The Square Root of Murder (7 page)

“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?

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 ten 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.

Virgil cleared his throat. “There was some other stuff. On the desk is a clear bottle of white powder, a crystally substance, the officer called it, labeled potassium chloride. The uniforms ask the janitor to come in and ID the bottle. Did he ever see it before, to his knowledge did it belong in this office, et cetera, et cetera. This is where I arrive with my partner, Archie—you’ve met him a couple of times, I think. We send the uniforms out . . .” Another pause to flip through pages. “The janitor says the bottle looks like it belongs down the hall in a chemistry laboratory, in a cabinet that’s always locked.”

“I know the cabinet you’re talking about. A lot of people have a key,” I said. Including Rachel.

“Your friend has a key,” Virgil said, echoing my thought.

“But she’s not the only one. Every chem and bio faculty member has a key, plus a couple of interns. You’d have to have a lot more than that before—”

My voice had risen again. Virgil put his hand out to stop me before I made a complete fool of myself. Perspiration that had formed on his forehead made its way down his face. Here was this very tired, very busy detective in my home, to accommodate me, as a courtesy to his best friend. He had no obligation whatsoever to be here or to share information.

“There is more,” he said, mopping his brow.

“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice back in control.

Virgil waved away the second apology I’d made in less than ten minutes. “An eyewitness saw Ms. Wheeler outside the door to Professor Appleton’s office in the afternoon between one thirty and one forty-five, which looks to be close to the time of death, though we don’t know that for sure yet. That was just a quickie guess by the ME. Could have been any time from about noon till the gentleman found him at four.”

An eyewitness saw her? Probably Woody. I could take care of that little nothing of a clue. “Rachel went upstairs to take Keith some food from a party we were having on the first floor.” I felt and heard a triumphant ring to my response. “We were celebrating Hal Bartholomew’s doctorate. He teaches physics.” That should clear things up.

Virgil scratched his head. “What kind of food was that?”

I described the paper plate with cake that Rachel had assembled. “White frosting, blue icing. And a can of soda. I don’t know which kind,” I added.

Virgil flipped through his notebook. “I don’t see a mention of food or a drink here anywhere in the office.”

“There has to be food there. I saw her leave the lounge with it. It was a very nice gesture on her part. While everyone else was ragging on him, I might add.”

“I’ll check the photos when I get back.”

“Wait. I remember Rachel said Keith didn’t answer her knock. I’ll bet she just left the plate outside his door. Would the photos show that?”

“If there was anything outside the door, yes, it would have been photographed.”

Virgil shot me a sad, tired look. I was amazed he showed no anger or frustration, which, given my performance, I’d have completely understood.

“I’m really grateful to you for coming, Virgil,” I said. “I’m getting concerned that you’ll get no sleep at all tonight if you don’t leave soon. I guess I lost track of the fact that you’re doing me this big favor.” I took a big breath. “I’m just worried about my friend.”

“I understand, Sophie. I didn’t come here for a party.” He held up his nearly empty beer bottle and smiled, barely. “This was a good start, though.”

“Can I get you another one? Or some coffee?” About time I showed my classy side.

“I’m good.”

“I just want you to know I’d like to help Rachel Wheeler. She seems to think you’re zeroing in on her. Maybe she’s wrong?” I checked Virgil’s face for signs of “Bingo, you’re right; she’s wrong.” Nothing. “Or if she is at the top of your list because of something I don’t know yet, maybe you could tell me and I could explain it for you.”