The Gift, page 13
part #1 of McKenna Mysteries Series
“Wow, I’m kinda shocked. I’ll take the same thing. No pickles, please.”
“I know I don’t look like the typical vegetarian. Are you one, too?”
“God no! But I’d feel horrible eating the delicious livestock that they have available here, right in front of you.” Grace looked up at the sign boasting of chicken, bacon and egg sandwiches.
“It’s okay, trust me. The rest of my family has no problem stuffing their faces with meat right in front of me and Rain.” Mark folded his hands across his chest and took on the habitual stance of a police officer. “Yes, my baby sister is the one who got me hooked on saving the world one furry creature at a time. Although, I can’t say that she has listened to a damn thing that I’ve said about lowering her sugar intake.”
“She’s really got you wrapped around her finger, huh?” Grace asked, her smile bordering on a teasing grin.
“Hey, if you saw the videos she showed me, you’d be wrapped, too. The torture those poor animals endure. And it’s not like we need to eat meat in order to thrive. Sorry I’m going on a tangent.”
“It’s okay, I get it. I’m an animal lover myself. I just haven’t quite made the commitment to give up my Friday night steak and cheese just yet.” Grace accepted the tightly wrapped sandwich that the girl behind the counter presented to her and she followed Mark as he led them back to the table, clutching his own sandwich like a football. “It’s sweet though,” Grace said as she peeled the white tape off the parchment paper and began surveying the ingredients of her sandwich.
“The fact that I refuse to eat meat to prove a point?” Mark took one massive bite as half of the sandwich disappeared into his mouth.
“No, the fact that you have such a great relationship with your baby sister.” Grace delicately nibbled the edge of her sandwich, trying hard not to drop any loose ingredients on her lap or the table.
“She’s a good kid. Much better than I was when I was her age,” Mark said, wiping a droplet of spicy mustard off the corner of his mouth. Grace thought back to herself when she was that age and the quiet life she and her mother lived. She had become so used to the holidays and special occasions being celebrated with just the two of them in the comfort of their modest home and back and forth mother-daughter banter that she couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have a sibling.
“Do you have any other siblings?” Grace took a leap and dug a little deeper into the secret life of Mark Connolly.
“Yeah, two younger brothers. They share the same dad as Rain and they’re good kids too, but I guess it’s the protective man in me that feels the need to always look out for Rain. I’m sure she’s highly capable of taking care of herself, but I can’t help but look after her.” Mark swiped some of the fallen pickles off the wrap and dropped them in his mouth. “What about you?”
Something about the way he ate made Grace’s stomach catapult into a series of somersaults. It was as if everything he did in life was done with an insatiable hunger. His passion for exercise, his enthusiasm for his job as a police officer and even the way he nearly inhaled the sandwich that was put together with his chosen and well-thought-out ingredients. Grace couldn’t help but imagine what he would be like in bed.
“Nope. Just me and my mom,” Grace said and for whatever reason she was compelled to continue. “My dad’s never been around.” She paused bracing herself for what she was about to say. The words had never felt comfortable leaving her lips. “He . . . actually raped my mom. When she was in college.” Grace’s eyes darted from Mark to the table and back, unsure of whether he was going to think she was some type of freak for sharing such a personal piece of her life, or whether he was going to give her unwanted sympathy.
“Are you serious?” He clenched his fists, forming two red potatoes.
“Hey, I wouldn’t be alive without such an act of hate, right? Just think about it like that.”
“I know, I know. I just have an extreme hate for rapists. It’s such a sick thing to do.” He eased his fists open into two palms face down on the table. His eyes curved on the edges, softening his anger and supplementing it with a genuine candor.
“Well, what’s done is done and the past is the past, as they say,” Grace said, trying to close the conversation. “On another note, I’ve taken up far more of your time than I planned on. Didn’t you say you only had a few minutes to meet?”
“Oh shit,” he said as his eye caught the enormous watch on his wrist. “I’m late. I’ve got a training appointment.”
“Training for what?” Grace wondered if there was some station training she’d forgotten about.
“I’ve got a client at the gym . . . at my home gym,” he said, zipping up his jacket and pulling on a thick pair of winter gloves. He looked like he was ready to shovel his way out of a snowstorm.
“You train on the side?” Grace said, following his lead to the door.
“Yeah, it’s kinda my passion.” The shy crooked smile that Grace seemed to be falling for spread across his face as he pulled a blue winter hat on his head, the color accentuating the yellow flecks in his hazel eyes.
“I could use a little training myself,” she said, feeling her thighs rub together in her black cotton pants.
“You have my number.” Mark walked her to her car, and rested a hand on the hood as she unlocked the door. There was an awkward pause before Grace opened the door and started to slide into the driver’s side. “So, I guess I’ll see you at the station tomorrow. I start up my four day tour again.”
“I’ll be there,” Grace said.
Mark used a hand to gently shut her door and she watched him walk down the road in her rearview mirror until he became a small black silhouette.
Grace allowed thoughts of Mark to infiltrate her mind before she summoned all the discipline she had to focus on what she needed to do to prove that Mackenzie Waterford was guilty. Guilty of what, she wasn’t sure, but she was determined to find out.
Chapter Sixteen
Bridgeton High School appeared to be as old as the town itself, the structure of the building lopsided as if it were literally dropping into the cemetery that sat across the street, sealed off by a black wrought iron fence.
Bridgeton School District always took long Christmas breaks, but they used the school for activities during the time classroom learning was on hiatus. The idea had actually been something that Grace herself had spearheaded during one of the meetings designed to keep kids busy and away from drugs. While some of the teachers weren’t too enthused about the extra hours they’d have to volunteer their time staffing arts and crafts and cooking classes, the program was a hit with the parents.
It was nearing four o’clock, so Grace wasn’t sure she would have any luck in getting a principal or staff member who wasn’t rushing out the door eager to get on with their lives away from a bunch of kids. Surprisingly, about ten cars still sat in the small staff parking lot. A couple of little girls came flying out of the building in a tornado, their cheeks pink like roses and each with their arms wrapped around what appeared to be some type of paper-mache animal.
She pulled into the staff lot next to Miss Smith’s white minivan and placed the parking tag on her rearview mirror, the red print affirming her stature as town police facing outwards. On a weekly basis, Grace spent several hours at the school working with the teachers of the incoming freshmen, assisting with anti-bullying policies and giving informative sessions on drug and alcohol abuse and crime. She even had to spend five hours a year training the faculty and staff on the proper protocol for dealing with a school shooting. It was necessary training, but heartbreaking at the same time. When did the world become so tainted with crime in innocent environments like schools, malls and movie theaters? The big crime news when Grace was growing up was mostly associated with gangs and small, targeted groups involved in drugs. Her boots crunched on the salt pathway that led to the main entrance of the building.
“What brings you hear during Christmas break, Detective McKenna? Don’t they ever let you off the clock?” Mr. O’Neil’s gentle voice came out in perfect pronunciation as he stopped next to her on his way out of the building and toward the parking lot. Mr. O’Neil had been an economics teacher for as long as Grace had been alive, and he was compulsively on time to trainings and meetings, always the first one in attendance sitting in the front row waiting patiently. He was a nice man, dedicated to his career in a way that one without a wife or child normally is. Every time Grace ran into Mr. O’Neil, she couldn’t help but wonder if one day she would be like him, married to her career and absent of a family. She imagined he had been one of the first ones to volunteer to staff the Christmas break activities. He clutched a Tupperware container in one hand. Grace could see the red and green sprinkles through the container labeled Christmas Cookie Class in perfect handwriting.
“Oh, I’m here on some routine business. Just having my monthly check-in with Principal Woeburn.” She could see the panic in Mr. O’Neil’s eyes simmer down, content that he hadn’t been late for a meeting, let alone miss one altogether.
“Well, he’s still going strong in there. He’s another one who doesn’t like to take a break,” Mr. O’Neil said as he waved her off. “Have a wonderful Christmas, if I don’t see you again. I’m off to visit some family in Connecticut.” It made Grace happy that he had a place to go for the holidays. It was good to know he had something outside of the school and students. Maybe there was hope for her having a social life someday. “Hey, wait a minute. I’m so rude not to offer.” He turned around and stepped toward her, as he peeled the lid off the container. “How would you like one of my famous Christmas cookies?”
“Thanks, Mr. O’Neil. Sure, I’ll try one,” Grace said as the smell of sugar hit her nose and woke her up.
“I’ll let you in on a little secret, though,” Mr. O’Neil said. “I don’t have a secret recipe. Got these from some fancy cooking website.” He winked at her and sealed the cover. “Don’t tell the kids.”
“Your secret is safe with me, Mr. O’Neil. They certainly taste delicious. Have a Merry Christmas.” She winked back to him just as she waved to another familiar faculty member. Mrs. Holland waved to her as she was in mid-conversation with another young teacher that Grace hadn’t recognized.
Grace wondered if Mrs. Holland had been friends with Jenny Silva. Or maybe the art teacher kept to herself, distant from the others. Grace had assumed the latter, considering that she herself didn’t know Jenny Silva, given the amount of time and years she has spent tasked as the Bridgeton School Liaison. She liked to think she knew all the faculty and staff in the school district, but there was still about a quarter of the staff that she hadn’t met. Some names she had heard in passing, but she struggled with putting a face to the name. Jenny Silva remained a mystery to her, in more ways than one.
As promised, Ray Woeburn was sitting at his desk diligently working.
“Knock, knock,” Grace said the words as she tapped on the doorframe, the door cracked open just enough to prove his theory of having an “open-door policy,” but not enough to make a teenager with a problem feel all that welcome.
“I’ll be there in a sec, Marcy. Just wrapping up this new end of year system,” Ray said not looking up from his computer.
“Actually, it’s not Marcy. It’s Detective McKenna.”
“Oh geez. I’m so sorry, Grace.” Ray swiveled around and catapulted off his chair. He marched toward her, extending an arm as he rested a hand on her shoulder and ushered her in the room. “Take a seat. Please.” He waved his hand toward an old living room chair that sat in the corner of his office for those times that he wanted students to feel a certain level of comfort when they confessed their problems. Ray Woeburn didn’t have the best interpersonal skills, but he was a good, solid principal, always looking out for the best interest of the students. And anytime Grace needed something, he dropped everything to assist her. “We didn’t schedule a meeting during Christmas break, did we?”
“Actually, I was tallying up my traffic violations for the year and I noticed that one of your teachers, Jenny Silva, has an awful lot of violations. Now, I don’t typically do a visit like this, but I wasn’t sure if this was part of a bigger issue.” Grace didn’t know where this was coming from, but it seemed to be working. Jenny Silva only had a few traffic violations as far as she knew, but she rationalized with herself that she was working toward a much bigger problem here and if she had to tell a white lie, then she was okay with that.
“Hmmm.” The principal twisted in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised.” He held two hands out, palms facing Grace. “Don’t get me wrong, Jenny is an A-plus teacher in my book. She’s one of those teachers who are passionate about her subject . . . I guess almost to a fault, in some cases. She gets so caught up in art and coaching the students on the importance of imagery and all that. Sometimes I think she forgets where she is. Like, maybe she actually believes she is living inside one of her images or something.” He tried holding back a chuckle. “To put it bluntly, Miss Silva can be a bit of a space cadet at times. And I mean that in the most sincere way, if that makes sense.” He clasped his hands over his elevated knee and paused. “Is she in some type of trouble?”
“No, no, just double checking. Do you happen to know if Miss Silva has volunteered for any of the Christmas break activities?”
“Well, let me check. I have the sign-up sheet right here.” He rolled closer to his desk and flipped open a binder titled Christmas Break Activity Schedule Sign-up. He used an index finger to guide him down the list. “Looks like she had originally signed up to teach an art class, but then crossed her name out. Miss Arbor is covering the class now.” He looked up. “Are you sure everything is okay, Detective McKenna?”
“Yes, yes…all is good,” Grace said, scurrying to get some words to surface. “It’s just that we live in a small town, ya know? When times are slow, I check in on the regular traffic offenders. Try to make Bridgeton a safer place to live.
“Makes sense. I have the utmost respect for your career, Detective McKenna.”
Grace was well aware of Ray’s admiration for her position at the town police department. The man dropped everything anytime she entered the school, catering to her like she was a celebrity. When Grace first met the man, she wondered about his innocence, since he sucked up to her like he was a criminal trying to escape his past.
“Well, thank you, Ray. I have the same respect for your career.” Grace stood. “To be honest, I don’t know how you put up with all these kids.” She walked over to the wall just outside his office, Ray followed behind like a puppy dog. Various different pieces of art hung on the wall enclosed in a glass case, a hodgepodge from various grades and artistic levels. “Are these all done by the students?”
“Yep, for the most part.” He rested his arms across the maroon sweater vest that sat on his small frame. “From over the years, of course.” He pointed to an elegant flower colorfully painted on a canvas, a slight yellowing outlining the edges. “This one’s old, though. Done by a student who graduated nearly four years ago. It’s always been one of my favorites. Something about the colors.” He wiped off a smudge on the glass, a leftover fingerprint. “Aiden McGilvary. One of the most promising students we’ve had here. The boy excelled in everything. Went off to New York to become a successful attorney. I guess I keep his artwork up because it’s proof that what I do every day, even with all the crap I have to put up with, pays off in the long run—ya know? It’s a good feeling when you see these kids go off and become successful members of society. Yeah, the majority stick around the town surrounded by the same people and the same small town mentality, never to spread their wings and fly. But every now and then, you get an Aiden.”
“Do you have any Aiden’s in school now?” Grace pressed, certain he was going to mention Mackenzie Waterford, an easy access point into a further conversation on the girl.
“I do have my favorites. I’m not gonna lie.”
“Who are your favorites? You can tell me,” Grace said, bumping his elbow like an old friend.
“These days, I think Taylor Ryder has a lot of promise.” He nodded toward another piece of artwork that was hanging up. “Of course, another artist. I feel like all the kids who excel are naturally good at art, too. You can throw it on top of all their other subjects and they just get it. They absorb the lines and the colors like its math, English or science.”
Grace looked at the painting of a stallion running through a field, its hair blowing in the wind as if any moment the animal could come to life and run right off the paper. “It’s beautiful. Looks like another one with a lot of promise.”
It was in that moment that Grace’s eye caught the same sunflower painting she’d seen in Jenny’s house staring back at her against a backdrop of white. It was darkened around the edges and wilted, its lifeless frame falling over and absent of vitality. The background was shaded in purple against a black cloud. It was a sullen, yet beautiful piece of art and depicted a loss of hope, if Grace had to translate it into something meaningful. “What about this one? That’s an interesting piece.”
“It’s by Mackenzie Waterford. Gosh, I’ve seen that girl change over the years.”
“How so?”
“Well, she used to be a very prim and proper well-liked girl. And then something changed, almost like a switch was flipped.” Ray stopped, catching himself from revealing too much.
“Really? She’s a smart kid, isn’t she?” Grace pressed, her arms resting across her chest.
“She is a nice kid . . . or, I guess she used to be. I mean, this artwork is a perfect example. She used to be the type of kid to excel, but she was still likeable. Then, I started to see this dark side rise in her. And she started producing odd art work like this. I mean, maybe I just can’t appreciate all that contorted art. I think they call it ‘depression art.’ But, Mackenzie used to be the type of girl who painted fields with butterflies, and now this mysterious warped sunflower appears out of nowhere. This piece wasn’t my decision. In fact, I think Jenny Silva suggested we hang it up. And she started dressing different when she came to school. I’d see her show up in her regular clothes and by the third period, she’d be in all black with crazy jewelry. I guess she’s going through a phase, trying to express her artistic side or something. Actually, now that I think of it . . .” he used two fingers to scratch his chin again, his eyes searching for an answer. “I noticed that she started spending a lot of time in Miss Silva’s classroom, long after the school day ended. I never really thought much about it—just another overachiever trying to get ahead. Jenny Silva may be a bit spacy, but she’s a good teacher. Always staying after hours to help her students—apparently, becoming quite the role model for Mackenzie Waterford.”
