The Square Root of Murder (Professor Sophie Knowles)

years, and another with a collage of pioneers in spectroscopy. They’d ordered the largest sheet cake they could afford from the local bakery—I recognized only a few of the equations written in blue icing just under the three-dimensional balloons in multicolored frosting. A nice touch.
    My own math majors from my first year of teaching had contributed the gold lamé tablecloth that had graced every Franklin Hall party since. There were always so many drinks, bowls of snacks, and platters of dessert that the accumulated stains from previous parties were easily covered up.
    Hal examined a greatly enlarged photograph of himself, looking at least a decade younger and situated on the wall between Albert Einstein and Isaac Newton. “Where did you ever find this?” he asked, scratching his prematurely balding scalp.
    “On Google,” Liz Harrison and Pam Noonan, inseparable roommates and chemistry majors, said in unison.
    “It’s from a loooong time ago,” Pam added.
    “You sound like my son,” Hal laughed.
    Most of us had spent many department picnics and holiday parties with Hal’s five-year-old son, Timothy, and Hal’s wife, Gillian, a flight nurse who worked at MAstar, Bruce’s employer. Ben Franklin Hall was nothing if not family friendly.
    As usual when two or more were gathered, I’d placed copies of a draft brainteaser around the room. I counted myself very lucky that my students and colleagues enjoyed being beta testers as I, or rather, Margaret Stone, developed new puzzles for my magazine editors.
    “Too many layers,” Rachel said of a word puzzle I’d devised. “If I even understand it. First you have to identify a bunch of images, make an appropriate anagram, take the last letters and add one, line up the initial letters”—She threw up her hands—“I’d give up in, like, three minutes.”
    I frowned, never one to take criticism easily. “You’re exaggerating,” I said. “And, besides, it’s supposed to be a category five challenge.” Was that me whining?
    “I agree with Rachel,” Fran Emerson, my department head said.
    “Copy that,” came from Hal and a chorus of students.
    More boos came from Robert Michaels, chemistry department chair and Judith Donohue, head of biology.
    My public had spoken. I crumpled the sheet in my hand. Back to the drawing board.
    The summer faculty crew was small in Franklin Hall, and the department heads’ representation down one. Hal’s physics department chair had arranged to spend six weeks doing research on a particle collider in Switzerland, prompting me to wish that differential equations—my field of mathematics—was more equipment-based. He’d sent greetings to Hal in the morning via Skype but didn’t guarantee he’d be free to electronically attend the party later.
    Fran took on the responsibility of making the congratulatory speech to the gathering.
    “I’m going to wait until Gil gets here,” Fran told us.
    “She’ll be, like, a hundred years late,” Rachel muttered.
    Apparently Rachel’s nasty mood hadn’t improved with a night’s sleep.
    Gil Bartholomew arrived well within the century mark, toting a large basket of sunflowers, tiger lilies, and the reddest bee balm I’d ever seen. At one time or another, we were all the beneficiaries of Gil’s extraordinary gardening talent. She moved aside platters of sweets and placed the basket on the center of the table.
    “That’s better, isn’t it? Sorry I’m late, guys.”
    After some talk of bad traffic and worse weather, Fran called us to order.
    I was impressed that Fran had dressed up for the occasion—Dean Underwood would have been pleased. Fran was tall enough to pull off the long, flowing outfit: a pale blue silk pantsuit with a matching scarf that would have dragged on the floor if I’d been wearing it. She praised Hal’s excellent teaching record, hard work, and affable personality.
    She ended with, “It gives me great pleasure to announce the promotion of Dr. Harold Bartholomew from instructor to assistant professor.” Fran’s voice carried a deep ring of authority, though the official announcement from the dean wouldn’t come until the first faculty meeting in the fall semester.
    “Let’s make some noise here,” she said.
    I cringed at first, thinking of the dean, but then clapped loudly.
    The cheers that followed from about thirty students and faculty members were a tribute to the popularity and the high regard Hal enjoyed.
    Rachel came up to me and handed