He liked her all right, but the F he had just written and circled in red at the top of her test paper probably wasn’t going make her like him back.
“Dad!” Thump. Thump.
“Coming.” Sam collected the stack of test papers and put them into the Math 50 section of his briefcase, then hurried down the stairs. The soccer ball bounced hard off the sliding glass door. He scowled. “How about I play goalie, and we’ll see if you can get the ball past me?”
Ben actually smiled. “Sure, Dad. You’re on.” He put the ball on the ground, then held it in place with his foot. “Care to bet on how many times I can get this ball in the goal?”
The boy was twelve. Where had the twenty-year-old mouth come from?
Sam sighed, then took his place in the goal, the need to protect his house upper most in his mind. “What do I get if I win?”
Ben considered that and shrugged his already developing shoulders. “Can I get a skateboard if I win?” he countered.
“No, but I’ll think of an appropriate prize, if by some slim chance you win.”
“No way,” Ben said before sending the soccer ball sailing toward Sam, who easily batted it out of the goal area.
The next hour passed swiftly while father and son took turns in the goal. When the score was tied, Sam elected to call a time out. Reaching for the hose bib next to the patio door, he turned on the water, then holding his thumb over the end of the hose, he aimed it at Ben. Drenched, Ben stood silently, scowling at his father, then started laughing when Sam pointed toward a second hose at the other end of the small yard.
“All right!” Ben raced for the hose, opened the spigot, and aimed. “No mercy.”
With the water fight over and his clothes thoroughly soaked, Sam stretched out on the grass in the shade of the lone mulberry tree in his back yard to dry off. Ben joined him with what seemed more like caution than reluctance, sitting down cross-legged, his back against the tree trunk. Plucking at several blades of grass within his reach, his tongue slid between his lips in a gesture Sam knew well. There was something other than soccer or skateboards on Ben’s mind.
“Can I ask you something?” Ben asked finally.
“Sure.” Sam only hoped it wasn’t about Rachel, her new boyfriend, or the divorce.
“Well, there’s this girl at school. She’s really cool.”
Girls. Ben was only twelve, so girls was a safe topic. Sam merely smiled, waiting patiently for more details while he remembered the first girl who had interested him. Maggie O’Malley. In the fifth grade. Maggie had worn her red hair in two braids to her waist, and he’d tied them in knots from his seat behind her. When braided, Lillian’s hair stopped at her shoulder blades. He wondered if she ever wore it in two braids, and if she would ever let him tie them into a knot.
“Dad, you’re not listening.”
Sam started to protest, then thought better of it and nodded. “You’re right, Ben. My mind was wandering.” But why on earth had he let it wander to Lillian? “I’m sorry. So, do you like this girl? Does she like you?”
Ben sighed heavily. “She doesn’t even know I exist. I don’t know what to do.”
“What are you doing now?”
“Ignoring her, mostly.”
Sam smiled, tried to keep a straight face, but started laughing anyway. “Ben, that’s not how it works.”
Ben tore out several blades of grass and threw them at his dad. “So what does work?”
Sam sat up, brushed away the grass. “Try taking an interest in what she likes to do.”
“Like what?”
“Well… Is she in any clubs? Does she have any hobbies? Participate in any sports?”
Ben’s eyes lit up. He turned to face his dad. “She’s a gymnast. She’s in some sort of elite club. I heard her tell one of the other girls that she couldn’t go over to her house this weekend because her club was hosting a tournament.”
“There you go,” Sam said, pointing his right thumb in the air. “Ask her about her sport, show some interest in the events she competes in. Go watch one of her tournaments. She’ll notice you soon enough.”
“Is that how you got Mom to notice you?”
“I thought we were talking about you.”
Ben hesitated, licking his lips before changing tactics. “Could we go to her tournament?”
Why not? Maybe if Jacob Weiss had given him some fatherly assistance, Sam wouldn’t have had to resort to tying knots in Maggie’s braids.
“When is it?”
“Now.”
“Now?”
“Please, Dad.”
“Are your clothes dry?” When Ben nodded, Sam stood up. “Find out where it is while I get my keys.”
Canyon Middle School’s gymnasium was not exactly crowded for a club gymnastics tournament. So, after walking the length of the building, they decided to sit in the empty fourth row of the bleachers directly opposite the balance beam. The tournament was beginning its third rotation which meant that, even as late as they were, they had only missed the first half of the competition.
“There she is. She just got on the beam.”
Nibbling on his left thumb nail, Sam studied the cool girl with the array of black cornrow braids tied together into two stubby pony tails at the nape of her neck. “What’s her name?”
“Kiesha Spencer. She’s pretty, isn’t she?”
“Yes, she is.”
Her practice complete, Kiesha dismounted, and when her gaze drifted to Ben, her mouth formed a tentative smile. One that Sam was sure indicated she was both pleased and surprised by Ben’s attendance. She waved, then hurried toward them.
“Hi, Kiesha,” Ben whispered.
“Hi, Ben. I didn’t know you liked gymnastics.”
“Well, uh… I heard you telling Brooke about it, and…”
Sam smiled at his son’s sudden bout of shyness. It was obvious to him that the girl was just as interested in Ben as he was in her. He cleared his throat.
“Oh, Kiesha, this is my dad.” Ben pointed at Sam, but his eyes were glued to the petite girl in the red and black leotard.
Sam extended his hand. “Sam Weiss. It’s nice to meet you, Kiesha.”
She giggled, wiping chalk from her hand down the front of her leotard before putting it tentatively in his. Looking up at him, her dark chocolate eyes glowed. “Likewise.” Then after a quick glance at her coach, she turned back to face Ben. “I have to go now. Coach is signaling that I’m up next. I’m competing in the all-around.”
“That’s great,” Ben said, his gaze following her as she started down the steps.
Sam smiled, certain his son had no clue what the all-around was. “Good luck, Kiesha,” he called after her.
“Thanks.” Then perched on the bottom step, she turned around and smiled shyly. “I’m glad you came, Ben.”
Ben was silent for several minutes after Kiesha had left. “She’s African American,” he offered softly, his tone carrying a hint of challenge.
“I noticed.” Though Sam doubted any of the girl’s ancestors had seen the coast of Africa for at least a century and a half. She was an American, the same as he was. Distinctions such as race, faith, age, and gender mattered too much to too many when, in his humble opinion, they shouldn’t matter at all.
“Do you like her, Dad?”
“She seems very nice.”
“You think Mom will like her?”
Sam noted the faint tremor in Ben’s voice and felt pretty sure that Rachel’s reaction to Kiesha would not be a favorable one, but he knew that would be due far more to the cross hanging around the girl’s neck than the milk chocolate color of her skin. The same way Sam’s Jewish father had felt when faced with his only son’s interest in a red-headed Catholic girl with braids some twenty-seven years ago.
But Ben was only twelve, and Sam refused to worry about the girls in his son’s life until the day he opened a conversation with, ‘Dad, I want you to meet your future daughter-in-law.’ In the meantime, Kiesha would b
e a distraction, giving Ben something to think about besides getting his parents back together again.
“I think your mom would like it better if you would work harder on improving your grades.” Sam gave Ben his stern-father look. “So would I.”
Ben stared down at this feet, his jaw tight. “That’s why Mom won’t let me have the skateboard I want. ’Cause I’m getting D’s in English and History.”
“I know.” So far, neither he nor Rachel had been able to convince their son to buckle down and study. Sam tapped Ben with his elbow and motioned toward Kiesha. She had just mounted the balance beam for her routine. “How are Kiesha’s grades?”
“She’s really smart,” Ben boasted. “Straight A’s in everything.”
They watched silently while Kiesha ended her routine with a round-off, back handspring, into a layout dismount, then clapped their approval when she scored a 9.1 to take first place on the balance beam and second in the all-around. At the close of the awards ceremony, Kiesha hurried up the stairs to show Ben her silver medal.
“You were awesome, Kiesha,” Ben said, his thumb rubbing across the engraved 2nd Place words on the medal. “You should’ve won.”
“Next time.” She grinned, retrieving the medal. “Will you come watch me again?”
Ben glanced up at Sam, his eyes imploring silently. Sam simply nodded, remembering how unhappy he’d felt the time Maggie had asked him to her confirmation party, and his father had refused to let him go. He would not do that to Ben.
Ben smiled at Kiesha. “Yeah, sure.” He sighed blissfully, his puppy-dog eyes glued to her retreating figure as she left the gymnasium with the rest of her team.
Fighting the urge to grin, Sam leaned close to Ben’s ear. “Maybe if you ask her, she would be willing to help you study so you can improve those English and History grades.”
Chapter Six
“Did you have a pleasant trip, Manuel?”
Manuel set his suitcase on the bed in his room behind the pool house and began to unpack while Carlos leaned nonchalantly against the door frame. Because of his stature at Casa Rojas, Manuel was allowed a few perks. Perks even Carlos envied. The one he valued most was this private apartment away from the servants’ quarters which were located behind the great house and divided by a fence to keep the sexes apart.
Above all things, Manuel valued his privacy and kept his own counsel. “I had a productive one, though it took much longer than I expected.”
He saw no need to explain the reason for extending his trip another four days. Though he had not yet decided if the janitor would fit into his plan, Manuel had wanted to observe him, learn the man’s routine. Test the border security between the two countries. Getting into the United States would be easy. Getting out with the mask would be more challenging.
Carlos wandered to the window and looked out at the gardens surrounding the pool. “So, did the rest of this foolish plan materialize while you were across the border?”
Manuel dumped his dirty clothes into the basket for one of the maids to collect. “As a matter of fact, it did. However, this plan will depend upon how successful you were at the museum in Mexico City.”
Carlos turned around and puffed out his ample chest, a proud grin on his face. “I found someone very knowledgeable about that Mayan mask.”
“Was she pretty?”
“Very.” Carlos laughed while he rocked his pelvis. “She taught me a lot.”
Manuel sighed. If Carlos could keep his mind on work instead of sex, he would rise quicker in his uncle’s organization. Maybe even stay alive to inherit it. “I’m sure she did. Did any of your education involve the Mayan mask?”
Carlos smiled. “Some.” When Manuel frowned, hands on hips, Carlos handed him a manila envelope. “Lots of pictures. Also dimensions. Weight. The whole works. Everything you could want to know about that mask.”
Manuel glanced through the photographs and read the documentation while Carlos watched silently. “Did the girl ask why you wanted this information?”
“Not really. Lenora is an anthropology student.” Carlos picked up one of the discarded photos showing a model of a Mayan village. “This is all part of her thesis, and she seemed very happy to share her knowledge with me.”
No doubt, Manuel thought. Most women were.
While Carlos helped himself to a beer from the refrigerator, Manuel studied the discarded photo of the Mayan village. Perhaps the girl would be able to make his outrageous plan actually work. Setting the contents of the envelope on the table, he retrieved a cold beer for himself, took a long swallow and began to pace the room. Stopping abruptly, he turned to face Carlos.
“How infatuated is this… Lenora… with you?”
Carlos shrugged. “We enjoyed ourselves. Why?”
“This village model is very realistic.”
“She said her professor gave her an A on the project. She must be very talented, huh?”
Manuel closed his eyes, sighed and shook his head. If only Carlos could think beyond the obvious. “Would she do anything for you?”
Carlos wiggled his eyebrows. “I think so. We were very good together.”
“Would she make you a copy of the mask if you asked her to?”
“I suppose so, but why…” It was as if a firecracker ignited in Carlos’ brain. His jaw fell open. “We could give my uncle a copy of the mask. He would never know the difference.” He threw his arms around Manuel and danced him around the room. “Now we don’t have to go to America and steal it. We’re saved. What a great idea, amigo!”
It was, and Manuel had considered it the instant he saw the model Lenora had made of the village. Perfect in every detail. He had no doubt she could do the same with the mask. In fact, he was counting on it. However, it wouldn’t matter whether Javier Rojas could tell the difference between the real mask or a fake one. His employer would smell a lie before it left either of their mouths, and to take such a foolish chance with both their lives was not something Manuel was willing to do.
* * *
Lillian rushed up the stairs, her lungs aching. The door to classroom M320 was already closed, so she would once again be the focal point of everyone’s stares, including Sam’s, when she opened it and tried to slip nonchalantly into her seat. She was late. Again.
Though she tried to avert her eyes, she knew Sam was looking directly at her. She could feel his puzzled gaze even if she couldn’t see it, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned his back to the class and began outlining today’s problem on the whiteboard.
This was the third time she had been late to class. Tuesday always seemed to be her worst day, though Thursday was rapidly becoming a close second. Because Math 50 was the only course she had on those two days, she tried to squeeze in time at the hospital both before and after class. But invariably some minor emergency in the nursery would keep her longer than she had intended, and she would be late.
This morning’s case had turned out to be a major emergency, and she was needed back at the hospital as soon as her class was over. Though she had parked in the visitor lot across from the Student Union and run most of the way to the Math and Sciences building, she still hadn’t been able to arrive on time. Sam was obviously not pleased with her tardiness, but he had yet to say anything. She found herself wondering why as she tried to focus her mind on today’s lesson.
However, her thoughts wandered to three-month-old Nathan retrieved early this morning by police from his parents who had abused him horribly. He was undernourished, under loved, and so frightened of his surroundings that Lillian was the only one he would let touch him without screaming. Beth had said it was because the child sensed she was a grandmother and trusted her, and though Lillian had called it nonsense, she had secretly cherished the words.
Now she was only wishing she could get her hands on the parents, so it took a moment for her to realize that Sam was standing at the front of her row, staring at her.
“Lillian, I asked you a question.”
Sh
e blinked several times. “I’m sorry, Professor Weiss. Could you repeat it?”
“No.” He walked to the other side of the room. “Mr. Jones, do you have the answer?”
Lillian didn’t hear whether Wendell answered the question correctly or not. She was still hearing Sam’s disappointment in his earlier negative response. Glancing at the pile of tests on the corner of his desk, she wondered if her test score had disappointed him as well. It had worried her all weekend. Most of the time when she finished a task, she knew whether she had done well. It would feel right. But this time, where the word problems made such little sense to her, nothing felt right. All she could do now was hope she’d passed. Yet when class ended and Sam stood by the door handing out the tests to each student leaving the classroom, she could tell that it wasn’t good news by the reluctant way he urged the paper into her hand.
“I’m sorry, Lillian,” he whispered. “You need to try harder.”
After a quick glance at the red F, she looked up into his face and simply nodded. She knew her smile was weak, but it was all she could muster before hurrying out the door and down the stairs. Why was math so hard for her? She had sailed through her first English and History tests. Though no test had yet to be given in her Anthropology class, she felt certain she was doing well in it. At least, she understood it. Math, on the other hand, was an enigma. Unfortunately, she needed at least a C to pass the course, and she needed the course in order to complete whatever major she eventually selected. Well, she would just have to do what Sam said.
Try harder.
Lillian approached her car, a five-year-old BMW that had been Rusty’s retirement gift to himself, and pushed the button on her key chain to unlock the car door. Nothing happened. She tried again with the same result. Inserting the key in the lock, she opened the door manually, thinking it was probably time for the car’s annual checkup, but when turning the key in the ignition produced nothing but a weak sputter, she closed her eyes and cursed silently.
An Equation For Murder Page 4