The Gift, page 20
part #1 of McKenna Mysteries Series
“Hey!” Grace yelled over the bass. Her eye was pulled to the phone buzzing in the perfectly sized compartment on the console. “You got a message.”
“Oh, can you check that?” He asked, turning the volume down. “Another perk on my driving resume is that I refuse to text, check or talk on the phone and drive.”
“It’s Rain.” Grace turned the phone sideways so she could see the full picture fill the screen. “She got the number.” Grace reached back and pulled Jenny’s purple folder out of the bag in the back seat. She compared the printed piece of paper to the text message. “Shit. They match.”
“That’s a good thing.”
“I know, but . . . I just don’t get it. Why would she drive around her missing teacher’s car?”
“You have to remember that so far, you and I are the only ones who know that Jenny Silva is missing.”
“And possibly Anthony Waterford.”
“True.”
“Surely she’s not driving the car home and parking it in the Waterford’s driveway. The girl is supposed to be some neurotic genius.”
“Genius doesn’t always mean good decision making. Sometimes genius means crazy.”
“Hmmm. True.”
“So, what’s your plan of attack once we see the vehicle?” Mark used professional driving skills to back into a driveway across from the line of parked cars.
“Is this your house?”
“God, no. I don’t live beachside. This is my buddy’s house.”
“And he doesn’t mind you parking in his driveway without stopping in to say hi?” Grace turned around to look at the high narrow red house with a white deck on the second level that was sure to catch some beautiful sunrises in the summer months.
“He’s in Florida for the week. Has two kids and his wife is a teacher, so they go to Disney for Christmas every other year.”
“That must cost a fortune.”
“Yeah, but I guess money doesn’t matter much when you come from ancestors who basically built half the properties on this beach.”
“Wow,” Grace said under her breath.
“Hey is that—”
“Yep,” Grace said, looking straight ahead at Mackenzie Waterford, who appeared to be stumbling up the sand dunes. They watched as she struggled to find her car, then nearly missed the curb that dropped down to the VW Bug, catching herself on the rounded roof. She fumbled to dig the keys out of her purse before sliding into the driver’s seat and pulling out into the street without even looking.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The wine coolers and shot of peppermint schnapps gave Mackenzie the confidence to round the corners along the seawall with her foot heavy on the gas. She had planned to head straight home and face the wrath of her waiting mother, but instead, decided to stop off at Alebury Avenue first, using every last minute up before her curfew. It was still early, she had time to waste.
All she wanted was to talk to Jenny, to tell her how much of a drunk bitch Taylor was being tonight. She was so sick of being associated with the overly flirtatious girl, always standing in the background as Taylor threw herself all over guys. It was embarrassing and so below her. She was too mature to be spending time with Taylor, whose only goal was to go off to college to be passed around and used at frat parties. That’s why Mackenzie liked spending time with Jenny. She got Mackenzie, and she didn’t judge her for being more interested in school than parties, more excited about learning than losing her virginity. If Jenny hadn’t fucked up, she would be here to console her with a cup of tea and listen to her vent. But Mackenzie couldn’t vent to a woman who had become her father’s mistress.
Questions still swirled around in her mind. Had Jenny been using her to get close to her father? Her father was okay-looking for an older guy, but surely Jenny could find someone better, someone bold and artistic like her. Why had Jenny chosen her boring father, and why would she jeopardize their friendship?
Mackenzie released her grip on the steering wheel as she pulled into the driveway that greeted the little purple house. She rested her head on the steering wheel, completely oblivious to anyone around her, fully caught up in the tangle of her own wants and desires. She didn’t want to go home and see her father; she was disgusted with him. Disgusted that he would stoop so low as to cheat on her mother, and even more disgusted that he would do the deed with her teacher. As far as Anthony Waterford knew, Jenny Silva was just a teacher to Mackenzie, not a friend. Did he really think his daughter wouldn’t find out he was going behind both her and her mother’s back and breaking up their family? Maybe her mother was dumb enough to not see the signs of a husband having an affair, but Mackenzie wasn’t. The more she pondered the questions, the more they stung and pinched her self-confidence.
“Pull yourself together,” she said as she got out of the car and walked up the steps, holding onto the ragged wooden railing for balance.
She wasn’t surprised that the door was unlocked. Jenny had been far too trusting. The last time she had left the house, she thought she was simply going for a winter wonderland hike with Mackenzie. She had told Jenny about the beautiful views at Donovan Cliff, knowing her teacher wouldn’t be able to resist the opportunity to paint the landscape.
Mackenzie could smell the lavender oil that Jenny used to promote calmness. It lingered in the air, leftover like a haunting ghost. She felt the tears well up in her eyes as she thought about Jenny’s peace-loving ways. That was one of the things that she loved about her—Jenny was so different from her own family, so carefree and unlimited in her beliefs and desires. Mackenzie had felt an instant connection with her and often wondered if they were long-lost soul mates. She could talk to Jenny about things she couldn’t imagine talking to her own parents about. They would look at her like she was crazy, but Jenny just accepted her and on more than one occasion, Mackenzie caught Jenny staring at her with a look of adoration in her eyes that made her feel utterly loved.
It had all started when she was struggling with her first art project. It had been a flower, and Mackenzie, aiming for perfection, had been in tears at the end of the class. She could tackle and conquer high-level equations, write essays that floored her English teachers and never struggled with regurgitating a historical or geographical fact, but when it came to art, she couldn’t find herself.
“It’s about seeing what’s not there,” Jenny would tell her as she used a delicate hand to guide her paintbrush along the canvas. “Close your eyes and picture the sunflower in a field of lush green grass,” Jenny said with such passion that Mackenzie thought it was contagious.
Soon enough, Mackenzie developed the ability to conjure images in her mind and transfer them to the canvas. It had been more of a life lesson than learning the art itself, as she soon felt like anything she imagined could come true. She felt powerful in Jenny’s presence, and the two soon formed the rare bond between teacher and apprentice, Mackenzie absorbing all of the life lessons that Jenny passed along. They were simple things that Mackenzie didn’t learn in any other classroom, things that could catapult her through life without having to memorize facts or statistics in a book. Jenny would tell her about the California sun and its endless warmth, or she’d describe the Pacific Ocean in ways that made Mackenzie feel like she was immersed in the sea water. She would teach her lessons about kindness and the importance of paying it forward; she’d teach her about forgiveness, and how it feels to let go.
Mackenzie wondered what advice Jenny would give her now, as she sat at the small round table that the two had conversed at so many times over herbal teas and organic coffee concoctions. Surely, she would tell Mackenzie to offer up some patience toward Taylor, to accept her for who she was. As Mackenzie thought about the loss of her mentor, her sadness spread into anger as an image of her father presented itself again. She started to feel a wave of nausea pass over her, as the leftover taste of wine coolers grew stale in her mouth.
Mackenzie pushed herself up from the table and the movement made the queasiness grow, leaving her struggling to reach the bathroom in time. She fell to her knees in front of the toilet, her hands melted into the squishy 1980s toilet seat as a barrage of pink liquid plunged to the outside of her mouth, splashing into the bowl. A few little splashes of liquid splashed up and hit her on the face. When she was sure she had rid herself of the sick feeling and released all the vomit, she fell back against the bathtub, knocking over a bottle of shampoo. The hard sound of the bottle hitting the ceramic sent a pain straight through her temples, as if an earthquake was shifting through her head.
Mackenzie spotted a few lose pieces of kitty litter in the small hallway outside the bathroom and she was hit by a realization: Van Gogh.
“Here, kitty kitty . . .” She rose to her feet and flushed the toilet as she yelled to the cat. When Jenny was here, Van Gogh always made herself present, constantly hopping into Jenny’s lap or slithering up against her legs. “Van Gogh!” Mackenzie got louder, opening doors and closets as she made her way through the house.
She ended her search when she opened the last door that led to Jenny’s art room. A couple of half-burned incense sticks were sprouting up from a ceramic holder set on a plate that was filled with clumps of ashes. She could still smell the spicy scent, leftover from when she was here last week and Jenny had taught her how to make vegan chili. That was the last time that Mackenzie was in her presence before she discovered the affair and before she would be changed forever.
It was the day after their vegan chili experiment when Mackenzie accidentally saw Jenny and her dad kissing up against the school building like they were two teenagers themselves. She had been on her way to an evening student council meeting, and had wanted to run her speech by Jenny, always trusting her to be honest. She watched for longer than she would like to admit, but couldn’t take her eyes off the two of them as she saw heightened emotion in Jenny’s movements, her arms began to point and her face turned into a scowl as Anthony grabbed her arms and tried to calm her down. It was like watching an accident unfold, and then the two walked in different directions, clueless that Mackenzie witnessed the entire episode. She had been walking past one of the trailers that were used for additional classroom space, when she caught a glimpse between the cracks in the trailer of the bright red hat that Jenny always wore.
As she looked at the canvas leaning against the easel, she felt the same anger that she felt that day building within her, heating up her body into a rapid boil. It was in that moment that she recognized the painting of the blue eye that was staring back at her. Why had it taken her so long to figure out they were having an affair? How long had the painting of her dad’s eye been buried in the sketches?
***
“What the hell is she doing in there?”
Grace was growing impatient. She so badly wanted to follow the girl into the house and demand answers.
“Studying? Who knows. The girl is obviously crazy. She’s probably doing some voodoo shit,” Mark said, his eyes never leaving the house. “So, what’s your plan, Detective?”
“I don’t know. Technically we could’ve pulled her over for DUI and being underage, but you didn’t want to.”
“Considering we’re both off duty and driving my personal minivan, I apologize for not thinking that was the best idea in the world.”
“Oh boy . . . look! It’s the neighbor!” Grace leaned the seat back, trying to conceal her face from the window.
“Relax, you’re in a minivan and the windows are tinted.” Mark pressed a button and Grace was flung forward in the chair, her face in shock like she had just ridden an upside down rollercoaster. “Safety feature.” He smirked. “So, what’s up with the neighbor?”
“Last I saw him, he hadn’t seen Jenny, so maybe he’ll clue into the fact that her car is there and go knock on the door to check in.”
“Doesn’t look like it,” Mark said, his eyes following Walt Brennan’s figure as he slipped into the car parked in his driveway.
“How are people so damn unaware of their surroundings?”
“Well, not everyone is looking to crack the next big case. Unlike us, some people have lives that involve families, friends, entertainment and hobbies.”
“That’s it, I’m going in,” Grace said once she was sure Walt’s car was out of view.
“Wait, wait.” Mark grabbed her thigh, then stopped himself when she caught his eye. “Sorry. But, what’s your plan? You need to figure that out before you go busting in there and arresting an innocent teenager.”
“She’s not innocent!”
“I know, I know. You know what I mean. You need a reason, and she knows you. Remember, you basically interrogated her family when she went missing for a day. Wait a minute.” Grace raised an eyebrow as an idea took shape in her head. “She doesn’t know you. What if you pretend you’re a friend or a brother or something?”
“You’re kidding?” Mark looked at her like she’d just told him he couldn’t eat another vegetable for the rest of his life.
“Nope.” Her eyes scanned his body. “You’re perfect. Out of uniform, the right age . . . she won’t have to know you’re driving a minivan. Just pretend you’re an old friend from college or something.”
“Who happens to be passing through Bridgeton, Massachusetts? You know they call it Bridgeton because it’s literally the bridge to nowhere.”
“Okay, so you’re a friend in town. Someone she met at the . . . local art fair.”
“Was there actually a local art fair?” He challenged her.
“Yep, just two weeks ago. The annual holiday art fair. I’m sure the local art teacher was there.” She stared him down, willing him to give in. His eyes slid off her stare, darting anywhere but on her, trying hard to avoid the control she was already starting to have over him.
“Fine.” He slammed his hands on the steering wheel. “I need a code though.”
“A what?”
“A signal. If something goes haywire in there, I’ll need to get access to you.”
“Honey, are you afraid a 115 pound teenage girl is going to take you on?” She ran her fingertips through the hair along the side of his head.
“You know what I mean. This girl is obviously crazy. Who knows what she’ll do.”
“Okay, I tell ya what. If she starts to cast any voodoo spells on you, just call me.”
“No, it has to be more discreet. I have an idea. I’ll take the keys and press the panic button if things go downhill.”
“So, I’m trapped in the car without an option to escape?”
“Are you saying that you’ll drive off and leave me stranded with a crazy neurotic perfectionist, if push comes to shove?”
“Noooo . . .” Grace caught herself. “I just feel better with the keys. But come to think of it, I don’t think I would be seen driving off in this thing.”
“Ass.”
“Thank you.” She pulled his face to her. “I mean it. Thank you for everything.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He reached into the backseat, grabbed his Red Sox cap and molded it onto his head.
“Is that supposed to help?”
“I can still be a Sox fan and be a tourist in town.”
He slid the keys into his jacket pocket and confidently marched across the street.
“Shit. He looks too much like a cop.”
***
Mark knew he was in trouble as soon as Grace told him about her visions. There wasn’t a second of doubt about her that trickled into his mind, not an ounce of skepticism in the graphic images that she had presented to him. He was either really open-minded, or he was falling in love with her. Based on what he had committed to do, he was guessing the latter.
He took a deep breath and knocked. Giving a polite amount of time to wait between knocks, he opened the storm door and knocked on the pale yellow door. A wooden sunflower swung side to side on a hook. He thought it was an odd decoration for the middle of winter but he’s seen stranger things.
No answer.
He looked over to the minivan. While he could see the outline of Grace’s figure, he was comforted in the fact that he couldn’t make out who she was. To newcomers, this town appeared to be a shoddier, beach version of Pleasantville, but Mark had witnessed incidents from his youth that were risky enough to make the front page of any big-city newspaper.
He pushed the door open slightly with his boot, the creak that resulted was enough to alert anyone inside the home that someone had entered. There was nothing alarming at first sight, just a typical female kitchen, with pale yellow curtains dancing over the small window above the sink and a basket filled with dried up clementines and browned bananas. A huddle of fruit flies swarmed around the bowl.
Mark heard the sobs coming from the back room; they were deep, breathy sobs that accelerated the closer he got. He pushed the door to the back room open and saw Mackenzie Waterford crumpled in the middle of the floor, hair spilling down her back and shielding the sides of a face that rested in the heels of her hands. She was deep in a fit of tears, her body moving to the rhythm of her struggling breath. Her emotions were so intense, a tornado could’ve ripped through the house and Mackenzie would still be sitting like a puddle in the middle of the floor, disarray swirling around her.
Mark cleared his throat as he lightly knocked his knuckles on the doorframe one time. The only movement that Mackenzie made was the shuddering that ran through her body, a ripple of emotion creating jerky movements in her thin frame. Mark could see the bumps of her spine through the thin beige sweater that clung to her back.
“Excuse me?” Words finally surfaced, his mouth dry from the sight of such a young girl enduring so much pain. He reminded himself that she was the bad guy here, the suspect in an unlikely case of a missing woman.
The girl dropped her hand from her face and twisted her body toward the door, contorting herself into a pretzel. Her face was mottled with blotches, her eyes rimmed with red, the skin of her lips dry and cracked. In the midst of her meltdown, she still looked beautiful as the browns of her eyes sparkled behind a glaze of tears, real, true emotion cutting through her like a hurricane and leaving her body as the aftermath of the storm. A tiny part of Mark sympathized with the girl; he thought about Rain and how innocent she still was.
