Teacher Beware (A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Book 1) (9 page)

THE AIRPORT IS SCATTERED with men, and a few women, in uniform. At six years old, everyone seems so tall and intimidating. I follow Dad, who is also in uniform. I stare at the pattern of green splashes and listen to the heavy sound of his work boots as they hit against the floor. My grandpa, Albert, and my brother, Tom, follow behind us. We all stop a few feet away from airport security.

Dad turns to me. He holds out his hand. I shake it.

"Be good for your grandfather," he says. "Make me proud to call you my son."

"I will, Dad," I say. My eyes wander to a cookie shop until I remember that this will be the last time I see my father for months.

He turns to Tom.

"Be good," he says. "Take care of your brother. Don't make your grandfather do everything. Help out at the garage."

He nods, but he doesn't say anything. He's like that. Strong and silent. Women seem to find it appealing, but it bothers me. Who am I supposed to talk to if I can't talk to my brother?

Dad turns to Grandpa. They are spitting images of each other—my grandfather just has more lines on his face and streaks of gray in his hair.

"I don't mean to just drop them off on you," Dad says.

Grandpa shakes his head. "I understand, son. This is the only way you'll be able to move on from Rebecca's death. And once you're a soldier, you're always a soldier."

He nods. "I'll be back in…four months. Maybe six. I'll see when my unit allows it."

"Fight the good fight, Greg," Grandpa says. Dad salutes him and my grandfather returns the gestures. Salutes seem so violent to me—the cutting motion with the hand, the tenseness of the body, the serious expression on their faces.

Dad pivots on his heel. I count his steps—one, two, three, four, five, six—before my grandfather puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me away from airport security. Tom walks in front of us as we leave the airport, his shoulders square and his strides long as if he is already preparing to become a soldier at ten years old.

I look up at Grandpa.

"Grandpa, why didn't Dad say good-bye?" I ask.

"He didn't want to appear weak in front of the other soldiers." He glances over at me. "Why don't you call me Albert for now on? You're a big boy, aren't you?"

I nod. It seems to me that by telling me to call him by his first name, something has shifted within our relationship. He knew something was going to happen in which he could no longer associate me with his son.

~~~~~

SAM PICKS ME UP from school since I still don't have my truck. I called the police department during my lunch break and they told me they had to send the car into Richmond to be thoroughly examined by a forensic team that has better technology than they do. I doubt they have done anything at this point, but I also don't think they will find anything. It doesn't matter. My car insurance sucks and I'm sure they'll find a way to blame me for my truck being shot up.

As we drive in his Dodge Charger, I take in the streets of Murray. I can see the old Murray peeking through the dirty streets and various franchises—American flags flying every twenty feet, tulips planted around a gazebo, and young children riding their bicycles without concern about adults with cruel intentions. I imagine it was idyllic a decade ago.

"Have you always lived here?" I ask Sam.

"No," he says. "I'm originally from Maryland. I grew up in a small town, but I lived in Annapolis from the time I was eighteen to thirty years old."

"Why did you decide to move here?"

"I used to work in a large practice that had cardiologists, general physicians, dermatologists, gynecologists, and a podiatrist," he says. "I began working there after graduation. It was convenient for the people there…essentially like a hospital, where we could recommend someone to see a different kind of doctor and send them down the hall. But, I felt…lost. There was a high turnover of patients and assistants. The practice work was pooled, so I rarely saw the same patient twice, and more often than not, as soon as I developed an easy working rapport with one of my assistants, he or she would be gone…usually to go to New York City or some other place they thought would be exciting. Five years ago, I read a newspaper article about how people in the rural areas of Northern Virginia often had to drive an hour or more to find a medical specialist and those people would choose not to see a doctor because it took too much time to travel. There were also comments from a couple of students who had interests in becoming medical specialists, one of them whom wanted to be a cardiologist, but they also didn't want to move away from their small town. So, I moved here. I bought an office building, hired the student who wanted to become a cardiologist, and worked hard to make the experience good enough for patients that they wouldn't hesitate to come back."

"Wow," I say. "I didn't know that you had only been here for five years. From how much people respect you, I thought it had to have been at least…seven years."

"I'm fair," he says, shrugging. "I won't advise patients to get any kind of medical procedure or medication that I don't think they need. I've raised money and run for charities to help those who can't afford to come. All I did was become one of the citizens of Murray, and they accepted me."

"Was the town like this when you came?" I ask. "All of the businesses?"

"I came around the same time that a developer started building the first phase of what is now a large, multi-section subdivision called Murray Farm. Murray Farm has sprawled out around the old town, with new houses and commercial services. Like it says…
build it and they will come
. What about you? Why did you come?"

"I needed to start over," I tell him. He nods, understanding the implication of my words…understanding that you don't nearly die and completely return to life. It comes back slowly. Sometimes, life doesn't come back at all.

"Is it okay if we stop by my house first?" he asks. "I need to drop off one of the lacrosse kid's gloves."

"Sure," I say. "I'd love to see your house. How does a cardiologist live? Is it macabre or does it look like an operation room?"

"Not quite," he says.

He parks in front of his house. It's an American Craftsman bungalow, pale-yellow with white window frames. A large window allows any passerby to see into Sam's dining room, which has a nice cherry wood table and matching chairs.

I jump out of his car and follow him to his door. He opens the door for me and I step in. The furniture all seems to be made by skilled artisans and the colors are muted but various. It gives a feeling of tranquility without sacrificing diversity.

As he picks up the lacrosse gloves, the phone rings. He goes into his kitchen to answer it as I continue to check out his house. In the living room, there's a gray tweed sofa and a bergère chair. I feel like I should be in a painting from the Victorian age, but it still doesn't give off the feeling of
comfort
. I can't imagine someone having fun while socializing here or falling asleep with a lover.

Sam walks into the living room and his face is pale.

"What?" I ask.

"I…need to drop you off at the hotel and then leave." He avoids my eyes.

"What happened?"

"It's my dad," he says. "He's in the hospital. There's all kinds of…issues. I just have to go talk to the doctors and…figure it all out."

I reach toward him, wanting to comfort him, but he steps away from me.

"Let's go." He forces a smile and opens the front door for me. When I walk past him, all of the warmth of his presence seems to have evaporated. I turn to him.

"Are you okay?" I ask. "Do you want me to go with you?"

"No," he says. He walks out after me and slams the door shut.

~~~~~

BEING IN A MEDICAL PROFESSION, you would think hospitals are like home to me. They're not. It still smells way too much like antiseptic and filled with miserable people in pain who don't want to be there. Then, when you leave, they give you a bill that will take a year to pay off. I hate them.

I walk through the hallways, trying to find Room 410-03. I stop right before I reach the door. I stare at the sign that says,

410-03

Meadows, Rupert

Doctor: Mark Lazine

Nurse: Alyson Bick

I want to turn around and walk out of the hospital, but I'm here and this might be my last chance. I take a deep breath and step into the room.

My father is asleep, his eyes closed and breathing tubes looped into his nose. He's an overweight man with sparse gray hairs on his head and a double chin that currently rests on his thick neck. In a chair beside his gurney, my mother flips through a magazine. She was thin while I was growing up, but a layer of fat now seems to cling to her body as if her body wants to reject the fat but it refuses to let go. She once had thick dirty-blond hair, but it seems she hasn't been keeping up with dyeing it because I can see her dark brown roots at the crown of her head.

She glances up as I come into her view.

"Sam," she says. "What are doing here?"

"Jake called."

I don't look at her. Avoiding eye contact seems to be a family trait and she isn't fazed by it. I move over to the other side of my father and lean against the wall. I didn't know my mother would be here. I didn't know my father would be asleep. I thought this would be another moment where I tried to bridge the gap between us, and he would throw me out of the room. I suppose the problem with expectations is that they are inexact and often wrong.

"So…" my mother says. "Does this mean that you and your father are getting along now?"

"No."

She raises her eyebrow. "Your argument was nearly over a decade ago. I think you can both get over it."

"Mom, it wasn't just the argument," I say. "It was a lifetime of being ignored or being told I wasn't good enough. And then he tells me if I don't become a dentist like him, he'll disown me? I had no problem choosing cardiology and being disowned. You don't get to pretend that someone isn't your child and then try to take the role as father when they turn twenty-one."

"If you had joined his practice, you would have started off in a good position, making good money," my mother says. "That's all he wanted."

"He wanted a legacy." I counter. "He couldn't make Jake into a dentist, so he focused on me."

She shrugs, returning to her magazine. "Are you going to stay or not? I'm only here because it was too difficult to explain to the doctors that your father and I only live together, we're not married. I have things I need to do today and hospitals creep me out."

I clench my jaw, folding my arms over my chest. She glances up at me, expecting an answer.

"I'll stay," I tell her. She nods, picking up her purse and standing up. She moves toward me as if she's going to hug or kiss me, but she simply pats my shoulder.

"Be good," she says.

As she leaves, I wonder if her words are meant to encourage me to be a better person or if they are meant to tell me to be kind to my father. I'm not sure they have the same intentions.

~~~~~

I TAKE MY Left foot off the bicycle pedal, straddling the bike as I watch Miss Ellery walk out of The Guardian Inn. I instinctively reach for my Smith and Wesson, but then Dr. Meadows follows her out. A man in a police uniform is a few feet away. So, she is being protected by the police. And Dr. Meadows.

Or, she and Dr. Meadows are playing doctor with each other.

Dr. Meadows and Miss Ellery get into a Dodge Charger. They drive away from the hotel. A few seconds later, the police car follows them.

I cross the road on my bike and over to the hotel. For a second there is a moment of paranoia. What if someone sees my bike? Granted, it's a black road bike with nothing distinguishable about it, but it could still be connected to me. I ride past the hotel and lock the bike to a bike stand in front of a bookstore.

When I walk back to the hotel, it occurs to me that the police are cheaper than I thought. I mean, I knew that the Murray Police Department had minimal resources and they used computers from two decades ago, but this hotel looks like it's mostly used by prostitutes—and the homeless when they gather a few bucks.

I walk in. The only person at the front desk is a young man with frizzy hair who is staring at his screen, slack-jawed. I can only assume he's either watching porn or playing some multiplayer online role-playing game. I suppose it doesn't matter. Everything in life is a distraction until we die and he can use up his time in any way he wants.

I walk up to the desk. He presses a button on his laptop and walks over to me.

"What's up?" he asks.

"My friend," I begin, but then my mind goes blank. What was Ms. Ellery's first name? Hope? Faith? Something ridiculous that her parents thought would give her virtue? "Uh, my friend, Trevor, his girlfriend is staying in one of the rooms. I can't remember her first name, but the last name is Ellery. Anyway, she left her phone in the room and she's already late for work. I was wondering if I could get in there."

Tension rolls under my skin. I've been talking to this guy for too long. If the police come snooping around or told this guy to look out for anyone questioning about Miss Ellery, I could be putting a target on my back.

"Oh, man," the guy says. "I hate when I do that. But I don't think I can give you a key to her room."

"That's fine," I tell him, my mind racing for a solution. "Trevor gave me his key. Could you just tell me which room it is?"

"Oh, yeah, man, no problem," he says. He moves his computer mouse and clicks on a few screens before smiling. "It's four-oh-three."

"Thank you," I say, walking away from him. When I glance back, he's consumed by whatever is on his laptop screen. He won't remember me.

I use the elevator to go up to the fourth floor and then walk past Room 403. I once had a friend who worked in housekeeping at a hotel—and when I say
friend
I mean a guy I sat next to in a history class that I ended up doing a project about John Madison with. He told me all housekeepers have a universal keycard for the rooms. He said he usually kept it on his cart that held all of his cleaning supplies.

I wander through the halls until I see a housekeeper. Her brown hair is tied up into a bun and her short stature makes her pale-blue outfit baggy. I smile and walk up to her.

"Hi," I say. "I was just in the men's bathroom. One of the toilet's must be backed up because there's…something brown…spreading on the floor."

"Are you kidding me?" She slams the rag on her hand down onto the cart. She bites her lip, clearly trying to suppress the profanity she wants to scream, and smiles. "Thank you for telling me. I'll take care of that right away."

As she walks away, I notice a lanyard hanging out of her pant's pocket. Dammit. It's not on her cart. I grab a spray bottle off her cart.

"Wait!" I call out to her, running up to her. She turns around to face me. "Don't you need this?"

She shakes her head, her smile still strained. "We have bathroom cleaning supplies in the housekeeping closet. Thank you, though."

My finger slides over the trigger on the bottle and the liquid sprays all over her uniform. She steps back, surprised.

"I'm so sorry!" I apologize. "Let me clean that off."

"It's fine…" she says, but I have already returned to the cart.

I grab a rag and return to her. As I wipe the cleaning fluid off her shirt, she blushes and avoids looking at my face. I loop my finger through the lanyard, pull it out of her pocket, and slip it into my back pocket before she glances back at me.

"I need to go take care of the toilet before it gets too bad," she says.

"Of course." I take two steps backward, unwilling to turn my back to her because she might see the lanyard. She pivots on her heel and walks away.

I wait. Wait to see if she notices the master key missing…and I wait for her to be far enough away that I won't run into her when I return to the room.

I count fifteen seconds before I pull the lanyard out of my pocket. It has a plastic card attached to it. It's white except for the word
Housekeeping
written in black marker on one side and a magnetic strip on the other. I find my way back to Room 403 and slide the master key through the lock. I hear the click of the lock and open the door. I throw the key down the hallway. The housekeeper will think it simply fell out of her pocket. I step in as the door whispers shut behind me.

The room is relatively empty. There's a suitcase in front of the bed with a ruby red bra hanging out of it. I set my hand on a white dresser. When I rap my fingers against it, I can tell it's not real wood. The sound is too hollow. I look over the dresser. There's a few makeup items, deodorant, lotion, earrings, and a class ring.

The class ring sticks out because it's too large to be a woman's. I pick it up. It seems to be made of stainless steel and has a red gemstone in the middle—garnet, I believe. The words
University of Maryland
surround it. One side of it has a beaker and safety goggles on it. The other side has a turtle on it—a terrapin, if I remember the school's mascot currently. Why any university would want a turtle for their mascot is beyond me. The name
Sam Meadows
is engraved on the inside of the ring.

I slide it into my pocket. This is all I needed for my plan. It's too bad that it doesn't belong to Miss Ellery, but this item is too perfect to pass by.

As I slip back out of the room, I remember her name. Grace.

~~~~~

My father and his best friend, David, went to serve in Iraq at the same time. They were both in the Army and served in the same squad. When my father sent e-mails to my brother and me, David was often mentioned. He was even intended to become the guardian of Tom and me, but my father died before he could change his will. David talked to us after the funeral, but after that, the most he contacted us was waving when he saw us.

His service to the Army ended less than a year after my father's death. He should have tried to take over as our guardian, but he never even visited. Albert wasn't equipped to take care of us, but he still struggled to make sure we had three meals a day and presents under the Christmas tree.

I knock on David's door. As I exhale, I can see my breath. It's getting cold.

He opens the door. His curly black hair was shaved when he was in the Army, but now it's only kept short. His eyes are still a vibrant blue. They widen in surprise when he sees me.

"Deacon," he says. His lips curve down in some expression of disappointment or displeasure at my appearance. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to talk about my dad," I say. He gives me a curt nod and gestures for me to walk into his home. I had half-expected him to make up excuses, saying he was too busy to talk or he can't handle talking about my father.

He leads me to his living room, which resembles a Pottery Barn display. When I sit down on his couch, I sink down into the cushion. I slide my hands under my legs in order to feel some kind of support. David sits down across from me, his back as straight as any veteran.

"What do you want to know?" he asks. I try to read his facial expression. It's blank. A perfect poker face.

"Were you there when he died?" I ask. I see the slightest muscle twitch near his eye as if his body wants to wince, but his mind refuses to allow it to happen.

"Of course," he says. "It was an ambush. We were in the same squad."

I nod. "Then how did he get shot?"

He tilts his head, trying to figure out my line of thinking. Or pretending to try to figure it out. Maybe he's just biding his time to come up with an excuse.

"We were under fire. Two other soldiers died that day, too. "We didn't know there would be so many Taliban fighters. We weren't prepared."

"I'm sure, but somehow you weren't shot."

His lips press together and we glare at each other. Silence fills the room.

"Deacon, I know it's hard for you," he says. "Your father died way too early. He should have been alive to see you graduate. He should have been around to see you get married, have children…everything. But he isn't around and you can't blame that on anybody except whoever shot him."

"I can blame it on whoever I want to blame it on," I tell him. "Especially when his best friend returns from war without a scratch."

He stands up, his face burning bright red.

"You need to leave," he says, pointing toward his front door. "I'm sorry, Deacon, but you are way out of line. He was my best friend.
My best friend
. You aren't the only person who lost someone."

"You should have saved him," I snarl. He grabs my arm and jerks me out of the living room. I stumble behind him. As he opens his front door, I pull out the Smith & Wesson and aim it at his head. I pull the trigger.

I can hear the bullet explode out of the barrel and his skull crack as it goes into his head. He crumples to the floor as the door lazily opens. I snap it shut.

Shit.

I glance out the window. There's nobody out there. I look back down at David, my one victim who could definitely be connected back to me. His blood is spreading onto the floor. I set the gun onto his pile of mail, but it doesn't cover up the mailing address:

Principal David Pattinson

3482 Rockfield Street

Murray, Virginia 1336

~~~~~