by Sharon Sala
But she had her suspicions. Suspicions about Barbara Fairmont and even Jillian Rhodes, though it was ridiculous to think of a respected principal doing something as insane as leaving a veiled death threat on a teacher’s voice mail.
Mara frowned, recalling the pry marks on her front door, indicating that someone had recently tried to force it open. Feeling sick, she realized that whatever was going on here could be deadly serious. Far too serious to handle on her own.
Call Adam, she thought, forgetting that she should be thinking of him as a student’s father and not a personal friend. But then she dismissed the idea. The reference to Adam’s late wife on the message, the implication that the caller might have witnessed Christine Jakes’ death, was so horrifying, she couldn’t fathom allowing him to hear it.
Besides, she had been horribly wrong about a man once, not so long ago. Though instinct and intuition screamed against it, could she risk even the smallest chance that she was wrong about Adam, too? That a seemingly caring man could somehow have been involved with…?
Nearly choking on the thought, she grabbed the land line and dialed 9-1-1.
His heart pounding, Adam clutched the phone, then raced from his home office to find Mrs. Somers in the kitchen with Rebecca. His daughter looked up from the book report cover she was decorating.
“Daddy?” she asked, her pale eyes worried. As sensitive as she was, she clearly read the state of his emotions.
He fought to mask his unease, to hide it from his child. Manufacturing a safe lie, he said, “I have to go out, honey. Little problem at the building site.”
With an apron encircling her trim form, Mrs. Somers peered at him over the half glasses she’d been using to read a recipe. “No one hurt, I hope? You look a little shaken.”
“Nothing like that,” he said. “But I may be gone for a few hours.”
He prayed he wasn’t lying, that Mara hadn’t been hurt. But Enrique hadn’t known, had told him only that the sheriff himself had just strode past the main house and knocked at Mara’s door.
“I knew you’d want to know, amigo,” Enrique had told him. “Considering the way you feel about la maestra. And because it’s him that’s with her.”
By him, Enrique meant Ronnie Rayburn, the sheriff Adam—and half the town—knew had been carrying on with Christine in the months before her death. Though married himself, Rayburn was well-known for his womanizing, and he made no secret of his preference for lonely housewives.
As Adam hurried to his car, he felt his hands curl into fists at the thought of the man who had seen Christine’s unhappiness and slipped in to take advantage. The man who’d left her feeling emptier than ever, weeping as she’d begged Adam for forgiveness for straying.
The man who’d been so quick to rule his wife’s death accidental. Suspicious, Adam had hired private detectives to look into the matter, but so far, they’d found nothing.
Nothing except reasons why his wife, who’d struggled for years with clinical depression, might have harmed herself.
But he reminded himself that today wasn’t about Christine but a woman who was still alive, a woman he was still able to help. And he was damned well going to help Mara, whether she wanted it or not.
Chapter 5
“I ’m real sorry somebody’s had the poor taste to play such a cruel prank.” Tall and powerfully built, with strong cheekbones and a square jaw, Sheriff Rayburn removed his hat, revealing close-cropped, sandy hair tipped silver at the temples. Though Mara wouldn’t exactly call him handsome, his sorrowful hazel gaze and total focus held an undeniable appeal.
But Mara wasn’t interested. Above the generator’s hum, she said, “A prank? You think this is a joke? With what this person said about how Christine Jakes died?”
Rayburn’s color deepened, and his eyes grew more intent. “What do you know about Christine Jakes?”
“I teach the poor woman’s daughter, so of course I’ve heard about her accident.”
Relaxing visibly, he nodded.
“And I know Adam.” Mara scooped up her kitten to keep him from sharpening his claws on Rayburn’s pant leg. “He was a high school friend of my brother’s, back in New Jersey.”
Rayburn asked her a few more questions about her “history” with the Jakes family and any enemies she might have. As much as she hated to bring up the possibility, Mara said, “There was a squabble with one of the parents at the school. She’s the PTO president.”
“Who?”
“Well, I’m sure it couldn’t be her, but…Barbara Fairmont.”
Head shaking, Rayburn chuckled. “Not her style, believe me. I have to figure this is some idiot’s idea of a sick joke. Maybe an applicant who wanted the job you got, but more likely somebody out to stir up trouble for Mr. Jakes.”
“Who would want to do that? From what I’ve heard, everyone around here is excited about the new resort.”
“Mover and shaker like Jakes, he rubs some folks the wrong way.” Rayburn’s tone implied he might be one of those people. “Besides, when it comes to a big-money project like he’s building, there’s always some fellow on the outside who wishes he was in.”
“But if someone’s mad at him, why come after me?”
“Maybe this person thinks it’d be easier to hurt Jakes through someone he might care for rather than try and get to him personally. Pretty cowardly, you ask me.” Rayburn thoughtfully rubbed his chin. “Yeah, the way I figure this, it’s nothing to do with you, miss. Nothing personal, I mean.”
“I have to tell you, Sheriff, I do take death threats personally. And what about these pry marks?” Mara opened the door to point them out again. “The ones nobody from your office called me back about. Those seem pretty personal to me, too.”
He shrugged. “Wish I could tell you we don’t have the occasional B&E around here. But I see you’ve got yourself a stout lock now. How about your window latches?”
“They were replaced, too.”
He reached out to rub the kitten’s ear—only to pull away when Jasper took a swipe at him and hissed. “Whoa! Well, with all that and this vicious guard cat on duty, I’d say you’ve got the bases covered.” Rayburn smiled and winked as he slipped her his card. “But if you have any other troubles, Mara, you be sure and call me. My cell and home numbers are written on the back.”
Was this guy serious? “What about the message? Don’t you want a copy for evidence or something?”
“Well, I guess I could do that,” he said. “Who’s your cell phone provider? I’ll see if they can trace the caller.”
Though she had the impression he was humoring her, she gave him the information. Not that she’d been expecting him to get on the phone with Quantico and demand a voiceprint analysis.
“Remember, you need anything, even a friendly tour of Red Bluff, be sure and call me. Day or night.” With another wink, he tipped his hat to her before leaving.
She was still staring after him, realizing she had just been hit on, when she caught sight of Adam striding toward them, both men on a collision course.
Some thirty yards distant, Mara saw the tension in their bodies, like the circling of two wolves with their hackles raised. They didn’t shake hands—didn’t say much, either—before Rayburn stormed off toward his patrol car and Adam headed her way, strain written on his face.
“Enrique called me. What happened?” he asked.
Mara shook her head. “I think I just met the smarmy version of Andy Griffith.”
Adam didn’t smile.
“You’re okay, aren’t you? No one’s hurt you?” His gaze searched her, his need for reassurance palpable. “Did someone get inside this time?”
“I’m fine,” she assured him. “Just a little prank, that’s all. I overreacted.”
“What kind of prank?”
“An anonymous phone call suggesting I might like to leave town.” No way would she share the caller’s cruel words about his wife’s death.
“Barbara Fairmont,” he growled. “The
woman’s a menace. But don’t worry. I promise you, I will straighten her out.”
“No, Adam. We’ve been through this.” Mara locked on to his gaze. “It’s my problem to deal with. She’s had it in for me from day one, mostly because I won’t let her son hurt the other children.”
“You’re just doing your job, and I intend to make sure—”
“I intend to take care of it myself, or no one in this community will ever take me seriously. Besides…” Mara gentled her voice. “You’re just another parent now, remember? At least until the school year’s over.”
She allowed herself the barest smile.
Adam searched her eyes. “So you’re telling me if I back off now, there could be a later?”
Her heartbeat fluttering, she managed, “Starting on June sixth. If we’re both still interested.”
“You can count on it, Miss Stillwell.” A smile warmed his handsome features. “And you can be certain, too, I’ll be watching from the sidelines, making sure you’re safe.”
“Sidelines it is,” she said lightly.
“Until midnight, Mara. Midnight on June sixth.” With a smoldering look, he turned and left her.
Left her to a very restless night.
A cold front came in early Sunday, casting a threatening gray pall over Red Bluff. Tucked beneath her blankets, Mara barely noticed the chill until her cell phone rang and she jolted upright, stomach lurching at the memory of the message she’d received the day before.
She peered at the caller ID window, her stomach flipping all over again when she saw the name Rhodes. If the principal was calling, Babzilla must have been as good as her initial threat.
“Good morning.” Mara fought to keep her voice steady, as if this were any other Sunday and she had no idea what was coming.
“I trust you’re feeling better.” Mrs. Rhodes’ voice sounded strained, her “concern” superficial.
“Much,” said Mara. At least until you called.
“Glad to hear it, Miss Stillwell, because I need you to come immediately. We have a situation at the school.” Anger frosted the words with brittle ice.
“A situation?”
“Meet me in your classroom and we’ll discuss it face-to-face.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“I’ll expect you in twenty minutes,” Mrs. Rhodes warned.
Mara dressed hurriedly, brushed her teeth and pulled her hair back before forcing herself to slow down. You can’t defend yourself if you rush in flustered.
She drove carefully, drawing what small comfort she could from the way the low clouds broke like the sea against the red rocks. But the scenic beauty didn’t help as she pulled in to the school’s lot, where a pair of sheriff’s department patrol cars flanked Jillian Rhodes’ sedan.
What on earth? Surely, Mrs. Rhodes hadn’t called the authorities about her. Mara hopped out of her car, then walked briskly through the unlocked front breezeway gate and back to her classroom, where the door stood wide open. Mrs. Rhodes, dressed impeccably as always, stood with her arms crossed, speaking with a deputy who was writing something on a clipboard he had balanced on a bowling ball–size belly.
As Mara reached them, heart in throat, she spotted the other deputy inside the classroom. Then she got her first glimpse of the damage. “What happened?”
“District security spotted the back gate open.” Mrs. Rhodes pointed out a line of red footprints on the sidewalk. Footprints leading from her classroom door. “And then this.”
Moving to the doorway, Mara saw the red paint—it must have been gallons—splashed across the walls like blood, coagulating on the desktops and soaked into the carpet. Computers had been smashed to pieces, from the one on her desk to the five student work stations along the back counter. The drawers of her desk had been pulled out and emptied, along with her supply cabinets and bookshelves. Papers were strewn everywhere, most speckled by or sticking to the paint.
Not here, not where children learned and worked and flourished. Her shock gave way to outrage. “How—who…?”
The second deputy, a man with leathery tanned skin and a graying mustache, emerged from the classroom holding a camera and shaking his head. “Kids, I’d say, judging from those footprints—maybe junior high age. Pack of troublemakers saw their chance when they found unlocked doors. But we’ll catch ’em, don’t you worry. Little punks do something this big, they tend to brag about it. Someone nearly always turns them in.”
Mara was shaking her head. “But I didn’t leave the door unlocked. I’d never—”
“You were here yesterday, working,” Mrs. Rhodes accused, her voice stern. “And I’m told you left rather suddenly, with every reason in the world to be quite flustered.”
Great. “I clearly remember locking that door. The gate, too.”
“I’m sure you meant to, miss.” The overweight deputy, whose nametag read J. R. Smith, sounded sympathetic. “But sometimes, when we’re rushing or upset, we forget—”
“I’m absolutely positive.” Mara knew she was right.
Mrs. Rhodes glared at her. “Do you have any idea what this is going to cost the district?”
“I’m sorry about that, but I still didn’t—”
“Please, Miss Stillwell…who else am I to think did it? You were the last one here.”
“No,” said Mara. “Mrs. Fairmont was meeting with the carnival committee. And she has a master key, right?”
Mrs. Rhodes’ brows angled sharply. “She certainly does not have access to the classrooms. And even if she did, you can’t seriously be suggesting that she walked back here after the other mothers left, opened only your classroom door, and then unlocked the back gates before turning around and locking up the front ones?”
Mara lifted her chin. “Didn’t you ask at the last faculty meeting whether anyone had seen your key ring?”
The radio on Deputy Smith’s belt squawked, and both he and his partner stepped away to deal with it.
“They turned up the very next day,” Mrs. Rhodes snapped. “And what are you implying? That a member of the staff or a parent would come here to frame you?”
“Someone trashed this room. Maybe the same person who unlocked the gate and door.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
Suddenly, belatedly, Mara’s shell-shocked brain made the connection between what had happened here and at the casita. “Yesterday I called the sheriff about a telephone threat. I had my locks upgraded, too, because someone tried to pry open my door.”
Mrs. Rhodes look startled. “You’ve been threatened?”
“The voice was disguised, but the caller implied I would die if I didn’t pack up and leave Red Bluff.”
“Die?” Color draining from her face, Mrs. Rhodes glanced back at the door, where a crude obscenity stood out in runny letters. “You’re saying—the sheriff will confirm this, won’t he?”
“Here’s his card.” Reaching into her purse, Mara produced Rayburn’s numbers. “Call him now, if you like.”
“Are you aware,” Mrs. Rhodes asked the deputies as they returned, “that this vandalism could be something personal? Something directed at Miss Stillwell?”
Mara explained what she had reported. “At the time, Sheriff Rayburn didn’t feel any of it was serious.”
The two deputies glanced at one another. “We’ll check with the sheriff, miss,” said Smith, “and get back to you once we know something. But I’m afraid for right now, we have to leave you ladies. Another call’s come in. More vandalism, this time over at the new resort.”
“Adam Jakes’ project…” said Mara.
As the men hurried away, Mrs. Rhodes took another look at the mess and sighed. “Your class will have to be relocated to the library for the time being. Perhaps it would be best if we kept on your substitute, too. Considering everything that’s happened these past few days.”
Mara sensed she was talking about more than the phone threat and vandalism. “I know Barbara Fairmont talked to you about wh
at she walked in on yesterday.”
“Of course she spoke to me about your…indiscretion. And I must say, I’m terribly disappointed.”
“I understand, and I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I’ve spoken to Adam—Mr. Jakes, and we won’t be spending time alone together as long as Rebecca is my student.”
Over the tops of her half glasses, Mrs. Rhodes pinned Mara with a stern look. “She isn’t any longer. I’m transferring her to Mrs. Kelly’s classroom.”
“What? Why? It’s taken me months to build Rebecca’s trust and foster her friendship with a couple of the other girls. If you pull her now, she’ll be devastated.”
“Pippa Kelly’s a fine teacher. Well-grounded in the fundamentals.” A pointed look underscored the final word.
“This isn’t about teaching techniques, though, is it? It’s about punishing me because that’s what your friend wants,” Mara shot back.
Mrs. Rhodes’ eyes flared, her face reddening. “Barbara Fairmont doesn’t tell me how to handle my staff. It’s simply clear to me that when it comes to the Jakes girl, you’ve lost all objectivity, and you’ve certainly left yourself open to charges of favoritism from the other parents.”
“What other parents have complained? Aside from Mrs. Fairmont, whose child has been allowed to run amok up until this point?” Cody could be in danger, too, Mara suddenly realized, if his mother was insane enough to trash her own son’s classroom.
“Miss Stillwell. Do not take that tone with me,” the principal warned. “I won’t have this behavior in my school. Understand that, as a non-tenured teacher, your contract can easily be terminated—especially considering your continual disregard for my directives.”
“What?”
Mrs. Rhodes’ look was withering. “You’ve been handing in one set of plans to keep me happy and following them only when you know I’ll be in your classroom to observe.”
Mara wondered how she’d figured it out.
“Did you forget the intercom in your classroom works both ways?”