The Square Root of Murder (Professor Sophie Knowles)

unsettling than the next.
    I sat on an old metal stool and leaned on the empty workbench, working hard to calm myself and think clearly. Why would anyone want files from a dead man’s office? For the same reason I did, to look for clues to his murder. Or to remove something incriminating.
    At the sound of a car entering my driveway, I started and nearly fell off the rickety stool. I’d never been so glad to see Ariana’s happy face and animated wave as she exited her decades-old convertible.
    “How come your car’s out here?” she asked.
    “I hope you brought your herbs and lotions,” I said.
     
     
    We sat in my den, sipping a special tea that Ariana promised would cleanse my body and my mind, as I told her the events of my day. Laying it all out for her helped me think more objectively.
    I reviewed my meeting with Rachel and recalled how surprised I was to learn that she’d walked in on Keith after his death. It came to me again how horrible that must have been for her.
    “Woody found the piece of cake and soda Rachel was taking up to Keith, sitting on a chair in his office. Why wouldn’t Rachel tell me she left the cake there?” I asked Ariana. “She told me a bigger truth, that she lied to the police. Why wouldn’t she tell me the whole truth? Why would she say she left the cake outside the door?” The rambling questions were for me more than for Ariana.
    “Some people can tell the truth only in small pieces,” she wisely observed. “I wish I could see samples of everyone’s handwriting. I have a new book that shows how strong T-crossings and dark, dominant periods are indicative of someone about to explode in rage.”
    I checked to see if she were teasing. She wasn’t.
    I went through my harrowing interview with Archie and earned Ariana’s sympathy and a few more of the small anise cookies she’d made.
    When it came to my visit to campus, I fudged a bit.
    “I borrowed the files from Keith’s office,” I said, as an explanation for why Keith’s possessions had been in my garage in the first place. I wasn’t sure why I decided on the spot not to admit to the ruse I’d used to acquire the material, unless it was to corroborate Ariana’s theory that no one tells the whole truth all the time. I wondered if my skirting the facts would negate the effects of the herbal tea. “It’s creepy that they’re gone now.”
    “I wonder where in the universe they are?” Ariana mused.
    “In the hands of the murderer is my best guest. My big problem is what to do when the dean finds out I took them and then lost them.”
    “I don’t understand why you can’t just outright tell the dean you want to help the police. What do you have to lose?”
    I smiled. “Only my promotion to full professor.”
    “Is there a lot of money at stake if you don’t get it?”
    “A couple of thousand dollars at most. It’s the principle.”
    “I knew that,” Ariana said.
    “Thanks.”
    “Not that I wouldn’t miss you, but I wish there were some place better for you. I mean, I know you love Henley but there must be other colleges where they have math departments and cooperative deans. This is Massachusetts, right? The college state?”
    “Yes, there are other colleges, but not necessarily other jobs. Most colleges are cutting back on full-time faculty and using adjuncts.”
    I explained the common practice of giving desperate, unemployed teachers the option of teaching for a flat rate per course. To put together a living, teachers would take on classes at several institutions. They ended up with a lot more work for a lot less pay.
    “And no benefits, I bet,” Ariana added.
    “You got it.”
    “I’ll never understand academia.”
    Sometimes I didn’t either.
    Ariana pushed herself off the easy chair and slapped the palms of her hands against each other.
    “We need to cleanse your house and your garage.”
    Her thin caftan, in shades of red and blue to match her hair, seemed appropriate to her task. She went to her car and brought back her smudging kit, her ritual for purifying a person or a place. I watched as she opened all the windows and doors to allow the free flow of energy.
    I often wished I had Ariana’s faith in a smoldering bundle of herbs; I wished I could believe that the smoke from white sage would carry all the negative energy out of my environs. Instead, what came to mind was a lecture I heard at a conference, on the steady flow energy equation. It soothed me that I could picture the