Murder in Band Camp X

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Chapter Eight: A Bit More Interesting

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Morning came all too soon for the exhausted members of Knightsbridge Maroon Band. The invasive call of morning reveille, played by none other than the trumpet specialist Mr. Burton, made its way past pillows, blankets, and hand-clamped ears.

"Nooo," somebody muttered aloud, slightly drowned out by the brass melody, but Mellie could hear it anyway, and she forced herself to sit up in her bed. Her hair was in disarray and she blinked wide, brown eyes sleepily.

"Morning, gorgeous," Scary grinned at her. The tall bass trombonist was already dressed and ready, bedecked in clean khakis and a nicely tailored plaid shirt.

"Dude, Scary, where's the funeral?" Peter Shields yawned as he woke up. The fourth chair trombonist promptly fell out of his bed and landed with a sharp yelp on the floor, prompting a giggle from Melody and a loud bark of laughter from the band director standing in the doorway.

"There's a band director standing in the doorway!" somebody else shouted in surprise. Mr. Petri, the new low brass specialist, grinned slyly from behind his large glasses.

"Time to get up," he mentioned. He was a relatively small man, with a thin build and even thinner hair. The glasses gave him a perpetual owlish look. "We have breakfast in ten minutes and rehearsal in forty." With that said, he waved a snappy goodbye and left the cabin whistling his favorite stand tune, Aztec Fire.

"He is a very weird man!" Peter yelled from his position on the floor.

"Shut your face, Shields!" a nameless lump in a top bunk shouted back in friendly reply.

"Eat shit and die, Trooper!" Shields yelled back, and the shouting and noise escalated as the cabin woke up.

"As I was saying," Scary said. "Morning, gorgeous." He grabbed her hand and placed a kiss on the top of it, then gave a wink and disappeared out the cabin door, ostensibly heading for the Pavilion, and leaving a slightly bewildered but not unhappy Mellie Waters behind.

-

"Shit," Blaze muttered, the oath heartfelt and not totally without reason. Then, louder, "Shiiiiiiiit."

"Wha's the deal?" Utah yawned as he staggered over to Blaze's bunk, drawn by the abject swearing. "You usually don't get this vocal in the mornings, man."

"You're never up early enough to hear me, anyway," Blaze joked tersely, not wanting to blow Utah off, but still becoming more and more anxious and his thorough search of the cabin proved to be empty of clarinets. "Charlie is gonna kill me."

"Hm?" Utah asked, even more confused. "What'd you do now?"

"She gave me her clarinet to keep, just to make sure nobody would steal it last night – you know, the whole deal with the flute. And it's gone – I can't find it any damn where!"

"Chill, man!" Utah said, alarmed, as Blaze's voice escalated beyond anxiety and hit panic. "It's gotta be here somewhere – what'd you do with it when you got here?"

"I stuck it behind my bag," Blaze said, dropping rather suddenly to the floor and sticking his head under his bunk. A short expanse of dusty wood with scattered bits of leave and sticks met his eyes, accompanied by a large green gym bag and his own trumpet case. "But it's not here – and there's tracks where somebody dragged it out from under my bed." He rolled over and didn't make any effort to get up, staring unhappily at Utah.

"Dude," Utah said succinctly. "That sucks."

"ARGH!" Blaze bellowed, startling some still sleeping freshman and pounding his fists on the floor in an effort to vent. "WHAT'S THE DEAL?!"

"What is the deal?" another voice asked, and Blaze found Alex Garcia by Utah's side, followed shortly by Penny.

"I've lost Charlie's clarinet," he said flatly, and the two newcomers sucked in simultaneous breaths.

"Dude," Alex remarked. Penny nodded in agreement.

"Dude," she echoed, and Blaze had to laugh, even through his miserable state. The trumpet section was way too fond of the word 'dude'.

"Dude," Blaze said, shaking his head and closing his eyes briefly. "Help me up." Three hands were offered and Blaze grabbed all of them, forcing the trumpets – his trumpets, he wasn't section leader for nothing – to haul him to his feet. "Let's go to breakfast."

-

"Don't play on your horn, moron!" Merry snapped as a saxophone let out a loud, blaring note right beside her ear. "Don't you woodwinds know anything?"

"Swab your horn right now!" Charlie scolded the sax. "You just ate breakfast three minutes ago! You'll get spit and sugar in the cork and it'll rot!"

The sax looked a little green as he contemplated rotting cork on his shiny instrument. "Sorry," he muttered, hastily retreating to the back of the rehearsal room to swab his saxophone as thoroughly as possible.

"Freshmen!" Charlie said exasperatedly. "If I find one more clarinet chewing gum while playing their instrument, I'm gonna take their horn and crack it over their heads!" She frowned at a nearby flutist, who hastily averted her gaze and busied herself with music. "Where on earth is Blaze?!"

"He wasn't at breakfast this morning," Merry commented. "That's kinda strange – Blaze has a black hole for a stomach. He can't go without eating."

"Tell me about it," Charlie grinned, remembering past lunches and dinners where Blaze had inhaled nearly everything in sight. Then, she caught a glimpse of him coming in the band hall double doors, and frowned at the tense look on his face. "Something's wrong," she said aloud. Then her glance fell to his hands – a trumpet case in one, the other empty. "He's either forgotten James, or something is really wrong…"

"Hey, babe." Blaze said as Charlie made her way through the maze of chairs and stands to wrap her arms around his neck in a fierce hug. "We've got a problem."

"That's why you don't have my clarinet, isn't it?" Charlie asked, and Blaze grimaced.

"I'm so sorry, Char," he said desperately. "I even stuck it under my bed behind my bad and my own trumpet. I didn't hear anybody come in during the night – I just woke up, and – I'm so sorry," he finished kind of lamely, shrugging in despair. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Don't think about it," Charlie scolded him. "Somebody wanted my James and they obviously knew you had it. It's not your fault at all – it just means somebody was determined enough, and close enough, to see me give you the clarinet and follow you to your cabin." She repressed a shudder. "Somebody must have been real close."

"I'm totally sorry, babe," Blaze said once more, and wrapped his arms tightly around her waist. He hugged her close, just breathing in the faint scent of vanilla and Lucky brand perfume until the moment was cut short by a loud whistle.

"Get a room, Durham!" one of the percussionists, Bass Drum number two named Delilah Merchant, yelled across the band hall, Prompted by the call, many of the students turned and looked, and Charlie rolled her eyes.

"They're all jealous," she said firmly, and pressed a quick kiss to his lips before disentangling herself from his arms. "I've gotta find a replacement clarinet for James and file a theft report with Defton. I'll se you in a bit." She disappeared into the band office, running her fingers through her short brown hair in a gesture Blaze knew showed how frustrated she was.

"I hope the trumpets aren't next," he muttered softly to himself, plucking the gleaming silver horn from its case and fingering the smoothly responsive valves with care. The thing was nearly as expensive as his pos car at home, and a lot more valuable to him as an item, as well. "I'm locking this up after we're done."

-

Charlie entered the band office quietly – she never knew when the directors were having a meeting, and sometimes they liked to snap when you let a door slam shut. She was just about to let the door fall gently back into place when Lee's second chair baritone, Donald, pushed through.

"Hey," he grinned at her, speaking in a low voice – they all knew procedure by now. "Heard about the clarinet – uncool beans, ya know?"

"I know," Charlie smiled. "Definitely uncool. What're you looking for?"

"Valve oil," Donald frowned. "Stupid valves dry up like it's the Sahara. You'd think they'd keep a little bit of oil on them, but the most they can last is like a week. Westhouse despised me in junior high – I think he arranged for me to get the worst euphonium in the entire band."

During the entire conversation they had been wandering past the front desk, and came to the door that led to the library. It was furnished with pictures of the band in various states of giggling insanity and silliness – there were even a few pictures of Blaze Charlie noticed, ones that had to be from his freshman year because he looked too sweet and innocent for his senior year.

"Wonder why they always have these pictures," Charlie commented. "It's only a camp band hall. Don't other people use this place?"

"Nah," Donald shrugged. "Westhouse was such a rich old fart that he bought the entire property and furnished it with everything we have today. Even though he retired it's officially the music department's property, and he can't take it back. So it stays unused for most of the year – except, of course, for the annual band lock-in." A wide, very anticipatory grin spread across his face. "I've heard so many things about the lock-in, and I finally get to go. That thing is the stuff of legends, man."

"Hmm," Charlie said thoughtfully. "Stuff of legends…" She placed one hand on the doorknob and was about to push through to the small room lined with filing cabinets and one big copier machine, but Donald suddenly grabbed her wrist and hissed at her to be quiet.

"They're talking about the flutes," he said softly. Charlie tuned out all her thoughts and focused on the muffled words that drifted past the barely cracked door.

" …unacceptable! We can't just let him rampage around camp like a madman!" Defton was saying vehemently, one fist pounding the table for emphasis. "He's ruining band morale and freaking out the kids!"

"We don't even know it's him," Petri countered in a quiet voice. "We've been out of touch with all of Texas for the past few days – for all we know, some psychopath could have broken loose from prison and he's the one terrorizing our students."

"Unlikely," Mrs. Bartlett interjected. "What kind of chance does that have? Think seriously here, people. Obviously, retirement hasn't settled him down any – I think he's hellbent for revenge."

"But why this guerilla warfare-type revenge?" Another band director, the french horn specialist Mr. Cronshey, added his own input. "This is very… commando-type pseudo-military infiltration."

"Not infiltration," Defton said. "He's got a master key. All he has to do is walk up to that door and open it up." As he spoke, he gestured towards the door Charlie had one hand on. They made eye contact, and Charlie muttered an oath under her breath.

"What do you think you're doing?" Bartlett exploded. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Not long – we – I just needed some valve oil – her clarinet – " Donald stammered as Charlie pulled the door open.

"Oh, no. You're clarinet is gone too," Defton sighed. "I should have expected this." His back, normally perfectly straight in his chair from years of practice, slumped and he laid both hands on the table, palms down. "This is beginning to get out of hand."

"I think we need to delegate this to someone more qualified," Petri spoke up again in his soft voice, thick with a southern Texas accent. Defton nodded in slow agreement.

"Go tell the band rehearsal starts in fifteen," The head director instructed the students. "We'll take care of the valve oil and theft report later. I've got some phone calls to make."

With that, the office quickly emptied, leaving two bewildered students look at each other in amazement.

Things had suddenly gotten a lot more interesting.

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A/N: Oh yeah! New chapter! So sorry for taking a while (hope you enjoyed this one, Laurie!) but suddenly, I just started to write and couldn't stop! This won't be a long note – it's kind of late, YAWN! – but there ya go and tell me what ya think. Tchau for now,

~adulaith