Death By Trombone

DEATH BY TROMBONE

A Pismawallops PTA Mystery

By Rebecca M. Douglass

Death By Trombone

Copyright © 2015 Rebecca M. Douglass

Smashwords Edition

Cover images and design by Danielle English

http://www.kanizo.co.uk

All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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 your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, events and places portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

This book is available in print at most online retailers.

To all the teachers, staff, administrators, and especially the volunteers who work tirelessly to make our schools places we want to send our children.

Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter One: It's an Ugly World Without Coffee

Chapter Two: How to Make a Bad Day Worse

Chapter Three: Corpses Make People Lie

Chapter Four: Chocolate Makes the World Go Round

Chapter Five: Life With a Teen

Chapter Six: Traffic Controls

Chapter Seven: Dirty Dancing

Chapter Eight: Maybe My Kid's Not So Bad

Chapter Nine: Loomed Over by Linebackers

Chapter Ten: True Confessions?

Chapter Eleven: Ouch!

Chapter Twelve: Jokes Can't Cure Pain

Chapter Thirteen: Selling My Soul for Some Peace and Quiet

Chapter Fourteen: Track Stars and Others

Chapter Fifteen: Human is a Loose Concept

Chapter Sixteen: How'd That Get Here?

Chapter Seventeen: A Lovely Day for a Boat Ride

Chapter Eighteen: Caught in the Act

About the Author

Connect with Rebecca M. Douglass

Other Books by Rebecca M. Douglass

Acknowledgements

If it takes a village to raise a child (part of the reason we have PTAs), the same holds true for a book. This book could only come into existence through the kind support and input of a number of people. First and foremost, I want to thank those who read Death By Ice Cream, enjoyed it, and told me so. Without encouragement, few writers would continue. I would also like to thank the readers who read drafts at various stages and gave me feedback to improve the story: Shirley Pelletier, Lisa Frieden, and Jemima Pett. An extra appreciation to Tara Floyd, who shared some of the feelings of a police officer’s spouse and so gave me a better idea of what JJ needs to be thinking about.

Thanks to Danielle English for another great cover, and to the many people on Goodreads who have responded to questions and helped me figure out what works. Special thanks to Laurie Giusti, for being a sound-board for all parts of the story, for feedback that helped us develop the glorious cover, and for being a proof-reader extraordinaire. All these people have given me invaluable help. I’m sure some errors remain, and they are wholly my fault.

It is appropriate here to thank also all those who have allowed me to serve for years in the PTA and other parent organizations. Although I have taken liberties with the structure and nature of the PTA, as well as with how modern schools work, I could never have written this at all without my experiences. Nonetheless, I wish to emphasize that all characters are figments of my fertile imagination, and in no way reflect on any real parents, teachers or students past or present.

Chapter One: It’s an Ugly World Without Coffee

It was Friday, school was nearly out, and I was having a Very Bad Day. It started with my alarm going off way too early, as usual. I’d spent more of the night tossing and turning than I had sleeping. I was in the middle of a not-so-friendly divorce, and my not-soon-enough-to-be Ex was kicking up a lot of trouble. So were some other things, which I was trying to ignore. So I wasn’t in very good shape when the alarm sounded, and things went downhill from there.

I knocked the alarm to the floor trying to turn it off, denting the pine floorboards of my bedroom. That wasn’t so bad, but things got worse as soon as I got out of bed. My favorite jeans were a little tight. I sucked it up and put them on, but I never was one to stop eating when stressed. Food spelled comfort in hard times, and the depressing effects of my rough spring were there to see, bulging over my waistband.

Then came the coffeemaker fiasco. For some reason, I failed to put the carafe under the brewer, and the coffee spilled all over. Grounds and brown water spread across the counter and into the gaps in the grout. It took me ages to clean up the mess, and there wasn’t time to make another pot. By then I was running behind, had failed to get Brian out of bed on schedule, and I had to settle for a cup of tea. For someone who needs a couple of cups of strong coffee before she can speak coherently, that was a disaster right there.

My 16-year-old son required a lot of time in the mornings, because he was in love. That caused the next piece of rottenness.

By the time Brian got downstairs, blond hair still wet from the shower, he was already grumpy because I let him oversleep. Why was it my job to wake up a kid who was about to be a high school Junior, anyway? I was grumpy enough to ask the question, which resulted in an eye-roll that made me want to ground him for a week. Brian had bigger issues on his mind.

Mom, Kat and I want to go to the Graduation Dance tomorrow.

It’s for Juniors and Seniors. You’re a Soph and Kat is a Freshman. So you can’t. You know that. Goaded by lack of coffee and eye-rolls, I didn’t even try to sound sympathetic. Anyway, why had he left it until this morning to bring this up?

Student Government decided to open it to all students, because they need to sell more tickets. So we can go.

Except you can’t, because we agreed that you and Kat date only in groups until you’re both older, remember?

He shrugged. So we’ll go with a group. Plenty of our friends will be going.

I didn’t have a good comeback for that. If I’d been smart, I’d have stopped right there and said I’d let Kat’s parents decide. Instead, I pushed. You don’t have time to get a suit, or a dress, or any of that.

Do you think we care about that stuff? Kat and I just want to go have fun.

Therein lies the rub: just what kind of fun do you two want to have?

The discussion spiraled downward from there. Brian was smart enough to eat while we argued, but I let everything else go to concentrate on making my point. Then I mentioned the track meet, hoping to distract him from the subject.

Anyway, aren’t you in training for the State track meet on Wednesday? No late nights, perfect diet, all that?

For some reason, that upset Brian. I could tell, because his next comment took a mean turn. What would you know about it? You’re too busy with your PTA and your writing and your divorce to even come to my meets anymore! Sometimes I think the only reason you don’t want Dad to get me is just to be mean!

That was hitting below the belt, and Brian knew it. His father’s efforts to gain full custody were the biggest reason I hadn’t been sleeping. Brian’s accusation was also about as wrong as it could be, and he knew it. I could see his face as he realized he’d gone too far, but he was as stubborn as his mother, and JJ MacGregor never did learn when to shut up. We sat there and stared at each other until a horn sounded out front. I realized with a start that Kitty Padgett and her girls were outside waiting for us, and I hadn’t eaten breakfast. Muttering a word I never let Brian use, I poured my tea into a travel mug and grabbed a three-day-old bagel. Then I snatched up my purse and followed Brian out the door.

He headed straight for the back seat, where Kat and her older sister Sarah pushed over to make room for him. Kitty’s younger daughter was my son’s girlfriend, which made my relationship with my best friend more interesting. I pointed Brian to the front seat, and he ignored me. With a sigh that probably aged me ten years, I gave up and dropped into the passenger seat, dumping my purse at my feet.

Kitty looked at me. She knew me well enough to know I was upset, not just end-of-the-year exhausted. She also knew I wouldn’t appreciate having my issues hauled out and aired in front of all the kids. I made a small movement of my head toward the back seat, and Kitty sighed nearly as gustily as I had. This romance between our children was stressing us both. Neither of us was ready for our kids to fall in love with anyone, let alone with each other. We rode to school in silence. With a week of classes left, I wondered how everything would resolve itself through the summer. Maybe it wouldn’t matter, because if Allen got his way, Brian wouldn’t be here, which might provide its own resolution.

Kitty and I took turns driving the carpool so the other could stay home and get some work done. But we were the heart and soul—and hands and feet—of the Orcaville High School Parent Teacher Association, more commonly known as the Pismawallops PTA (because who doesn’t like alliteration?). There was a lot to do in the week before graduation, and that morning, our main concern was the Graduation Dance.

A lot of schools organize big dances somewhere off campus to make things extra special. There was no hall on Pismawallops Island big enough for even our tiny Senior class, however. The VFW and the Elks shared a building almost big enough for a dozen dancers. The Fellowship Hall at the Methodist church was larger, but not by much. Anyway, the kids would never consider holding their dance at a church. The only other option was the High School gym.

Our Island was a bit of neither here nor there. Though we weren’t far from the big cities of Puget Sound, the ferry made us as isolated as any small town on the east side of the state. I’d grown up in a farm town so small it was a blink away from vanishing, and I got to the Big City about as often now as I had back then. We Islanders tended to be pretty self-sufficient, because you had to really want something on the Mainland to make the thirty-dollar, ninety-minute round trip to Bellingham. The dance had to happen on the Island, not the Mainland. It was up to Kitty and me to turn the gym into something magical.

We stood just inside the door, and considered the space confronting us. It looked depressingly like a high school gym, vintage about 1985. Cinderblock walls and an oak floor made it a stark echo chamber. This was going to take a lot of work.

Carlos Hernandez, our PTA Secretary and the school custodian, had opened the door and let us in, but he couldn’t stick around to decorate the gym, though he had cleaned it scrupulously. A few other parents would be there within the half hour to help, and we needed to figure out what we wanted done. One thing I’d learned in ten years with the PTA: if you wanted to have volunteers, you’d better know what you needed them for.

Who made this decision that all the students could attend the Grad dance, not just Juniors and Seniors? I asked, while deciding no amount of bunting would change the drab walls into anything but gymnasium-grey cinderblock. We’d have to count on dim lighting, and maybe some colored gels from the drama department.

Student Government. I assume Brett Holt okayed it. Brett Holt was not only the Junior/Senior English Teacher and advisor to the Student Government, but Brian’s track and cross-country coach as well. I wondered if I smelled a rat. No, I decided. The coach wouldn’t want Brian distracted by dances. More likely he hadn’t realized the implications. Did he know about Brian’s romance? Kat didn’t run track, and she wasn’t the sort to follow Brian wherever he went.

You know what this means, I said. If Brian and Kat go to the dance together?

I know. She sighed. JJ, we can’t control everything those two do. Kat’s fifteen now, and becomes a sophomore next week, by her figuring. Do we trust the kids, or don’t we?

I have no idea, I said.

Well, she said, I’m not sure I know, either. But Mike and I decided we should trust them unless or until they demonstrate they aren’t trustworthy. Brian’s sixteen. Of course he wants a girlfriend. For heaven’s sake, JJ, look around you! Half their classmates are paired up!

Not the Freshmen, I protested.

Yes! Even the Freshmen, Kitty insisted. Telling them they can’t date at all will just make them angry and rebellious, and more likely to sneak around.

Part of me knew she was right. And I might have agreed and relaxed, had Kitty not said the next thing.

I think your own situation is making you lose perspective on all this. If you and Ron could just get past all the nonsense and—

"Do not go there, I cut her off. What there is between me and Ron Karlson is our business. If there were anything between us, that is, which there is not." If that was true, why had I spent so much of the night thinking about him? Kitty looked like she knew what was in my mind, and she smiled a little, which aggravated me more. I was saved from saying something truly unforgivable—and I was quite capable of it, even to my best friend—by the ringing of my phone. By the time I found it down in my purse, another parent had come in. Amy Moffat had a daughter who was graduating and a son in the seventh grade, and Kitty was grooming her for greater involvement in the PTA as soon as the boy hit high school. Amy had recently left a job on the mainland and was working at the Island Market in Orcaville, the little cluster of shops and churches near the ferry landing that was the closest thing to a town our Island had.

I smiled and nodded at Amy, and stepped aside to take my call more or less in private. A glance at the caller ID told me my day was about to get worse.

Hi Anne, what’s up? Anne Kasper was the lawyer who was handling my divorce. We were supposed to be in the final stages of an allegedly amicable settlement, so I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what Anne might say. Manners and common sense both said I had to find out. It had taken us months to reach this point, arguing every step of the way with Allen’s lawyer. Chances were I would end up with much less than Kitty thought I should get for nearly 20 years of marriage to someone she and I referred to as pond scum. I was willing to accept that, as long as I got the house, and Brian.

JJ, we’ve hit a snag. Allen is being difficult about custodial rights. Frankly, arbitration isn’t going to do it. Anne never wasted time, and she figured trying to say things gently was a waste of time, especially when talking to me. I never went into hysterics when given bad news. Given her hourly rate, I was glad she was direct. I couldn’t afford circumlocutions and softened blows.

Holy mother of mackerel, what has that waste of space come up with now? I thought we had settled everything, but I wasn’t surprised to find we had new issues. It had taken me a very long time to realize that our marriage was over and Allen was a jerk, but the last few months he’d worked hard to prove it.

He’s claiming you biased Brian against him, and that your influence is destructive to a healthy relationship between him and his son. He insists we take it before a judge.

"Curse the slimeball, I’ve told him Brian draws his own conclusions about things, including his father!" My voice was starting to rise, and Kitty tapped my arm and gestured to the door. I saw what she meant. Three more parents had come in to help, and a group of students were right behind. All were looking at me, and I recognized one of the biggest Island gossips. I bolted for the side door. After taking several deep breaths to get my voice under control I resumed my commentary.

You know what Brian says. I can count on you to make the right response to Allen, right Anne? We’d been on this case together long enough to be very much on a first name basis.

I’ve tried, JJ. She sounded tired. He insists on the judge. The best we can do is hope for a good one, and go in prepared. She spoke in a what next tone that I could echo. The whole divorce proceeding had been challenging, with Allen arguing for a pitifully small alimony payment. Anne had held out for more, including my share of our retirement, since neither of us would have had any if I hadn’t set up the accounts. We’d made him give me the Island house, as his Houston home was worth at least twice as much. Now we were stuck on the issue of where Brian would live, which was the only thing I cared about enough to fight with all my being. I wanted to keep the house and stay on the Island, but compared to my son, the house was nothing.

Allen wanted full custody, and I thought I knew why. Without child support, the payments I would receive from Allen would be too small to allow me to stay on Pismawallops Island, unless I found lucrative employment—which would almost certainly mean going to the Mainland. I’d called him a vindictive bastard before, and it was still true. He wanted to destroy my life.

What I didn’t get was what I’d ever done to deserve Allan’s hatred. I had remained loyal, or at least chaste, through years of separation. In those same years he’d made our marriage a farce, chasing women and who knew what, all over Texas. I was pretty sure his enmity had something to do with the younger, blonder, shapelier women he’d found in Houston, where he’d been living for years. During those same years, Brian and I had been happy on our little island in Puget Sound, and the rest, as they say, was history. So was the marriage, though I had needed a nudge from Brian to see it. I was probably the one person surprised when Allen filed for a dissolution of marriage. A divorce by any other name can stink as bad.

I sat down on the concrete pad outside the door, and let the mist dampen my red hair until it began to frizz out. Anne gave me a few more particulars about what we’d need to do, promised to schedule the hearing for right after school let out, and rang off. I stayed where I was, finding myself possessed of a terrific fit of the blues. Allen hated me. Brian hated me. I’d managed to make Kitty, the most patient of friends, angry enough to raise her voice at me. I’d not slept because I was lusting after the police chief I couldn’t have because Allen hated me and judges were sexist pigs, and my lousy cup of tea was woefully inadequate, and my bagel had left me hungry, and I was still getting fat. To my horror, I felt tears stinging my eyes. That meant I was probably getting my period, too, which annoyed me still more.

I hated to cry. I saw it as weakness, and it seemed like ever since Allen’s decision to divorce me, tears lurked around every corner. It got worse for a week every month.

Someone touched the door behind me, and I got up and fled around the corner of the gym, where there were neither doors nor windows nor much of anything but scrubby brush and a few blackberry vines creeping out from the nearby woods. If I had to cry, I would do it without witnesses.

My flight from discovery led to my day getting worse.

I blundered about in the knee-high weeds until I stumbled over something. That didn’t surprise me as much as it might have, because, though I didn’t want to admit it, my eyes were a little watery and I couldn’t see much. I staggered awkwardly, arms flailing as I regained my balance.

Always curious (Kitty would say ‘nosy;’ Brian, ‘driven to know things;" and Ron, that I needed to keep out of police business), I stopped, wiped my eyes with my shirtsleeve, and took a closer look at whatever had tripped me. It was a small duffle bag, with moisture beaded up on a water-resistant exterior. Assuming it must be a gym bag belonging to one of the students, I stooped and zipped it open to look for some identification. The contents were not gym clothes, and didn’t look like they belonged to any student. I felt a little sick. Something was very wrong.

I stood up and looked around, and noticed the area a few yards away where the grass and weeds seemed trampled. Suddenly afraid, though I didn’t know why, I took a few steps closer and saw a pile of rumpled clothes, dampening in the drizzle.

It wasn’t a pile of clothes. It was a man, lying on his face, and maybe about to freeze to death lying in the wet grass and drizzle. Someone must have tripped and hurt himself.

Chapter Two: How to Make a Bad Day Worse

Even as I hurried toward the man saying, Hey, are you okay? I knew this wasn’t going to be a case for first aid. Of course he wasn’t okay, not facedown in the weeds!

I squatted next to the corpse, the wet grass soaking my jeans, and reached out a hand. I felt for a pulse at the wrist, and my icy fingers touched equally icy flesh. Not good. I felt further. No pulse, no warmth. The man was dead, and had been dead for long enough to grow cold. I couldn’t bring myself to feel for a pulse at his throat, and I didn’t need to. The arm was waxen and stiff.

I stood up and backed away, looking around nervously. Of course, whatever or whoever had killed him, they wouldn’t be here now, not after all this time. I was a bit creeped out anyway, alone in the rain with a dead man. Giving myself a strong mental shake, I reluctantly pulled my cell phone back out of the pocket where I’d stuffed it when I ended my conversation with Anne. I knew the police chief’s number by heart. I’d been dialing it in my sleep for weeks.

He picked up on the third ring. Ron Karlson.

It’s me. JJ. Ron, there’s a dead man behind the gym.

What?! Are you okay, JJ? His voice took on an anxious tone that both warmed and irritated me.

Of course I’m not okay. I just found a dead man. Behind the gym. At the school.

Are you sure he’s dead? Should I call the EMTs?

He’s definitely dead, but you do whatever you have to.

Fresh?

I got his point. No. Dead all night, is my guess. C-cool. And st-stiff. I was starting to shake. I’d been through this before. Contrary to what some might say, finding bodies didn’t seem to get any easier with practice. Maybe it took a lot more practice. I didn’t want to find out.

I’ll be right there. Don’t tell anyone. Can you get under cover and wait for me, without going back in where others will see you and know something’s wrong?

I’ll try. I’d meant to sound assured and calm, like someone who could have gone back inside and acted normal, but even to my own ears I sounded more like a frightened child.

This wasn’t the first body I’d encountered. The last one had created no end of trouble for me, the school, and the PTA. I hoped this one had died of natural causes—though in