A Function of Murder (9 page)

I skipped through most of the emails that had been downloaded throughout the evening.
Usually I checked frequently on my smartphone, but tonight had been different. I scanned
several emails regarding final grades from students who couldn’t wait the two weeks
until grades were officially posted. Paula Mattson, a bio major who’d taken my statistics
class, simply admitted, “I can’t stand not knowing how I did,” and her best friend,
Wendy Pruit, advised me that while I was figuring out Paula’s final grade, I might
find it convenient to calculate hers, also.
Thanks, Wendy. So thoughtful of you.

Simple, polite requests didn’t annoy me as did the email that popped up from Elysse
Hutchins, threatening to issue a formal complaint about me to the dean if I didn’t
adjust her exam grade to account for full credit on the statistics problem she’d blown.
The last thing I needed was to go through a grievance process with the administration.
I entertained the notion that I should just cave and give Elysse whatever grade she
wanted. There’d be no decisions tonight, however.

Several emails with one-word subjects like “OMG,” “Unbelievable!” and “howdathapen?”
were on the list. I didn’t need to open them to figure out the content.

I took a break to prepare a small plate of crostini and bruschetta, left over from
Bruce’s midweek visit, to eat in the den.

I devised a formula for the task. Read three emails, listen to one voice mail, take
one bite of crispy toast and tasty sauce. Repeat the sequence until the task has been
completed.

A cross-section of faculty and students had left messages through one medium or another,
some on more than one. Though I would have loved to answer Fran, one of the many who’d
tried to reach me while I was with Virgil and following, I refrained from a middle-of-the-night
call. I’d expected to see or hear something from Kira Gilmore, the mayor’s staunchest
defender, either through email or by phone, but so far I hadn’t come across anything
from her. I wondered if she’d heard the news. If she was staying in the hotel with
her parents before they flew back to California, she might not be up-to-date.

The email from Henley College president Olivia Aldridge read as expected, with an
expression of sorrow at the loss of “a young leader with such promise, who’d already
given so much,” and a mention that an official condolences note and flower arrangement
would be sent to the mayor’s family. The president wanted to assure us that campus
security was already being scrutinized and improvements were in the works. Whatever
that meant. Most prominent in the email was a warning to the faculty and staff not
to talk to anyone “outside the HC family,” and to avoid speaking to the press, especially.
All questions should be referred to the college’s Office of Government and Community
Relations.

I got the message.

I was sure Ariana and Bruce were considered to be part of the Henley College family,
and I had no desire to call around to anyone else with the news.

I’d run out of emails, but there were still a few more voice mails on both my landline
and my cell.

More OMGs caused me to press delete before the poor student got her entire message
out. At some point I’d have to step up and offer whatever I could by way of comfort
and a willing ear to my charges.

I scanned my phone screen and saw that I had one message left, from a private caller,
around noon, long before any of the action on campus, both good and bad. I almost
didn’t bother hitting the arrow, but decided I might as well complete the job. I touched
the screen and heard a male voice. A first, other than calls from Bruce. None of the
guys in my classes had tried to contact me. Apparently males took things like grades
and campus crime more in stride than females. Good to know, in case something like
this incident happened in the future.

I heard a vaguely familiar voice. “Dr. Knowles. Sophie, if I may. This is Ed Graves.
Looking forward to seeing you at graduation today.”
Throat clearing.
“I need to talk to you.”

I stopped the message. Ed Graves? Mayor Graves? Not only a first name this time, but
a nickname? The world seemed to go into a Fourier transform where casual acquaintances
became bosom buddies. Or maybe the bruschetta had soured and clouded my hearing.

I played the message again, and listened further.

“I need to talk to you. Someplace outside my office. Something’s troubling me about
Zeeman and I’d like to enlist your help.” A pause here led me to believe the call
had ended, but eventually he continued. “Please call my direct line, 508-555-0137,
so we can set up a time. In the meantime—”

The mayor was cut off by my message limit. I clenched my jaw and cursed the technology
that didn’t allow him to finish, as if it were the fault of the electrons, or whatever
rattled around in my phone. I wrote down his direct number out of habit, even as I
realized I’d never use it.

I played the mayor’s—Ed’s—message once again, and noted again the time it had come
in—12:20
PM
. I couldn’t seem to stop myself. I played it twice more all the way through. Maybe
I’d hear a word or phrase that would explain why he’d chosen to involve me on the
last day he was alive. I hated that I didn’t know what would have
followed
in the meantime
if my message limit hadn’t intervened. Each replay was creepier than the last as
I tried to match the voice on my phone with that of our keynote speaker of a lifetime
ago.

A dying mayor had asked for my help. Twice in one day. Two times too many. I had to
know why.

Virgil was my best bet. I’d play this message for him and he’d be able to put some
things together and satisfy my curiosity. Too bad it was one thirty in the morning
and he wouldn’t be sitting in his office. Also, too bad it was one thirty in the morning
and I still wasn’t sleepy.

I left a cryptic message on Virgil’s office voice mail, to the effect that I needed
to play a cell phone message for him, whenever he’d be available tomorrow. “If you
have plans to go hiking in the hills, please call me first,” I ended. As long as I’d
known him, Virgil hadn’t even taken a long walk on a flat road. I hoped I’d given
him a smile that would get us off to a good start when I played the mayor’s message
for him and then quizzed him about the investigation.

I wrote down what I knew about Mayor Graves’s weekend, in case it would help Virgil.
I’d seen the mayor in the hallway at the Zeeman Academy around two in the afternoon
on Friday, then he’d stopped in at the eighth graders’ farewell party at three thirty.

On Saturday, there had been a small reception before commencement exercises, starting
at one o’clock, for invited guests and department chairs, in the college president’s
conference room. The mayor and his wife attended, along with members of the town council
and school superintendent Patrick Collins. What I knew now was that before the reception,
the mayor had called me. What I didn’t know was
why
. Why me, and what was wrong at Zeeman Academy?

I couldn’t remember anything unusual about the president’s gathering. No outbursts,
no smashed china that I was aware of. The volatile Chris Sizemore and her brother
had
skipped the reception, and the rest of the faculty were well behaved, as were all
of the council members.

One thing I recalled was a brief, but typical, show of animosity between the mayor
and Superintendent Collins, who seemed to have imbibed a little too much of President
Aldridge’s punch. The two men were off in a corner, and no one except someone like
me, who was bored by cocktail talk, would have noticed their confrontational tones
and body language. After a minute or so, the two men reentered the main reception
area, smiling like old friends. I’d always marveled at how politicians could do that—play
golf together and pal around, or seem to, even in a cutthroat campaign or after a
heated debate.

I questioned whether, in the light of events today, I should tell Virgil about the
incident. I wished I had a guidebook. Was it worse to withhold something with only
a small chance of being important to the investigation, or to implicate a perfectly
innocent public servant like the superintendent of our schools? What if the argument
was over a baseball play or the merits of a local restaurant?

At the end of the reception, the mayor had donned the rented robes we’d provided and
joined the procession onto the stage with the faculty and staff. He gave his speech,
then took his wife and left at three fifteen.

The next thing I was sure of was that he’d stumbled toward Bruce and me, with the
silver blade of a letter opener in his back, just after the enormous tower clock struck
ten fifteen on Saturday night.

Whatever he’d done in the seven hours in between had cost him his life. Or so it seemed.

As gory as the end of the timeline was, putting things in order worked its magic and
I was finally able to sleep, this year’s commencement day almost put to rest.

I woke up disoriented, as if I were lying in the middle of a puzzle that had me stumped.
Not an anagram, or a crossword, or a brainteaser, any of which I’d have a chance of
solving. This was more of a rebus that I couldn’t figure out, with cartoon drawings
of sharp objects and grass and rolled-up diplomas interspersed with mathematical symbols.

I pulled myself together with French press coffee and a banana.

I’d expected to work while waiting for Virgil to call, but discovered I didn’t have
my briefcase at home. The pre-man-in-the-fountain plan had been for Bruce and me to
go to my office after our late-night ice cream stroll and collect my briefcase and
robes. Instead, Bruce had gone off in an ambulance with the town’s highest-ranking
official and I’d driven straight home alone in his car.

I dreaded going back to the crime scene so soon, even on a sunny day like today. It
would be a while before the
lovely spray of water at the heart of the campus would have its charm restored in
my mind. But there was a limit to the number of hours I could survive without my briefcase.
I’d reconsider later in the day.

I pulled out my clipboard, which always had an unfinished puzzle on it, one that I
was either creating or solving. This one was due to an editor at a children’s games
magazine in a week. I’d chosen a bakery theme, then constructed a puzzle around cupcakes,
pies, birthday cakes, tarts, and many kinds of cookies. I proofread what I had so
far, wishing I had a real treat to go with my coffee.

A call from Bruce, already at work, brightened my mood. The morning briefing at MAstar
was over and he was waiting for his assignment.

“We’re probably going to sit around the trailer all day watching videos until the
Bat Phone rings.”

Fortunately, Bruce was a big movie fan and considered himself very lucky that he got
paid to watch endless loops of his favorites.

“I’m sure you guys will dig out all the old war movies,” I teased.

“I drew the right straw, so we’re starting with
Tigerland
.”

“I knew it. And it’s not Vietnam you’re interested in. You just like staring at Colin
Farrell’s widow’s peak and pretending you’re looking in the mirror,” I said.

“Guilty,” he said.

Buzz. Buzz.

My doorbell. I was glad I’d opted for a pair of capris and a decent Henley Math Department
T-shirt this morning instead of staying in my pj’s, which had been my first inclination.

I looked through the peephole. Virgil Mitchell, from the HPD, in his light summer
suit, stared back. He looked more rested than I did. Best of all, he was carrying
a box from the donut shop.

“Your best bud is here,” I said to Bruce. “I hope you don’t have to bail me out later.”

We signed off as I pulled open the door to let Virgil in. I tapped the box. “Really?”

“I love being a cliché,” Virgil said, handing it to me.

The delicious, unhealthy smell took over my nose and I could hardly wait to dive in.
The box had barely hit my island counter when I lifted the cover.

“Two jellies. How did you know?” I asked, squeezing cherry-colored foodstuff (I hoped)
into my mouth while the other hand poured coffee for Virgil.

“You made it clear years ago.” He smiled. “I figured we’d listen to your phone message
over breakfast. As long as you don’t tell Bruce the menu.”

I brushed powdered sugar from my T-shirt. “I’ll vacuum every trace. He’ll never know
we veered from the health-food regimen.”

“Feeling any better this morning?” he asked.

The question caused my good humor to collapse. My light mood was over. “Not a lot.”

“It’s tough when anyone loses his life too soon, especially when you witness it.”

“You deal with this all the time,” I said.

He pointed to the box of donuts. “There are rewards.”

I laughed and thanked him for the break.

We’d settled across from each other at my breakfast nook, overlooking the patio where
my glorious lilies of the valley, late-blooming tulips, and impatiens held sway. How
could it be so cheery outside when I wasn’t ready for it? Warm as it was, I wanted
to hide under the lavender comforter on my bed.