The Last Teacher: A Stand-Alone Mackenzie Mystery Page 2

  “Howdy Mr. Charlie.”

  “I heard you were a pastor.”

  “Youth pastor. Kinda. Really bad at it.”

  “We have something in common.”

  He smiled.

  Ah jeez. He was a pastor. I didn’t like other pastors. I decline to comment.

  “I’m a preacher too. You see, I used to be a correctional officer,” he said. He spoke like a preacher. His words were heavy with significance and brief dramatic pauses. Sincerity, however, was evident. “And I got tired of seeing boys coming through past the age of saving. I decided to come here and save as many as I could.”

  After living in California almost a decade, the Bible Belt required some adjustment. Christians everywhere.

  “I teach art,” he said. “And I am a substitute bus driver. The office need a sub, they call me first. These kids, see, they need teachers. But they also need people like us. Like you and me, you see. These kids need an education but they also need saving. And that’s really why I’m here.”

  “Where do you preach?”

  “All over,” he said, and waved his hand around vaguely. “A church need me, they call. I was only ordained last year.”

  “Sort of a bus driver sub and preacher sub?”

  “Yeah.” He smiled. He liked that. I’m a riot. “Yeah, something like that.”

  Mr. Charlie was my homeroom helper. As middle schoolers began filing in a few minutes later, he signed them up for lockers and collected money. He informed me that he wouldn’t be staying long because he had an art class to get ready for.

  Eighth graders are social. They have to be. It’s that stage of life, and to expect otherwise is ridiculous. So I let them talk until the bell rang to start class. I took a deep breath to begin my illustrious career as an educator only to have Mr. Charlie intercept the class on his way out of the room.

  “Before I leave,” he told them, “I want to share something with you, students. Me and Mr. August, we both have something in common.” He placed one hand on his chest and held the other one in my direction. Uh-oh. I had a bad feeling I knew what was coming. If I could get away with it, I might have punched Mr. Charlie in the back of his bald head to shut him up. I’d decided not to tell my students I used to work at a church. “We’re both ministers,” he said, with a fair amount of dignity. “So you have to treat us with respect. I seen you at church when you have on your good behavior, and I expect you to act that way with Mr. August.” He stared at them for a long moment, before turning to look at me. “I have to get to my class. You okay here, Mr. August?”

  “Super,” I sighed. My secret didn’t last past homeroom.

  4

  -Thirty-six days until the first body is discovered -

  Third and fourth periods rolled around. Two back-to-back planning periods. Heaven. I sat behind my desk and put my feet up. Not bad so far. The students hadn’t discovered I had no idea what I was doing, and I liked them. But it was the first day, and I imagined the crazies didn’t come out until at least the third day.

  My door opened and in walked a cute, blonde teacher I’d seen once before.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hello blonde teacher.”

  “I’m Kristen,” she said, walking into the room. She looked like a teacher. Stylish but severe. Key hanging around her neck from the South Hill Middle School lanyard. She looked too young to be a mom but I was getting a mother vibe.

  “I’m Mack,” I said.

  “I’m new too. I thought we should be friends.”

  A thought occurred to me. Every face was new to me, so I had been automatically assuming all other teachers were old friends. I was wrong.

  “How new?” I asked and stood to shake her hand.

  “I was hired two weeks before you, so I’m older. And I also went to Radford University.”

  “No kidding,” I said.

  “For graduate school. I did undergrad at William and Mary.”

  “You’re smarter than me. I get it.”

  That got a laugh. I’m hilarious.

  “When did you graduate?” she asked.

  I told her.

  “Ah. I just graduated this spring with Secondary Education.”

  “Shucks,” I said. “We can’t play the ‘Do you know…?’ game.”

  “Ready for this? My husband and I have an eight-month-old daughter.”

  “I have a son that age,” I said.

  “I know.”

  “We’re almost the same person.”

  “Except I’m smarter.” She beamed.

  “And a stalker, apparently.”

  “How’s that?” she asked.

  “You know everything about me.”

  “You’re new,” she shrugged. “People talk.”

  “You’re new too.”

  “Yeah but you’re new and scary. People aren’t sure if they can talk to you yet. I’m cute. They trust me,” she said.

  “I’m cute.”

  She tilted her head, considering, and said, “Yeah, you are, but scary cute. Not the same. Plus, I grew up here.”

  “Is that so?” I mused. “Then perhaps you could recommend a good local daycare.”

  “I would recommend a sweet old lady who is watching my daughter, Jessica, and another kid, and she is willing to take on one more before she stops advertising.”

  “That’s perfect.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “Serendipitous, even.”

  “Quite.”

  “If you’re joking, it’s not funny,” I said. “She sounds too perfect.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  “I’m scary, remember? Don’t play with me.”

  “I’ll get you her number.”

  5

  -Thirty-five days until the first body is discovered -

  Taylor had been right. The bed and breakfast was indeed a nicer place to stay. The kind of place that felt like an expensive house with the large, elaborate master bedroom all to yourself. Egyptian cotton sheets, white down comforter, poster bed, full bath, mints on the pillow, the whole nine yards. Plus a baby. And his grandfather.

  Kix bounced on my father’s knee and talked in a language whose primary word involved sticking his tongue out several times. My father was cooing back and telling me how to impress principals. I had just hung up with Leta High, the nice lady who’d begin watching Kix tomorrow while I was at work. Life was good.

  Someone knocked at the door.

  “Expecting company?” Timothy August asked. He was the principal of an elementary school in Roanoke, Virginia and would be leaving soon to drive back tonight.

  “Negative,” I said and opened the door.

  Taylor. The good-looking brunette in the trailer quad. She was dressed in heels, a skirt that could have passed for a scarf and a loosely buttoned white shirt. She was tan and her muscles were firm from exercise. Her brown hair framed her face in soft layers. She smiled at me and raised her eyebrows.

  “Hi Mack. I see you took my advice,” she said.

  “Solid advice,” I said. As far as looks went, she ranked in the top one percent. My chest tightened.

  “I brought you a welcome basket.” She held up an actual woven basket covered with a red checkered blanket. “May I come in?” Before I could answer, Kix made a noise and Taylor’s eyes grew wide. “Oh shit, you have company?”

  “I do,” I said again. “Come in and meet part of my family.”

  She walked in hesitantly. My father smiled, trying to hide his amusement.

  “This is my son, Kix.”

  “You have a kid?” she asked, sounding almost offended.

  “I do. And a father. Timothy August. That’s him right there, holding my kid.”

  My father introduced himself, set Kix down and said, “Time for me to go.”

  “No, no,” Taylor said and turned for the door. “I’m leaving. I just came by to drop off the basket. Can’t stay. I’m on my way home. See you tomorrow. Nice to meet you,” she called as she
retreated to the safety of the hallway and closed the door behind her.

  My father looked at the basket, inside of which a bottle of wine was showing, and cocked an eyebrow at me.

  “Nice work, son. I’m proud of you.”

  “Dad,” I scolded him.

  6

  -Thirty-three days until the first body is discovered

  I found a cabin for rent on Lake Gaston through the internet. The owners lived in Ohio and hadn’t had much success renting the cabin during the previous year’s off-season so they were looking for permanent tenants, rather than just the occasional weekend renter. I emailed and told them my situation and that I’d call the next day, which I did during my planning period. We worked out a rental price. I picked Kix up after school, drove down to the lake and found the cabin. The hidden key was exactly where the owners promised it’d be. I walked in, set Kix down, punched their number into my cell and told them I’d take it.

  The cabin had three big bedrooms located in the back of the house. Also located on the main floor were both a kitchen and a living room, near the front door. Plenty of room for Kix to crawl around. If he ever learned. Downstairs was a garage and an unfinished area furnished with only a television and couch. A wooden walkway led to the dock one hundred feet behind the deck. The rent was less than my one-bedroom apartment had been when I’d lived in LA. Definitely worth the twenty-minute drive to and from school. I wondered if Taylor would be willing to make the trip to surprise me.

  I’m worth it.

  7

  -Twenty-eight days until the first body is discovered-

  The local golf course let South Hill golf teams practice for free. My eagerness to play golf dimmed slightly when I discovered that the course had only nine holes. I was a long way from LA. The high school team had already been practicing for a week when we showed up for our first. Standing on the driving range, I surveyed both teams. The varsity team all wore khaki or plaid shorts, golf shoes and socks, golfing polo shirts, and hats with the proper golf endorsements. They stood tall and took smooth, fluid practice swings. The middle school team, however, was short, poorly dressed, and dug up impressive divots with their choppy hacks. My heart warmed to them. Gotta start sometime.

  The varsity team moved off to begin a practice round. Their coach nodded at me. I nodded back. He had a mustache. I had a cooler golf visor. We tied.

  “Gentlemen,” I said to the team of seven short middle school boys. “Harken to me.” I knew four of them from my classes. The other three looked like sixth or seventh graders. I bet I looked ancient to them.

  “What’s harken mean, Mr. August?” The question came from Stephen, a likable wiseass in my fifth period. He was a strong student. Like some other boys his age, his face didn’t quite fit yet, his arms were too big for his body, and he didn’t know what to do with his brown hair. He used his intelligence to coast by and make quasi-witty comments in the classroom. On the golf course, however, he looked lost.

  “It means get over here.” The seven piled in front of me, smaller ones moving quicker. “Welcome to golf, boys. I am thrilled you’re here, and you’re going to be ecstatic I’m here. Because I’m awesome. If you don’t believe me, ask the others. I’m awesome.”

  “He always talks like this,” another boy, Matt, said. Matt wore golfing gear. I’d met his father, who’d also been wearing golfing gear. Maybe he could loan Stephen some.

  “We are going to have a great season. For those of you who don’t know much about golf, you’re going to learn. For those of you who do, you’re going to get better. You can call me Coach or Coach August. Except for Matt, who has to call me Mr. August, or Your Honor. We’re going to have a great season.”

  “You already said that,” Stephen said.

  “We’re going to have a great season,” I said again. “First, tell me your names.”

  After they told me their names and I came up with mnemonic nicknames, like Smart Guy Stephen or Mashed-Up Matt or Tiger Tom, we walked to the first tee. I could tell at least one of the younger guys didn’t have a clue. Maybe none of them did. So we went over basics, like how to keep score, who gets to hit first, which tee box to use, how to use a tee, etc. As a team we played the course, taking turns hitting, looking over the greens, discussing how we should putt, and evaluating on the next tee box.

  Everyone kept their own scorecard. I didn’t write down numbers on my card. Instead I kept notes on the different guys and what they needed to work on. The younger guys had obvious fundamentals to get down and I could help with that, but I was going to let the course pro give the older, better golfers a few pointers. I could coach the team, but had no experience tweaking swings.

  At the end of practice everyone left, including Stephen, whose mom came to pick him up in an old Pontiac. I went to go spy on the varsity coach and see what a real coach does.

  8

  -Twenty days until the first body is discovered-

  “Mr. August, are you single?” Ms. Friedmond asked. She was the science teacher within my team. She had short hair, a great smile, and just enough cheerfulness to take the edge off her attitude.

  I was sitting in the small teachers’ workroom eating doughnuts with Mr. Cannon, the shaggy-haired seventh-grade English teacher; Kristen Short, the eighth-grade reading teacher who helped me find a sitter for Kix; and Ms. Friedmond. Teachers have terrible diets. Awful. Every other day someone else tries to be friendly and bring in sweets. I wouldn’t be surprised to discover teachers eat worse than cops.

  “Hard to believe, isn’t it?” I said, and decided against flexing.

  “Not that hard,” she said. I should have flexed. Dang. “You’re scary good-looking,” she said.

  Kristen hit the table lightly and said, “That’s what I told him. He’s scary looking.”

  “Where’s your baby momma?” Ms. Friedmond asked.

  “No longer with us,” I said.

  “Single widower with a young baby, teaching English,” Ms. Friedmond said. “I’m getting excited just thinking about it. You’re white, I’m black, and I don't care.”

  “Thinking about it makes me tired, not excited,” I said, and picked out a doughnut with chocolate frosting and sprinkles. Now there was only one left and Mr. Cannon was eyeing it.

  “What’s your son’s name?” she asked.

  “Kix.”

  “What’s his real name?”

  “Kix.”

  “Poor guy.” She shook her head sadly. “He has no chance.”

  “His mother was a country music fan. I’m told there’s a connection,” I said. “And also, shut up.”

  “You’re from LA, right?” Mr. Cannon asked. He already knew the answer. He showed up to ask me personal questions every few days.

  “Yup.”

  “What are you doing out here in the country?” Ms. Friedmond asked.

  “I wanted to move home,” I said. “And I decided I wanted to teach at the last minute. The small, lovely town of South Hill was the closest place that would hire me at the last minute.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “Roanoke. Three hours west of here.”

  “You like the country?” she asked.

  “Parts of it.”

  “South Hill’s a real nice place,” Mr. Cannon said. “What’s not to like?”

  “All the personal questions.”

  “Do you like teaching?” Kristen asked.

  “A whole lot.”

  “Why?”

  “Teaching is the greatest act of optimism.”

  Blank faces. I wondered if teachers read anymore.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Before I was a youth pastor, I worked in a job that was turning me into a cynic and a pessimist. I dealt with the failings of humanity. But teaching, on the other hand, is about potential and growth. Its focus is the future, not the past.”

  “Think you’ll do it forever?” Ms. Friedmond asked.

  “No idea.”

  “Mr. August, when are you
coming over for dinner?” Kristen asked. “You can talk sports with my husband and our kids can punch each other.”

  “You’re wasting your time,” Cannon said. “I keep asking him and he’s always busy.”

  Taylor walked in, heels clicking. Her slingbacks were black, her ankles were great, her red skirt was tiny, her button-up black shirt was tight and open at the neck, her earrings were red hoops and she pointedly did not look at me. Her outfits recently were designed to kill, and I could imagine neither her male students being able to pay attention nor Principal Martin remaining silent much longer. I’d been avoiding looking at her for the past two weeks, else I thought of nothing else for the rest of the day. She smiled generally to the room and poured herself a cup of coffee.

  “Ms. Williams,” Ms. Friedmond laughed. “Come on. I think I just saw your ass.”

  Taylor turned around, cocked an eyebrow at me and said, “At least someone noticed.”

  She walked out of the room to the startled, openmouthed laughter from the girls. My heart was beating a little faster.

  A young, short, fairly handsome teacher walked in, looking over his shoulder. He looked at us, whistled, and said, “Damn. Think there’s room enough for me in that skirt?”

  “Not once she fits Mr. August in,” Ms. Friedmond said.

  “Competition.” He grinned. He was my age, fit, wearing the usual khakis and earth-toned button-up. “Last year she used to hit on me. Not this year. This year you showed up.”

  “She used to hit on you? So that’s why Roy hates you,” Ms. Friedmond murmured. I didn’t know Roy yet. So. Many. Teachers.

  “Exactly,” he said, and offered me his hand. “I’m the other Mackenzie. Mackenzie Allen. I teach band.”

  “Two Mackenzies,” I mused, shaking his hand.

  “How’d we get so lucky?” Ms. Friedmond said.

  9

  -Ten days until the first body is discovered-