The Square Root of Murder (Professor Sophie Knowles)

thought. For the sake of the party, and for his own protection.
     
     
    By two o’clock, the party had ended. There was a limit to the amount of togetherness students and faculty could enjoy before starting their weekend.
    With Bruce on duty at the airfield fifteen miles away, and Ariana at her book club, I was on my own for the evening.
    “You should join the club,” Ariana had told me. “We read all kinds of books. Mystery, romance, science fiction, inspirational.” She’d ticked off enough genres to use most of her fingers.
    “Have you ever met a group you didn’t like?” I’d asked her.
    “I guess that’s a ‘no’ on the book club from you and a ‘no’ on your question from me.”
    With all her running around—to her beading classes, yoga group, book club, and volunteer work at a shelter, Ariana still seemed to have time for her friends, including three exes. I felt like a slug next to her.
    For me a couple of quiet nights at home every week were a must. The days were given over to my students and colleagues, often until early evening; I never stinted there. Bruce’s schedule suited me fine. I could count on seven nights in a row to myself if I so chose.
    I enjoyed my small, three-bedroom cottage, the home I’d grown up in. When my mother became ill, I’d moved back until it became necessary to place her where she’d have professional care. That day had been one of the hardest in my life. Margaret, who’d been an independent widow most of her adult life, seemed to take the enormous change better than I did, adjusting to assisted living and claiming that it was enough to know that I was now enjoying the family home. I didn’t see the point in telling her it could never be that easy for me.
    People who visited me here for the first time were surprised at the cozy atmosphere, expecting a high-tech look to match my image as a modern-day mathematician. But I liked the contrast: the latest computer and peripherals in my office at Henley, and a claw-foot tub and gingham quilts at home.
    On tonight’s list was work on my research, class prep for the rest of the summer session, assignments to post on the web, and journals to read. A periodical with a cover story on nonlinear wave equations was at the top of my pile. I also had puzzles to solve, math games to create, and even a key chain to bead if I was in the mood. I didn’t need to belong to a group for any of these activities.
    I made up a plate with oranges and grapes, three kinds of cheese, and plain crackers. I called it a meal; Bruce would have called it the first round of appetizers before the prime rib. Bruce claimed I wasn’t being true to my country kitchen décor with such insubstantial menus.
    “You should make some meatballs,” he’d said on his last day off.
    “Excuse me? Meatballs?”
    “You know, like that scene in Goodfellas , where the wiseguys are making an Italian dinner in prison?” Bruce tended to bring everything back to a favorite movie.
    “Funny, that scene doesn’t stand out for me,” I’d answered.
    “How about the potato soup and quail in My Dinner With Andre ?”
    The only way to stop Bruce at times like that was to force-feed him the most convenient snack, often involving high salt content.
    There was no question tonight that I needed to finish up my latest journal article. Publish or perish was still an operative phrase in academia. Full professorship was contingent on a substantial publication record, and my clips from puzzle magazines didn’t count. I had a respectable list of peer-reviewed articles, but one could never have too many when one’s dean had an eagle eye out for maintaining Henley College’s accreditation. And mine.
    I took care of the one additional reference I needed to round out my article on traveling waves of the mathematical kind. I printed and signed my cover letter and prepared the package for mailing on Monday to the antiquated press that didn’t take email attachments. They’d still have it long before Labor Day, and I could add the note to my resume by the official opening of the fall semester and the first meeting of the promotions committee.
    I could now check off Lofty Academic Responsibilities and turn to my latest puzzle, which was calling to me loudly. I couldn’t stand that no one at the party had liked it. I picked up a copy of the brainteaser that had been ix-nayed by the Ben Franklin group this afternoon. Too tough, eh? What did they want? Simple word-in-word