Dying to Teach

by Cindy Davis

  She’d no sooner drawn the first clipped stack of paper from the wrapper when a curt knock sounded on the door. It wasn’t Tyson. He rarely knocked. In his get-things-done-now manner he always burst into a room.

  Diva Marie. Had to be her. Tyson fired her and she’d come to Angie for solace. The knock came again, this time a rapid-fire trio. Probably not Marie. She wouldn’t wait this long for a reply. Either way, Angie would bet her next paycheck that big-time trouble sprouted on the other end of that knock.

  The door opened. In stepped Randy Reynolds.

  TWO

  Monday morning, Kiana Smith set the backpack gently on the locker floor. Even so, the soft bump sounded like thunder in the empty school hallway. She hung her jacket on one of the hooks and pulled a wadded bundle of tissues from the right front pocket. She wiped her nose, blotted at the river of tears, then shoved the tissues in her skirt pocket. How could anybody kill Gwen? Not only was she a fabulous teacher, she was a great person, a mentor, and…well, Gwen was more. Just more. She was the only teacher in the whole school who treated kids like people, not children they were forced to babysit five days a week. This school was Gwen Forest’s whole life. And Gwen Forest was Kiana’s whole life. At least it felt that way.

  Kiana forced herself to walk with her usual determined step toward the teachers’ lounge. The idea to infiltrate the off-limits space came in the deepest darkest part of last night, mere hours after learning of Gwen’s death. Kiana’s parents tried insisting she stay home today. But she couldn’t. It would be like abandoning everything Gwen did for Kiana and the school.

  She sniffled and swiped the wetness with the back of a hand. Darn, she would’ve thought she’d cried out every H2O molecule by now. But last night, as the tears flowed, so did ideas on how to uncover the murderer because, sure as the sun would set in the west, the murderer was somebody from this school. Had to be. Ms. Forest spent all her time here, hung out only with people related to the school. The one exception, her best friend, Cilla Philmore, wasn’t much of an exception at all because she was the English teacher’s wife.

  The teacher’s lounge lay between the school office and the principal’s office, just steps from the wide, glass front doors—through which twenty-five hundred students would soon rush. It would be hard to explain her presence in school this early in the morning, especially since she was more frequently late than anything else. Kiana tucked the key into the lock. More difficult than explaining her presence though, would be explaining how she came into possession of a key to this particular room.

  The door opened on silent hinges. A peek verified that the place was empty. It would be. Teachers didn’t come to school over an hour early. Kiana stepped inside and locked the door.

  On the right, two long leather sofas faced each other rather than the wide screen television attached to the far right hand wall. To the left, near the windows, was a small kitchenette. At her far left, beside the door where she’d come in, were spaces for teacher’s personal belongings. The spaces looked like what she had back in nursery school, rectangular wooden cubbyholes with black magic marker names written on tape under each.

  Kiana checked first for Gwen’s compartment, but it seemed she didn’t have one. It wasn’t really surprising; she spent very little time mingling with the rest of the staff. Since Kiana had no idea what she was looking for, it would be best to look at everything, though time was of the essence. She reminded herself to be methodical. That way you didn’t miss anything. She would start at the top left, with Mr. Philmore’s compartment and work across the row. His cubicle contained only a Michael Bublé CD. Michael Bublé?

  The oh-so-ordinary looking Mr. Philmore wasn’t a very good teacher; he stuck strictly to curriculum, never veering away to add lessons from real life or take them on field trips. As a person he was an okay guy, a little pushy but maybe teachers had to be that way sometimes. Kids weren’t always on their best behavior in school. She used to be in that group, talking back, playing pranks. But in the summer between junior and senior high, major changes had happened in her life. Discoveries, she guessed they might be called. Things that put the words life and future in better perspective. Kiana had done some big-time soul searching and come out of it determined to apply herself, to make a future her mother would be proud of.

  She moved left to right performing a systematic search. Some of the spaces contained bottled water, stacks of microwavable meals, books—gee, the prim and proper sociology teacher read science fiction!

  So far, none contained what she sought: something, anything that might lead to Gwen’s killer. Disappointed, Kiana shoved away the chair with the backs of her knees and examined the lowest row of cubicles. The first on the left was Mr. Chalmers’. Though they kept it quiet, he and Gwen had been seeing each other for almost three years. Kiana never saw the attraction. Mr. Chalmers was a slob and Gwen a perfectionist. He was ordinary looking with the thinning hair and thick calves. And those perpetual sweatsuits! Kiana thought Gwen was beautiful. Her cocoa color skin and dark eyes made her look sultry and mysterious. To Kiana’s mind, she and Mr. Chalmers were as unsuited physically as cats and mice. His compartment sat empty.

  As Kiana turned to put the chair back where she found it, her foot kicked something. The object shot like a bullet under the microwave table, clanking off one of the casters. She knelt and groped through the awful cobwebs—what did the janitors do with their time anyway? She reached left. Nothing. She probed right. Where was it?

  She leaned down, bracing herself on the lowest shelf that held a mishmash of microwavable containers. With her left ear almost touching the floor she squinted underneath. It took a moment to adjust to the dim light, but there it was—about three inches long and two inches wide—almost invisible against the far right side caster. She’d just wrapped her fingers around it when a key rattled in the lock. Kiana shot to her feet trying to jam the thing into her pocket. But it wouldn’t go!

  The door opened. Someone came in. She dropped into the chair she’d been standing on. The object stuck part way out but there was nothing to do about it now except hope it didn’t drop out on the floor.

  Kiana drew the wad of tissues from the other pocket then leaned forward and buried her face in her hands. Someone shut the door. And spotted her. Man, was she in trouble. She kept her head down and faked a sob. A pair of shiny loafers and the bottoms of a pair of gray slacks appeared next to her new Charlotte Russe flats. Fingers touched her shoulder. Kiana’s heart thrummed out a battery of irregular beats. For a second it sounded like the Johnny Cash tune A Boy Named Sue. If she’d been with Evan instead of trapped in this room she would’ve laughed.

  “I guess you heard the news.”

  She didn’t recognize the low voice though she probably should. Kiana nodded and sniffled, bunching the tissue under her nose.

  The hand flattened on her shoulder. “Awful thing. Bad enough to be one of our own. Ms. Forest will be missed. Unfortunately all this will bring undue attention to the school.”

  Kiana burst into tears. Real ones. The person knelt beside the chair. Oh man. Surely he’d recognize her now. And he did. “Kiana Smith! What are you doing here?”

  She swiped the tissue back and forth a few times, gaining time to think. She looked up to see an angry Mr. Philmore. “I was w-walking down the hall and saw the door open.”

  “The door wasn’t open.”

  “Yes it was. H-halfway. My n-nose was running something awful. I figured the janitor was in here and I could ask for a tissue. I couldn’t go to class like this. And I couldn’t use that brown stuff in the bathroom. It r-rubs your nose all raw.”

  “Where’s the janitor?”

  “I don’t know. There was nobody here.”

  “No one was here,” he corrected.

  “Right.”

  Out in the corridor came the shushing sounds of shoes on the freshly polished floor. Kiana rose from the chair, her right hand bracing the thing in her pocket. “I guess I’ll be headed to clas
s.”

  Mr. Philmore stood also. His hand dropped from her shoulder. “I think we’d better go see Mr. Reynolds and let him know how lax the janitorial staff has been.”

  She lumped the tissue in her other fist. “I was going there anyway, t-to see if I could go home. I should’ve listened to my parents and not come here today. I could let Mr. Reynolds know about the door for you.”

  “Good.”

  The relief in his voice said he really hadn’t wanted to veer from his original objective. Kiana stepped into the hallway, dodging two boys she didn’t know, in Goth clothing. She waited till the teacher’s lounge door closed then beelined for her locker, holding the found item in her pocket. Moments later, head inside the dark metal cubicle, she took a moment to calm her racing heart and dry two very sweaty palms. Kiana drew the object from her pocket. It looked like an eyeglass case but smaller. She popped open the hinged top. Inside was a plastic case she did recognize as a contact lens holder. She replaced the plastic container and shut the lid. During lunch break, she would take it to lost and found. She reached up to place it on the top shelf. That’s when she spotted the name on a piece of tape on the underside: Evan Harris.

  How could Evan’s lens case get in the teacher’s lounge? Two ways only. One was that, for some reason he’d been there and dropped it. The only other way was for somebody to have planted it there. Kiana smiled. The decision to investigate was only hours old and yet she’d already become cynical and suspicious.

  The hows and whys of Evan’s contact lenses would have to wait till later. Right now, talking to Mr. Reynolds was most important. Kiana stowed the case in her purse and started for Mr. Reynolds’ office—then realized she’d forgotten the most important item and went back to retrieve the yellow lined notepad. She’d spent the wee hours of the morning and the whole route to school jotting notes. It had been hard writing and walking, and crying, at the same time, but time had been of the essence.

  As expected, Mr. Reynolds was in his “thinking room” a private outdoor area behind his regular office. She wished she had a place like this, somewhere to think and write plays, to be alone. Today seemed kind of cold to be sitting outside, but when the state instituted their no-smoking policy, he tried to quit. And failed. Several times. So, the school put in this really cool patio.

  Kiana raced down the brick path gripping the yellow lined notepad. Mr. Reynolds had a cell phone on one ear, but he smiled and gestured for her to sit. She spent the time checking out the surroundings so not to look like she was listening in on his call. The air nipped at her fingers; she jammed them under her thighs. Through the school windows, she watched kids settling into classrooms and thought about the one thing that almost kept her home buried under a mountain of blankets—Gwen Forest.

  The TV news said only that she was found dead in her apartment. Nothing about the way she died. In the long run Kiana guessed it didn’t matter. Gwen was dead. Dead. Even the word sounded final.

  The whole awful event couldn’t be real. Soon, she’d wake up and find it was all a vicious nightmare. All that mattered—everything Gwen lived for—was helping kids, making their lives better. Okay, okay, don’t think about it. Nothing could be done now, except find out who killed her. Make the killer pay. That thought had sent Kiana scurrying to the principal’s office with what she deemed the best idea she’d ever had.

  “I know how much you cared for her.”

  She startled back to reality. Mr. Reynolds’ cell phone lay atop a pile of mail near his left hand.

  Kiana blinked back the sadness that wanted to gush out. She nodded and set the notebook on the table. No need to read from it—the contents remained indelibly etched in her mind.

  “H-how did she die?”

  Immediately his eyes left hers and focused on something at the other side of the table.

  “Mr. Reynolds. Tell me.”

  “Kiana, I…”

  “I’ll find out sooner or later.”

  Slowly, he nodded. Of course she’d find out. Tonight it would be all over the news. Reporters would be crowding the school doors as the kids left that afternoon. Surprising that the cops weren’t clomping throughout the building.

  “You have to promise to keep this to yourself. Don’t let word come out in school. Especially don’t let it be known I told you.” He took in a long breath and let it out with the words, “A tube of makeup was shoved in her mouth. And taped there. She suffocated.”

  Kiana gripped the arms of the chair. She would not pass out. She would not throw up. Even though the news warranted doing one, or both.

  Mr. Reynolds touched her hand. “I know how close you two were. And I know it won’t do much to make you feel better under the circumstances but Gwen once told me you were like a daughter to her.”

  Nice to hear. Very nice. Kiana had felt the same.

  “Was that why you came—to find out how she died?”

  “No.” How to start the conversation? She wasn’t known for tact. It was more her nature to blurt what crossed her mind. But she had a fabulous idea that needed to be broached with care. “I want to find out who killed Gw— Ms. Forest.”

  “We all do, dear. We all do.”

  “No. What I mean is, I want to put together a group of us kids—three or four—to find out who did it.” She tapped the notebook. “I made a list of people we should talk to, questions we should ask, clues we could look for. Things like that.”

  His brows twitched. That meant he was confused.

  “The group can talk to the other students. To teachers. Gather information to give the police. Sort of undercover. You know?”

  Mr. Reynolds’ brow smoothed out, but now his forehead wrinkled. That meant he was about to say no. “On the surface it sounds like a good idea, and I applaud your ingenuity. But I’m sure you know I cannot condone it. You’re here to do schoolwork, to learn.”

  She’d expected that reaction. Mr. Reynolds was the type who needed to let something simmer a while before he acted on it. A good quality, she guessed. No blurting out of things better left unsaid. No spontaneous actions he might regret later.

  “Let the authorities do their jobs.”

  “Their jobs?” Kiana kept herself from erupting out of the flower-cushioned seat. She did allow herself to lean forward. “Mr. Reynolds, if they were doing their jobs, they’d be tearing this place apart right now. Can’t you see, that t-tube of makeup had to come from here. Where else? This school—our drama department—was Ms. Forest’s life.” Kiana sat back in the chair and forced herself to calm down. She gripped the chair arms and flattened her feet on the brick walk. “That’s the benefit our investigatory group would have. Kids aren’t gonna talk to police and you know it. I think—no, I know, our group can get information the cops can’t.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t give you permission. It’s too dangerous.”

  Now she was confused. “Dangerous?”

  “Has it dawned on you that, as unrealistic as it sounds, the killer just might be here among us?”

  “Of course I’ve thought of it. It’s all I can think about.” She tapped the notebook on the table. “I was up all night making these notes.”

  “Do you realize that, if he was willing to kill Gwen, for whatever reason, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill you?”

  Why would anybody consider kids a threat? Adults rarely deemed kids’ opinions worth listening to. That’s why her plan was perfect, foolproof. That’s what had been so special about Ms. Forest; she listened. She cared. And for that reason alone Kiana would—find out who killed her. Obviously there was no use arguing with him. Good idea to let him think about this and talk more later.

  She picked up the notebook and stood, pushing the chair with the backs of her knees.

  “Wait,” said Mr. Reynolds, “I do have some good news.”

  Though the only good news would be finding Ms. Forest’s murderer, she let herself sink back into the chair.

  “I have asked someone to come help out with all thi
s. I can’t say more right now but I’ll have news later. After lunch.”

  His blue eyes made direct contact with hers. Was he telling the truth?

  Yes. He was. Kiana felt a glimmer of hope.

  Just then, those blue orbs flickered away. Almost immediately they returned to rest on hers. But that infinitesimal flicker said one thing: his truth was tinged with some doubt.

  “I promise. I’ll send for you later. Now, scoot off to class before you’re—” The final bell rang. He smiled. “Before you’re too late.”

  Kiana walked back into the school and through his office. She said good morning to his secretary Miss Shaw and hurried to her locker for books to get through the morning classes. She kept the notebook handy, in case more ideas popped up. Of course she was disappointed Mr. Reynolds hadn’t been more receptive to the plan. What could she expect though, he had a school to run, a couple thousand kids to protect.

  Maybe after he had time to think.

  No matter. She didn’t really need his blessing. Though it would’ve been nice.

  He hadn’t said what he planned, or who was coming. Pressing for information would have been a waste of time. Mr. Reynolds wouldn’t be swayed by cajoling.

  Just as Kiana stepped into calculus class, she realized: he hired a detective, somebody to infiltrate the staff, dig out information and suck out secrets. What a great idea! That principal was really on the ball. Who could it be? Was there a modern day Sherlock Holmes or a real-time Jessica Fletcher here in New Hampshire? Kiana couldn’t help feeling excited. What remained confusing was why he’d turn down a teen investigatory group. It could only be an asset.