A Function of Murder (2 page)

Not.

Today, as the faculty sat outside on a makeshift stage, our uncomfortable folding
chairs seemed to sway with every warm breeze.

Fran, my colleague in the Henley College Mathematics Department, nudged me.

“Professor Knowles, are you bored silly?” she whispered.

“Totally, Professor Emerson,” I said. “Are you stuck to your chair?”

“Like white on the blackboards,” answered Fran, who was old enough to remember chalk.
“Can you believe this guy? Could he be less inspiring?” Fran gave a surreptitious
nod in the direction of the podium where Mayor Edward P. Graves was holding forth
as our keynote speaker. The
P.
was important to distinguish him from his father, Edward D., and his grandfather,
Edward K., who had been our mayors before him.

At only thirty-nine, five years my junior, the current Edward Graves was in the middle
of his first term as the youngest mayor in the history of Henley, Massachusetts. Sadly,
however, it hadn’t taken him long to pick up the walk and the talk of the average
gray-haired politician. He seemed to have put on his smile at the same time as his
highly polished shoes.

“Graduations are double milestones in our lives, because they celebrate the proud
accomplishments of our past, while also looking forward to the future,” the latest
Mayor Graves said now, as if it were an original, quotable thought and nicely put.
Hadn’t Madeleine Albright said it better at my own baccalaureate, lo those many years
ago?

Edward P.’s wife, Nora, perfectly coiffured, sat a row in front of Fran and me, across
the aisle, knocking knees with the deans and other college and town officials. She’d
already received a commendation from the college president, for her “generous, outstanding
work with all the major charities of this city.” Nora Graves kept a steady, pleasant
look on her face, apparently neither bored nor sweaty, as Fran and I were. Even without
the hat hair I was about to reveal as soon as I removed my velvet tam, my short dark
hair would never look as good as our First Lady’s.

I desperately wished I’d brought a puzzle with me, something with wires or magnets
that I could put together
by touch as I kept my hands under my robes. Too late now. I made a note to put a couple
of pocket-size puzzles with my robes when I packed them away, so I’d be better prepared
next year. And hadn’t we already been on this stage for a year?

Mayor Graves had not been the unanimous choice for commencement speaker. We’d had
a last-minute cancellation, and the dean had called an emergency meeting for a replacement.
Many of us would have preferred a person of academic standing, like the originally
scheduled speaker, who was a retired dean of a Boston medical school. Not that I’d
been asked, but I’d have recommended one of any number of noted mathematicians in
the greater Boston area. A sparkling equation would have made a nice addition to the
commencement address.

I glanced across the aisle at art history instructor Chris Sizemore, to see how she
was holding up. Chris had been one of the most adamant that we should have looked
to educational institutions, not to city hall, for a speaker. Her chin rested low
on her chest, her long brown hair falling like a veil over her face. She might have
been asleep. Not a bad choice.

Next to her, Montgomery “Monty” Sizemore, Chris’s younger brother and an adjunct professor
in Henley’s new business program, was awake, but agitated, and appeared to be commenting
under his breath, perhaps doing business through his Bluetooth. Another decent choice.

The lunchroom rumor mill suggested that Monty had his own special beef with Mayor
Graves over some consulting work his Boston-based company had done for the city of
Henley. At issue this month was the waste management contract, with two contenders:
one the mayor’s choice, the other Monty’s.

Groan.
Why did I have to think of garbage now? Wasn’t I hot and uncomfortable enough? Maybe
that’s why Monty was cringing, too, with his mind on which company would
be granted the privilege of transporting our smelly refuse to the town dump.

All in all, surveying the faculty, noting the scattered smiles and frowns, it wasn’t
hard to figure out where each one stood on the dicey issue of commencement speaker.

The Henley College Faculty Senate debate had ended when the scales were tipped by
an announcement: Cody Graves, the mayor’s son, who’d be entering his senior year of
high school in the fall, had already applied for admission to our college. The gossip
from Admissions further hinted that a new gym might be in the offing—the Graves Athletic
Center, to be exact—a critical addition now that men were admitted to the Henley campus.
It seemed no one noticed the poor condition of our sports facilities until the first
coed class arrived last September.

The prospects of a celebrity freshman next year and a new gym to follow outweighed
any desire for academic integrity. Also overshadowed was any suggestion that the mayor’s
business dealings might be questioned—was there a waste management CEO among his campaign
contributors, for example? It seemed the Faculty Senate was willing to risk a few
boos from the crowd. None came. Instead, we entertained a strong but civilized undercurrent
of disapproval.

From behind the podium, the town’s top guy rambled on. “Today is not an end, but a
beginning.”

Another groan. I fanned myself with the fancy vellum program and considered texting
Fran, sitting next to me. If our advanced calculus students could thumb their way
through a lecture, texting across a classroom aisle, why couldn’t we do a little business
as we sat side by side? We’d already stayed quiet during the long ecumenical invocation,
stood for the national anthem, and then sat again for speeches by esteemed college
administrators and dignitaries from as far away as Boston (forty miles) and Providence,
Rhode Island (twenty miles). Since the speeches
began, I’d counted nineteen appearances by the word
future
and twelve by the word
beginning
, or forms thereof.

By far the best address today had come from one of the valedictorians, Kira Gilmore.
Kira was also active in town politics, known to be one of the best workers at Mayor
Graves’s campaign headquarters. Too bad he hadn’t sought her help with his speech.
I imagined he was too busy pushing ahead with his career strategy of running for state
senator before he completed his term as mayor.

I’ll admit I may have paid more attention to Kira since she was a math major with
a distinguished academic record and a professionally recognized senior thesis. Kira
was what my mother would have called high-strung. I was sure there was a more trendy
psychological term now for someone who was highly excitable and could make herself
ill over the smallest bit of stress. She’d come to my office yesterday, the day before
her graduation, and threatened to opt out of her place on the program.

“I can’t do it, Dr. Knowles,” she’d said. “There’ll be so many people sitting out
there, watching me fall all over myself.”

I was ready with a canned routine that I used periodically on the privileged students
of Henley College.

“Will your parents be among those sitting on the lawn tomorrow?” I asked Kira.

“Uh-huh, they got in from California last night.”

“And, tell me, do you owe a lot in student loans?” I asked, knowing that Kira’s hardworking
parents had footed the entire bill for her degree.

Kira had looked perplexed. “Uh, no, I didn’t take out any loans. I thought you knew
that my mom and dad paid for—” She’d paused and ventured a tiny smile. “Okay, Dr.
Knowles. I get it. My parents deserve to see me up there. It’s not about me; it’s
about them.”

“What a nice thought,” I’d said.

In the end, as always, Kira had done beautifully. She’d
opened her speech with a quote she attributed to her grandmother—“If opportunity doesn’t
knock, build your own door”—and closed with one of her own—“Let’s party tonight and
change the world tomorrow.”

I’d clapped loudly and whispered under my breath,
Nice going, Kira. MIT was so smart to accept you for grad school.

With Mayor Graves still at the podium, I slid my hand through the slit on the seam
of my robe and fumbled around for my skirt pocket where my phone lay among paper clips,
coins, rubber bands, and a roll of antacids. Fran and I could at least work on some
issues by text. I was chair this year and needed to remind Fran to give me her fall
schedule for the bulletin. It would also be useful to have her recommendation for
where my boyfriend, Bruce, and I might stay on the Cape next weekend, plus I wanted
her recipe for lasagna. A whole array of important things needed attention. We shouldn’t
be wasting precious time.

My attempt at a covert action was disrupted by polite applause from the stage and
from the lawn. The mayor had finished. I’d missed his closing lines, but I’d have
bet they included the phrase
Go forth
.

“Notice who isn’t clapping?” Fran asked me, as we both joined in the applause.

“Besides Chris and her brother? Lots. I’m just glad they’re not booing.”

As the mayor returned from the podium, he caught my eye and smiled. A big surprise.
I recovered in time to smile back. He raised his eyebrows in a question and mouthed
words that looked like “See you,” a sentiment that did not at all fit our relationship,
which amounted to crossing paths now and then at a charter school where I volunteered.
Kira helped out at his campaign headquarters, but I’d never been there. I couldn’t
think of any other interaction we might have had that would have prompted a “See you”
notice.

“What was that about?” Fran asked, removing any
doubt that the gesture was meant for me and not someone sitting behind or in front
of me. Nor had it been a nervous twitch.

“I have no idea,” I said. “Probably part of his twenty-four-seven campaign mode. A
verbal handshake for a voter.”

Mayor Graves stopped where his wife sat, took her by the elbow, and led her off the
stage, walking toward the back. Who could blame them for escaping before the conferring
of degrees? I envisioned him dumping his robes on the nearest empty chair and silently
greeting everyone in the rows behind me with the same “See you” gesture he’d given
me.

“Apparently, you rate more than the city’s education bigwig these days,” Fran said.

I knew what she meant. “I’m surprised he agreed to come,” I said, glancing back at
Superintendent of Schools Patrick Collins, who had his arms folded across his chest.
I suspected he’d sat that way throughout the mayor’s speech. It was a great way for
academics at all levels to make a point without looking boorish themselves. Simply
cross your arms and have people speculate as to what it is that you, in your great
wisdom, disagree with.

“I wonder how that’s all going to end,” Fran said.

“Not well,” I suggested, recalling a month’s worth of newspaper headlines about the
issues separating the superintendent of schools and the mayor. Poor Mayor Graves.
I didn’t understand why anyone would want the job of dealing with all the city’s challenges,
from its educational institutions to its waste disposal.

The current classroom dispute was over the performance and the funding of the charter
schools in town. Bitter words were exchanged and documented in living detail. I felt
sorry for the bald, aging superintendent who had to compete aesthetics-wise with our
young, buff mayor and his full head of auburn hair.

My own experience as a volunteer at the Zeeman charter school, also known as Zeeman
Academy, was mixed. I avoided the principal and the other administrators, who often
seemed to be caught up in unnecessary paperwork and bureaucratic details, but I loved
the students—full disclosure: I love all students—and kept at it as part of my lifelong
mission for math literacy.

I’d chosen Zeeman because of its business orientation and well-known selection of
internships for its older elementary school students. To me, mathematics was the ultimate
field for everyone, offering both beautiful equations and the most practical, business-friendly
methods, and I wanted to get that message across early.

We’d reached the exciting time in the Henley College commencement program when roughly
five hundred students would be entered into the ranks of the college educated.

The practice of having every student’s name called out ended a couple of years ago,
when the exercises began to take longer than a two-credit class. Now students stood
in blocks and degrees were awarded according to their major departments. Only the
honors students paraded across the stage as their names were announced. Individual
parchments for the gen pop of graduates were handed out later at separate, smaller
department gatherings. My mouth watered as I thought of the catered appetizers that
would be served to math and science graduates in my building shortly. Or longly.

During the transition at the podium, I heard a lot of shuffling behind me as some
of those in the back rows felt they could follow the mayor’s example and slip out
unnoticed. Lucky me, sitting toward the front. Trapped. I mopped my brow in as ladylike
a manner as possible and without knocking my tam off my head.

“I have an idea,” Fran whispered through a barely open mouth.

“Anything. Show me what you’ve got,” I said, as President Olivia Aldridge called for
American Studies majors to stand. Only twenty-four departments to go, all the way
past English and Political Science to Theatre Arts, and ending with Women’s Studies.

I felt a poke from Fran and then something sliding across my lap. I pulled my robe
over the new item, leaving only a small viewing space. I snuck a look and saw Fran’s
new smartphone with a wordplay game under way.

“I’m in,” I whispered.

She’d started by forming the word
windy
. I checked the set of letters available to me and moved a word into place around
her
i
:
tickle
.