Ada Madison - The Square Root of Murder

I didn’t know whether to be devastated or deliriously happy that Rachel wasn’t the only suspect. I should have realized that sooner or later, the police would get to me on their list of people to interview.

“My, you’d think I was a suspect.”

Virgil smiled, broadly this time, enough for the dimple on his chin to show at last. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

We parted with a high five.

I’d just turned down my cool lavender sheets and placed a glass of iced herbal tea on my night table when the phone rang. I thought a new record had already been set for the greatest number of calls in one night.

I picked up and heard Rachel’s wispy voice.

“I’m home now, but it was awful, Dr. Knowles. You’d think I was some big-time criminal. Our neighbors were waiting for me in front of my house, and I even saw some people standing watching on the curbs all along the way.”

Probably an exaggeration on Rachel’s part, but, on the other hand, in a town as small as Henley, there wasn’t much to keep the citizenry entertained. A police drama was just what everyone needed on a hot Friday night.

I felt so bad for Rachel. I could barely understand her through her sobs.

“We need to talk,” I told her. It came out sounding not unlike the intro to a breakup.

I wanted desperately to talk to Rachel now that I had more facts-alleged facts-to work with. But not at this hour, not after this day.

“Yeah, for sure, Dr. Knowles. And without my mother and all my aunts and uncles around.”

Where could we go? I realized that meeting on campus was not a good idea. Certainly not Rachel’s home either. Here? Bruce would be by-too soon, I realized, looking at the clock. Ariana and her class would arrive at noon for at least a couple of hours. I’d have to call Ariana in the morning to let her know that I wouldn’t be here, but she could still use my house. I hated to change the venue on her on such short notice.

The ideal spot for a private meeting would be a place at the edge of town, sparsely populated, with no crowded Starbucks in sight.

“Can you meet me around noon?”

“Uh-huh.”

I had the feeling Rachel would have agreed to anything at that moment. “Can you get to the MAstar facility, out at the airfield?”

“Where Mr. Granville and Mrs. Bartholomew work? Sure.”

I was reminded how long Rachel had been part of the Henley family; she knew more than just our class schedules. “Are you okay right now?” I asked her.

“Yeah, everyone’s asleep, thank God. One of my aunts has this lawyer friend and he came by. He says it doesn’t look good for me.”

“He said that?”

“Not exactly, but I could tell that’s what he’s thinking.”

“Let’s start out positive about this, okay, Rachel?”

“I’ll try, Dr. Knowles.”

I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that Detective Virgil Mitchell, Henley PD, said exactly what her aunt’s lawyer friend had said.

I went to bed with a headache. My organic jade mist tea, a present from Ariana, smelled more like bitter almonds. The power of suggestion: Cyanide was more familiar to me than the poison Virgil mentioned in connection with Keith’s murder. I’d read somewhere that cyanide had an almond smell, but that not everyone had the gene to detect the odor. Apparently I was one of those lucky ones who possessed the gene, and could smell cyanide even when there was none within miles.

I woke up with the same headache, but the aroma filling the room had changed to that of dark French roast. I sniffed again. Ah, cinnamon buns, too. The pleasant odors and the rattling sounds in my kitchen told me that Bruce had arrived. Or that Keith’s killer had come to do me in, too, after serving me my favorite breakfast in bed. I turned over and put my pillow over my head. I was so beat I didn’t care who was in my house.

Sniff. The aroma of coffee wouldn’t quit. I lifted myself from my cocoon and shambled into the kitchen.

Bruce was ready with a steaming mug of coffee. “Here’s a little something to get you started,” he said, kissing my cheek. “It must have been a tough night for you.”

“You could say that.”

“Breakfast awaits in the main dining area.” He took a little bow, waiter-like.

Maybe life was worth living after all. I accepted the mug, making a huge effort to smile in gratitude. In a couple of hours I wouldn’t want to get near anything that sent a hot vapor bath to my face, but as a wake-up beverage, I’d take rich, hot coffee in any season.

I squinted. Why did Bruce look so much better than I did, even after he’d pulled his fifth all-nighter in a row? But then, I was a pushover for stubble. I ran my finger along his cheek and gave him a weak smile.

Bruce was a marvel, the way he got off a twelve-hour shift at nine in the morning, chipper and ready to start the day. He’d finally crash around two or three in the afternoon and be all set to leave for work again by eight in the evening. Then, during his seven days off, he’d snap back to a normal sleeping pattern. Granted he was often able to nap during the night on the cot in his MAstar trailer bedroom but there was that phone-the crew called it the Bat Phone-on the wall that could go off at any moment, a klaxon sound summoning them to an emergency. Flight nurse Gil Bartholomew, Hal’s wife, compared the sound to that of a tack hammer working directly on her skull.

“I was hoping the smell would wake you up,” Bruce said. “I hate to eat alone, especially in your kitchen.” He took a step back and scrutinized my face. “Did you get any sleep at all, Soph?”

“Probably as much as you did.”

He made a gesture meant to mimic a maitre d’ toward the patio doors, next to which my old white farm table was set for two. More coffee, lightly scrambled eggs, juice, and cinnamon buns from a nearby bakery. My headache faded at the sight.

I’d met Bruce in Boston five years ago at the wedding of his cousin, who married a college friend of mine. We still didn’t know for sure if Sean and Karina had put us at the same table on purpose, but it hardly mattered anymore. We’d moved from two hours of talk at the big round favorladen table to two more hours at a late-night coffee shop.

I loved hearing about the odd jobs Bruce had worked-like flying helicopter tours over the Grand Canyon and transporting CEOs through the air to golf matches. He’d let me go on and on about how mathematics was a subject of study in its own right, and not simply a tool for science, as some of our upper floor Franklin Hall faculty thought.

Over the years I’d gotten to like Bruce’s frequent movie references and he tolerated my birthday theories. At the time it was important to me that he didn’t laugh when I told him he was destined to be a pilot since his birthday, June 4, was the anniversary of the demonstration of the first hot air balloon.

We were very well suited to each other and by now I’d forgotten life before Bruce.

This morning I was the one with the trauma story. Bruce had had a quiet, fogged-in night at MAstar. No patients needing transportation from one facility to another, and no accidents.

“None that we could get to, anyway,” Bruce told me.

“I thought you had some new guidance system that let you fly lower than before.”

“You do listen,” he said, playing with my fingers for a moment. “The limit used to be a little more than eleven hundred feet, now it’s three hundred sixty, but that’s not zero, oh mathematician.”

You’d think a mathematician would have a better concept of where three hundred and sixty feet up was located, but I had a hard time visualizing it, other than picturing a thirty-six-story building, which required a mental journey to Boston or Providence, Rhode Island. The tallest structure in Henley, Massachusetts was its combination courthouse and city hall, a whole six stories high.