The Square Root of Murder

by Ada Madison

  I watched Ariana clean her bowl with her long, thin index finger, which she then licked, a microcosmic symbol of what I loved about her. She had this endearing quality of being able to find the best in any culture. One minute she was burning incense, the next she was reading an international geopolitical thriller; she ate rice cakes one day and ordered fries with ketchup the next.

  “Should I be worried about you?” Ariana asked.

  “Nah. I mean, it’s hard not to be upset about what happened to Keith. It’s going to take time to get used to. He was a strong presence on campus.” I almost said, “We were blessed to have him,” but that moment had passed.

  The notes to Come Fly With Me filled the room.

  I looked over at my cell phone, charging on my end table. Bruce calling.

  “I’m going to take this,” I said.

  Ariana got up and pointed to the clock on the kitchen wall, a room away. Twenty after twelve. “I should be going anyway.”

  We waved good-bye and blew kisses as I unplugged the charging cord and swished the phone on.

  “You home?” Bruce asked.

  “All fed and watered,” I said. “Ariana, the cook and the queen of soothing gestures, is just leaving.”

  We spent a few minutes catching up on the day—Bruce had worked an evacuation drill and one real emergency call between nine and eleven thirty tonight, meaning hardly any turnaround or downtime.

  “We worked with the Marines on the drill,” he said.

  “Very cool. We could handle the truth.”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t you remember in A Few Good Men where Jack Nicholson yells out at Tom Cruise, ‘You can’t handle the truth?’ ” Bruce’s imitation of Nicholson left a lot to be desired.

  “Oh, yeah. How could I forget?”

  “One of my faves.”

  I was ready to ask him about the hang-ups. I tried to sound casual.

  “Did you get my texts?” I asked.

  “Yeah. But I couldn’t tell what you meant. Did I call when?”

  “Did you try to get me a couple of times today?”

  “Not since I talked to you earlier. I slept till about five, then ran around doing errands, then the madhouse here. Why?”

  If it wasn’t Bruce, then who? Someone else at MAstar headquarters? Gil was the only other person I knew. If she wanted to track down Hal, she would have left a message. In any case, there were more telephones in the town of Mansfield than those at MAstar—one other number in my address book teased at the back of my head, but I couldn’t remember—so I was fighting a losing battle trying to figure it out. I had to stop letting petty things get to me.

  “Why?” Bruce repeated.

  “Oh, nothing. I got a couple of calls with no message and just wondered.”

  “You sound funny. Everything okay there?”

  My mouth was ready to form the word break-in but closed just in time, and opened on another note.

  “Oh, yeah, just this thing with Keith and all.”

  “I should be there.”

  “Nah, you’d be in the way.”

  “So you say.” I heard the familiar finger-snapping. “I almost forgot. How’d it go with Archie?”

  “Nothing to it. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. Right now, I’m going to bed, even if you can’t.”

  “Love you.”

  “Love you.”

  “Lock up,” he said.

  Like never before, I thought.

  CHAPTER 12

  I’d successfully avoided contacting my students until it was too late to return their calls. Technically, it was never too late to call a student in a college dormitory. Half the girls were up all night, the other half during the day, so there was always the chance that one of them would need her math teacher. As many calls involved personal distress, such as “He never calls me. What shall I do?” as homework, such as “Do you really expect us to do three problem sets every week?”

  I wished now that my biggest problem was giving dating advice.

  I patrolled my house twice, checking doors and windows. I hated shutting off all ventilation, but there was no other way to completely alarm my perimeter. I put in the alarm code, not simply out of habit tonight. I was tempted to test it to see if the human monitors two towns over were really paying attention. I wished I’d thought to take the rake in from the garage, but retrieving it now would mean undoing all the protections first and I couldn’t bear to be unalarmed even for that short time.

  The unfamiliar feeling of vulnerability unsettled me. I crawled into bed, then crawled out and wedged a chair under the bedroom doorknob. I climbed under my crisp lavender sheet again, and climbed out again to make sure the door between the kitchen and the garage was locked, something I never did unless I was leaving town for a few days.

  Reading in bed was one of my favorite pastimes, but tonight I couldn’t concentrate. I opened the drawer in my night table and took out a clipboard with a half-finished crossword. The puzzle was due to my editor in a few days and I hadn’t looked at it at all yesterday or today.

  The sad part: I’d been working on a chemistry-related crossword, with Keith’s help. The overall shape of the puzzle was a beaker. Some clues were simple; for “tongs” the clue was “they come in a pair and hold hot things.” I’d asked Keith if he’d contribute a few difficult ones. Not too hard, though, since the puzzle was destined for a kids’ word games book. He’d given me several, starting with “crucible,” for which the clue was “porcelain container for reactions.”

  “These are perfect for middle-schoolers,” I’d told Keith. “I didn’t know you had experience with preteens.”

  He’d shrugged and said, “I used to be one.”

  I doubted it, but then I never would have guessed that Keith was seeing someone. Unless he’d made up a girl to keep his old cousin quiet. I wondered who she was, if she was real. I couldn’t think of a Bonnie on the faculty. I counted three faculty members who could pass for Annie in one form or another—all of them were married, happily from all outward appearances.

  Was Annie or Bonnie a student? I hoped not. Elteen had said she was young, but I couldn’t take her literally. Keith might have referred to her as simply his own age. My very last thought was that the “girl” was not part of Henley College. I could hear Ariana saying, “I told you so” about my narrow view of the world.

  I cast aside the puzzle that reminded me too much of Keith. Maybe some other year I’d be able to return to it. For now, I’d have to come up with a different theme. I’d already done one shaped like a helicopter with words and clues from aviation history, and I’d covered many other modes of transportation as well.

  I attached a clean puzzle grid to the clipboard and tapped the blank squares. Usually I could count on a last-minute inspiration, but tonight I wasn’t sure. Not even the lingering aroma of Ariana’s tea concoction was enough to inspire me.

  When the phone rang, my body twitched and the clipboard went one way and my pencil the other. At one thirty in the morning, I dreaded picking up the phone to hear a dial tone. Or worse, a threat. Or news of a second murder. The negative possibilities were endless.

  I checked the caller ID. Rachel’s cell phone number. I was almost happy to see it.

  “Hi, Dr. Knowles. I know it’s late and I shouldn’t be calling. But I can’t sleep in this bed.”

  “Where are you?” Please don’t say jail.

  “I’m home in my own room, but it feels weird not to be in the dorm.”

  “I forgot some of you were sent home.”

  “They closed my dorm. Everyone who couldn’t get home is in Paul Revere with, like, maximum security. I don’t want to be here with my mother still freaking out, but I don’t know why anyone would want to stay at the dorm either.”

  I thought of three girls who were very happy to be there, close to what they perceived as “the action.”

  “I’m sure everything’s secure on campus.”

  “Are you worried som
ething will happen to you, Dr. Knowles? I mean what if some serial killer wants all the Franklin Hall teachers dead?”

  Nice going, my friend. “I think you’re overreacting, Rachel.”

  “Like, how can you overreact to murder?”

  Good question. Until my garage was broken into, I hadn’t seriously considered myself in any danger at home. Keith’s murder had been no threat to me and had not invaded my personal space. At the front of my mind was what if the box thief didn’t get what he wanted and was planning a middle-of-the-night return visit? Or even another middle-of-the-day visit. Hadn’t Keith been killed between noon and just before two, when Rachel found him, in extremely sunny daylight hours, in his own office?

  Until someone got to the bottom of this, no one was safe at any hour. I might as well do my share.

  “Rachel, did you tell me you did not leave the cake and soda in Dr. Appleton’s office on Friday?”

  “I did not. I put them on the floor, outside the door, so it would look like I knocked but the door was locked and I couldn’t get in.” Rachel sounded as though she were speaking to a child who didn’t get it the first time she told me, and rightly so. “That was my big lie, remember, telling the police that I never got in?”

  “Are you sure? You wouldn’t lie to me now, would you?”

  “No way! You’re scaring me, Dr. Knowles. Why are you asking me this?”

  “I’m just trying to review everything, Rachel. And I have one more question. It’s about your draft thesis. Do you have a copy?”

  “I have so many copies I can’t count them.”

  I knew how that went. Draft after draft and hardly being able to tell which version was which. “How about the ones on those yellow sheets. Do you have more than one copy of those, too?”

  “Like, a gazillion. I only use the white paper when I’m ready to show something to Dr. Appleton.”

  “So, Dr. Appleton would see only white copies?”

  “Yeah, he hated those yellow sheets. ‘If it’s not worth more than cheap paper, something’s wrong with it and I don’t want to see it,’ he’d say.” Rachel had worked her voice into a reasonable facsimile of a male’s.

  “Does anyone else have copies?”

  “Yeah, we all pass them around to whoever will review them. Not you, because you always say all you know is math, though I know that’s not true. But Dr. Bartholomew would read early versions, and Dr. Emerson, just for, you know format and stuff.”

  Fran, my own department chair, read yellow research papers. That meant I couldn’t hide behind the cloak of mathematics any longer.

  “So, lots of people had copies—”

  “Oh, my God. Dr. Knowles,” Rachel interrupted. “You asked me before if I saw any yellow sheets in Dr. Appleton’s office. Was my thesis in there with him? Like on him or something? Oh, my God, is that it?”

  “Calm down, Rachel.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  I wished there were something I could do about her fever pitch, but we were miles apart.

  “Rachel, I’m working on this. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just want to be sure I have all the facts straight.”

  “But I didn’t see any yellow pages when I was in there. I swear.”

  “Then there’s nothing for you to worry about.”

  That last statement nearly choked me. Unless Rachel had hired a real detective and wasn’t counting on me, worry should be her middle name.

  Shriek. Bark. Shriek. Bark. Shriek. Bark.

  Not quite the Bat Phone, but the deafening noise woke me up.

  After all of four hours sleep, the loudest noise ever in my home brought me straight up in bed. The most raucous party in Ben Franklin Hall couldn’t compare on the decibel level.

  I had no idea what to do. Punch in the alarm code? Anyone who knew me could figure out the code: 0-1-1-2-3-5, the first six numbers of the Fibonacci sequence. The keypad was near my headboard. I held my fingers over it, about to hit the zero and the rest of the series that would stop the roar. But wouldn’t that defeat the purpose of having the alarm monitored? I should let it keep blaring and wait for the call from SoMass Alarm Company. I should stay in my bedroom until the cavalry arrived.

  Shriek. Bark. Shriek. Bark. Shriek. Bark.

  Again and again, while I was too numb to act.

  Then, six beeps, and nothing.

  Until Bruce smashed through my bedroom door, knocking over the chair. Hadn’t I been brilliant adding that extra level of security?

  Rrring. Rrring

  Now the phone.

  “SoMass Alarm. What’s your password, please?”

  “Fibonacci.”

  “Everything all right there?”

  I looked at Bruce who was by my side and breathing heavily. He was wearing his blue MAstar cap and looking me over, not in a sexy way, but checking for blood or bruises, I knew.

  “Sorry, false alarm. Everything’s fine.” I wondered briefly if security monitoring fees were like insurance rates, which rose every time you needed a service.

  “Okeydokey.”

  Who said that anymore? Clearly the SoMass guy did.

  “What’s going on, Soph?” Bruce asked, his breathing almost back to normal.

  “I set the alarm. You’re always telling me I should be doing that.”

  “I never expect you to obey me. I almost had a heart attack.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be used to this? Alarms and all?”

  “Not in your house. Not when I’m coming to make breakfast. What gives?”

  I looked at my bedside clock. Seven-thirty. “What are you doing here so early?”

  “I had this weird feeling after we talked. Bodie always comes in early anyway, so I asked him to cover and took off.” He removed his cap and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “Then I open the door and get this blast worse than the Bat Phone. I don’t know the code by heart, so I have to dig it out of my wallet.” He pulled me to him and held tight. “I didn’t know what I’d find in here.”

  “I’m so glad you’re here, Bruce,” I whispered.

  “I know you. You sounded worried about something.” He released me and pointed to the chair, on its back, one leg twisted out of shape. “Guess I was right. Are you going to tell me about it?”

  I nodded. “How about over breakfast?”

  One shower later, I walked in on Bruce cleaning up a carton of broken eggs and spilled OJ in the kitchen. It seemed that he had lost control of the groceries at the first Shriek. Bark. I couldn’t help be amused—now that I was safe and sound with my honey—that my hero emergency worker, Air Force vet, crisis-trained medevac pilot boyfriend had been thrown by a suburban burglar alarm. Not that I would mention it to him again. He’d explained it very well—it was different when it was personal.

  While he was cooking, I coaxed him into telling me about his drill partnering with the Marines.

  “Like I said on the phone, it was very cool, even for Air Force guys like me and Bodie. I really wish they’d make more USAF movies, though. It’s always the army or the Marines that are the stars, like Platoon and Full Metal Jacket.”

  “There’s the guy in Little Miss Sunshine,” I volunteered.

  “The whacko guy who won’t talk until he gets into the Air Force Academy? Thanks a lot. Anyway, in real life there’s this training site down the Cape for mountain warfare and they do mock evacuations every quarter. This time we were asked to join forces, which makes sense. In a real evacuation, it would take every agency in the area to pull together.”

  Bruce had begun the omelets, a Sunday morning tradition. He shook a spatula at me. “You’re reaching now. I should have known you were stalling when you encouraged the movie talk.”

  In reality, I hated to hear about Bruce’s flights. A few years ago in the southwest a medical helicopter crashed during a training mission. The entire crew had been killed. I’d just met Bruce and spent many sleepless nights worrying after that. Now sometimes I took for granted that Bruce was no more
at risk up in the air than I was tooling along the highway.

  “When’s breakfast?” I asked, pushing happy thoughts in front of depressing ones.

  “In two minutes breakfast will be served and it will be your turn for a full report.”

  “Okay.”

  Fair was fair.

  I waited until Bruce had tasted his three-cheese and mushroom omelet, made with stale eggs, and pronounced it perfect. He took a sip of dark roast that I’d brewed from freshly ground beans a few minutes earlier, and looked at home and relaxed in my sun-filled kitchen.

  I told him the story of Woody and the red metal dolly.

  “You took what? From where?” Bruce leaned across the table, wide-eyed.

  “I think the dean wanted me to,” I said.

  He suppressed a grin. “Yeah, sure. I’m surprised she’s not on the doorstep right now thanking you for your service, presenting you with an award.”

  An award. Why did that sound familiar? Something clicked, something about Keith’s wall of awards, but I couldn’t quite finish the thought.

  “Hello?” Bruce said, waving his arms to get my attention. “What were you thinking when you cleaned out the office of a murdered man and carted his stuff home?”

  “That I could help. My two police interviews didn’t go well. I made a fool of myself with Virgil and I don’t know what happened with Archie, except that he was this close”—I indicated a very small gap between my thumb and index finger—“to accusing me of murdering Keith, and I got no new information from him.”

  “Why do you need information about a murder case? You’re not a cop; you’re a math teacher.”

  “Associate professor of mathematics at a renowned college,” I said. Going for distraction through humor, since I hadn’t even gotten to the empty workbench yet.