The Last Teacher: A Stand-Alone Mackenzie Mystery

by Alan Lee

  “Oh, Mack, he’s just the cutest boy.”

  “He prefers sexy and capable,” I said.

  “So cute.” She nuzzled Kix’s cheek and he smiled and patted her nose.

  “I hate weeds,” I said, and pulled out another handful for the growing collection behind me. “I read once a weed is but an unloved flower. But I disagree. Weeds are stupid.”

  “Impressive, aren’t they.”

  “They don’t look like much, but they’re everywhere.”

  “Everywhere there’s no healthy growth.”

  “There’s a healthy analogy in there somewhere, but I’m too sweaty to find it.”

  “So what brings you to visit me, Mack?” she said. She tipped up a glass of lemonade to Kix’s lips. He gaped like a fish and managed to swallow some. If videos of Ms. Allen feeding a toddler lemonade surfaced on Facebook, protective moms everywhere would call for her excommunication.

  “I read,” I said, and piled topsoil around roots of the eighth and ninth chrysanthemums, “somewhere, that true religion is taking care of orphans and widows. I don’t know how to do that. But I noticed you like gardening and then I noticed these flowers.”

  “You’re a good kid, Mackenzie,” she said. “We widows need all the help we can get. How is the investigation coming?”

  “I can’t speak for the police, but I’m annoying people and hoping something will turn up.”

  “Is that official procedure?”

  “No. But I’m not official.”

  “Can I pay you?”

  “I’m also not a mercenary.”

  “Private detectives aren’t mercenaries. Are they?”

  “Being a PI is their job. It’s not mine. I’m just your friendly, neighborhood middle school teacher,” I said.

  “Not many middle school teachers have muscles like yours.”

  “Or hearts of gold like mine.”

  Kix pointed at the lemonade and grunted. I was quickly forgotten as Kix got all the lemonade he wanted and then got a tour of the front yard. I planted the rest of the flowers, finished spreading the mulch, threw the weeds into her trash can, filled up her watering can and soaked the ground around the fall flowers. After taking off an old pair of gloves that had belonged to her late husband, I drained my lemonade.

  “What else?” I asked.

  “Would you mind changing a few lightbulbs?”

  “Not at all.”

  I balanced on chairs and replaced a few old bulbs with the funny-looking energy-saving ones. Kix and Debbie Allen looked at pictures around the house. Kix was a good audience. As I stepped down from the last bulb I noticed an ascending group of framed wall photographs, chronicling Mackenzie Allen’s school pictures up through twelfth grade. I could feel the house’s recent and sudden emptiness and loneliness like a raw wound, made all the more sad by the framed glossy smiles. He favored his father, judging by a picture of both the Allen men holding up fish for the camera.

  “Okay. I release you. You may go.”

  She walked to the car holding Kix and buckled him in before kissing me on the cheek.

  “I appreciate the visit very much, Mr. August. Please come again soon.”

  “You got it.”

  33

  I stood beside the green of the fourth hole. From there, I watched golfers approach and putt, and then tee off on hole five. A generous opposing coach had suggested it during our first match in September. I also bought a visor similar to the one he wore during that first match. Standing beside the fourth green, with my visor and sunglasses, I was a seasoned veteran.

  South Hill Middle had this match with Bluestone Middle rescheduled due to the murder earlier in the month. Otherwise, golf season would already be over. Today marked the final day of golf. Our team wasn’t in contention for postseason play. We stunk.

  Attendance at golf matches also stunk. A very small handful of faithful parents showed, and today so did Mr. Cummings.

  Mr. Cummings was on the school board. I’d seen him once touring the middle school. He had silver gray hair combed to the side and had I been a fifty-year-old lady I’d probably swoon. Today he wore a dark green suit, with an even darker green, expensive tie with a gold tie-bar and gold cufflinks. On his right hand gleamed a large gold ring. Looked like a Virginia Tech ring. Money personified.

  “Mr. August.” He had an easy, practiced smile. I wanted to buy something from him already. He held out his hand sideways, palm up. I considered giving him five, but shook his hand instead. “I’m Russ Cummings, of Cummings Financial Planning. Hell of a team you got here.”

  “I see you haven’t been checking the scorecards, Mr. Cummings.”

  “Hah,” he chuckled and clapped me on the shoulder. “I’m not talking about the score, Mr. August. I’m talking about the boys. Fine young men.”

  “That they are.”

  “You’ve done a good job here. Helluva job. We’re very proud of you. I’m on the school board, I guess I should have mentioned that.”

  “The school board is proud of South Hill Middle’s golf team?” I asked.

  “We’re proud of all our teams, Mr. August. And especially our coaches. We know a good thing when we see it.”

  Flattery never appealed to me, especially when it smelled of bull, so I said nothing. One of our golfers bounced a ball onto the lip of the green from one hundred fifty yards out. I clapped, but not as loudly as Mr. Cummings. He also whistled.

  “Beautiful day,” he said. He clasped his hands behind his back and looked around at the trees, which looked more and more like fireworks as the days advanced into fall. Autumn in the flat tobacco lands of southern VA was going to be spectacular. LA might have great weather year round, but it didn’t have this. “Perfect day for golf.”

  “Most days are.”

  “Maybe I’ll take you golfing one day. My treat. Before the weather turns cold. What do you say to that?”

  “I’d say I’m sure glad I wore my lucky underwear. Good stuff always happens to me when I wear them.”

  He took his time before answering.

  “You’re making sport of me, aren’t you?”

  “Just killing time until you get to the good stuff.”

  “How do you know there is good stuff?” he asked. He’d mustered up his smile again.

  “This is the first match you’ve been to. You’re proud of me. And you won’t look at me.”

  “That’s right,” he said slowly as if remembering something. He shook a finger at me. “You are used to interrogating people. I’m not going to slip much by you, huh?”

  “Especially not a triple homicide, so don’t try.”

  “An honest, straightforward man,” he said, and pounded me on the back of my shoulder again. “I like that.”

  “I try.”

  “I spoke recently with Sheriff Mitchell.”

  “Mkay.”

  “He said the investigation isn’t going very well. But he did say that you’ve been a big boon to the department. Your cooperation has benefited them a great deal.”

  “Sheriff Mitchell. That sweet talker.” He was lying. The sheriff would never use the word boon or call my cooperation a benefit.

  “In fact, he told me you’re looking for the killer yourself.”

  Two golfers walked by and I looked at Stephen’s scorecard.

  “Not bad, Stephen,” I said. I nodded at the golfer from Bluestone that he was paired with. “How is he playing?”

  “Good. But I think I’m beating him.”

  “You’re doing great. Keep up the good work. Proud of you. Stay loose. Remember, you make better contact if you’re not tense. Swing fast, not hard.”

  “Thanks, Coach.” Stephen and the other golfer walked to the next tee box.

  “You’re a natural,” Mr. Cummings said.

  “I try. It’s fun.”

  “Mackenzie Allen’s murder was a terrible tragedy and we all hope his murderer is brought to justice. We offer all the support to the sheriff’s department we can.”


  I nodded, watching the next pair of golfers line up approach shots.

  “I’d like to take you into my confidence, Mr. August,” he said, still sounding like a politician.

  “Sure.”

  “Can you guarantee that this conversation will be kept between us?”

  “Nope.”

  That startled him.

  “I would like to share with you an inside perspective that the school board has, Mr. August, but it has to stay between us.”

  “No promises, Mr. Cummings. I’m a man of integrity, and I don’t gossip. But if your dirty little secret needs to be brought into the light, I might be the one to drag it there.”

  “I do not have dirty secrets.”

  “I doubt that. But if so, then you’ve nothing to fear,” I said.

  He watched the golfers with his hands in his pockets. Frustration was evident on his face.

  “I shall trust your discretion, young man. You may or may not be aware that our school system is in the unfortunate position of having a terrible superintendent. Man by the name of Louis Neal. His judgment is unsound, his decisions are rash, and he does not have the proper respect for the school board that he ought. The school board members are officials elected by the public to properly oversee the schools. And our superintendent behaves like a selfish tyrant. I imagine your fellow teachers have all been saying the same things. Have they not?”

  “I’m not much of a gossip, Mr. Cummings.” I smiled. One of my good ones.

  “Regardless. Something must be done about the superintendent. And while,” he said slowly, and licked his lips before continuing. “And while Mackenzie Allen’s murder was very sad and awful, it does have the silver lining of throwing Neal’s leadership into question. A teacher was killed at a local school over which he is the superintendent, and nothing has been done about the murder. He sits there and does nothing. Not a damn thing.”

  “Think he should be out there with a flashlight and magnifying glass, looking for clues?”

  “The school board is going to call for his resignation next week. That must stay between us, Mr. August. Absolutely must. Many problems will be solved with him gone. And the ongoing murder investigation is the convenient solution.”

  “Ah.”

  “Surely you’ve seen this done in politics before, Mr. August.”

  “Surely.”

  “The public wants action, demands justice. Someone must pay.”

  “You don’t think it should be the killer?” I asked, but he didn’t pay attention. He was deep into his rehearsed speech.

  “Someone must be held accountable for the murder, which should have been prevented. Often in politics, someone innocent is sacrificed to appease the public. But in our case, happily we can sacrifice someone guilty. Louis Neal. Not necessarily guilty of the murder, but of other atrocities.”

  “That bastard.”

  “It will satisfy the public, convince them that the schools are in good hands, show them that action is being taken to keep the children safe.

  “Now this, Mr. August, is what I truly wish to share with you. All of us on the school board want the killer brought to justice. We all are deeply committed to that. However, it would benefit us if that…didn’t happen within the next couple weeks.”

  “So that the superintendent would still look weak and responsible for the murder when you fire him,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “You want the murderer caught, but after the superintendent is gone.”

  “Precisely. Allow some good to come from Mr. Allen’s death. I know it’s a bit unorthodox, but what do you think?”

  “I think that if you and Mr. Neal are enemies, then I’m probably on his side.”

  34

  Mr. Charlie’s lunch period was the same as mine. I knew this because I peeked at his schedule when the secretary was signing in a few packages from the delivery guy. However, he never ate in the cafeteria. I buzzed his room over the intercom.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “Mr. Charlie, this is Mr. August. You eating in your room today?”

  “Yessir, I am.”

  “I’m going to join you.”

  “Why, that sounds great,” he said, and I hung up.

  The art teacher ate in his large, airy classroom because he painted while he lunched. I sat down with my turkey sandwich and watched him work for a few minutes. He’d taken off his “Jesus” tie to paint. He slowly and quietly explained why he tended to paint impressionistic artwork, why he always kept a small color pallet, painted the furthest objects first, darker paint on the canvas before light, thinner paint sticking to heavier, techniques of brush strokes. I soon forgot my lunch and watched an evergreen tree line take shape beneath a mountain.

  “I bet, Mr. August, that you ain’t come to watch me paint.”

  “I came to talk about our school board,” I said, snapping back to reality. “Don’t know much about it, and you’re the first I ever heard mention it.”

  “Last month,” he said. “Before Mackenzie Allen died.” His face was close to the canvas and he spoke out of the corner of his mouth, like the muscles in his face were paralyzed with concentration.

  “Bingo.”

  “You’ve come to the right place, Mr. August. I worked here twelve years, I drive the school buses, I preach in the churches, and I live near the school board office. I attend the meetings regularly.”

  “So. Is Louis Neal a doofus?”

  His brush left the canvas and he turned to face me. Flecks of paint dotted his skin.

  “That’s a nasty thing for a preacher to say.”

  “I’m not a preacher. I heard someone say it.”

  “You sound like one of the school board,” he scoffed and returned to work. “No, Mr. Neal is no doofus. I like him, respect him, and so do most people who attend the meetings. And the board of supervisors, they like him because he’s financially efficient.”

  “Just so I’m not getting my boards mixed up, the board of supervisors is in charge of the whole county, including the school board, which is specifically in charge of the county schools. Correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “So why does the School Board dislike him?”

  He chuckled and shook his head. “Everyone got their theories, Mr. August. I got mine.”

  “What’s yours.”

  “Well,” he said, turned, and exchanged his brush for his sandwich. “You can’t repeat this.”

  “Sure. I came to you. Lips are sealed.”

  “Lotta of people share my opinion, I think. But I heard a rumor someone got fired for voicing them. I think the school board don’t like Mr. Neal because three of the board members have spouses who work at Gaston Elementary. Have you heard of Gaston Elementary, Mr. August?”

  “No.”

  He took a bite of his sandwich, and chewed as slowly as he talked, before continuing.

  “Gaston Elementary is in the southern part of the county. The school is tiny. It’s only got fifty kids enrolled.”

  “Wow. That’s not very many,” I said. I had no idea if that was a lot for an elementary school or not. But I’m helpful.

  “Exactly. So, Mr. Neal wants to close the school and have other elementary schools absorb the students. Gaston Elementary keeps on custodians, kitchen staff, principals, all the usual staff a school has, guys like me, but only for fifty kids. The money being spent per kid at that school? Really high. Close to double other elementary schools.”

  “Crazy,” I encouraged.

  “Yeah, it really is crazy, Mr. August. Which is why the superintendent wants to shut it down. It’d save the county several hundred thousand dollars.”

  “But,” I said. “Several school board members have spouses who work there.”

  “Right. They can’t come out and say it, of course, but everyone knows the real reason that school is still open. And the raises, too. You heard about those?”

  “Consider me uninformed.”

  “Teacher
s in Mecklenburg County have been getting tiny raises for years. Disrespectful, you ask me. I been here for twelve, and I bet I’m not making much more than you. The superintendent, he been making the case that the raises could be more substantial if Gaston Elementary is closed because the county would have an extra half million to spend.”

  “Sounds like a good idea to me.”

  “All teachers think so. Me included. So, Mecklenburg’s board of supervisors increases the Public Schools’ budget last year, and the School Board decides to use the money to only significantly raise the salary of two groups of employees. The administrators and the guidance counselors. Just to stick it to the board of supervisors, you understand me. And wouldn’t you know it, one member of the school board has a husband who’s the assistant principal at Blue Stone Elementary, and one member has a wife who’s a guidance counselor at South Hill High. Mr. Neal was so mad he went to the press about it.”

  I whistled. I’d seen that happen before, and I’d seen it backfire. If you throw inside, you might end up hitting the batter. I love baseball analogies.

  “Yeah, exactly. That’s why I asked you if you been reading about all the turmoil. You were hired when all of this started blowing up, Mr. August. The board yells at each other, because a couple of them don’t agree with the decisions, but they’re outvoted. Five to two. The board, they yell at Neal and he yells back. The board been yelling at teachers who attend and complain. They try to stop the newspaper stringer from attending, but the sheriff intervened and let him stay.”

  We sat chewing for a few minutes.

  “Seems to me,” I said. “Based on your account, that the school board is going to a lot of trouble for a couple jobs. Their spouses could get jobs at other schools. They’re married to School Board members. What else do you need to get a job as a teacher? Why all the fighting.”

  “You think that way,” he smiled. “Because you ain’t from this area. The more you see of the world, the less significant small parts of it become. I ain’t from here either. But a lot of people never leave South Hill. Including some school board members. They were born here, their parents taught at Gaston Elementary, they went to school here, they don’t go far for college and then they came straight back. Closing Gaston Elementary ain’t completely about the money. It’s also about who’s in control. The school board members, who lived here their whole lives? Or the superintendent, who moved here when he got hired.”