Mrs. It shouldn’t have disappointed him that she was married. But the fact that it did, however vaguely, both surprised and troubled him. Perhaps that was because he remembered how good she’d felt nestled against him, yet knew she shouldn’t have. Mature woman or not, she was his student. There were rules.
And he was going to owe her an apology—big time.
“Well, then, if you’re all certain you belong in this classroom, let’s get started. We’ll cover algebra with mid-term exams in mid November, and pick up with geometry after the Thanksgiving break. Your final exam will cover both subjects.” He stopped when a student in the back of the room raised his hand. “Yes, Mr.…”
“Jones, Wendell. Do you give pop quizzes?”
“Rarely, Mr. Jones. You attend class for fifty minutes every Monday through Thursday. We’ll cover a minimum of two chapters a week followed by a test on the second Thursday. That and the mid-term and final exams should tell me if you’re learning anything.” He nodded to a young woman seated in the row by the window.
“Peters, Sylvia. What about homework, Professor Weiss?”
Her voice was a silky purr, and it only reinforced the reason why he didn’t like to teach the undergraduate courses. From her made-up face and short, tight skirt to her spike heels, she had trouble written all over her. Trouble with a capital S. And he made it a point to avoid that particular kind of trouble.
“What about it?”
“Do you require it?”
“If you want to learn, pass the tests, and finish this course with a C or better, I suggest you do the homework assignments that are included at the end of each chapter. Whether you do them or not is up to you. I don’t collect or grade them. They’re a tool to help you learn.”
“If I need extra help, will you tutor me?”
“No, Miss Peters,” Sam stated firmly, feeling the first drops of perspiration dampen the back of his neck at the hairline. He took a deep, calming breath. “If any of you need additional assistance, you can stop in at the math office on the first floor and sign up for a tutor. Now, if there are no more questions, please open your books to chapter one and let’s begin with algebraic symbols and expressions.”
Chapter Four
Lillian hurried down the stairs. She was anxious to leave both mathematics and Professor Weiss behind. Both subjects had given her a headache. As she went through the last door to freedom, she heard his familiar voice call her name.
“Mrs. Moore. Please wait.”
Oh shit.
She blinked away the moisture that clouded her eyes and gritted her teeth. Now she’d sworn twice in one day—and with the same man in mind both times. She didn’t stop or turn around, but he managed to catch up with her, and though he’d been running, he wasn’t even breathing hard.
“I want to apologize,” he said fervently. “I’m sorry I acted like such a jerk.” When she didn’t say anything, he hurried on. “Can I at least buy you a cup of coffee?”
Lillian called on every one of her twenty years as a dinner party hostess to keep her next words civil. Just because he’d been unforgivably mean spirited about her age didn’t oblige her to retaliate in kind. Even if she wanted to, she wouldn’t be able to think of a suitable comeback in time. Besides, the man was apologizing. “That’s really not necessary.”
“I want to make amends. Please, Lillian. After all, I saved your life.”
Though she tried not to, Lillian laughed. That was a bit of a stretch, but she had returned to being Lillian, rather than Mrs. Moore, and he did look sufficiently repentant. She stopped to face him. “Very well, Professor Weiss, I accept your apology.”
“Sam. How about that coffee?”
“I don’t think so.”
When she started past him, he stepped in front of her. “I know how heavy those books are. I could carry them for you. Help you get a locker.” He smiled hopefully. “Please, Lillian. I’d like to explain. You deserve that much.”
Lillian eyed him suspiciously. She didn’t want any coffee, but she did need the locker. Otherwise by the end of the week, she wouldn’t be able to lift her books, let alone a baby in the hospital nursery. And quite frankly, she deserved to know why he’d chosen to embarrass her in front of the class.
“Locker first.” When she handed him her books, he made no comment, just checked out the titles while they walked toward the Student Union building.
“Are you planning to teach?”
“I don’t know. Right now I’m just planning to learn.”
Juggling her books, Sam swept his free arm across the horizon that constituted the campus of Sherman Dodd College. “You’ve certainly come to the right place. There’s a world of things to learn here.”
“Well, I’m starting small. Just four classes.”
He opened the door to the Student Union for her, then followed her inside. “You may not believe this, Lillian, but I’m glad one of them is mine.”
“You might not be when you discover how poor my math skills are.”
The lines around his eyes deepened with his smile. “Bad, huh?”
“I wouldn’t know a logarithm from a logging truck.”
“Looks like I have my work cut out for me then.”
“I’m afraid so.”
Once the locker had been rented and Lillian had deposited all her books in it but the one she would need for her last class, they found a small table along the back wall of the cafeteria. She had again declined Sam’s offer to buy her a cup of coffee, preferring to purchase the lasagna lunch special and a glass of lemonade instead. While she sat across from him, Lillian resisted the urge to ask why he was glad she was in his class. Instead, she ate ravenously and thought about tomorrow, promising to fix herself a big breakfast. Now that her first day jitters were nearly behind her, she would be able to settle into a routine.
“I really am sorry, Lillian,” Sam said, opening two packets of sugar and adding them to his coffee. “I should never have said that to you. It was unkind. And uncalled for.”
“It’s okay, Sam.”
Actually, it wasn’t, but Lillian didn’t know quite what else to say now that he was sitting across from her. She wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, but she wasn’t at ease either. Perhaps she was nervous, though that was ridiculous. This wasn’t a date. She and Sam were simply two adults having a conversation over coffee and lunch. Of course, it had been a long time since she had done that with a man who wasn’t her husband. It felt kind of like jumping in the deep end of a swimming pool having forgotten how to swim.
“No, it isn’t. I was rude, and I’m not normally rude. At least, I don’t like to think I am.” His gaze followed the fork she lifted and placed in her mouth. “Is that lasagna any good?”
“Not too bad. I can make better.”
He picked up his spoon and stirred his coffee. “What else can you do?”
Lillian took another bite while she considered how to answer his question. “Nothing really. That’s why I’m here.”
“What does Mr. Moore do?” While she continued to play silently with her food, he cringed, then sighed heavily. “I did it again, didn’t I?”
“Not really. I guess I’m not used to being around anyone who doesn’t know that my husband died four years ago.”
“I’m sorry, Lillian.” He set the spoon aside and picked up his cup. “You still wear your wedding ring.”
“I’m afraid my daughter would be offended if I so much as moved it to my right hand.”
Sam blew softly on his coffee, then took a sip. “So, you have children?”
She appreciated his smooth change of subject. Her feelings about her marriage were too private to share with a stranger. “Yes, two. My son, Michael, is twenty-four. He’s in the Army and currently serving in Afghanistan where his specialty is demolitions. I worry about him. My daughter, Amanda, is twenty-eight, has a very nice husband named Gregg, and is the mother of my six-year-old granddaughter, Jennifer.”
He opened his mouth briefl
y, then closed it again and just stared at her. Smiling, he shook his head. “You can’t possibly be old enough to have a grandchild.”
Was he simply trying to make amends for the rude classroom remark, or did he mean it? Surely he wasn’t flirting with her. Was he?
Good lord, Lillian Moore. Don’t you dare blush.
“You don’t want me to get out my pictures to prove it, do you?” With a threatening gesture, Lillian reached toward her purse.
“I won’t believe you otherwise.”
She showed him several pictures of Jennifer, still unsure of the motive behind his interest in her. Maybe there wasn’t any motive. Maybe he was just being nice. Or needed someone over the age of twenty to talk to. Whatever his reason, the attention of a such a handsome man was a bit like drinking from the fountain of youth and certainly more exciting than being reminded by such things as birthday parties that she was quickly approaching fifty.
She glanced at his bare left hand. Would it be rude of her to ask his marital status?
As if reading her mind, he smiled. “I’m divorced. Though sometimes I think I should wear a ring anyway.”
He was referring to Miss Peter’s blatant attempt at seduction. “Do you have… many issues in that area, like the one in class today?”
Sam stared down at the table, his hands folded around the cup. “I wish I could say that today’s incident was rare, but it’s not. I suppose I should be flattered, but I’m thirty-eight years old, and I’m not interested in any co-ed looking to better her grade with sex.”
He had spoken quietly, obviously uncomfortable with the admission rather than proud of it, and Lillian considered how hard it must be for him to concentrate on teaching while having to fend off his young, female students. Her generation of women hadn’t been raised to treat sex so casually. Or use it so blatantly. Perhaps that was why Sam wanted her in his class or to join him for a cup of coffee. He considered her to be safe company. She was too old to jump his bones, begging for an A.
“I normally teach the graduate studies. There aren’t many women students who want to become mathematicians.” He laughed lightly, but the matching smile was strained.
“What made you decide to teach the beginning class?”
“Not what, who. Dean Walter Dodd.”
Dodd. Lillian was about to ask if the dean was any relation to the college’s founder when Sam confirmed it.
“Great grandson.” He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “I didn’t want to teach the entry level class, but it was either that or tutor which is something I’d rather quit than do. Andy Gibson usually does both, but he came down with mononucleosis and will be out for the entire semester. Walter couldn’t hire another teacher due to budget cuts, so Andy’s duties had to be shared by the rest of us. There was no other option, but at least Walter gave me first choice.”
“So, you chose to teach the Math 50 class.”
“Yes, though under extreme duress.”
When Sam reached out and took hold of her left hand, Lillian’s heart slammed full throttle into her throat cutting off her breath. She would have thought herself at risk had it not been for the solemn look on his face that told her this was an unconscious gesture he wasn’t aware of doing. Though he probably hadn’t meant his touch to be so intimate, her heartbeat increased each time he turned the ring on her finger with his thumb.
“My behavior in class today was inexcusable. I took out my anger and frustration on you, and that was cruel of me.” He released her hand, his gaze earnestly searching her face. “Forgive me?”
She could easily forgive him his callous words, but she wasn’t sure she would ever forget the touch of his hand or how young and attractive he’d made her feel.
“How can I not forgive you, Sam? After all, you did save my life.”
* * *
San Sebastian Museum of History and the Arts. Impressive title for so small a building, Manuel thought as he parked across the street from the two story white stucco building with its red tile roof. The museum was open Tuesday through Sunday 10:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m. Closed Mondays. No charge for admittance. Visitors welcome. Donations accepted.
From behind mirrored dark glasses, he studied the entrance surrounded by groupings of palm trees and cactus. Decorative wrought iron scrolling covered the windows on both levels, and while beautiful in their design, Manuel was certain they did their intended job of keeping out the less sophisticated thieves and robbers. He had no desire to test them.
This was his fourth visit to the museum, spread throughout the past week. For a small town museum, the displays were striking and in many cases, extraordinary. Several local patrons put their collections on display regularly. He climbed the five steps and entered through double doors that opened easily, yet must have weighed several hundred pounds each. Mexican tile the color of sandstone covered the entryway floor.
A volunteer greeted him from behind the reception table. “Good afternoon.” She smiled, offering him a brochure containing a map of the gallery.
Manuel listened courteously to her welcome speech, accepted the pamphlet to add to his collection, and thanked her. So far, the information desk had been manned by a different woman each day. He committed their names and faces to memory, uncertain whether or not any of them would fit into his plan. Assuming he could come up with a plan. Currently, all he had was a vague idea.
Today would complete his tour of the museum. He had seen enough of the inside to know that security was lax. Cameras placed discreetly in each room kept watch. One uniformed guard strolled through the rooms on what appeared to be a regular hourly route. He carried only a baton and a cell phone. Did anyone guard the grounds at night, and if so, was he armed? According to the fine print on the last page of the brochure, there had never been a theft during the six years the San Sebastian Museum of History and Arts had been open.
There’s always a first time.
On his way out, Manuel picked up a calendar of events. The Mayan Exhibit was set to open the fourth Tuesday in October. That gave him barely five weeks to figure out a way to steal the mask without either he or Carlos ending up in an American jail cell.
During the next three nights, Manuel observed the museum from the safety of his rental car, always positioned in a different parking space but close enough to see the nightly activity clearly. A police cruiser passed by the museum at ten minutes past each hour. The arrival of the janitor’s van varied between midnight and half past, it’s occupant slow moving and grumbling non-stop while he retrieved his cleaning supplies and entered through the museum’s employee entrance.
It was this man that interested Manuel.
Chapter Five
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Sam sat at his desk, his attempt to grade test papers hampered by the repetition of a soccer ball hitting against the outside ground floor wall below him. Ben was using the area between the sliding glass door and the kitchen window as his goal, and Sam had lost count of the score over an hour ago.
It was Sam’s weekend with his son. At twelve, Ben was tall, dark eyed, dark haired, and very bright. The exact image of his father. Unfortunately, he also had his mother’s quarrelsome and manipulative personality. Though they had spent most of yesterday at the beach and last night at a movie, today Ben was bored, and the only relief he would consider was a skateboard. However, Rachel’s last words to Sam when he’d picked Ben up late Friday afternoon still rang resoundingly in his ears. Do NOT buy him a skateboard.
Sam had no intention of trying to buy his son’s love with such an expensive toy, but Rachel’s admonition had him thinking about it. Thinking about flaunting her order back in her face. But that would only make him look vindictive and childish, and besides, he agreed with her. Ben only wanted the skateboard because his mother had told him he couldn’t have it and was playing one parent against the other, an amateurish attempt to make Sam feel guilty over the divorce. It wasn’t the first time Ben had employed that strategy, so Sam was getting used t
o it. He figured Rachel must be seeing someone seriously, an action that seemed to bring out the worst in Ben who, when he felt threatened, liked to punish both of his parents.
“Is it going to take you all day to grade those papers?” Ben shouted, shuffling the soccer ball from one knee to the other while he stood in the center of the small patio.
“Give me a few more minutes.”
Sam was struggling with the last test paper in the stack. It was Lillian’s, and he wanted to give her a passing grade on it, he really did, but her answers weren’t good enough. Though she had a good grasp of the simple arithmetic, her word problem comprehension was poor at best. She simply wasn’t getting it. Though she had warned him she had weak math skills, he was hoping he could teach her, and she could learn. He wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, partly because he liked her, but mostly because she was such a fresh, mature addition to his classroom.
Walking to class each morning during the last two weeks, he’d found himself wondering what she would be wearing that day. If it was a dress, then the skirt hem would stop right below her knees, allowing him a view of her tan, very shapely legs. Occasionally, she would wear pants with a flowery, feminine blouse tucked in at the waist. With either type of outfit, she would wear a sweater that fit her perfectly, neither too big nor too small. And unlike Miss Peters in her tight jeans, bolero tops, and stiletto heels, Lillian wore sensible, comfortable flat shoes or sandals with a low heel. Because Miss Peters flaunted her wares so blatantly, Sam didn’t have to wonder what she would look like undressed, but he often found himself wishing for a peek beneath Lillian’s simple, yet stylish clothes.
He liked the way she wore her hair, too. Pulled back from her face in a loose single braid down her back or sometimes held up off her neck with a large clip. If any gray was hiding among the many different shades of blonde in her hair, he couldn’t tell. He also liked the determination he saw in her deep blue eyes and the concentration that tightened her mouth while she listened intently to his lectures. He especially liked the fact that she was trying so hard.
An Equation For Murder Page 3