The Square Root of Murder (Professor Sophie Knowles)

see. Once they edited their papers and were ready to submit, they printed on a good white bond paper. I knew Rachel’s thesis was still in the yellow paper stage, though she’d had a series of oral presentations on her data.
    “Don’t tell me,” I whispered. I leaned over, put my face in my hands and partly over my ears, and pressed my body farther into the couch, but I could still hear Virgil as plain as day.
    “The name at the tops of the pages was R. Wheeler and the pages were bleeding with red pencil corrections and nasty comments.” Virgil shook his head slightly. “It doesn’t look good for your friend.”
    I rubbed my eyes and breathed out loudly.
    “Can I ask one more question, Virgil? If it’s out of line, just tell me, but doesn’t it look as though Rachel is being framed, that someone wants you to think Rachel killed her teacher? Everyone knows he’s given her a hard time for years, and especially right now, about her thesis.”
    Virgil nodded. “I know what you’re thinking. And you have a point. Who leaves the murder weapon and evidence of anger at the scene, practically shouting out ‘me, me.’ But, with the janitor seeing her there, she’s the best we have right now. And sometimes a smart guy will frame himself, so the police will say what you’re saying. We’re looking at all of this, believe me, Sophie.”
    He fell just short of saying, “We’re not that dumb,” and I admired his restraint.
    I was out of ideas.
    “Thanks again for coming by, Virgil. If there’s anything I can do. I mean, I can vouch for Rachel.” The offer sounded silly even to me but Virgil nodded politely.
    “The best thing you can do is just sit back and let us do our job.”
    “Easy for you to say.”
    I was glad we could end with both of us smiling.
    Almost.
    “Archie will be in tomorrow,” he said, gathering up his jacket and tie. He handed me Archibald McConnell’s card. “Why don’t you give him a call and you guys pick a good time.”
    I raised my eyebrows in a huge question mark.
    “He needs to interview you. It wouldn’t look good on the report if I did it.”
    I didn’t know whether to be devastated or deliriously happy that Rachel wasn’t the only suspect. I should have realized that sooner or later, the police would get to me on their list of people to interview.
    “My, you’d think I was a suspect.”
    Virgil smiled, broadly this time, enough for the dimple on his chin to show at last. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
    We parted with a high five.
     
     
    I’d just turned down my cool lavender sheets and placed a glass of iced herbal tea on my night table when the phone rang. I thought a new record had already been set for the greatest number of calls in one night.
    I picked up and heard Rachel’s wispy voice.
    “I’m home now, but it was awful, Dr. Knowles. You’d think I was some big-time criminal. Our neighbors were waiting for me in front of my house, and I even saw some people standing watching on the curbs all along the way.”
    Probably an exaggeration on Rachel’s part, but, on the other hand, in a town as small as Henley, there wasn’t much to keep the citizenry entertained. A police drama was just what everyone needed on a hot Friday night.
    I felt so bad for Rachel. I could barely understand her through her sobs.
    “We need to talk,” I told her. It came out sounding not unlike the intro to a breakup.
    I wanted desperately to talk to Rachel now that I had more facts—alleged facts—to work with. But not at this hour, not after this day.
    “Yeah, for sure, Dr. Knowles. And without my mother and all my aunts and uncles around.”
    Where could we go? I realized that meeting on campus was not a good idea. Certainly not Rachel’s home either. Here? Bruce would be by—too soon, I realized, looking at the clock. Ariana and her class would arrive at noon for at least a couple of hours. I’d have to call Ariana in the morning to let her know that I wouldn’t be here, but she could still use my house. I hated to change the venue on her on such short notice.
    The ideal spot for a private meeting would be a place at the edge of town, sparsely populated, with no crowded Starbucks in sight.
    “Can you meet me around noon?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    I had the feeling Rachel would have agreed to anything at that moment. “Can you get to the MAstar facility, out at the airfield?”
    “Where Mr. Granville and Mrs. Bartholomew work? Sure.”
    I was reminded how long Rachel