar doughnut. Pens and pencils overflowed a long, flowered dish.

  I met Connie’s gaze. “I’m on assignment to tell you that the meeting has been canceled, and Carla has some forms on her desk for you to pick up.”

  “Yes, Marvin told me a while ago.” She brushed a stray piece of wispy blond hair from her pale face. Her nose was pink at the end and her eyes slightly puffy. I wondered if she had a cold. Though she was on the wiry side, she had shape in the right places and was very pretty in a soft, unfocused way. Just the kind of woman men fall over themselves to help because she comes across as defenseless. I’d never been able to accomplish that and was jealous of women who could.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  She nodded and bowed her head.

  “So you’re doing the costumes for the play?”

  “Yes.” She took a wool costume jacket from a box on the floor and brushed off the lapels. “I just got a bunch from someone I know who does off-Broadway,” she said in her soft voice. “I think I’m going to need another storage unit. Do you guys have any available?”

  I thought about the occupancy chart I’d looked at before I left Four Oaks Self-Storage that afternoon. “Yeah, I think we do have a vacancy in the building where your other units are. Just call Shirl and tell her I said to hold it for you. If you can come by tomorrow morning, we’ll get you set up.”

  “Thank you,” Connie said. “Oh, I saw Tommy earlier. He’s gotten quite tall this last year. I might have to let out hems on the costumes for him.”

  “A seventeen-year growth spurt,” I said. “How long ago did you see him? I need to give him a message.”

  She shrugged. “Probably about thirty minutes ago, heading for the band room.”

  “What about Georgia? Have you seen her?”

  “No.” Connie carefully folded the costume jacket and added it to a neat stack on a student desk, patting it into place. “In fact, Carla’s secretary told me Carla was looking for Georgia. So was Tommy.”

  I frowned at her. “Why was Tommy looking for her?”

  Connie picked up a shirt and folded it. “Something about a test.”

  I sighed, resigned that I was going to spend the next hour tracking people down. I’d start in the band room.

  The band room door was closed. I grabbed the handle and pushed, expecting it to swing open. It didn’t. I pushed again and met the same resistance.

  “Hello?” I yelled. “Marvin? Are you there?”

  No answer. I put my shoulder against the door, pushing harder, and it gave enough that I could stick my hand through the crack. I groped around blindly and felt the top of a chair. I tried to shove it out of the way, but it wouldn’t move. I pulled my hand back and jammed my face against the door, peering inside with one eye. The distinctive smell of the band room wafted out through the crack. Cork grease, spit from the instruments, teenagers—I wasn’t sure what created the odor, but it hadn’t changed since I was a kid. Light from the afternoon sunshine coming through the windows, along with the glare of fluorescent lights on the ceiling, clearly illuminated two overturned music stands, along with scattered music next to a bassoon on the floor.

  Had there been some sort of struggle? I backed up, not sure what to do. I heard myself breathing and. . .were those footsteps in the distance? Hairs on the back of my neck prickled. I’d been so focused on finding Tommy and Georgia that I hadn’t noticed how alone I was. I groped in my new purse for my cell phone. The bag was filled with pockets, which I thought would keep things from falling out. It did that, but unfortunately, I couldn’t remember which pocket held what. As I pawed through the pockets in frustration, the thud of footsteps grew louder. I whirled around. Tommy.

  “You scared me,” I said, a little too loud.

  He blinked in surprise. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  “I was looking for you.” It sounded like an accusation. Nervousness made me irritable, and I was taking it out on him.

  “I’m really sorry,” he said.

  I took a deep breath. “It’s okay. I’m glad you’re here. I can’t get the band room door open.”

  Tommy frowned. “That’s weird. Let me try.”

  I stepped aside. He pressed his body against the door. It didn’t budge. He backed up a step for momentum then slammed into the door with all his weight. It opened enough to allow us entrance. He stepped inside and scanned the room then peered behind the door.

  “Whoa.”

  “Whoa what?” I rushed inside, nearly tripping on the bassoon. Then I skidded to a stop.

  We’d found Georgia. She was lying in the space behind the door next to the chair and a fallen music stand. The weight of her prone body must have been what held the door shut.

  I swallowed hard then shook the strap of my purse off my shoulder and dropped it to the floor. “Tommy, call 911.”

  “Mom, you gotta be careful. Dad said to watch out for you and—”

  “Thank you, but please, just call.” I knelt next to Georgia, trying to keep my awkward, pregnant body balanced. Blood oozed through her thick, black, shoulder-length hair, gathering in a puddle on the floor, which was drying around the edges. She’d been sick—I saw remnants of that, too. Her eyes were open and sightless. I was raised on a farm. I’d seen the eyes of enough dead animals to recognize no life when I saw it. Still, I felt for a pulse.

  Behind me, Tommy was talking on the phone. “It’s Ms. Winters. Uh, that would be, uh, Georgia Winters.” He put his finger over the mouthpiece. “Mom, the 911 people want to know what’s wrong.”

  “Tell them she’s dead.”

  Chapter Two

  Sirens wailed nearby, making my ears ring and my nerves twitch. Help was arriving quickly because the fire department was just down the road from the high school. The 911 dispatcher told Tommy and me to stay put, so I sat on a chair next to Marvin’s desk in the front of the band room, biting one of my fingernails. Tommy slouched against the wall, hands in his pockets, and stared at the floor.

  Despite my best efforts, my gaze kept wandering to the spot where Georgia lay.

  Six months ago I had found the stabbed body of Jim Bob Jenkins in the milk case of the local supermarket. That image was forever imprinted in my mind, and I’d only lately reached the point that memories of his lifeless body didn’t crop up
at weird times. And while I love solving mysteries, death disturbed me, no matter whose it was. I always wondered if the deceased was ready to meet God.

  I deliberately turned my gaze to Tommy. “We need to call and let your father know what’s going on.” I wasn’t sure I wanted to talk to Max right now. He hadn’t reacted well to Jim Bob’s murder and the ensuing investigation, poor man. I wanted to get hold of my own emotions before I talked to him so he wouldn’t worry. I clasped my hands together. “Would you mind calling him?”

  I closed my eyes to breathe a quick prayer for Max as Tommy reached for his cell, but we were interrupted by the entrance of Carla Bickford who stood just inside the doorway of the band room, hands planted on her hips, glaring at me. “What’s happening here? Someone told me an ambulance is on its way. Are you having your baby?”

  “No.” I pointed in the general direction of the body. “Georgia Winters is dead behind the door.”

  Carla whirled around and stared at Georgia, motionless, as if she’d been turned into stone. The sirens stopped their hideous shrieks, and moments later paramedics rushed into the room, ordering Carla out of the way. She came to life and walked purposefully from the room, calling Marvin Slade’s name.

  I wondered where Marvin had been all this time. Music and instrument catalogs covered the surface of his desk, along with a travel mug, two Styrofoam coffee cups, and some other papers. I scooted my chair closer so I could study what was there without disturbing anything.

  As the sound of different sirens, probably police, pierced my eardrums, I glimpsed what looked like a receipt sticking out from under a grade book. The top bore the name of a business, but I could only partially read “op” at the end of the name. A distinctive fleur-de-lis decorated the top corner of the paper. I’d reached over to look more closely when two deputies rushed into the room. One made a beeline for Georgia. The other stared at me.