by Ada Madison
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
Teaser chapter
A BAD TASTE
“What’s wrong, Rachel?”
“It’s Dr. Appleton.”
“Is he on your case again?”
“No.” I waited while Rachel took deep, audible breaths, as if she’d just come up for air after nearly drowning. “He’s dead.”
“He’s . . . ?” I switched ears as if that would send the message into a parallel mathematical plane where Dr. Appleton is not dead.
“What happened? A heart attack?” I gulped, not wanting to hear that a strong, nasty wish from a mathematician had knocked Keith off course.
“They told me he was poisoned.” Rachel’s voice was weaker with each utterance.
“Food poisoning?” I shot a look at my fruit, crackers, and cheese and lost my appetite on the spot.
I remembered partaking generously of the big spread at the celebration in Hal’s honor. I put my hand to my throat.
“Was there something in the food at the party?” I asked Rachel, while my kitchen spun around.
“He was . . . they’re saying Dr. Appleton was murdered, Dr. Knowles.”
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
THE SQUARE ROOT OF MURDER
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / July 2011
Copyright © 2011 by Camille Minichino.
Brainteasers by Camille Minichino.
Interior map by Dick Rufer.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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ISBN : 978-1-101-53812-8
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
http://us.penguingroup.com
This book is dedicated to my former agent,
the late Elaine Koster,
who saw me through fourteen books.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks as always to my dream critique team: mystery authors Jonnie Jacobs, Rita Lakin, and Margaret Lucke.
I can’t say enough good things about Dr. Jeanne Trubek, mathematics chairwoman at Emmanuel College in Boston. Jeanne, an amazing teacher, allowed me to attend her class, answered many questions, read a draft manuscript, and is still talking to me. I hope the final product is worthy of her input.
Thanks also to Dr. Sally Dias, woman of many titles at Emmanuel, including vice president, who welcomed me back to my alma mater and has been a constant resource as well as a friend.
A special word about my good friend and medevac pilot Mark Ramos. Mark submitted to interviews straight from twelve-hour shifts. He fielded my questions, no matter how “obvious” the answers should have been, and toured me through his Northern California facility. Mark introduced me to a whole crew of generous coworkers who shared fascinating stories. In particular, I’d like to thank Ernie Acebo and Sim Mason. Flight nurse Acebo was especially helpful with details of the story. No one at the facility is responsible for my errors or literary license.
Thanks also to the extraordinary Inspector Chris Lux for continued advice on police procedure. My interpretation of his counsel should not be held against him.
Thanks to the many writers and friends who offered critique, information, brainstorming, and inspiration; in particular: Gail and David Abbate, Judy Barnett, Sara Bly, Margaret Hamilton, Eileen Hotte, Peg McPartland, Suzanne Monaco, Ann Parker, Mary Solon, Sue Stephenson, Jean Stokowski, Karen and Mark Streich, and Ellen Twaddell.
My deepest gratitude goes to my husband, Dick Rufer, the best there is. I can’t imagine working without his support. He’s my dedicated webmaster (www.minichino.com), layout specialist, and on-call IT department.
Finally, how lucky can I be? I’m working with a special and dedicated editor, Michelle Vega.
HENLEY BOULEVARD
Sometimes it is useful to know how large your zero is.
—AUTHOR UNKNOWN
CHAPTER 1
Who thought summer school was a good idea? Especially in Massachusetts, where the humidity can take your breath away, never mind frizz up your hair.
I loved teaching in one of the oldest buildings on the beautiful campus of Henley College. Today, however, with the temperature hovering around ninety-five degrees, I’d have been willing to give up the magnificent collegiate architecture of Benjamin Franklin Hall for a sleek, modern, air-conditioned building.
But I had only myself to blame for the fact that I was teaching on a wretched Thursday morning in July. I’d persuaded the dean to fund a learning center in Franklin, the building that housed Henley’s mathematics and science departments.
I was the go-to person for a program that provided tutoring sessions, online problem sets, videos, and classes in special topics for students at every level of achievement in math. The program, plus a twice-a-week seminar in applied statistics, kept me in
a hot, stuffy classroom for many more hours than I liked.
By noon today I’d spent three hours using math games to help incoming freshmen who had declared themselves victims of math anxiety. I waved a sheaf of practice sets in front of my face, creating a warm breeze, and declared the session on graphing calculators over.
Students filed by, picking up a tip sheet for overcoming their fear of math as they left the room, hopefully for cooler realms.
“I just can’t do retro,” I overheard one young women say to another.
“I totally get it,” said her companion.
“Is there an algorithm you don’t get?” I asked, unable to resist.
“No, we’re talking about clothes, Dr. Knowles,” the first woman said.
“I knew that.”
Rachel Wheeler, my assistant, stayed behind to walk me out. Rachel was everyone’s assistant, in fact; a post-graduate student helping out in all the math and science labs.
“Do you have a minute, Dr. Knowles?” Rachel asked. Her narrow face was somber, her usual animated personality subdued. I hoped it was simply the nasty July heat that gave her a bedraggled look.
“As long as we walk while we talk,” I said, eager to leave the stifling, musty building. “We might be able to catch a breeze.”
No such luck. We walked in stagnant air down the imposing exterior steps that led from Franklin’s clock tower to the lush campus below, and headed for the parking lot.
I envied the small group of scantily clothed students in front of the gym, frolicking in the fountain that surrounded a statue of our esteemed founder. I hoped our humorless dean wasn’t looking out the window of her administration building office. The simple caper could generate a long memo from her about decorum taking precedence over the possibility of heat stroke.
“Thanks for setting up the measurements lab for tomorrow,” I said to Rachel. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“I’m thinking of quitting.” Rachel’s head was down; her eyes seemed focused on her red patent sandals.
I’d heard this threat all summer, and it wasn’t about the math labs or converting from inches to centimeters. Rachel’s thesis work in chemistry had not been going well.
“Did the metric system finally get to you?” I asked, a weak joke, an attempt at lightening the mood for someone who’d been tutoring metric since her freshman year. I was sorry Rachel was having such a hard time with her key project.
We shuffled past the tennis courts, where the asphalt seemed to be sending up plumes of steam. A few yards later, Rachel stopped in front of the campus coffee shop. Ordinarily the smell of Huey’s dark roast would draw us in, but I could tell Rachel needed more than an iced cuppa.
“I mean it this time,” she said.
“He’s been that bad?”
Anyone in the Henley academic family who was listening would have known we were referring to Dr. Keith Appleton. He was Rachel’s thesis adviser and the chemistry teacher known not fondly as Apep, after the Egyptian god of darkness and chaos, the destroyer of dreams.
Rachel’s big dream was to do this extra year of study and research at Henley and then enter med school in Boston. She needed Apep’s help and recommendation to make it all come true.
“He told me my data is crappy.”
“He used that word?”
“No, he’d never use that word, but that’s what he meant. He said everything I’ve done so far is worthless.” Rachel bent over double and blew out her breath, as if she’d just finished running the Boston marathon and couldn’t take another step.
I reached down and rubbed Rachel’s narrow shoulders, helping set her upright at the same time. I thought how young she seemed sometimes, young enough to be my daughter, if I’d taken that path. On hot days like this she tied her long many-shades-of-blond hair into a ponytail, taking another four or five years off her age.
“He can’t mean it,” I said. “You’ve been working day and night on those—what are they again?”
“Proteins,” Rachel said, coming back to life at the mention of her passion. “I’m purifying proteins. It’s just a matter of separating the different types of proteins that exist in a mixture, so—”
“Right.” I was at my limit of understanding Rachel’s biochemical specialty. In my mind, numbers were already pure, thus eliminating a lot of complicated chemical processes.
“Sorry,” Rachel said. “I can get carried away.”
“No, no. Someone has to do it.” I glanced at the hot, clear sky. “God knows, those proteins need purifying.” I got the smile I wanted and pushed ahead to ease Rachel’s mind. “Maybe Dr. Appleton was just in one of his moods,” I suggested.
“Or maybe I’m not cut out for graduate work, let alone making it through med school.”
“Of course you are.”
I held back the diatribe that was on the tip of my tongue. Keith Appleton was the only Henley faculty member who didn’t command my utmost respect. He seemed to thrive on making his students’ lives as difficult as possible, considering it a great achievement when the majority of his class failed his midterm. And he didn’t stop at students. His record of supporting faculty rights was dismal.
“Also, I did something stupid.”
“Which was?”
“I sent him an email right after he made those comments. I should have waited until I cooled down.”
Always a good idea. “What did you say in the email?”
“I kind of told him he shouldn’t even be teaching.”
Never a good idea. “In those words?”
“Maybe even worse. I can’t remember exactly. After I wrote it, I decided not to send it, but I hit send accidentally. I couldn’t believe it whooshed off and there was nothing I could do.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come across to him as harshly as you meant it.”
“Would you talk to him?” Rachel asked as we continued on to the parking lot. “You know, professor to professor. Pretend I didn’t tell you anything and try to find out what he really thinks of me and my work.” Rachel stopped again and put her hands to her ring-laden ears, a minimum of six silver baubles on each. “No, wait. I don’t want to hear it.”
I looped my arm in Rachel’s, glad to see that she’d kept a sense of humor about her situation. “I’ll give it a try, but we’re not exactly best friends.”
“If Dr. Appleton had any friends at all, you’d be it.”
“Ouch. I’m not sure I like that distinction.”
“He always says how you’re the only one who remembers his birthday.”
“That’s because it’s the same day as Lamarck’s, August 1.”
“How do you do that? Remember dates? Like for some eighteenth-century biologist?”
“For Lamarck and Dr. Appleton, I make the association that both of them developed theories that don’t work.”
“I like that. Dr. Appleton’s theory is that if you torture your students, they’ll learn better,” Rachel said.
“And Lamarck’s is that if you keep frowning, the lines on your forehead will deepen and your kids will inherit deep frown marks.”
Rachel gave me a broad smile that smoothed out her forehead. “I get it.”
“Much better,” I said.
When we arrived at my car, Rachel turned to me. “If you don’t feel comfortable talking to him, don’t worry. I’ll be okay.” She gave me a reassuring grin. “If I don’t make it to med school, well, doctors don’t make the money they used to, anyway.”
“And we all know that’s what matters most to you.”
I gave Rachel a playful nudge, and waved good-bye from the front seat of my smokestone metallic Fusion. Strange name for a color, but today the interior felt like I imagined a smoking stone would. I could barely turn the key in the ignition, very hot to my touch. I cranked the A/C to max.
I couldn’t let Rachel down, but I didn’t look forward to talking to Keith Appleton either. He was my age, midforties, yet he had a way of making me feel u
nimportant and inexperienced. There was no telling whether my interceding on Rachel’s behalf would help or hurt her chances of gaining his approval of her thesis.
My fondest hope was that somehow the situation would resolve itself before I had a chance to contact him.
Fifteen minutes late for my beading class, I tried to sneak in through the back door of A Hill of Beads, the shop owned by my best friend since high school, Ariana Volens. She and I had gone off to different colleges, on the west coast and in Boston, respectively, but reunited as soon as we moved back to town.
I breathed in the scent of Tibetan incense. Sweet jasmine this time, Ariana’s latest favorite for calming the mind. I tiptoed to a seat at the end of a long table where six other women had gathered, but I should have known Ariana wouldn’t let me get away with a quiet entrance.
She stopped mid-demonstration and swung her long, graceful arm in my direction. “And, finally, our eminent Dr. Sophie Knowles joins us,” Ariana said, a big smile on her face. She knew she’d pay later for this drama.
Ariana’s platinum blond hair was streaked with strands of red and blue, her eye-catching, patriotic design of choice for the summer. My hair, on the other hand, won compliments without my even trying. My short dark locks were graying in a design of their own choosing—a jagged stripe of white hair about an inch wide had grown out on one side of my head. I’d learned to simply say, “Thank you” when people complimented me on my artistry.
I’d been talked into beading by Ariana.
“You need a hobby,” she’d told me a month ago.
“I already have one.”
“Making up puzzles and brainteasers doesn’t count. It’s too much like math,” she’d said. “You might as well be talking square roots.”
