A Function of Murder (10 page)

“I’ll get my phone for you,” I said to Virgil.

“Do you mind if I turn on your TV? I didn’t see a paper yet. Don’t know if this would
make the
Globe
, anyway.”

“He was our mayor,” I said, feeling I’d made my point.

Virgil, who’d spent a few years of his career in Boston, shrugged. “It’s Henley,”
he said.

I handed Virgil the remote and went to retrieve my phone from its charger.

Since our local newspaper had cut circulation to a weekly appearance, the metropolitan
Boston
Globe
was our only option for timely news other than the Internet and television. There
were those who didn’t think we needed labor-intensive, slow-moving print media anymore,
but I wasn’t ready to give myself over completely to i-living. I could only guess
how far cell phone photos of last night’s drama had traveled through the ether.

When I returned to the kitchen, Virgil was watching the footage shot by the local
news crew. I wondered how the anchors managed to look so perfectly groomed before
ten in the morning.

“Do they know more than you do?” I asked Virgil.

“The only reason I’m listening is to find out. See if they have another source, see
if they have misinformation, whatever.”

In the upper left corner of the screen was a cameo of a very young-looking Edward
P. Graves. It might have been from his high school yearbook, the guy most likely to
succeed. I’d have bet money that he was also prom king, president of student government,
and quarterback. In the center of the display was the Henley College fountain, sans
bleeding body, and our beautiful campus, with its old brick buildings, stately trees,
and inviting pathways.

On location, an unsurprisingly attractive woman wore a somber expression over her
navy blue jacket. She spoke slowly, honoring the gravitas of the feature. “Last night,
this idyllic campus setting was the scene of tragedy. Only a few hours after receiving
an ovation for his forward-looking commencement address to graduates of Henley College,
Mayor Edward P. Graves, third generation of the…”

An ovation? Forward-looking? I waved my hand to get the reporter’s attention, as if
I she could hear my critique of her script. “Why do they have to spin it like that?”
I asked Virgil. “Isn’t Mayor Graves’s death just as tragic if his speech was boring
and hackneyed?”

Virgil bit into a long cruller, sending granules of cinnamon and sugar across his
wide chest. “It’s what they do.”

“Why is every murder victim suddenly the best person who ever walked the earth? Graves
was not our most inspired mayor, his speech was boring, and he probably got as many
votes because of his name as anything else.” I took a breath. “But still it’s beyond
terrible that he was killed.”

I could feel my face heat up as I talked over the television news show. That was it,
I realized. It was a news
show
, part of the day’s entertainment, not a source of trusted information. The best question
of the moment was—why was I angry at a woman who was just doing her job?

“Sorry,” I said to Virgil. I placed my phone on the table between us. “Hit the pound
sign whenever you’re ready.”

Virgil gave me a calming look and put his hand on mine. “You know, no matter what’s
on this phone, Sophie, there was absolutely nothing you could have done about the
mayor’s death. You’re not the one responsible.”

I’d heard that before. When would I believe it? How badly off was I that I needed
a cop and a shrink? But Virgil had it right. I did feel as though I’d let the mayor
down in some way. I could only try to compensate by helping find his killer, starting
with sharing the phone message with Virgil.

“You’re right,” I said, and hit the pound sign myself.

I’d muted the television set, which now showed a video of Mayor Graves on the Henley
campus yesterday, marching from the Administration Building to the rickety temporary
stage. He cut a somewhat dull figure with his rented black robes, compared to our
faculty and administrators, who
wore the colors from educational institutions all over the world. Competing with Harvard’s
unique crimson outfit were robes in different shades of red with black stripes on
the sleeves; hood trims of pale blue, yellow, and maroon; and various shapes of mortarboards
and velvet tams with gold tassels. The biggest hit every year was the enormous yellow
lampshade-like hat from the Sorbonne, worn by the chair of our Modern Languages Department,
Bob O’Connell.

“This is Ed Graves. Looking forward to seeing you at graduation today.”

I was startled by the mayor’s voice, having gotten caught up in the televised commencement
pomp. I turned my attention to my phone, where Virgil’s head was about two inches
away from its speaker. I lowered my head also, though I didn’t have as far to go.

“Something’s troubling me about Zeeman and I’d like to enlist your help.” By now it
seemed I was as familiar with the mayor’s voice as I was with Bruce’s or Virgil’s.

As I’d done last night, Virgil touched the screen to replay the message a couple of
times. I sat still, arms crossed, wishing I felt like finishing the rest of my jelly
donut.

Impossible as it seemed, on the last replay I heard something new. Not the part that
was truncated after
in the meantime
, but a sound I hadn’t heard before.

“Did you hear that?” I asked Virgil. “Is that a train in the background?” There was
no train that ran through Henley or even close. “Where do you think he is?”

“The lab guys will figure it out.”

That was handy, but I wanted to know now.

I’d forgotten about the timeline. I grabbed paper and pen from one of my kitchen drawers
with miscellany and sketched the day out from memory for Virgil.

“This is the mayor’s schedule yesterday. Twelve twenty, he calls me. One o’clock,
he attends the president’s reception. Two o’clock, he joins the procession to the
stage. Two fifteen, ceremonies start. Three o’clock, the mayor gives
his speech. Three fifteen, he leaves the stage with his wife. Ten fifteen—”

“Good,” Virgil said. “This is helpful.”

“I’m wondering where he was when he made this call. He was at the reception right
at one. I remember that because there were only a few of us there that early. He couldn’t
have been too far from campus. Is there a train within a half hour or so of Henley?”

Virgil shrugged and repeated, “The lab guys will figure it out.” He put my phone in
his jacket pocket. “I’ll have to take this.” My look must have revealed the separation
anxiety I was feeling, nomophobe that I was. “Just kidding,” he said. “I know you’re
glued to this thing.” He put the phone back on the table with a “gotcha” smirk.

“If you need it…” I said, taking it back and holding it on my lap with both hands.

“I just need your phone number and your password.” He scratched his head. “Oh, yeah,
and your permission.”

“Done.”

I wondered if Virgil knew how much I appreciated his humor.

“You and I talked about Zeeman Academy last night,” Virgil said. “You think any more
about it at all? Any idea what the trouble is that the mayor’s talking about in that
message?”

I shook my head. “I told you, I try to keep out of the politics. I’m there as a guest
instructor.” I remembered the schedule and snapped my head up. “But they’re still
in session. I have two classes there this week, tomorrow and Wednesday. I can ask
around, look around—”

“You can look at nothing but your own blackboard, or whatever they use these days.”

“Whiteboards and dry-erase markers,” I said, ever helpful.

“Yeah, thanks. Do I make myself clear?”

Shades of my mother, Margaret Stone, when she was
laying down the law to her unruly only child. The only thing missing was Mom’s slightly
crooked index finger wagging at me.

“Of course. What did you think I was going to do?”

Virgil blew out a loud breath and rolled his eyes. “Just don’t play cop, got it?”

I saluted.

I refilled Virgil’s cup, mostly to keep him in my kitchen for a while longer. I started
with an innocuous question.

“Did someone get sworn in already to replace the mayor?”

“Sort of. The procedure is that the senior person on the council, that would be Deidre
Eddington, is automatically acting mayor until there’s a slate of candidates and a
vote in the fall.”

Eddington? I doubted she was any relation to Sir Arthur. My mind took a welcome trip
to a time in the future when an astrophysicist like Sir Arthur Eddington or, better
yet, a mathematician might be mayor. It wouldn’t hurt to bring a little scientific
method and logic to the seat of government.

“So there’s no swearing-in ceremony or anything?”

Virgil shook his head. “There might already have been a private one. It can happen
immediately, since it’s understood when you’re elected to the council that you’ll
step in if needed according to the town charter.”

My next question was harder. “I’m still puzzled by the mayor’s calling out for me,
Virgil. If he knew he had only two or three words left in him, why wouldn’t he have
named his killer? Do you think he didn’t see the person who stabbed him?”

“Maybe.”

“Or he could have used his cell and called nine-one-one.”

“We picked up his phone a few yards from where he fell. Most likely fell as he tried
to use it.”

Information at last. I pushed on. “Or he saw Bruce and me and knew he’d have help
soon.”

“Maybe.”

“It doesn’t sound like a stabbing, though. I mean, you might shoot from behind, but
if you’re stabbing someone in the back, you have to get close, right? How do you know
the guy isn’t going to turn at the last minute? And how do you know you have the exact
right spot to kill someone? Do you think the attacker didn’t mean to kill the mayor,
just hurt him?”

“Maybe.”

“You’re not going to tell me much, are you?”

Virgil smiled and checked his watch. “I gotta go.”

Big surprise. I closed up the box of donuts, resigned to Virgil’s silence. “Your buddies
will enjoy these. You should take the donuts to the station.”

He held up his hand in a gesture of refusal. “That’s where donuts are born.”

I laughed. It had been worth the information-free interview just to have a few smiles
this morning.

“Have you talked to Mrs. Graves?” I asked, one last shot as I opened the door for
him. “Maybe I’ll make a condolence call.”

“Don’t do it, Sophie.”

“I just said maybe.”

“She’s not home, anyway.”

“Not home?” I asked.

“Stay out of it, Sophie. Please?” Then, as if I’d agreed, he said, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, knowing Virgil could tell I didn’t mean it.

I felt I’d done a day’s work navigating around Virgil’s questions and responses. If
it weren’t for check-in calls from
Bruce and Ariana, I might have gone back to bed. I was considering it again, when
Fran called.

“Finally,” she said, when I answered.

I gave Fran a complete report on my life, from the time she dropped me off at Bruce’s
feet, right up to Virgil’s visit, the remnants of which were on my counter in the
form of donuts. Going over the details wasn’t fun, and, with Ariana already up to
speed, I was glad I couldn’t think of anyone else I’d need to share them with.

“The mayor left you a voice mail?” Fran asked. I couldn’t tell whether she was favorably
impressed that the Honorable Edward P. Graves had called me personally, or whether
she was wigged-out over it. She clarified right away. “Too creepy.”

“That was my first reaction, too, but now I’m used to it and I’m trying to figure
out what it means.”

“Maybe that’s what his nod to you was all about?”

“Nod?”

“At the graduation ceremony. When he turned from the podium at the end of his speech,
he caught your eye and said something, remember?”

I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping to ward off a headache. “Yes. How could I have forgotten
something like that?”

“Because a lot of
somethings
related to Ed Graves have happened since then,” Fran said.

“I think all he said was ‘See you,’ but maybe it’s all connected. I should tell Virgil.
Or maybe it’s a big nothing.”

“Do the police know anything?” she asked.

“If they do, they’re not telling.” I reminded Fran of the frustrating session with
Virgil, whose light cologne still hung in the air along with the heavy aroma of donut.

“The problem with someone in the public eye like that is there’s no shortage of people
with motive,” she said.

How well I knew.

Beep. Beep.

My call-waiting signal. I looked at the screen on my
landline handset. Kira Gilmore. If it had been any other student I probably would
have let the call go to voice mail, but after her performance at two parties yesterday,
followed by the events of the evening, I was concerned about Kira’s emotional state.
I’d thought about calling her several times, but hadn’t felt I could do it with any
degree of calmness.