A Function of Murder (28 page)

“I already have new glass. And, anyway, how would they know?”

Officers Nolan and Coyne took turns explaining what was clearly one of their pet peeves.

“They want your business the next time, or they want you to recommend them to someone
else who needs glass.”

“And they go ’round looking for this kind of thing. They may have seen the workman’s
truck outside here last night.”

“If you’d called us directly, you’d have had more flyers than you could fit in your
trash.”

“Plus people showing up on your doorstep with special deals. They all have scanners
these days.”

It was another world out there in Vultureland. I thought it sad that young officers
like Nolan and Coyne were so smart about the worst aspects of people’s behavior, and
that they had to be, to do their jobs. I found myself wanting to teach them math and
give them both A’s, to show that some people were fun and kind, like mathematicians,
for example.

“We need to go over the incident here last night,” said Officer Coyne, who seemed
to be slightly senior. I nodded in acknowledgment that we had business to do. “We
know Detective Mitchell took care of getting the evidence in, and talked to you. Is
there anything else you can remember about it? You came home and…” He drew circles
slowly with his wrist to prompt me.

I thought a minute, taking no pleasure in reliving the experience. It had taken all
this time to relax and forget it; now it was back in the form of official police business.
I knew I should be grateful that my little problem was being handled, but the sooner
it would disappear, the better.

I tried to conjure up some detail that would help the officers. I’d been out all day,
so there was no way I would have seen either a stranger or an unfamiliar car lurking
in my neighborhood.

Finally, I shook my head. “Nothing comes to mind. I just came home and there was the
brick.” I pointed over my shoulder and down the hall to where the brick had entered
my home.

Officer Nolan pulled a sheaf of papers from a large
envelope. “I understand, ma’am. In that case, would you please read over this description
by Detective Mitchell, including your own statement of last night and, if you agree,
and have nothing to add, please sign at the bottom?”

I loved the smell of boilerplate in the morning.

I took the papers to my kitchen island while the officers continued with what might
have been their first or their third breakfast, depending on when their shift started
and how many acts of vandalism they’d been assigned to follow up on.

I read Virgil’s summary, but just barely. The form itself was intimidating, with categories
like “Involved Persons” and “Affected Property. In the “Narrative” section, words
like
penetrated
and
shattered
stood out and made me nervous.

I trusted Virgil. I didn’t need to edit his prose. I noticed he’d already had the
photos printed and had attached them to the file. Unlike me, apparently, the man made
good use of his sleepless hours. “This looks fine,” I said, signing the pages and
returning the package to Officer Nolan. “Are you going to talk to my neighbors?” I
hoped Coyne and Nolan had been briefed on suburban sensibilities.

“Yes, ma’am. Detective Mitchell advised us to be especially careful with the ladies
next door.” I was impressed to see that Officer Nolan pointed in the correct direction
for Celia and Evelyn. “We’re going to come back at ten when their caregiver, Wanda,
last name unknown, will be present.”

Officer Coyne took over, pointing to our newest housing development across the street.
“We should tell you, we already talked to a neighbor in that cul-de-sac”—he checked
his notebook—“a Mr. Lawrence, who left late for work yesterday morning, around nine
thirty, and says he saw a silver SUV pull away from in front of your house. He says
they were in a hurry. He could not say how many were in the vehicle, nor could he
describe them.”

“That make any sense to you?” Officer Nolan asked, his Adam’s apple on the move.

“I don’t know anyone who owns a silver SUV, if that’s what you mean.”

“What time did you leave here?”

I thought back to what seemed like ancient history, when I left my house yesterday
for Zeeman. I’d wanted to be there by ten, so I left…I drew in my breath. “I left
about nine thirty,” I said. “I just missed them?”

A new brand of shiver went through me as I contemplated the arrival of criminals in
broad daylight. How would I have dealt with meeting them in person? Would they have
aimed the brick directly at my head?

Officer Coyne seemed to sense what was going through my mind. “They probably waited
around the corner for you to leave,” he said, in his low, comforting voice. “That’s
what they do.”

“I would have thought they’d wait till it was dark.”

“Well, ma’am, this is good news in a way. It shows they didn’t want to take a chance
that you’d be home. They weren’t out to hurt you,” Officer Coyne said. His partner
nodded reassuring agreement.

“Thanks,” I said, returning to my normal breathing. “Both of you.”

As the officers took their leave a short while later, I made a note to tell Virgil
what a good job they were doing at the police academy these days.

I couldn’t afford useless dallying, running different brick scenarios through my head.
I had a meeting to get to. I checked my phone and found a text from Elysse.

“C U at CF.”

Message received. Did Elysse figure out why I’d switched the meeting to CF? Was she
happy that her brick-throwing
plan worked, and frightened me—or, rather, my boyfriend—into choosing a public place?
Did I care?

I checked Elysse’s Facebook page before I left and was relieved to see that action
had slowed on her wall.
Whew.
I was already old news. Her friends had moved on. To vandalism?

I’d taken Elysse’s initial phone call as a sign of conciliation. Now I questioned
her motives. I could hardly wait to find out what else she had in mind. If the brick
was some kind of opening salvo, she had a lot to learn about negotiating.

I parked on campus and walked past the Student Union building and out through the
gate behind the Clara Barton dorm, where Kira was still in residence. I wondered if
she was up yet, and how she’d react at the Graves memorial in less than two hours.
I was glad yesterday’s rain was short-lived. Services for lost loved ones were sad
enough without a downpour from the sky. At least Kira would wake to bright, pleasant
weather.

Let’s take care of one student at a time
, I reminded myself. Elysse Hutchins was next. But as I crossed Main Street, I allowed
myself thirty seconds to clear my head of all student issues and focus on the magnificent
median strip. A riot of orange and yellow daylilies with profuse green foliage lined
the street for several blocks in either direction. It was enough to make me want to
take very early retirement and do gardening full-time.

The Coffee Filter was busy enough that Bruce wouldn’t worry for my safety—he’d already
checked in to make sure I kept my promise about meeting my antagonist in a public
place—but not so crowded that I couldn’t get a good table
that allowed for me sit with my back to the wall, eyes front, to spot Elysse when
she came in.

At almost all surrounding tables were people working on laptops or other electronic
devices. I noted only one table with two women talking to each other without technological
assistance. Like all the coffeehouses of today, the Coffee Filter served a whole different
purpose from even a few years ago. Instead of asking, “Cream and sugar?” which were
now off on a counter for self-service, customers were offered the Wi-Fi password with
their drinks.

I made it a policy never to arrive unprepared to wait for a meeting to start, whether
a whole academic department or only one other person was involved. I kept a thin leather
travel portfolio stocked with printouts of puzzles, some to solve, some on the way
to completion for my puzzle magazine editor. Often, I’d become so engrossed in a conundrum
or a math game or a twisty puzzle, I’d forgotten that a meeting had been set up.

Today was no exception. I arrived at the Coffee Filter at 8:17, ordered a latte and
a cheese Danish, and settled in for a puzzling session. It was a much more reasonable
way to spend the time than fretting over what Elysse might want or what my strategy
should be, especially regarding the brick incident.

I pulled out a set of riddles sent by a grad school friend who had moved back to his
hometown in Iowa. We’d been mailing occasional challenges to each other for many years.
I wondered why this set seemed particularly easy, until I read the accompanying note.
John was offering riddles that I might use for my younger Zeeman Academy students.
I whipped through the first few.

The answer was too easy, even for fourth graders:
redo now
is an anagram for
one word
.

I appreciated the value of fun-filled wordplay to help sharpen the critical-thinking
skills of young minds, but I needed something more difficult if I was going to steer
clear of worrisome thoughts.

I abandoned the grade school riddles and started working on a seven-by-seven grid
wordplay puzzle. I kept coming back to the day’s meetings, however, projecting ahead
to Elysse’s arrival, to the memorial service, to lunch with Principal Richardson.
To many questions. Was Elysse going to be packing another brick and try to ambush
me in the Coffee Filter’s ladies’ room? Would the service for Mayor Graves be formal
or informal? I’d dressed for in between and hoped I’d blend in. Was Principal Richardson
going to fire me? I’d grown to like the younger kids and hoped to do another volunteer
year at Zeeman Academy.

I’d already run through several possible openings for the moment when Elysse plunked
herself down across from me. My practice dialogue ran the gamut from sarcastic to
pleading to threatening.

Thanks for the new window.

I’m so sorry, forgive me, please don’t ruin my reputation as a good, fair teacher.

Back off, or we’ll rescind your degree.

Here’s your A, now go away.

On second thought, I’ve given you zero points on every problem, retroactive to your
full two years.

I was contemplating
Can you help me get more Friends to Like my cause?
when Elysse showed up, dressed scantily for a chilly morning—two or three pastel
tank tops over a
pair of denim shorts. I considered it a lucky break for me since I wouldn’t have to
be concerned that she was wearing a wire. And her pixie haircut was too short to hide
any ear device. So far, so good.

“Hey, Dr. Knowles.”

“Hey, Elysse.”

An awkward silence followed the “hey” volley, but I felt it was her turn. I couldn’t
remember ever being so intimidated by a student. I’d had my share of complaints before,
especially about grades, but I’d always been able to work it out. More often than
not, the student was successful in convincing me that I’d misjudged or been unclear
about an aspect of an assignment or exam. For years, I’d done this amicably, without
the help of social networking or messages dispatched in unconventional ways.