by Madison, Ada
“Dead,” Ted announced. “Any chance I can use your computer for a few minutes? I have to get back to people about my paper for the heavy metals conference in Atlanta this summer.” He smiled. “Everything you ever wanted to know about tungsten under pressure.”
“No problem,” I said, pointing down the hallway. “Find Bruce and he’ll take you back to my office.”
“Okay if I print?”
I nodded. “Of course. It’s a standard system; printer’s right there.”
Ted was replaced quickly by the long-legged Willa, alerting me that “the boys” were messing with the jigsaw puzzle laid out on a card table in my den, as my mother always called it. Poor Willa had a lot to learn.
I’d set the puzzle out for Melanie, Bruce’s niece, who was due for a weekend visit, but I was happy to have anyone else work on it. When completed, this one would show a symmetry drawing by M. C. Escher, a pattern of repetition consisting of a man on horseback. Should we pay attention to the figure in light orange, traveling to the left? Or to the figure in dark orange, traveling to the right?
“Tell them to knock themselves out,” I said to Willa. “There are a lot more puzzles where that one came from.”
She walked away, her mouth twisted in displeasure.
After many futile calls to the hospital during the evening, spirits were low, but a community had formed around Mr. and Mrs. Marshall, who’d thanked me and Patty profusely for not leaving them stranded in a motel.
“Mr. Marshall and I are indebted to you, Dr. Knowles,” Mrs. Marshall said, pulling me away from the students. “I don’t think we’d get this kind of attention at a big school.”
“But maybe the security would be better,” Mr. Marshall said.
I was taken aback, not sure who else heard him. The situation clearly had a great impact on the gentle, down-home man. Fortunately, I realized immediately that, although I knew the stats for big and small campuses, this wasn’t the time to recite them.
“Be sure to call me if there’s anything I can do,” I offered, as Patty Reynolds arrived to take them away.
Patty had assumed leadership of most of the guests, as well as the management of the Marshalls’ stay in Clara Barton. Patty told me she’d make sure they were okay and if there was any news about progress in Jenn’s condition or in finding her attacker, she’d let me know. Would that Virgil could be so forthcoming.
“Thanks for this, Dr. Knowles,” Patty said, flailing her arms to encompass my little cottage. “This was the best way to spend such an awful day. I’m with Lauren. I’d so major in math if I could do it.”
Nice to know that students were lining up to sign on to my department, if only they had the head for math. I wished Fran were here to appreciate my internal sarcasm. I’d waited too long to call her and now it was one in the morning in Rwanda. I couldn’t take the chance that even night owl Fran would be up. Though she might not mind being awakened if the motive was strong enough, her husband, who’d traveled there with her, probably wouldn’t be too happy.
The students left, promising to stay in touch. I promised the same and said good-bye. Ted waved sheets of paper at me as he made his way through the kitchen, indicating a successful session at my computer. Randy, who’d spent most of the time talking to the Marshalls or Ted, blew me a kiss, shouted a dramatic “Thank you, doll,” and followed Ted out the back door.
“‘Doll,’ huh?” Bruce said.
“That’s Randy,” I said. “He conducts a regional orchestra down in Barnstable County.”
“That explains it,” Bruce said, slicing the air with his arms, attempting to mime an orchestra leader, but looking instead like a helicopter pilot gone mad.
I gave the house a once-over. I checked each room, fluffed pillows, and picked up paper cups and plates and crumpled napkins as I traveled. I’d closed off my bedroom at the end of the hallway, leaving the guest room and den for my visitors. Ted had left my office as neat (or not) as he’d found it, except for an opened bottle of water sitting on an MIT coaster, one of a brass and leather set bestowed on me as a conference speaker.
I found no stray guests lurking in the corners.
We were down to Bruce, Virgil, and me. I felt I should bring out pizza and beer and a deck of cards. As if that might erase the events of the day.
The three of us took our drinks of choice—sparkling water for me and Bruce, coffee for Virgil, looking to a long night—to my den, which held almost no remaining signs of our recent gathering.
“Pretty neat crowd,” Virgil said from his spot on my new leather recliner. Bruce and I took the old couch. From the way Virgil inspected the room, I guessed he meant to define the attendees as “not messy,” as opposed to “cool dudes.”
I sat through about fifteen minutes of small talk. How polite all the students were; how nice of the faculty, Randy and Ted, to come; how Virgil’s son was spending his winter break (not in a cleverly devised Intersession, it turned out). We covered how well done the chicken was and how tasty the side salads. When we got to whether it would snow again this month, I’d had all I could take.
Not that Virgil didn’t deserve a break. He’d been on the phone more than off since he arrived at my house, squeezing himself into a corner, scribbling on a pad of paper, even stepping out onto the freezing patio for privacy for one call. But I was eager to get to work.
“What’s this guy look like?” I asked Virgil. “The one who attacked Jenn.”
Smooth move, I thought, slipping in a casual question. A bit out of context, but good timing, since Virgil had pulled the lever to send the recliner to a non-upright and locked position.
Why, then, did Bruce and Virgil burst out laughing?
“Real subtle, Soph,” Bruce said, slapping my knee for effect.
Ignoring my boyfriend’s gesture, I leaned forward, toward Virgil. “I want in,” I said. “How’s that for not subtle?”
“I was just about to ask for your help,” Virgil said.
I turned my head away, the better to look at him sideways. What kind of joke was this?
“Really,” Virgil said, sensing my skepticism. “We have a lot of security footage and I think it would be helpful if you and some of the kids looked at it.”
Now we’re cooking. I took a deep, exhilarating breath, put my feet up on the coffee table, and fired away.
“We can gather the students and see if anyone recognizes the attacker or spots someone unfamiliar on the video.” I grabbed a pad and pen from the holder on an end table and made notes as I talked. “Someone who doesn’t fit in for any reason. Someone too old, too young, not dressed right. Carrying something out of the ordinary.” I paused, tapped the pad, and drew a line to start a new list. “Where are the cameras? I know we’ll have footage from the dorm and from the Student Union building next door. The camera on the guard post at the library entrance is a good spot to check also. And we can see if the Coffee Filter has a camera. If not, the bank right next door to it surely will. We should go back, maybe a few days, and look at earlier footage. Maybe a week.”
“So, you’ll help?” Virgil asked.
“I’ll think about it,” I said, shrugging. “I’m kinda busy.”
It was the best laugh all day.
• • •
We wrapped up the conversation about the Marshall girl, as Virgil named her. He promised to email or call me with a time when we could review the relevant security footage. I nagged him to have it ready tomorrow and he humored me with a solid thumbs-up.
My jobs were to find a room on campus for the viewing and make a list of students likely to be helpful with the project.
“Round up the usual suspects,” Bruce said.
“That’s all you’ve got, Bruce? Casablanca?” Virgil asked.
Bruce, whose goal was to watch a movie every day, and quote from one as often as possible, put on a sheepish face. “Tough day,” he said. “Give me a break, Virge.”
We gave Bruce a pass, especially since he was all but out th
e door for his regular shift at MAstar, which began at nine PM. “Serving and protecting in the air,” he always said, but I suspected tonight there was a DVD on the schedule also. He needed to refresh his inventory of suitable movie quotes.
As Virgil was struggling into his heavy coat, I remembered what else I’d wanted to talk to him about, before Jenn Marshall captured all our attention. I was surprised to realize how long it had been—a couple of hours?—since I’d thought about Kirsten Packard.
“Can you hang back a minute?” I asked Virgil.
“Sure.” He let his coat fall onto a chair and returned to the recliner. I made a mental note to talk to Bruce about a possible birthday present for his friend.
“Ready for a beer?”
“More coffee, please.”
“Still on duty?”
He gave me a questioning look. “You tell me.”
“I’ll get the coffee.”
I hurried to the kitchen, grateful for Virgil, Bruce, and all their ilk, who were never truly off duty.
• • •
It was hard to decide on a tactic for presenting my carillon theory to Virgil. I chose a slow lead-in. “I learned something interesting today,” I said, setting a tray of coffee and cookies on the small table next to the recliner. I took the couch again, and in about ten minutes, I’d told him all I knew about Kirsten Packard. “Did you ever hear about the case?” I asked.
“Sure. Cops talk about twenty-five-year-old cases all the time, over donuts.”
“Virgil!”
He lost the grin. “I’m sorry, Sophie. I know this is an intense time for you. I’m trying to help you take a step back. It’s not your job to solve cases, hot or cold. Maybe I was wrong to ask you to look at the footage around today’s attack on your student.”
“No, no.” I rushed to correct Virgil and dismiss the worst possible outcome—that he’d cut me out of Jenn’s case. Those of us who never served in the military or law enforcement were at a tactical disadvantage; that is, we were no good at tactics.
“I’m just curious about Kirsten Packard. Ted Morrell and Judy Donohue—she’s the biology chair—said there might have been a cover-up back then.”
“They were there at the time?”
“Ted was there. He’s been at Henley forever.”
“And he said he thought there was a cover-up?”
I lowered my eyes. “Maybe it was only Judy.”
“Who wasn’t there at the time?”
I sighed. “Right.”
“What makes you think it’s easy to find out about something that happened twenty-five years ago? Problem is, there’s too much of this DNA stuff on TV where they come back right after the commercial with the key to everything.” Virgil shook his head and let out a syllable or two of disgust. “Or they hit a button on a computer and they get a list of every case back to the beginning of human history where the killer used a hammer.”
“I know, that’s unrealistic. But I just read that they found new documents about the day President Lincoln was assassinated.”
“You don’t say,” Virgil said, feigning interest.
I continued in spite of his attitude. I was a teacher, after all. These working conditions weren’t new to me. “A researcher discovered the records of an army surgeon who was at Ford’s Theatre, in the next box, when Lincoln was shot. He was first on the scene, you might say, the first doctor to treat the president, and we’re just now reading his report. How about that?”
“How about that?” Virgil echoed.
“Historians are calling it the equivalent of buried treasure. A firsthand account. Untainted.”
“Did they find out anything?” Virgil asked. “Some new facts of the case?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Exactly.”
I’d lost track of the point I was trying to make, but it was my own fault for taking us back to the Civil War.
“I know it seems nuts,” I said. “But maybe there’s a connection.”
“Between . . . ?”
Virgil wasn’t making this easy for me.
“I’m just saying—a girl is killed twenty-five years ago, and the tower is closed off. Then the tower is reopened and another girl is attacked.”
Virgil blew out a breath, looking understandably confused, trying to process what I’d suggested. “The connection between the Marshall girl and the nineteen eighties girl is your bell tower?” He lifted his arm and twirled his fingers in the air. If we’d been playing charades, I might have guessed “ringing bells.” Or “crazy theory.”
The theory sounded lame, even to me, its originator. I didn’t need Virgil to point out the holes. The girl’s fall from the tower twenty-five years ago was what motivated closing the tower. Today’s girl was attacked half a campus away from the tower, on the ground. And, in fact, the tower wasn’t open yet. Also, there’d been no mention in the newspaper accounts of whether Kirsten was a carillonist. I’d almost asked Ted while he was in my house, but it seemed neither the time nor the place. I needed to let Ted think I’d dropped the matter before I could surprise him again with a query.
I felt I’d been working on a maze that I now discovered was really two mazes with nothing in common except one bend in the road.
“Sophie?” Virgil said. Thinking he’d lost me? Pretty close.
I stood and cleared my head. “Never mind,” I said. “We should probably call it a night. I know you still have work to do.”
“You sure?”
“Uh-huh.”
I heard great relief as Virgil pushed his bulk off the recliner and grabbed his coat. I was relieved, too. Another two minutes and I was sure he’d have recommended therapy. Or something more serious, involving heavy doses of psychiatric meds and a skeleton key.
• • •
Could it be? My day had begun with simple calculus problems. It was now after nine in the evening, cold and windy in Massachusetts; three in the morning in Rwanda. Not a great time to call Fran. Unless she’d be thrilled to hear that a snowstorm was predicted for the weekend in the southern part of the state, namely, Henley, and she’d be missing it. I doubted Fran would have to worry this winter about polishing calf-length boots.
For another possible distraction, I could call Ariana in Florida for a simple chat. But, first, it was prime dating hour in Florida, and second, in spite of what I’d told Virgil, I wasn’t ready to call it a night on Kirsten Packard.
Being, for the most part, a dutiful teacher, researcher, and puzzle-creator, I thought I’d better check my email. But not without sustenance. I raided the leftovers on my kitchen counters and in the fridge and made up a plate of the least nutritious morsels I could find. A few potato chips, two cookies, and a sliver of previously frozen strawberry shortcake. Tomorrow I’d balance it all out with a real dinner, I promised myself. I took the food and my laptop back to the couch. Tomorrow I’d also exercise, by the way.
My email inbox was overflowing. A quick glance told me there was nothing from Fran. I’d been hoping for a note saying, “Please call me at any hour of the day or night for any reason at all.”
As I read notes from students, mostly about Jenn Marshall and not homework, I kept track of whom I might invite to the screening of security videos. I identified only two others besides the friends who’d been at my home this evening.
I emailed an invitation to all of the students, asking them to be ready to appear, time and place to be announced as soon as I knew.
I picked at the shortcake, which was mediocre at best, the kind of frozen dessert that has the smell and taste of ice, no matter what the ingredients listed on the box.
Skipping to puzzle business, I noticed a note from one of my magazine editors. I opened it, not ready for trouble. But there it was.
I’m writing to introduce myself—I’m your new copyeditor and look forward to working with you. By the way, on the most recent crossword you submitted, I took the liberty of changing the wording on some of your clues. I don’t think it’
s anything your going to have to check, however, since we’re going to press soon. (signed) Kenny Simmons
What? This was completely out of line with our procedures. And what copyeditor didn’t know the difference between your and you’re? I’d already gone through rounds of revision on the puzzle. I’d assumed I’d already seen the final copy, ready for print. And what adult, if he was an adult, still called himself Kenny?
My reaction was far beyond reasonable for the situation. And I thought I knew why. Nothing had gone well today, starting with a trip to the faculty lounge, where all I’d hoped for was a little warmth and friendly conversation, and ending with this. This Kenny person.
I’d have to drag out my contract with the publisher of the magazine and see what kind of recourse I had. The puzzle was my creation, and while it was not up for a Pulitzer, my name, or at least my pseudonym, was on the page, and I should be allowed to see the copy before it went to press.
This was no time to respond to Kenny, but I couldn’t take the chance that I’d be too late. I sent a quick reply for now.
Thanks for checking in, Kenny. Please do not send the copy to press until we talk.
I hit send, hard enough to break my fingernail. Now I really was ready to call it a night.
I didn’t expect my Friday to begin so early. When my phone rang at four in the morning, I’d just gotten to sleep. At least that’s how it felt.
I was barely able to make out Fran’s voice from across the Atlantic, due in some part to the winds rattling my windows. “Sophie, I got the news about Jenn Marshall. Poor kid. I hope she makes it.”
“Me, too,” I managed.
“You must be crazy upset. Why didn’t you call me?”
In spite of my sleepy fog, I laughed. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
I heard a quick intake of breath, followed by a chuckle. “Omigod, Sophie. It’s the middle of the night for you. I miscalculated. Don’t tell anyone I can’t subtract. It’s ten o’clock here; don’t ask me why I thought you’d be just getting up.”
“No problem,” I said.
I envisioned Fran slamming her hand against her head. “Last night I called my sister in Chicago and got that wrong, too. I need to make myself a cheat sheet with all the time zones.”
