A Function of Murder (4 page)

“There’s sooo much cake left. I could hack off a piece for you,” a freshman bio major
said, licking her lips and wielding a knife that looked more suited to a slab of beef.

“It’s our gift to you,” I said, and accepted another farewell hug.

Fran and I decided to retreat to our respective offices for some downtime before going
out to dinner with a group of math majors and their parents at seven thirty.

We headed down the hall, still chatting about the Kira Gilmore–Edward Graves issue,
whispering all the way. We stopped abruptly when our longtime janitor, working overtime
today, came toward us, pushing his big barrel of cleaning equipment.

“Afternoon, Doctors,” Woody said, sticking to his respectful guns, despite the many
times we’d encouraged him to call us by our first names. “Congratulations to you all.”

“Thanks, Mr. Conroy,” I teased.

Woody reached into one of the many pockets in his overalls and pulled out a shiny
key ring with a tiny soccer ball dangling from its chain. He held it up to show us
both, then offered it to Fran.

“I saw this little thing as I was checking out of the hardware
store. I thought of your young grandson, Dr. Emerson. Do you think he might like it?”

Fran took the key ring with a gracious smile. “How sweet of you, Woody,” she said.
“I’m sure he’ll love it.”

“Glad to hear it,” Woody said, sounding relieved.

I didn’t for a minute think that seven-year-old Derek needed a key ring, but all that
mattered was that Woody thought so.

“If you hurry to the lounge, there might be some treats for you,” Fran said.

We knew the girls loved the old guy, and why wouldn’t they? He’d jump at a chance
to change a light fixture for them in the dorm or rig up an extra connector for the
lab or chase down an alleged mouse in the supply closet. They’d be happy to share
the bounty with him today.

“Thank you kindly, ladies. You’re always thinking of me,” Woody said. He tipped an
imaginary hat and pushed his barrel at a slightly faster pace toward the lounge.

“He’s still trying to make it up to you,” I said, when Woody was out of earshot.

“Two years later,” Fran said, pocketing the key chain. “I forgave him a long time
ago.”

No one expected Woody ever to forgive himself, however, for inadvertently tossing
important papers from Fran’s office into the trash. She’d stacked a set of research
notes on the floor on top of a broken three-ring binder. The arrangement looked so
battered and messy that Woody had assumed it was all trash and hauled it away.

Poor Woody had been so distressed over the matter that he’d had our copy center make
up two signs, “TRASH” and “NOT TRASH,” and handed them out to every Franklin Hall
faculty member. We laughed at the gesture at first, but the signs had come in handy
more than once.

Fran and I had arrived at the intersection of the building’s two corridors, resigned
to the office work that awaited.

“Today should count for double overtime for us,” I added.

“As if it matters to our paychecks,” Fran said. She let out a sigh. “At least we got
the degrees handed out without incident.”

“And made a little dent in the food.” My priorities were showing.

“And we won’t have to deal with the mayor for another year,” Fran said.

We parted ways. “That’s the good news,” I said.

The town of Henley, incorporated in 1775, liked to think of itself as the Cambridge
of southern Massachusetts, part of the rich tradition of academic hubs in the Commonwealth.

As such, about a two-block area around the campus in all directions was populated
with coffee shops, pizza parlors, and small bookstores, plus an array of boutiques,
some of which were affordable for the average college student, some not. I’d noticed
that since the advent of male students to the Henley campus this year, several stores
had added more athletic equipment and small electronics to their inventories. With
parents in town, I expected business in all of the shops would be booming this weekend.

Unlike Harvard Square, however, or MIT, we had little choice in the way of grown-up
restaurants. The Inn at Henley boasted the nicest table linens, the classiest music,
and the most expensive entrées. The ones I’d tried had been worth the price. Tonight
the place was packed with college faculty, graduates, and their families. I was glad
Fran had
been smart enough to book two long tables weeks ago, a job that technically was mine
as department chair. Fran was also smart enough to know I wouldn’t think of it in
time. Again, I chalked it up to her highly developed skills as a mother, grandmother,
and household organizer.

“I love the charming nautical theme,” Nicole’s mother, Nannette, said, as we settled
in our places. From her oohs and aahs at the fish nets hanging from the ceiling and
the large tanks of live fish at the entry, I gathered that her family was new to the
Inn.

The Johnsons, who were natives of Henley, were one of those matching-initials families,
including Nicholas (Dad) and twelve-year-old Nathan. I was sure they wore matching
colorful shirts when they vacationed in Hawaii. Or even on Cape Cod. Even as I thought
this, I realized the Johnsons’ situation didn’t allow for many vacations. Nicole,
the first in her family to graduate from college, had been on a financial-aid package
that included work study in various offices on campus.

“Cool sharks,” Nathan said, as we looked over the menu. Everyone seemed relieved when
he pointed not to the live fish tank, but to the oil paintings along one wall. The
three other N. Johnsons agreed.

I’d sometimes wondered what my parents would have named a second child. Would my math
teacher father have prevailed again and added another famous mathematician to the
family? My patron was eighteenth-century mathematician Sophie Saint Germain. Thus
my complex set of initials: S.S.G.K. No monogrammed towels for me. I envisioned a
brother called Isaac Newton Knowles, with the nickname Ink. Just as well he never
materialized.

At tables next to our two at the Inn of Henley were Judith Donohue, head of biology,
with her majors, and on the other side, Robert Michaels, chemistry chair, with his.
The table for physics, the fourth and smallest department represented in Ben Franklin
Hall, was far across the room,
making it inaccessible for the cross-table talk that was prevalent at gatherings like
this.

We faculty encouraged and relied on talking among people at different tables, since
it was always a little stressful to be around students’ families. The crosstalk kept
us from serious discussion of any one topic at a single table. Otherwise, there was
too much potential for pushing parents’ buttons. We had only the students’ interpretation
of the religious or political persuasion their parents adhered to and how tightly
they adhered. Graduation and similar celebratory dinners, therefore, were never the
relaxing events they were designed to be.

I was surprised that Kira and her parents joined us as planned, after the awkward
incident at the Franklin Hall party. The animosity between Kira and her friends who’d
bad-mouthed the mayor seemed to have been forgotten, and they were back to their usual
chummy young selves.

The presence of the other majors and their parents helped the situation. The girls
from four or five neighboring tables gossiped about who wore what, if anything, under
her gown and what the guys might wear in a few years. Not exactly conversation worthy
of young women with Bachelor of Arts degrees, but peaceful at least. And there was
no talk of any “thing” between Kira and the mayor. I was ready to believe Fran was
losing her touch on the reading-people front. Surely not every public official was
guilty of preying on attractive young volunteers.

Having Nathan, a preteen, fish-and-chips boy at our table helped the conversation,
since there were always the politically neutral Xboxes, soccer games, new apps, and
3-D movies to chat about. Nathan thought I’d be interested in his latest game, involving
simple algebraic equations that had to be solved in order to gain access to a box
where there was a key to another box, where there was another equation, another key,
and so on. Not especially thrilling for me, but I was pleased that it was math-and
not
war-related, and we all got through the main meal without any plates of food being
thrown to the floor.

I’d been sneaking text messages to Bruce once in a while throughout the day, keeping
my boyfriend up to speed on the various dramatic moments. I refrained from phoning
him on days like today when he came off a twelve-hour shift at Henley Airfield and
slept on and off. He wasn’t due back at MAstar—Massachusetts Shock, Trauma, and Air
Rescue—the company he piloted for, until nine tomorrow night, barring a national or
even a citywide emergency.

“No food spilled,” I’d thumbed, winding my way back from a visit to the restroom with
stops at the physics and sociology tables.

“Fun time?” Bruce texted.

“U bet,” I thumbed. “Ur up?”

“Up. Miss U.”

“Me 2.”

Chris Sizemore reached out to take my hand in greeting as I approached the art history
table. Several of the majors had been creative with their mortarboards and wore them
now. I admired a Van Gogh–like sunflower on one and a Monet-ish blue cathedral on
another.

“Loved that scholarly speech, didn’t you?” Chris asked, rolling her baby blues. “Aren’t
you glad we hired the mayor?” she added.

Too bad she couldn’t simply enjoy her students’ cleverness. I chose to smile and pretend
temporary deafness. “Can’t hear you. Too noisy in here,” I said, cupping my ear.

Chris’s brother, Monty, was also in the group. Having no business graduates yet in
the new program, he’d apparently adopted his sister’s majors today. As an adjunct,
Monty had no vote on faculty issues, but he’d had an opinion anyway, one that matched
his sister’s. He waved at me and shouted, “Follow your dream,” which I recognized
as a phrase the mayor had used two or three times in his address. I felt another pang
of sympathy for the mayor,
having to deal with controversy on all sides, from Superintendent Collins to businessman
Monty Sizemore and his sister, and who knew what in between.

I let their comments float alone on the air and gave the Sizemores big waves as I
went on my way. I breathed in the aroma of the many chunks of lobster rolled in buttery
toast, an Inn specialty. I hoped the brother and sister combo behind me wasn’t ruining
the dinner for the graduates with their sore-loser grudges.

I got back to my table just as things were about to take a turn for the worse there.
Apparently, someone had unthinkingly asked young Nathan how school was going, and
his father had stepped in to respond.

“Don’t get me started,” the highly volatile Nicholas Johnson warned, but then started
anyway. “Nathan goes to Zeeman Academy.”

“Dad?” Nathan said in a soft, pleading voice, and everyone knew what he was asking.

I’d never had Nathan in class at Zeeman, but Mr. Johnson wasn’t interested in what
I was doing there, anyway. He went on, on his own track.

“The curriculum has been slowly deteriorating, although Mr. Richardson, our principal,
is trying his best to keep things going. Our esteemed mayor will do nothing to help.
He challenges everything Mr. Richardson tries to do. The budget is at about sixty
percent what the regular schools are getting. Faculty are being let go, and the whole
shebang will probably be out of business by the time Natalie’s ready for first grade.”

I hadn’t known about Natalie, the fifth N. Johnson, and marveled at the span of ages
in the family, until Nicole clarified. “Natalie’s my cousin. We’re kind of a clan
on the western side of town. They talk about the Johnson and Johnson and Johnson company,”
she said, with an attempt at a light laugh. The new graduate was clearly trying to
move from the topic of charter schools.

I never expected Zeeman Academy, my volunteer project this year, to be a main focus
of graduation day. Twice a week, I drove across town, in between my college classes
and office hours, and spent an hour or so with middle schoolers. Besides helping their
regular teacher, often overburdened with too many students, I led the students in
doing puzzles and games I’d developed to show how much fun math can be.