The Square Root of Murder (Professor Sophie Knowles)

over his death. I liked to think they were more sensitive, living on a higher plane and all.
    I could hear Bruce’s loud guffaw in my ears, from times past when I’d expressed a similar observation. I heard the same from Ariana.
    Another round of communication came through emails, to and from Hal and other faculty members, and even from Gillian Bartholomew, from the MAstar computer.
    I was struck by how rapidly the news had traveled. The entire City of Henley emergency services staff and equipment must have reported to the campus to answer Woody’s nine-one-one call. I had an image of the neatly manicured campus lawns and walkways crowded with larger-than-life vehicles, sirens blaring. No medevac helicopter, but everything else—fire truck, police cars, ambulance. And, of course, the local press.
    I tried to read an article on reducing the order of a differential equation, but I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t find a cube or twisted metal puzzle to engage me, and beading seemed too frivolous an activity to take up with Keith Appleton in Henley’s morgue.
    I settled again on the sofa in the den. I ran my hand over the thick fabric, a rich burgundy chosen to match the old chair across from me, which had come from my grandmother’s home. I picked away at a new acrostic. I’d been disappointed that the puzzle in last Sunday’s New York Times had been trivial and I’d quickly replaced it on my clipboard with one from an anthology. This one wasn’t all that challenging either, but I had a moment of enjoyment figuring out that for the clue “L” the answer was “the bottom of the barrel” and for “H” it was “the middle of nowhere.”
    The satisfying moment passed quickly and thoughts of a murdered colleague rushed to claim my full attention.
    Rrring. Rrring. Rrring.
    My landline. From the way I jumped, you’d think this was the first call of the evening. The evening that wouldn’t end.
    Bruce was calling to check on me, sweetie that he is.
    “Is Virge still there?” he asked.
    “He hasn’t even arrived yet, but I’m sure he’s up to his ears right now.”
    “Do you need anything? All we’re doing is watching DVDs. I can get Bodie to come in for me.”
    Double sweetie. “Thanks, but I’m fine. You know me, bouncing from phone to email to puzzle and back. Just hanging out.”
    “Like us. It’s very cloudy, so we really can’t take a call. Two minutes ago, we refused one, in fact. A young guy fell off his motorcycle at that busy intersection near the high school. But the ceiling is way too low, so, no go.” A nanosecond pause. “Hey, a rhyme. Remember that movie quiz where you had to figure out a title from something that rhymed with it, like Sandra Bullock in Read turned out to be Speed , and—”
    “I get it.”
    I used to worry about what happened to patients or accident victims when the ceiling was so low that the helicopter team couldn’t get to them, but Bruce had cleared it up for me.
    “They have to resort to calling an ambulance,” he’d told me, making it sound as if that were only marginally better than a wagon train.
    I promised Bruce I’d call if I needed him. In any case, I knew he’d come by after nine in the morning when his shift was over. Then, I paced some more and made a comfort—for me—call to Ariana, who promised to send positive thoughts to all of us and to bring me a good vibrations basket tomorrow. She’d scheduled a beading class at my home at noon, as part of her “rotating settings” theory of inspiration. Plus, it was cooler in my home than in the back room of her shop.
    “I could change the venue for tomorrow,” she offered.
    “Not necessary.” I had hopes that by tomorrow, everything would be cleared up to my satisfaction and that of Rachel, and of those who presided over criminal justice. “Straightening up and setting out snacks will be a welcome distraction,” I assured her.
    I entered my home office to check my email for the tenth time since I’d heard the news and this time found one from the college president, Dr. Olivia Aldridge, the driving force behind Henley’s new coeducational status. She’d been appointed only four years ago, but I found her very well suited to the college, seeming to understand its traditions while being in tune with its needs for the future.
    Oops—that was something I read in the latest recruiting brochure. Still, I was among the seventy-five percent of faculty who approved of the president’s