Ada Madison - The Square Root of Murder

“Did you try using the reverse directory online?”

“I made one pass. For a few bucks I could have taken it another step but it’s not a big deal.”

“I don’t like it, especially the timing, probably right before the break-in, to make sure you weren’t home.”

“But that’s good, right? That means they weren’t out to harm me; they wanted the boxes is all.”

“I still don’t like it.”

I smiled. “You’re just trying to make a case for staying here.”

“Do I need a case?”

Thus ended our briefing for the time being.

I was strangely unafraid of being alone on Sunday night after Bruce left for work. Maybe because I had a pseudo plan, meaning the will but no actual appointment, to tell all to the police on Monday. I knew I’d feel hugely relieved once I talked to Virgil. I hoped it was Archie’s day off.

It also helped that Bruce called or texted every hour before midnight and wanted me to do the same every hour after that if I was awake.

“No way. I want you to get some sleep,” I told him. “Let’s just have a code. If your phone rings and no one’s there, it’s me, and I need help.”

“Not funny.”

I worked for a while on what I called the Unpopular Puzzle but couldn’t seem to simplify it and still keep it interesting. Maybe I’d ask its only fan, Gil Bartholomew, if she had any ideas.

At some time during my fitful sleep, I found myself being pelted with frosted cake wrapped in yellow sheets of paper. The sheets were overwritten with crosswords that had no order or design. A nightmare.

No one liked faculty meetings. Whenever you were at a meeting of any committee, it was time away from your students, your research, your class preparation. And so few meetings were actually productive except when you walked away with yet another chore you’d “volunteered” for. I noticed more and more hands on laps these days, as texting and surfing the ’net became the best tactic for surviving the surfeit of meetings.

All-hands meetings were a little different in that you seldom came away with more work to do. Today, roughly one hundred of us, full- and part-time faculty plus another twenty or so staff members, spread ourselves out in the auditorium on the first floor of the administration building. The auditorium was pretty cool and comfortable. The room held rows of blue leather-covered seats, all on one level, enough for five hundred people, with a stage at the front end. It was the original assembly place for the college when the total enrollment was little more than four hundred young ladies of the early to mid part of the twentieth century.

The story went that all students were required to gather here one day a week while the academic dean read to them from one of the discourses in John Henry Newman’s The Idea of a University . Each student had an assigned seat and attendance was taken. There would follow a short lecture on a topic from Newman’s book. No Q and A, no discussion, no voicing of opinions. And, need we mention, no talking before, during, or immediately after the hour. I pictured the girls filing silently to their next class, like a line of nuns on the way to chapel.

Those were the days when the faculty ruled the school. I thought of a stickie Fran had on the edge of her computer: “When it gets to be your turn, the rules change.

I would have bet that students back then didn’t question the choice of textbook, whereas on a routine basis I heard, “Why did you pick this book, Dr. Knowles? There aren’t enough graphics,” or “The quizzes are too close together. We need more time to study.” Neither would early twentieth century students have dared to negotiate grades.

It would have been a paradise for the dean. I wondered how I’d have fit in.

I took a seat near the back of the auditorium, not caring to be chatty with any of my colleagues today. They’d situated themselves mostly by department, in groups of two and three, which was about the only way you could interact in rows of seats that were bolted together straight across.

I saw Hal and Lucy in front of me to my right. Lucy looked despondent. It couldn’t have been easy for her to learn that her brand new boss was murdered in the middle of the day while she was partying. Lucy had pulled back her shiny black hair today and held it with a pale blue scrunchie to match her spaghetti-strap dress. The effect was to make her look even younger than the late twenties I guessed she was.

We all waved, but solemnly.

It was nearly ten o’clock, almost time for President Aldridge to convene the meeting. I had no good story for the dean, post-assembly, and no idea where the boxes were.

Fran Emerson, in flowing, pale green, gauzy fabric, slipped into the seat next to me.

“They should excuse department chairs from attending these meetings,” she said.

“Really, all mathematicians.”

“I’m sure Aldridge is going to announce a memorial service for Keith. Do you know when the real funeral is?”

“Me? No. Probably he’ll be sent to his family in Chicago.” I’d forgotten again how I was the one in the know as far as the deceased was concerned. “Oh, by the way, did you try to get me on the phone a couple of times on Saturday afternoon?”

Frown lines, a pause, then “Let’s see. Saturday? No, it was soccer day. Why?”

“Just wondering.”

“How do they do that?”

“Do what?”

“Send dead bodies across the country.”

Another misconception: the girlfriend of an emergency worker was in the know when it came to transporting the dead.

“I have no idea.”

Whiiiiiiiiiiine . Whiiiiiiiiiiine. Whiiiiiiiiiiine.

The microphone whined its way through feedback, getting our attention more than a bell would have.

President Aldridge, a fiftysomething woman with a physique like Fran’s, tall and imposing, stepped to the microphone at the center of the stage, between the American flag and the flag of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. She wore a dark suit with a loose jacket, and managed to make it look classy rather than stodgy.

Behind her the college vice presidents and deans sat in a row. I couldn’t see Dean Underwood’s expression from this distance, but her posture was the stiffest on the stage. Heavy blue drapes hung behind them all.

The assembly began.

“Thank you all for coming on such short notice. I’m sure you know why I asked you to gather here this morning.” A pregnant pause. “Henley College has lost one of its most distinguished professors. We are all the more shocked at his violent death.”

There was no mention of Apep , Keith’s nickname, after the god of darkness, the destroyer of dreams.

The room was hushed, the audience attentive, although any one of us could have given the sincere if uninspired speech-a wish that the perpetrator be brought to justice and heartfelt condolences to Dr. Appleton’s family. The president treaded lightly on the security issue, warning us all to be extra cautious on campus though certainly nothing like this had ever happened in Henley College’s history and we had no reason to think it would ever happen again. She was working on a brand new security program for the campus, most of which would be in place by the time school reopened for fall classes. She closed with a reminder that we should continue to cooperate fully with the Henley police department.

That last I assumed was directed at me.

As for the new security program, that was probably directed at parents, alums, and the press as much as anyone. I hadn’t thought what a PR nightmare this must be for the administration.

As for our teacherly duties, we were to work with our students to a mutually satisfying conclusion to the summer session. The staff was working on a memorial to be held in this very hall as soon as arrangements could be made.