Page 17 of Five
Puke.
Neve Murray, owner of Little Pilots Daycare and Pre-K, isn’t your ordinary childcare leader, though. Her story is an incredible one of rising from the ashes of tragedy and turning that tragedy to service in a needy sector.
As a child of eight, Murray’s own brother, aged four, fell victim to the infamous Peter Pan abductor, vanishing while in her company. It seems Murray was inspired by her loss to make a career of caring for children.
Since its inception three years ago, Little Pilots Daycare has been a sterling benefit to the community, preparing a number of socio-economically disadvantaged children for public school with strong programming and exceptional help.
It’s easy to see how it was selected for the Florida Childcare Advantage Grant.
The article accompanies a photo of me, taken when I wasn’t looking and was busy helping little Jasmine tie her shoe. Jasmine is fortunately half-cut from the photo and non-identifiable. Her parents would kill me if she showed up on the internet.
I sigh and close the lid of my laptop, then rise from the desk and begin moving about to ready the school for the day. There are shades to be drawn up, chairs to be pulled down from the tables, and the heat to turn on and knock the nighttime chill off the air. Even in the Keys, nighttime temperatures in the spring can dip and be uncomfortably cool.
I don’t need or want the extra publicity, and certainly not at the expense of my personal life, but I guess there’s nothing much I can do about it.
I just wish they hadn’t brought up Nicholas.
The thought of my little brother, frozen forever in my memory as a cuddly, energetic four-year-old with bright green eyes just like mine, makes me want to lock my office door and sulk the day away.
I can’t do that, though.
I have children to take care of.
Mood:I’vegotsunshine.
I hum as I open up several days later. Despite the unwanted media attention, it’s been a good week so far, with parents congratulating the staff and even bringing in donations of items I had listed as things we needed in my grant application.
And tonight, I’m meeting my friend Caroline Kennedy for drinks and apps at our favorite bar. We’ve been friends since we were tiny, and no matter what’s going on in our worlds, we don’t mess with our weekly girls’ night. Caroline is the wild child daughter of filthy rich divorced parents, an emigrant from their Texas ranch to their Key West vacation home, and one of the best things that ever happened to me. I don’t know if I’d be sane without her contagious self brightening my days.
What the…?
I stop as soon I push the door open and cross the threshold, the key forgotten in my suddenly numb fingers. It looks like a raccoon or something got in, paper and litter strewn across the entryway, and the potted Ficus I keep in the corner uprooted and tossed carelessly to the floor.
I take a few further steps inside, my practical brown Doc Martens crunching across the mess. Confusion is uppermost in my head. I can’t fathom how this could happen… I always personally check every window and exterior door before I leave for the day, so unless something was already in the building, there’s simply no way it could have gotten inside.
I continue on to my office, located just off the foyer. I need to call Shelby to come in a bit early if possible and help me clean up and locate the culprit. Three strides in I stop, hand outstretched to unlock the door and enter.
The teal door is open.
A frisson of fear makes me shiver, and I take a step backwards. I know I locked that door last night. I remember doing so, because I forgot initially and had to turn around…
…and there’s no way a raccoon could’ve unlocked it.
With my finger pressed on the emergency call button on my cell phone, I peer around the door and inside. I don’t see anyone and push the door open with my toe.
The room is trashed. The drawers have been pulled from my desk and upturned over the floor; the desk and visitor chairs tossed about. The petty cash envelope lies at my feet. With shaking hands, I pick it up and unzip it, my heart thumping uncomfortably as I count swiftly.
It’s all here.
A frown creases my brow, and I look around, spotting my computer on the floor beneath the desk. Why would someone break in and not take anything of value? And how did they get in? The lock was fine…
I leave my office, this time with the phone pressed to my ear as I call 9-1-1 to report the break-in. I want to walk my school, discover how the intruder got in, but the dispatcher tells me to exit the building immediately to preserve evidence, and reluctantly, I comply.
Instead, I call Shelby and let her know what’s happening and ask her to activate the phone tree that will alert parents of a potential delay in drop-off. “They’re bound to be upset at the disruption. Just reassure them that all appears to be fine, except for some mess to clean up. I don’t think anything was stolen, so I’m reporting it more to be cautious than anything else. I’d rather err on the side of caution than leave the door open for anything to happen to their children.”
“Exactly right. On it.” Shelby clicks off, and I wait on the stoop for the officers to arrive.
It doesn’t take them long. A squad car pulls into the parking lot within minutes, and the doors open to reveal two youngish-appearing officers. Something inside of me goes tight at the sight of the uniforms, and I have to force myself to breathe slowly and calmly through my nose. I don’t like cops.
