Ada Madison - The Square Root of Murder

My usually comfortable home seemed unbearably warm tonight. I carried the phone into the kitchen, poured a glass of ice water from a pitcher in the fridge, and adjusted the thermostat down a notch.

A call-waiting beep saved me from further explaining to Fran the nature of my friendship, or lack thereof, with the deceased.

I clicked my tongue. “I’d better take this call,” I told Fran, though I didn’t recognize the ID. “We’ll talk soon.”

I pushed a button to hear chem major Pam Noonan. “Oh, my God, Dr. Knowles,” she said, making one word out of the first three. “Did you hear?”

“There are cops at all the doors.” Liz Harrison’s voice now, with the hollow sound of a speakerphone. “And this big TV truck.”

Without waiting for my answer, Pam had apparently yielded the mic to her roomie, who sounded as excited as Pam. “I can’t believe it,” Liz said. “We’re sitting here and, oh, my God. Franklin Hall is a crime scene.”

“You’re in Franklin Hall?”

“No, no, we’re sitting in my dorm room.” A new voice.

“Who is this?” I asked.

“Casey,” she said, as if she was insulted that I didn’t recognize her voice. But I knew Casey Tremel only because she was close to Pam and Liz. “They made everyone go home who lived near enough and then they closed Nathaniel Hawthorne and Clara Barton and put the rest of us into Paul Revere, which is where I live anyway.”

Campus-speak was always flavored with the greats of Massachusetts history. I assumed the big shake up in the dorms was to make security easier.

“But first the cops interviewed us all, like on TV,” Pam said.

“They wanted to know where you were, did you see anything strange, and all that,” Liz said.

“We walked over to Franklin, but they wouldn’t let us into the building.” Pam’s voice again.

“I guess they’re done with us,” said someone.

“They’re using that yellow and black tape just like on TV and there are cops at all the doors. A lot of good they did at Franklin today. So much for Henley’s security department, huh?” said someone else.

I taught these girls in my summer statistics class. How come my students had so much time to watch television? I’d have to step up the homework assignments. And were they calling all their teachers tonight, or was I the only lucky one? Maybe the word had spread that, as Rachel had judged, I was Keith Appleton’s only friend on campus.

I tapped the mic in my phone. “Ooh, sorry, girls, I have another call. You three take care of yourselves and try to put all this out of your minds. We’ll talk later.” I was sure I’d be getting a call back soon.

Not wanting to appear to gossip about a colleague, I was equally abrupt with the next several callers. Collecting and analyzing data was an occupational hazard for me-I couldn’t help noting that the science majors, who had Keith in many classes, seemed less sad about their professor’s death than they were excited about a campus drama. I found myself listening for clues to Keith’s killer, as if the pool of suspects were restricted to those who called me, his alleged best friend. I ticked them off, teachers and students alike: Pam, Liz, Casey, Fran. I added all who were at the party this afternoon. Lucy, Robert, Judith, and nearly a dozen others. Anyone but Rachel.

Through a curious philosophy of what constituted a mathematics or science major, Henley College required its science majors to take math classes, but not vice versa. Thus, few of my own math majors had taken Keith’s classes. I hated to think that that was why they seemed more inclined to express sympathy over his death. I liked to think they were more sensitive, living on a higher plane and all.

I could hear Bruce’s loud guffaw in my ears, from times past when I’d expressed a similar observation. I heard the same from Ariana.

Another round of communication came through emails, to and from Hal and other faculty members, and even from Gillian Bartholomew, from the MAstar computer.

I was struck by how rapidly the news had traveled. The entire City of Henley emergency services staff and equipment must have reported to the campus to answer Woody’s nine-one-one call. I had an image of the neatly manicured campus lawns and walkways crowded with larger-than-life vehicles, sirens blaring. No medevac helicopter, but everything else-fire truck, police cars, ambulance. And, of course, the local press.

I tried to read an article on reducing the order of a differential equation, but I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t find a cube or twisted metal puzzle to engage me, and beading seemed too frivolous an activity to take up with Keith Appleton in Henley’s morgue.

I settled again on the sofa in the den. I ran my hand over the thick fabric, a rich burgundy chosen to match the old chair across from me, which had come from my grandmother’s home. I picked away at a new acrostic. I’d been disappointed that the puzzle in last Sunday’s New York Times had been trivial and I’d quickly replaced it on my clipboard with one from an anthology. This one wasn’t all that challenging either, but I had a moment of enjoyment figuring out that for the clue “L” the answer was “the bottom of the barrel” and for “H” it was “the middle of nowhere.”

The satisfying moment passed quickly and thoughts of a murdered colleague rushed to claim my full attention.

Rrring . Rrring. Rrring.

My landline. From the way I jumped, you’d think this was the first call of the evening. The evening that wouldn’t end.

Bruce was calling to check on me, sweetie that he is.

“Is Virge still there?” he asked.

“He hasn’t even arrived yet, but I’m sure he’s up to his ears right now.”

“Do you need anything? All we’re doing is watching DVDs. I can get Bodie to come in for me.”

Double sweetie. “Thanks, but I’m fine. You know me, bouncing from phone to email to puzzle and back. Just hanging out.”

“Like us. It’s very cloudy, so we really can’t take a call. Two minutes ago, we refused one, in fact. A young guy fell off his motorcycle at that busy intersection near the high school. But the ceiling is way too low, so, no go.” A nanosecond pause. “Hey, a rhyme. Remember that movie quiz where you had to figure out a title from something that rhymed with it, like Sandra Bullock in Read turned out to be Speed , and-”

“I get it.”

I used to worry about what happened to patients or accident victims when the ceiling was so low that the helicopter team couldn’t get to them, but Bruce had cleared it up for me.

“They have to resort to calling an ambulance,” he’d told me, making it sound as if that were only marginally better than a wagon train.

I promised Bruce I’d call if I needed him. In any case, I knew he’d come by after nine in the morning when his shift was over. Then, I paced some more and made a comfort-for me-call to Ariana, who promised to send positive thoughts to all of us and to bring me a good vibrations basket tomorrow. She’d scheduled a beading class at my home at noon, as part of her “rotating settings” theory of inspiration. Plus, it was cooler in my home than in the back room of her shop.

“I could change the venue for tomorrow,” she offered.

“Not necessary.” I had hopes that by tomorrow, everything would be cleared up to my satisfaction and that of Rachel, and of those who presided over criminal justice. “Straightening up and setting out snacks will be a welcome distraction,” I assured her.

I entered my home office to check my email for the tenth time since I’d heard the news and this time found one from the college president, Dr. Olivia Aldridge, the driving force behind Henley’s new coeducational status. She’d been appointed only four years ago, but I found her very well suited to the college, seeming to understand its traditions while being in tune with its needs for the future.