by Ada Madison
As I’d done many times before, I fiddled with L-shaped pieces, moving them around to create a space the rectangle could occupy—without chopping it into pieces, that is. Tonight, in only three moves, I met the challenge. I looked at the design, neatly in place.
Maybe it was a good sign. Or, simply, all my nervous energy had focused itself on the puzzle.
I heard Fran shush someone, presumably a small someone. I wasn’t sure where we’d left off.
“Still,” she said, “I certainly had mean thoughts about Keith.” She paused and I imagined her cataloging her uncharitable, if unspoken, words. “I suppose we should be thinking of holding a memorial service. Probably our dear Dean Phyllis is already working on it. Or the president, I’ll bet. I don’t even know where Keith’s family lives. Do you?”
“He doesn’t have many relatives that he keeps up with. Just one cousin that I know of, Elteen Kirsch, in the Chicago area. Keith spends holidays with her and her family. The police may already have notified her, but I have her name and address if they need it.”
I made a note to offer that bit of information to Virgil as a paltry gesture to assist the police, from whom I was about to ask a lot.
“I didn’t realize you two were that close,” Fran said.
“We’re not. Keith called me from her home on spring break once and wanted me to overnight a package he’d left on his desk.” Not that I was being defensive.
“Well, that makes you closer than anyone I can think of,” Fran said.
I had the fleeting thought that maybe Rachel was right, that if Keith had any friends at all, I was it. The notion only made me feel worse about the negative vibes I’d been sending his way, practically until the moment he died.
My usually comfortable home seemed unbearably warm tonight. I carried the phone into the kitchen, poured a glass of ice water from a pitcher in the fridge, and adjusted the thermostat down a notch.
A call-waiting beep saved me from further explaining to Fran the nature of my friendship, or lack thereof, with the deceased.
I clicked my tongue. “I’d better take this call,” I told Fran, though I didn’t recognize the ID. “We’ll talk soon.”
I pushed a button to hear chem major Pam Noonan. “Oh, my God, Dr. Knowles,” she said, making one word out of the first three. “Did you hear?”
“There are cops at all the doors.” Liz Harrison’s voice now, with the hollow sound of a speakerphone. “And this big TV truck.”
Without waiting for my answer, Pam had apparently yielded the mic to her roomie, who sounded as excited as Pam. “I can’t believe it,” Liz said. “We’re sitting here and, oh, my God. Franklin Hall is a crime scene.”
“You’re in Franklin Hall?”
“No, no, we’re sitting in my dorm room.” A new voice.
“Who is this?” I asked.
“Casey,” she said, as if she was insulted that I didn’t recognize her voice. But I knew Casey Tremel only because she was close to Pam and Liz. “They made everyone go home who lived near enough and then they closed Nathaniel Hawthorne and Clara Barton and put the rest of us into Paul Revere, which is where I live anyway.”
Campus-speak was always flavored with the greats of Massachusetts history. I assumed the big shake up in the dorms was to make security easier.
“But first the cops interviewed us all, like on TV,” Pam said.
“They wanted to know where you were, did you see anything strange, and all that,” Liz said.
“We walked over to Franklin, but they wouldn’t let us into the building.” Pam’s voice again.
“I guess they’re done with us,” said someone.
“They’re using that yellow and black tape just like on TV and there are cops at all the doors. A lot of good they did at Franklin today. So much for Henley’s security department, huh?” said someone else.
I taught these girls in my summer statistics class. How come my students had so much time to watch television? I’d have to step up the homework assignments. And were they calling all their teachers tonight, or was I the only lucky one? Maybe the word had spread that, as Rachel had judged, I was Keith Appleton’s only friend on campus.
I tapped the mic in my phone. “Ooh, sorry, girls, I have another call. You three take care of yourselves and try to put all this out of your minds. We’ll talk later.” I was sure I’d be getting a call back soon.
Not wanting to appear to gossip about a colleague, I was equally abrupt with the next several callers. Collecting and analyzing data was an occupational hazard for me—I couldn’t help noting that the science majors, who had Keith in many classes, seemed less sad about their professor’s death than they were excited about a campus drama. I found myself listening for clues to Keith’s killer, as if the pool of suspects were restricted to those who called me, his alleged best friend. I ticked them off, teachers and students alike: Pam, Liz, Casey, Fran. I added all who were at the party this afternoon. Lucy, Robert, Judith, and nearly a dozen others. Anyone but Rachel.
Through a curious philosophy of what constituted a mathematics or science major, Henley College required its science majors to take math classes, but not vice versa. Thus, few of my own math majors had taken Keith’s classes. I hated to think that that was why they seemed more inclined to express sympathy over his death. I liked to think they were more sensitive, living on a higher plane and all.
I could hear Bruce’s loud guffaw in my ears, from times past when I’d expressed a similar observation. I heard the same from Ariana.
Another round of communication came through emails, to and from Hal and other faculty members, and even from Gillian Bartholomew, from the MAstar computer.
I was struck by how rapidly the news had traveled. The entire City of Henley emergency services staff and equipment must have reported to the campus to answer Woody’s nine-one-one call. I had an image of the neatly manicured campus lawns and walkways crowded with larger-than-life vehicles, sirens blaring. No medevac helicopter, but everything else—fire truck, police cars, ambulance. And, of course, the local press.
I tried to read an article on reducing the order of a differential equation, but I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t find a cube or twisted metal puzzle to engage me, and beading seemed too frivolous an activity to take up with Keith Appleton in Henley’s morgue.
I settled again on the sofa in the den. I ran my hand over the thick fabric, a rich burgundy chosen to match the old chair across from me, which had come from my grandmother’s home. I picked away at a new acrostic. I’d been disappointed that the puzzle in last Sunday’s New York Times had been trivial and I’d quickly replaced it on my clipboard with one from an anthology. This one wasn’t all that challenging either, but I had a moment of enjoyment figuring out that for the clue “L” the answer was “the bottom of the barrel” and for “H” it was “the middle of nowhere.”
The satisfying moment passed quickly and thoughts of a murdered colleague rushed to claim my full attention.
Rrring. Rrring. Rrring.
My landline. From the way I jumped, you’d think this was the first call of the evening. The evening that wouldn’t end.
Bruce was calling to check on me, sweetie that he is.
“Is Virge still there?” he asked.
“He hasn’t even arrived yet, but I’m sure he’s up to his ears right now.”
“Do you need anything? All we’re doing is watching DVDs. I can get Bodie to come in for me.”
Double sweetie. “Thanks, but I’m fine. You know me, bouncing from phone to email to puzzle and back. Just hanging out.”
“Like us. It’s very cloudy, so we really can’t take a call. Two minutes ago, we refused one, in fact. A young guy fell off his motorcycle at that busy intersection near the high school. But the ceiling is way too low, so, no go.” A nanosecond pause. “Hey, a rhyme. Remember that movie quiz where you had to figure out a title from something that rhymed with it, like Sandra Bullock in Read turned out to be Speed, and—”
<
br /> “I get it.”
I used to worry about what happened to patients or accident victims when the ceiling was so low that the helicopter team couldn’t get to them, but Bruce had cleared it up for me.
“They have to resort to calling an ambulance,” he’d told me, making it sound as if that were only marginally better than a wagon train.
I promised Bruce I’d call if I needed him. In any case, I knew he’d come by after nine in the morning when his shift was over. Then, I paced some more and made a comfort—for me—call to Ariana, who promised to send positive thoughts to all of us and to bring me a good vibrations basket tomorrow. She’d scheduled a beading class at my home at noon, as part of her “rotating settings” theory of inspiration. Plus, it was cooler in my home than in the back room of her shop.
“I could change the venue for tomorrow,” she offered.
“Not necessary.” I had hopes that by tomorrow, everything would be cleared up to my satisfaction and that of Rachel, and of those who presided over criminal justice. “Straightening up and setting out snacks will be a welcome distraction,” I assured her.
I entered my home office to check my email for the tenth time since I’d heard the news and this time found one from the college president, Dr. Olivia Aldridge, the driving force behind Henley’s new coeducational status. She’d been appointed only four years ago, but I found her very well suited to the college, seeming to understand its traditions while being in tune with its needs for the future.
Oops—that was something I read in the latest recruiting brochure. Still, I was among the seventy-five percent of faculty who approved of the president’s performance, the other twenty-five percent being those who wanted Henley to remain a women’s college.
The subject of President Aldridge’s message this evening was Henley College’s great loss. The text, as I expected, included a tribute to “one of our finest professors.” Also as expected, there was no mention of a murder on campus, simply “an unfortunate tragedy” and a “sad occasion for the entire Henley family.”
There would be no more classes for the summer session, which had another week to go. Instead, President Aldridge encouraged faculty to hold department meetings and to contact our summer students to work out a smooth ending to the term and a mutually agreeable grading procedure. She called for a full faculty meeting on campus on Monday morning at ten.
I was sure the president’s decision to cancel the last week of summer classes was due in part to the designation of Benjamin Franklin Hall, one of its major buildings, as a crime scene, temporary as it was. It seemed a good plan to keep the area clear until questions were answered. As much as I hoped that things would be resolved in record time, I was glad there was still a month before the fall term started, which would give everyone time to gain equilibrium and get things in order. And hopefully have closure on what had happened to one of our finest professors.
A knock on the door came, finally, at eleven thirty.
Detective Virgil Mitchell, all six feet and two hundred and fifty pounds of him, give or take, filled my doorway. He scuffed his shoes on the welcome mat as if he’d just come in from a blustery storm of rain, snow, or sleet. I had a flash of an unpleasant image: who knew where his shoes had been?
More important, why was the detective whom I was counting on to help me clear Rachel’s name looking so dour?
CHAPTER 5
Tonight Virgil and I skipped a high five, our usual greeting. Instead he gave me a hug that nearly brought me to tears, though I hadn’t been moved to cry before that moment.
“I’m sorry about your colleague,” he said, resulting in a full outpouring from my eyes.
It wasn’t only Keith Appleton’s death that I was weeping over. Every loss, big or small, for whatever reason, reminded me of so many other losses, other deaths.
Virgil patted my back then let me leave to collect myself. When I got back I was glad to see he’d helped himself to a beer.
“Technically, I’m off duty,” he said. His wink told me he knew it was an unnecessary explanation.
“You forget my in with Internal Affairs,” I said, coming back to normal now.
Virgil unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie. He’d already flung his jacket on a kitchen chair. I sympathized. Who else other than priests had to wear a tight collar even in hot weather? And in New England, the summer months were hot twenty-four seven. Period. No cooling off at night. You could be up all night and not feel a breeze or relief from the humidity. I tried to keep from staring at the large dark circles around Virgil’s armpits.
“You must be exhausted,” I said. And unbearably hot.
He saluted me with his beer. “You got that right.”
I led Virgil to the den, the coolest room in the house, where we took seats across from each other. He reached over and picked up an L-shaped piece from the wood puzzle, which I’d emptied onto the table as soon as I’d solved it. He looked at the frame, frowned, then put the piece down and gave it a pat.
“This is me giving up,” he said.
I smiled, remembering what a little humor felt like.
Virgil’s hairline made a deep V on his forehead, much like Bruce’s widow’s peak. I’d often teased that there must have been something in the water at Camp Sturbridge where they’d met as teenagers. Bruce would then rattle off a list of famous people who shared their hairline, including Leonardo DiCaprio and Mikhail Baryshnikov. Only once did I throw in a mention of Hannibal Lecter’s V hairline.
All other physical resemblances between Virgil and Bruce ended at the hairline, however, as Bruce was shorter by three inches and lighter by about ninety pounds.
“Appreciate this,” Virgil said, between swigs of his beer.
I’d put out a bowl of pretzels. They were gone in a flash. I was sorry I’d dumped my cheese and fruit dinner down the disposal but that wasn’t the fare Virgil would have liked anyway. I couldn’t think of any more tasks or small talk to skirt the conversation I’d ostensibly been waiting up for and looking forward to.
It occurred to me that I didn’t know exactly what I wanted from Virgil. Why hadn’t I made notes? I’d had all evening and how had I used the time? Doing puzzles, making and taking calls, emailing. I’d actually thought of beading instead of drawing up a plan for this meeting. I was usually so prepared for an interview, a class, a seminar, even for the toast I’d made a month ago at a college friend’s wedding.
Now, tasked with assuming a role in a murder investigation, I had nothing. Did I think I’d just say “Please consider Rachel Wheeler not guilty?” Or raise my hand and recite, “I vouch for your number one suspect, Rachel Wheeler,” and that would be that?
Virgil sat back, crossed one leg over the other as far as it would go with the heft around his middle. Letting me take my time. I looked at the sole of his shoe and imagined I saw blood and brains. Never mind that Keith had been poisoned, not blown apart. Amazing what happened when a violent act entered the psyche.
My biggest conundrum, and one I should have thought through during the last four hours, was whether to mention Rachel at all. For all I knew the police had another suspect in tow, the real killer, and Virgil came to deliver the news in person.
I saw LOL in big text-messaging letters in the air in front of me.
“Virgil,” I began, the single word sending my lips into a desert of dryness.
Virgil uncrossed his legs and leaned his bulk forward. “You probably want to know what’s what with your assistant.”
I could have kissed him for rescuing me. “She’s my friend,” I said, as if that should make a difference.
Virgil shrugged his shoulders and held up his hands, palms out. “Your friend.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay. It’s a tense situation. Let me set the scene for you,” he said, taking a small notebook from his shirt pocket.
I took a deep breath and sat back. “Okay.”
“A call comes in at sixteen hundred and t
en hours from a male with a report of a nonresponsive victim in Benjamin Franklin Hall, northwest corner of Henley College campus. Uniforms are dispatched. They get to the building where a janitor, later self-identified as the nine-one-one caller, greets them at the door and leads them to an office on the fourth floor.”
I nodded. “The chemistry floor,” I said, wanting to keep everything neat and correct.
“Chemistry. Thanks. Professor Keith Appleton, determined to be deceased, is ID’d by the janitor.”
“He’s not . . .” I stopped in time, holding myself back from another irrelevant correction—technically speaking, Keith was not a full professor yet, though most people used the term to mean simply college teacher. “Never mind.”
Virgil picked up his thread again. “The first officers on the scene report that the victim is on the floor behind his desk in a position that appears he fell or was pushed from his chair. His shirt collar appears to have been torn open, by himself or another. The victim’s face and neck exhibit a pink discoloration.” Virgil ran his finger down the page and turned the leaf before he continued. Trying to spare me unpleasant details? Or keeping some matters confidential? Both, probably. “Some things are knocked over. A clock—”
“That’s his distinguished alumnus clock from Harvard,” I said, swallowing a gulp. “He was extremely proud of that.”
Virgil nodded and appeared to appreciate the information. “A photograph—”
“Keith with Senator Kennedy, right? He loved that picture. The only one in his office. It was taken at a special fund-raiser only weeks before the senator died.”
“Thanks again,” Virgil said.
I nodded. “Uh-huh.”
Why were my nerves so rattled? I felt like clamping my hand across my mouth. I looked around the den to find something calming. I settled on a poster, rolled up in the corner, waiting for me to take it to a shop for mounting. I imagined it unfurled, revealing the sweet, smiling countenance of Emmy Noether, said to be the most important woman in the history of mathematics. Even a huge Sophie Germain fan like me would have to agree.
