They arrived at the parking lot just in time to see a maroon Trans Am peel away down Seventh Avenue toward Highway 84.
Panting, Lloyd leaned heavily onto his thighs. “Do we follow?”
Bonnie shook her head. Alice, The-Little-Subaru-That-Could, would have a heart attack trying to catch that muscle car. “We need to get back to Byron.” She didn’t relish the prospect of telling Byron that not only did they follow a potential murder suspect—and not tell the good deputy he was at the fair—but then they let the culprit get away.
Still, there’s nothing for it. She pulled her cell phone from her fanny pack. Before she could punch in Byron’s pager number, the phone rang.
“Bonnie Pinkwater.”
“Bon, it’s Armen. How soon can you come by?”
Driving away from Lloyd’s, Bonnie owned a feeling of dread that had settled into her chest and felt as if it meant to sublease. Armen had sounded positively grim.
“Let it go, Pinkwater. You’ll know what he wants soon enough.”
Armen’s carport resembled a gigantic aquarium, all pale blues and greens, even a pair of angelfish swimming overhead. The usual soothing panorama failed to do the trick this time. As soon as she shut the door of her Subaru, the door to Armen’s trailer opened. The man wore one of those grim smiles that at once declared, “I’m glad to see you,” and “I’m sorry for the bad news.”
He rushed down his pair of wooden steps and took her in his arms. He held her close until she really began to worry.
Whatever’s on his mind must really suck.
“Come in. I made a pot of coffee.”
“What the hell’s going on, Armen?”
Armen nodded to the trailer the other side of the carport. Bonnie turned just in time to see a curtain slide closed.
“All right, I’ll come in, but this better be good. You’re scaring the bejeebers out of me.”
Hand on the small of her back, Armen ushered her into the trailer. Under different circumstances, this casual show of affection would have brought a smile to her face. Now it made her brace for the sucker punch she knew was coming.
As soon as the door shut behind her, Armen asked, “How did things go at the fair?”
Strangely enough, Bonnie was grateful for the chance to ease into what promised to be an uncomfortable confrontation. She walked Armen through the murder, ending with her getting back with Byron and telling him about their snafu with Witherspoon.
“Was the deputy angry?”
Color rose into Bonnie’s cheeks. “You could say that. If memory serves, the phrases What were you thinking? and Don’t ever do that again! found their place in his lengthy recrimination.”
Armen whistled. “I would have loved to have seen that. Too bad you had to go it alone.”
“Who said I was alone?”
Armen cocked his head and leveled a gaze at her. “You weren’t?”
“Lloyd went with me.”
For a long moment, Armen studied Bonnie’s face. She wasn’t sure what was going on in his mind, but he appeared to be trying to ascertain if she was putting him on.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing. I was just trying to picture Lloyd Whittaker playing amateur sleuth.”
“He held his own.” Bonnie considered telling Armen about Marjorie and thought better of it. She was good and ready to hear whatever it was that made Armen skip their date. “Soooooo, what’s your news?”
Armen inhaled deeply. “My dad fell.”
“Oh, is it serious?” Bonnie inwardly cringed at the inanity of her question. It had to be pretty serious, or Armen wouldn’t have made such a big deal out of it.
“Pretty bad, he broke his hip and is in the hospital, but it’s not just that. Dad’s been going downhill for a while. When Mom died, I invited him to move out here with me, but he wouldn’t even discuss it.” Armen took Bonnie’s hands into his.
“So what are you going to do?” she asked.
“I’m flying out in the morning. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”
CHAPTER 6
“EMILY.” BONNIE POINTED TO THE RAIL-THIN BLACK girl who’d been waving frantically. “With whom, my dear, shall you regale us?”
Emily popped out of her desk like she’d been sitting on a coiled spring. “Hypatia,” she said breathlessly.
“Good choice. One of my favorites.”
The girl picked up a stack of papers, pressed them to her chest, and stood rigid. “Before I give everyone my handout, I’d like to lodge a protest.”
To Bonnie’s surprise, a number of other girls grumbled their agreement.
Open rebellion?
Strangely enough, the prospect of a confrontation appealed. Bonnie was grateful for something to take her mind off the fact that at five o’clock that morning, she’d driven to the Colorado Springs airport and ushered a bleary-eyed Armen Callahan off onto his plane. They both were exhausted after she’d spent the night. Consequently, they’d hardly said coherent goodbyes before it was time for him to board. She’d left the airport feeling depressed and abandoned.
She could use a good fight and focused her full attention onto the pint-sized upstart. What Bonnie wanted—needed with some primal part of her psyche—was to say to this oh-so-smart ebony princess, “Bring it on.” After a moment’s consideration, what she did say was, “I’m all ears, sweetie. Lodge your protest.”
The girl hiked herself up to her full height—perhaps five-foot-two. “You told us Hypatia was Greek.”
“I remember saying something to that effect.” Then the reality of her blunder hit Bonnie like a New York taxi. “Oh!”
To the girl’s credit, she didn’t play off the Oh. She merely nodded and looked about the room. “Hypatia wasn’t Greek at all, she was African.”
Bonnie felt like she stood naked in front of the class and realized her best strategy was agreement, total and unequivocal. “You’re right, of course. Hypatia was born in Alexandria to parents who themselves were natives of that African city. In my defense, to me, Alexandria, like its namesake, Alexander the Great, will forever be Greek in all but geography.”
Once again, the girl was gracious and didn’t pounce on this lame excuse. She smiled and headed for the first row, her head high with the obvious knowledge that she had bested the teacher, on the second day of class no less. She distributed the papers to her twelve classmates.
Bonnie had to admit to a certain grudging admiration. You win this one, munchkin.
“Anyway,” Emily began as though nothing had transpired, “after overcoming that bit of misdirection …” The girl stopped as if expecting Bonnie to take up the gauntlet.
She kept her face neutral. Pick your battles, Pinkwater.
“I found a lot of stuff on Hypatia—cool stuff.”
“Math stuff?” Bonnie asked.
Emily nodded like a bobble-head doll. “Some. And a lot of stuff that made me wish I had known Hypatia. She was awesome.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Tell me—tell us all—one thing that impressed you about Hypatia.”
“Even if it’s gross?”
Bonnie knew exactly the story the girl wanted to relate. If this had been a mixed class she probably would have asked the girl to choose another, but she thought a class full of teenage girls would appreciate the tale. “Especially if it’s gross.” She winked at Emily.
The girl set down the remaining papers and began to wave her hands. “Okay, okay, you guys got to know she was like this really beautiful, really smart celebrity. There’s a picture of her on the top of my handout. Anyway, everybody in Alexandria knew her and thought she was hot.” Emily paused to take a deep breath, and it was evident this was the first since she started her monologue.
“Well, she taught this class on Neo-Platonism, which is a kind of pagan religion. In the class there was this dorky guy who was, like, in love with her.”
Several of the girls in the class sighed knowingly.
Bonnie stifled a laugh, remindi
ng herself that even if they didn’t know a lot about love yet, they were probably experts on dorky guys.
“You know the type. Well, he followed Hypatia around all googly-eyed and stupid until she couldn’t stand it anymore. She waited until they were alone, then she faced down the dork.”
Emily paused for dramatic effect.
Nice. You’ve got skills, girl.
“Here’s the really gross part. Hypatia was having her period, and in those days women wore this thing like a big diaper when they were … you know.”
Several girls grunted their understanding.
“Anyway, Hypatia reached under her toga and took out her napkin.”
“Eeew,” said a redheaded girl named Olivia. “Was it all bloody?”
Emily nodded gravely. “Super bloody.”
Several other girls chimed in with Eeews of their own.
“What did the dork do?” Olivia asked.
“I’ll get to that, but first you got to hear what Hypatia did. She asked dorkface if he thought the rag was beautiful.”
“I’ll bet he did,” a Chicano girl named Beatrice said. “Boys are perverts.”
At that outburst, Bonnie couldn’t restrain herself. She laughed out loud. The rest of the class, including Emily joined in.
Like a trained teacher, Emily waited until they settled down before she attempted to speak again. When the tumult had quieted to a small archipelago of titters, she picked up her narrative. “This pervert didn’t think the rag was so pretty and backed away disgusted. When he did, Hypatia said, ‘Yet you think I’m beautiful. This is part of the woman I am, part of what you think is so beautiful.’ Then she said something really cool.”
“What?” a number of voices chimed in at once.
Even Bonnie found herself tempted to ask.
Emily smiled broadly enough to light up a stadium. “Hypatia said, ‘If you want to find real beauty, seek truth.’”
To a girl, the class nodded in admiration for this dead matriarch who had reached across sixteen hundred years to touch, if not their hearts, at least their minds.
Bonnie hated to spoil the moment, but she needed to remind everyone where they were. “Very nice, Emily. Now how about some of Hypatia’s mathematics?”
For the next twenty minutes, Emily tried to impart what the Internet had taught her about Diophantine equations, one of the mathematical concerns with which Hypatia had wrestled. Although not as articulate as when she told the Sanitary Napkin Tale, Emily acquitted herself in so fine a form that Bonnie applauded when the girl finished.
Emily did an exaggerated curtsy—even going as far as placing her index finger beneath her chin—and returned to her desk beaming.
Bonnie looked at the clock and decided there wasn’t enough time to do justice to any of the remaining mathematicians, at least not in a full-blown report like Emily’s. Besides, the previous evening, with its mixture of murder and romance, was beginning to take its toll. She opted to expend the rest of the class giving away candy, providing these little geniuses could earn it. She went to her closet and removed a bag of Jolly Ranchers. She reached into the bag and extracted a blue prism of candy.
“The Cadillac of Jollies, blue raspberry.”
An appreciative intake of breath told Bonnie she had their attention. “All right, for this azure lovely, who was the mathematician who became Voltaire’s mistress?”
Beatrice’s hand immediately shot into the air.
Bonnie pointed to the girl. “Go.”
“Emilie Breteuil.”
“Right you are.” She threw the girl the candy and pulled out another.
“Okay, who was—” Before she could finish the sentence every hand in the room was raised.
This brazen behavior reminded Bonnie of herself as a girl. She pointed to Olivia. “You know if this was Knowledge Bowl, I wouldn’t finish the question, but I’ll give you a break. Who was the mathematician who had her clothing taken away to force her to quit teaching herself mathematics and Latin?”
Olivia nodded knowingly. “Mary Somerville.”
“Correctomundo.” She tossed the candy and retrieved another. This time before she could even get the first word out, hands were raised.
“What bold young women I see before me.” She pointed to a ponytailed blonde. “Georgia.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Okay, Georgia. Who was the mathematician who became labeled as a satanist because of a misunderstanding?”
“Marie Agnesi.”
“Nicely done.” Another candy arced across the room.
While it was still in the air, hands flew skyward.
Bonnie pointed to a petite Japanese girl. “Yoki?”
The girl nodded.
“Very well, Yoki. Who was the mathematician whose father wallpapered her room with calculus notes?”
Color rose to the girl’s cheeks. “That was the only one I couldn’t find.”
Mollified by the girl’s honesty, Bonnie decided to let Yoki off the hook. “Anyone?”
Nary a hand ventured into the room’s airspace. “Even you, Emily?”
The girl shook her head.
As Bonnie scanned the room, a profound silence replaced what had minutes before been raucous frivolity. Then without warning, a sound like a rifle shot sliced through the quiet.
Every head turned in the direction of Beatrice, who had dropped a copy of one of the larger Harry Potter volumes.
“Sorry, Missus Pinkwater. It just fell.”
But Bonnie wasn’t listening. Her mind had been rocketed back to the county fair, to the murder of a rodeo clown. She felt like smacking herself in the head. You’re so stupid, Pinkwater.
“Class dismissed.”
As soon as the last of her little geniuses cleared out, Bonnie hightailed it to Lloyd’s office. She half-remembered him saying he had some admin business to see to in preparation for the first day of school. With any luck, he was still at it.
She heard his voice before she entered the office.
“Yes, sir, I think she’s down in her room. Certainly, sir, I’ll have her call you as soon as she’s finished.”
Bonnie waited in the doorway until she was sure Lloyd was through. He looked up and smiled. “That was our mutual straw boss.”
Bonnie winced, her worst fears confirmed. “And he wants to talk to me? About what?” She couldn’t see how she could be in any kind of trouble. Not yet. The doggone year hasn’t even started. This has got to be a record.
“Deputy Hickman called this morning before I got here. The phone system automatically sent the call to the Admin Building, and the superintendent picked up. I guess they had a nice little chat about rodeo clowns and math teachers.”
Uh-oh. “And he’s concerned about me getting involved in yet another murder?”
“Something like that.”
“Did you by any chance mention to The Divine Pain—”
Lloyd shot her a warning glance. “Bon.”
Bonnie continued without missing a beat. “… to our esteemed superintendent that you were at the fair as well?”
Lloyd reddened. “I didn’t see how that would do you any good.”
“Or you.”
“Or me. Besides, I don’t think you have anything to worry about. You couldn’t help being at the fair when Furby was killed. And you can’t help it if Deputy Hickman wants to talk to you now.”
It was Bonnie’s turn to blanch. “I haven’t told you everything, boss.” She filled him in on the note found in Leo Quinn’s pocket and the similarities between his death and Furby’s.
Lloyd whistled. “I would say your involvement just jumped up a tad.”
“There’s more.”
Lloyd inhaled deeply and released his breath in a tired sigh. “Might as well give me everything.”
Bonnie plopped down in the red overstuffed visitor’s chair. “This just occurred to me back in my room. I was finishing up with my cuties, when Beatrice Archuleta dropped a big ol’ Harry Potter book
onto the floor. Liked to give me a heart attack.”
“Did she do it on purpose?”
Bonnie shook her head. “If I thought that, I might have had to drop that book on her head. Nah, I know the Archuletas. They wouldn’t raise a kid with that much spite in her soul. It was the noise itself that got me thinking. The book reverberated like a gunshot.”
Lloyd leaned forward. “Uh-huh.”
“Okay, I need you to picture the murder scene. Not twenty feet in front of that clown’s port-a-potty sit two major concession stands—the beer tent and the Side-o’-Beef Raffle booth. Hell, nothing separates the port-a-potties from the booths themselves but the back canvas walls of the tents.”
A glimmer of understanding shone in Lloyd’s eyes. “Why didn’t anyone hear the shots?”
Bonnie nodded so furiously she felt she might wrench her neck. “Damn right. There were dozens of people standing in line, not to mention the folks running the booths. Hell, I was in the vicinity. Three shots, Lloyd, and no one heard a blessed thing.”
The principal shrugged. “You don’t know how long Furby sat there. Could have happened while you were still at the rodeo. Or Furby could have been killed elsewhere and toted in like a sack of turnips.”
“Oh, he was killed there all right.” Bonnie frowned remembering the scene. “When Toby Crump moved the body, there was a trio of bullet holes in the rear of the stall.”
“Okay, then Furby was murdered earlier.”
“I don’t think so.” Bonnie tugged at her ear. “Something about that clown had seemed familiar. I just couldn’t place him. Then I played it back.”
Bonnie didn’t need to tell Lloyd what she was talking about. Her memory was the stuff of legend. Playing it back meant she mentally reviewed the evening scene by scene.
“Remember looking down on the arena just before the barrel racing, when the clowns were setting up the course?”
“You think Furby was one of those clowns rolling out barrels?”
Irrational Numbers Page 6
