by: GG Calpo
Series: The Sweet TOOTH Murder Mystery
Genre: Cozy Mystery
Release Date: October 7, 2026
Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
Trouble is brewing at Whitman’s Port Choral Society as choir members drop dead and Detective Jonathan Storm raises more questions than answers in his investigation. When Stefan, the choir’s soloist, gets weaker by the day, Meg and her friends take matters into their own hands. And if a murder investigation was not enough to elevate anyone’s blood pressure, Meg finds herself in danger tied to her past that she’s struggling to understand.
Will Meg and her friends stop the killer before Stefan becomes the next victim—and before Meg’s past catches up with her?
Join these golden-age sleuths as they follow the clues, protect their own, and prove that friendship is the strongest weapon against a killer.
I’m doing surprisingly well. Somehow I’m moving on past the pain of losing my husband and son. For that, I thank my friends. They never gave up on me, buzzing around me like gnats. Have you ever tried swatting a gnat away? Once they decide to swarm around you, there’s no escape. Lucky for me, I never thought once of escaping them.
I’m sorry for your loss. Please introduce yourself to readers.
Hello everyone! I taught kindergarten at Whitman’s Port Union Free School District back in the day. Were you in my class? No? Oh well…I retired a few years ago, and I qualify for the senior discount now. Imagine that? I love to knit and crochet. I’m making a blanket for my grandson, Archer, right now. Dora, that’s my daughter-in-law, tells me they have way too many blankets, but I say no one has ever enough. It gets really cold here on Long Island—minus ten degrees this past winter! What else do I like to do? Well…I like to garden, bake, and…oh yes!…solve murders.
Can you please tell us about some people we’ll meet in your story?
If you haven’t met them at our earlier adventure in Hook, Line and Murder, you’ll meet Barbara, Edna, Stefan and Liz. Barbara is this scary former principal of Post Elementary School. Well, at least she’s scary to the kids, but she’s really a soft-hearted woman with a bit of crust to her. Edna taught third grade. You’d think Edna is a timid mouse of a woman because she’s soft-spoken and barely says a word most times. But you’d be very wrong. Stefan and Liz are two peas in a pod, up for any trouble. Stefan taught band while Liz taught fifth grade and coached the drama group. You’ll also meet Cannoli, my pet corgi. She’s the smartest of us all, sniffing out trouble before any of us know there’s trouble about.
Tell me about a defining moment in your life.
It was when my mother—she was a teacher; you see—met one of her former students, Christopher. This was a kid who had problems in class. Not that he was a troublemaker. Oh no, my mother said Christopher was a sweet boy, but he couldn’t sit still. He’d fidget and not pay attention. His mom didn’t want him transferred from my mother’s class because Christopher had bonded to my mother. And my mother agreed. She said that she and Christopher got along just fine. What my mother didn’t say was that she spent extra time with Christopher during school. Not much, maybe a few minutes more explaining things so he’d understand what was expected of him, or listening to him talk about what had caught his attention—which, of course, had nothing to do with what my mother was teaching at the moment. That day, when my mother saw Christopher again—he was my age, a high school senior—Christopher was a tall, confident, and happy young man. He was all set to go to college. My mother was so proud of him. And all I kept thinking of, as I heard Christopher reminisce about how my mother was so patient with him, was that I wanted what my mother had with her students. She had made such a difference in Christopher’s life. That was when I decided to become a teacher, an early-childhood teacher. I wanted that life where you get to develop meaningful relationships.
I love that. Why do you feel the need to put on your sleuthing hat and investigate murders?
I don’t fancy myself as the modern Agatha Christie, if that’s what you’re thinking. Never mind that I’m probably as old as her. But really, don’t you know Detective Storm? No one should go through the pain I did when I lost Rich and Jim. Imagine that detective telling me that my husband and son drowned ‘accidentally’? Rich and Jim, who were strong swimmers and knew that river like they knew they were having pot roast for dinner that night? No, someone had to make sure the killer is caught. And anyway, solving murders is doing wonders for my sleep. I don’t toss and turn in bed at night anymore. Because I know that with each murder we—my friends and I—solve, the closer we are to catching the one who stole my loved ones from me.
I’m really sorry. I’m glad you’re helping others. What can readers expect from Death Hits the High Notes?
Fun…and questionable decisions, unsolicited advice, and a lot of arguments. But then that’s friendship. And friendship is front and center in Death Hits the High Notes. Without my friends, I would have missed the twists and turns in the plot. So pay attention! I almost didn’t.
Great advice. Meg, thank you so much for your time.
“Don’t you just love this season?”
Fall weather, my favorite time of the year. The trees stood shorn of their crowns, balding in spots. My feet waded through the pile of leaves cluttering the schoolyard, in varying shades of green, brown, and red.
Barbara stopped her headlong rush and looked around. She shook her head at me, rolled her eyes, and resumed her forward march. I laughed, following at a more leisurely pace.
It was noon on a bright and beautiful Wednesday, but the school had closed early for the parent-teacher conferences later in the day. Kids dodged away from us while parents and teachers greeted Barbara with nods and soft murmurs of “Good morning, Principal Roker.” Retired eight years, and Barbara was still Principal Roker to everyone. But then, I was still Mrs. B to my former kindergarten students and their parents. My fault entirely. No one called me by my Christian name of Meagan Brightbook. Mrs. B seemed a perfectly acceptable name until a student stuttered and stammered while saying my name. Mortified when the other kids laughed at her, I told my student she could call me Mrs. B. Just that student, I thought, in my appalling ignorance of the power of nicknames. Color me surprised when the other students and their parents—and the residents of the three towns of Whitman’s Port, Sands Neck Point, and The Village of Codling Bay served by the Whitman’s Port Union Free School District—took to calling me Mrs. B. I was twenty-two and teaching my first class. What did I know of such things?
We were at the school to meet our friends. Stefan sang in the Whitman’s Port Choral Society, and they were rehearsing for their annual fall concert this Sunday. He had asked everyone to meet him at the school auditorium. Said we might as well listen to the rehearsals. Except we were late, as the voices sounding from the auditorium made clear to me when I pushed the doors open. The rehearsal had started. Barbara took a seat beside Liz, sitting in the last row of chairs by the center aisle. The chair hinges squeaked as Barbara pushed the seat down.
“They still haven’t fixed these chairs,” Barbara grumbled.
“Fix? The school board should replace them,” I whispered back, eyeing the faded velvet-covered chairs and the dark stain marking the middle of the seat next to Barbara. Facing Barbara’s wrath was better than risking my brand-new jeans, so I scooted past her and Liz, who, of course, was on time.
“You’re late,” Liz whispered.
“Shush.” Barbara waved her hand at the stage. “Stop talking; we’re here to listen, in case you’d forgotten.” Catching Liz’s eye and her grin, I knew she didn’t mind being told to shut up. She was used to Barbara. She had taught fifth grade at Post Elementary School until retiring a year after Barbara. Settling my back firmly against the school auditorium’s chair, I let the music take me away. Listening to music was my second favorite way to relax, next to drinking my morning latte. All that beautiful melody filling my heart and flying away with it up to the heavens. What could be better than that? Choral music soothed my worries away, even with the auditorium’s dismal acoustics.
“Why hold rehearsals here and not at Saint Anthony’s Cathedral? The acoustics in this auditorium are awful. It’s killing my listening pleasure,” Liz said.
“Your whining is killing mine.” Barbara didn’t even bother to turn her head toward Liz.
Liz winked at me and continued complaining. “I heard the choir members were giving the conductor grief about the acoustics, but he told them they’re lazy and they just need to project their voices more. That singing from their diaphragms will strengthen and bring energy to their voices.”
I raised my eyebrows to urge Liz on. We ignored Barbara’s huffing, knowing she’d make us pay but wanting to rile her up anyway. I know, I know. We were acting juvenile, but at our ages, we took our amusements where we found them.
“One of the choir members whispered to me that any energy coming from this cost-cutting is energizing the conductor’s pockets.” Liz chuckled. “They’re betting on whether—”
But then Barbara transferred her gaze from the choir to us, her eyes fierce and brooking no mutiny. It was time for us to behave. Liz and I sank back into our chairs, like our students did when we sent them to the principal’s office for Barbara to deal with.
Karma’s a bitch, as if I didn’t know that by now. For lack of anything better to do, I took my cellphone out, taking a picture of the choral group, before my brain registered what I had done. Barbara called it my gut reaction to any photo-worthy event. But if a bunch of friends and former students rehearsing for a choral concert in a few days was not photoworthy, then nothing was. I put my phone away and focused on the choir.
There were two new faces I didn’t recognize from last year’s concert. They looked familiar, though I couldn’t place where I had seen them before. The conductor stood in front, his back to us as he summoned the choir’s eyes to him with a few taps of his baton. He took a deep breath, synchronizing the choir’s breathing to his own. Gesturing with his baton, he released the soprano’s voice—rich, powerful, and throbbing with emotion. The beginning strains of the solo filled the auditorium. Holding his right hand at waist level, the conductor flicked his right index finger left, then right, counting the beats.
“That’s Amanda, in case you didn’t know,” Liz told me behind her raised hand.
I nodded and tried to stop my giggles when Liz’s shoulder hit mine.
“Will…you…shut…up?” Barbara widened her eyes more with each word.
Liz waved her hands in surrender, twitched her body deeper into the chair, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. If it weren’t for the trembling of her shoulders, Liz could have fooled us with her pose of deep listening. But we knew her, and all she got from Barbara was another shove. Despite her unfailingly put-together appearance—manicured nails and hair always expertly cut and dyed—Liz hadn’t left her teen years behind. We must have been making a racket because a woman three rows down turned around and glared at us.
Liz and I looked at each other and decided to settle down and listen. I swayed, imagining my soul lifting in prayer, soaring past the lights of the auditorium and ever more upwards into the wide open sky beyond the school building. Then it happened. One minute I was up in the heavens, one with the song; the next minute I was crashing without a parachute.
The glorious voice stopped, leaving echoes of the high note ringing in the auditorium. A harsh cough sounded, jarring and unexpected. The accompanist stopped. The conductor jerked forward while the soprano toppled gracelessly to the floor, face down. Music scores fluttered in the air before landing gently around the stricken woman. A choir member huddled over her while the rest stared in shock.
“She’s not breathing!” The grief-stricken wail rattled my bones.
Barbara jumped up from her chair, her eyes fixed on Stefan, who stood frozen in his place, his eyes fixed on Amanda.
Amanda…who wasn’t moving.
I whipped my phone out of my bag and dialed nine-one-one. How long would help take to get here? Stefan moved to where Amanda was, kneeling to touch her on her shoulder. What was Stefan waiting for? Why was he not giving her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation? A few other choir members crept nearer but then backed away when Stefan waved them off. Start CPR, I wanted to shout, but couldn’t because the 911 operator had picked up my call.
Then the door to the auditorium opened, and in walked Edna, former third-grade teacher of Post Elementary School and the last of our group. One look at the stage and the woman laid out on the floor had Edna gasping, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Oh no, not another murder?”
Fall weather, my favorite time of the year. The trees stood shorn of their crowns, balding in spots. My feet waded through the pile of leaves cluttering the schoolyard, in varying shades of green, brown, and red.
Barbara stopped her headlong rush and looked around. She shook her head at me, rolled her eyes, and resumed her forward march. I laughed, following at a more leisurely pace.
It was noon on a bright and beautiful Wednesday, but the school had closed early for the parent-teacher conferences later in the day. Kids dodged away from us while parents and teachers greeted Barbara with nods and soft murmurs of “Good morning, Principal Roker.” Retired eight years, and Barbara was still Principal Roker to everyone. But then, I was still Mrs. B to my former kindergarten students and their parents. My fault entirely. No one called me by my Christian name of Meagan Brightbook. Mrs. B seemed a perfectly acceptable name until a student stuttered and stammered while saying my name. Mortified when the other kids laughed at her, I told my student she could call me Mrs. B. Just that student, I thought, in my appalling ignorance of the power of nicknames. Color me surprised when the other students and their parents—and the residents of the three towns of Whitman’s Port, Sands Neck Point, and The Village of Codling Bay served by the Whitman’s Port Union Free School District—took to calling me Mrs. B. I was twenty-two and teaching my first class. What did I know of such things?
We were at the school to meet our friends. Stefan sang in the Whitman’s Port Choral Society, and they were rehearsing for their annual fall concert this Sunday. He had asked everyone to meet him at the school auditorium. Said we might as well listen to the rehearsals. Except we were late, as the voices sounding from the auditorium made clear to me when I pushed the doors open. The rehearsal had started. Barbara took a seat beside Liz, sitting in the last row of chairs by the center aisle. The chair hinges squeaked as Barbara pushed the seat down.
“They still haven’t fixed these chairs,” Barbara grumbled.
“Fix? The school board should replace them,” I whispered back, eyeing the faded velvet-covered chairs and the dark stain marking the middle of the seat next to Barbara. Facing Barbara’s wrath was better than risking my brand-new jeans, so I scooted past her and Liz, who, of course, was on time.
“You’re late,” Liz whispered.
“Shush.” Barbara waved her hand at the stage. “Stop talking; we’re here to listen, in case you’d forgotten.” Catching Liz’s eye and her grin, I knew she didn’t mind being told to shut up. She was used to Barbara. She had taught fifth grade at Post Elementary School until retiring a year after Barbara. Settling my back firmly against the school auditorium’s chair, I let the music take me away. Listening to music was my second favorite way to relax, next to drinking my morning latte. All that beautiful melody filling my heart and flying away with it up to the heavens. What could be better than that? Choral music soothed my worries away, even with the auditorium’s dismal acoustics.
“Why hold rehearsals here and not at Saint Anthony’s Cathedral? The acoustics in this auditorium are awful. It’s killing my listening pleasure,” Liz said.
“Your whining is killing mine.” Barbara didn’t even bother to turn her head toward Liz.
Liz winked at me and continued complaining. “I heard the choir members were giving the conductor grief about the acoustics, but he told them they’re lazy and they just need to project their voices more. That singing from their diaphragms will strengthen and bring energy to their voices.”
I raised my eyebrows to urge Liz on. We ignored Barbara’s huffing, knowing she’d make us pay but wanting to rile her up anyway. I know, I know. We were acting juvenile, but at our ages, we took our amusements where we found them.
“One of the choir members whispered to me that any energy coming from this cost-cutting is energizing the conductor’s pockets.” Liz chuckled. “They’re betting on whether—”
But then Barbara transferred her gaze from the choir to us, her eyes fierce and brooking no mutiny. It was time for us to behave. Liz and I sank back into our chairs, like our students did when we sent them to the principal’s office for Barbara to deal with.
Karma’s a bitch, as if I didn’t know that by now. For lack of anything better to do, I took my cellphone out, taking a picture of the choral group, before my brain registered what I had done. Barbara called it my gut reaction to any photo-worthy event. But if a bunch of friends and former students rehearsing for a choral concert in a few days was not photoworthy, then nothing was. I put my phone away and focused on the choir.
There were two new faces I didn’t recognize from last year’s concert. They looked familiar, though I couldn’t place where I had seen them before. The conductor stood in front, his back to us as he summoned the choir’s eyes to him with a few taps of his baton. He took a deep breath, synchronizing the choir’s breathing to his own. Gesturing with his baton, he released the soprano’s voice—rich, powerful, and throbbing with emotion. The beginning strains of the solo filled the auditorium. Holding his right hand at waist level, the conductor flicked his right index finger left, then right, counting the beats.
“That’s Amanda, in case you didn’t know,” Liz told me behind her raised hand.
I nodded and tried to stop my giggles when Liz’s shoulder hit mine.
“Will…you…shut…up?” Barbara widened her eyes more with each word.
Liz waved her hands in surrender, twitched her body deeper into the chair, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. If it weren’t for the trembling of her shoulders, Liz could have fooled us with her pose of deep listening. But we knew her, and all she got from Barbara was another shove. Despite her unfailingly put-together appearance—manicured nails and hair always expertly cut and dyed—Liz hadn’t left her teen years behind. We must have been making a racket because a woman three rows down turned around and glared at us.
Liz and I looked at each other and decided to settle down and listen. I swayed, imagining my soul lifting in prayer, soaring past the lights of the auditorium and ever more upwards into the wide open sky beyond the school building. Then it happened. One minute I was up in the heavens, one with the song; the next minute I was crashing without a parachute.
The glorious voice stopped, leaving echoes of the high note ringing in the auditorium. A harsh cough sounded, jarring and unexpected. The accompanist stopped. The conductor jerked forward while the soprano toppled gracelessly to the floor, face down. Music scores fluttered in the air before landing gently around the stricken woman. A choir member huddled over her while the rest stared in shock.
“She’s not breathing!” The grief-stricken wail rattled my bones.
Barbara jumped up from her chair, her eyes fixed on Stefan, who stood frozen in his place, his eyes fixed on Amanda.
Amanda…who wasn’t moving.
I whipped my phone out of my bag and dialed nine-one-one. How long would help take to get here? Stefan moved to where Amanda was, kneeling to touch her on her shoulder. What was Stefan waiting for? Why was he not giving her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation? A few other choir members crept nearer but then backed away when Stefan waved them off. Start CPR, I wanted to shout, but couldn’t because the 911 operator had picked up my call.
Then the door to the auditorium opened, and in walked Edna, former third-grade teacher of Post Elementary School and the last of our group. One look at the stage and the woman laid out on the floor had Edna gasping, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Oh no, not another murder?”
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