Ada Madison - The Square Root of Murder

“I hoped it would be, Dean Underwood. The end of it, I mean,” I said. When in doubt, fake it.

“You’ve gotten poor Mr. Conroy very upset and he doesn’t deserve that.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“He thinks it’s his fault that you went off with those cartons and didn’t take them immediately to my office.”

“It wasn’t at all his fault.”

“And then, when he found them outside today at the basement entrance to Benjamin Franklin Hall… well, he was completely confused. He called Courtney, quite distraught.”

“Poor Woody. I’ll bet his head was spinning.” Like mine. “Who was supposed to collect the contents of Dr. Appleton’s office, anyway?” I asked. No harm trying.

“Dr. Knowles.” I thought it was a good sign that she was back to our normal mode of address, though the tone was an exasperated one, as if I had such nerve asking a question like that.

“I’m sorry. I meant no harm.”

“I’m not dumb, Dr. Knowles, whatever you and your liberal friends think behind my back. I know that your assistant, Rachel Wheeler, is the main suspect in Dr. Appleton’s murder. And I know how important it is to you to clear her name. That’s very noble. But investigating a murder is not your job. And it is certainly not seemly in a faculty member of Henley College.”

Is it seemly to be murdered on campus? I wanted to ask, but didn’t. The dean’s face was red enough already. The campus couldn’t handle another medical emergency.

Why did the dean want the boxes anyway? What was the big deal that she didn’t get them right away? She could have assigned that task to Courtney or her assistant. She could have had them shipped, unexamined, to Chicago since the police were not interested in their contents. Was there something special the dean was looking for among Keith’s possessions? His little black book? I thought about asking for her alibi on Friday afternoon. Another time.

“I apologize for any inconvenience. I didn’t realize the boxes were that important to you.”

“I insist you refrain from further investigation, Dr. Knowles.”

“With all due respect, Dean Underwood”-a phrase she might appreciate-“whatever I’ve done has been on my own time.” Like my puzzle work and my beading, I added silently.

“You’re a full-time faculty member, and one who is interested in doing the kind of research that will qualify you for a promotion. I find it hard to believe that you have time for a frivolous romp into police work.”

“My classes, my faculty participation, and my research are all going smoothly. There has been no interruption in my duties here,” I said. I might as well have used the term “superwoman” and been done with it.

“I don’t think you’re fully grasping the importance of what I’m saying.”

“It’s very important to me to assist the police in discovering who committed the horrible crime on our campus. I would think it would be important to the administration as well.” That should get to her. “I plan to help my assistant in whatever way I can. And again, it’s all on my own time.” That is, none of your business.

“Is it worth your own promotion?”

I raised my eyebrows. I wished she hadn’t asked that question. It sounded strangely like blackmail. “What are you saying?”

“I think you know exactly what I’m saying.”

With that, Dean Underwood took her seat behind her desk and didn’t give me another look. It was one of her famous nonverbal dismissals.

The dean’s message was clear: Behave yourself or stay at the associate professor level for the rest of your career. And just try to get a teaching job anywhere else. The long arm of academia.

The brief meeting threw me off balance, seeing the boxes reappear and hearing a threat against a promotion and a title I wanted and deserved. But what occupied my mind as I walked down the stairs and out the door of the administration building was, what had the thief done with my usable discards for the charity pickup?

My first choice for a lunch partner was Lucy Bronson, but she wasn’t answering any of her numbers. Not wanting to overdo it and frighten her away, I left only one cryptic message on her cell. I hoped we could chat.

Maybe a normal lunch would be better anyway. This morning at nine was the start of Bruce’s seven days off. I usually gave him a little breathing room at the start of the week, but nothing had gone as usual lately.

I called my boyfriend and invited him on a date.

“Unless you’re completely exhausted,” I added.

He flexed his muscles. “Not me,” he said. “And anyway, I’m moving in until this situation is resolved, remember?”

I took that as a date.

The small sandwich shop next to campus, about halfway between Bruce’s place and mine, was too crowded for the kind of private murder and mayhem talk I had in mind, so we switched our order to takeout and Bruce and I drove separately back to my house.

Working backward on my day so far, I gave him the rundown on my meeting with Dean Underwood as well as the saga of the boxes.

“She’s blackmailing you,” Bruce said, setting up my kitchen counter with plastic boxes. Pasta salad, carrot salad, and turkey sandwiches from the shop competed for space on the marble-topped island with my own veggie chips and supplementary condiments.

“I hoped you’d see it that way.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t agree with her.”

Two negative words, like multiplying two negative numbers, gave a positive. Too bad. I’d counted on Bruce’s support as I continued to work out the scenario for Keith’s murder.

“You know I can’t drop this,” I told Bruce.

He sighed loudly, close to a whistle.

“Can she do that? Can she actually kill your chances for full professor?”

“She’s the dean.”

“Can’t you appeal or something?”

“It’s her word against mine. She can always make up something that sounds like a good reason to deny me.”

“Such as?”

I shrugged, thinking of the legion of cases where deans like mine have wielded power against a teacher they didn’t like. One hour at the bar at an academic conference will give you a plethora of stories. I started a litany of examples.

“I don’t participate enough in college life.”

“You’re always there.”

“Again, her word against mine. I don’t have enough publications.”

“You have a packed resume. How many publications are enough?”

“There’s no magic number. What I’d have to do is show that so-and-so got promoted last year or whenever with fewer publications and less committee work, blah, blah, blah. But do I want to spend my time on that kind of research?”

“You’d do it for someone else.”

“Maybe. But in the end it’s subjective anyway.”

“I don’t understand academia.”

“Get in line with Ariana.”

“Why do you even stay?”

“Because I love teaching and I love the interaction with the students. And the good outweighs the bad. Not all the administration is like this particular dean. Our vice presidents are terrific, and so is President Aldridge, with a real commitment to education. And, cue the violins, I feel like I can make a difference.”

“I thought you’d say that.”

“Not like you with life and death on the line. Working with emergencies all the time.”

“That’s my life. Emergencies interspersed with the popcorn maker.”

“I still think you should learn CPR, however,” I told him.

He screwed up his nose. “Not me. I don’t like touching patients.”

We took a few minutes to rehash a conversation we had early in our relationship. I’d been amazed that medevac pilots stayed in the helicopter at the accident scene while the nurses tended the patients. The pilots had no medical training beyond the first aid class I’d had as camp counselor one summer.