The Square Root of Murder (Professor Sophie Knowles)

shift, from nine tonight to nine tomorrow morning, and then he’d be off for seven days. I could certainly keep myself safe for twenty-four hours.
    “No, I’ll be fine. Just call me often.”
    “Deal.”
    I looked at my breakfast. Even the apple slices had gone brown.
    We clicked mugs and picked from the plate of scones, the only still appetizing part of the menu.

CHAPTER 13
     
    It came to me that I’d imposed a deadline on myself when I called for meetings with Pam, Liz, and Casey. Though my real reason for wanting to talk to them had to do with what Bruce might erroneously have called “investigating,” I needed to have a proposal for an acceptable ending to the summer statistics class by eleven o’clock this morning.
    Bruce moved into the living room and picked up the Sunday newspaper, a break from our routine. He usually left for his home across town right after breakfast, did errands or puttered in his workshop for a while, and then took a short or long nap, depending on how busy he’d been all night. Since last night had been extra stressful, I’d expected him to be on his way to a Big Sleep. Like the movie, he’d have said.
    I kissed his scruffy cheek as I walked by his chair.
    “Gotta go prep for my student conference,” I said. I was glad he couldn’t see my face, which would have outed the half-truth.
    I sat in the comfy leather chair in my office. The only window looked out on a large maple that was as old as the Henley hills. I swiveled toward my west-facing side yard, shadowy now before noon. There was no reason that a tree should remind me of Keith, but everything seemed to have that effect on me this weekend. I thought of the kind words both Woody and Elteen had for him, neither one of them obliged, as the dean was, for example, to sing his praises. There was no question, he’d been a large and powerful presence on campus and the hole he left would be obvious only when the fall semester began without him.
    I turned from the window. Work beckoned.
    I picked up my copy of the text, an intro to the practical uses of statistics. I wanted to have a list of potential topics to suggest to an uncreative student. I made a quick list: health and nutrition data, such as cholesterol levels; designing samples for studies of all kinds; testing the significance of survey results.
    All fascinating to me.
    I opened the “Applied Statistics” folder on my hard drive, and clicked on the file, “Roster.” The names of twelve students, all of whom were science majors entering junior year in the fall, popped up on a spreadsheet. The three who yesterday had achieved special status as persons of interest in a murder investigation were chemistry majors taking an extra math class as an elective.
    I added a comments column where I could write notes on each student according to her current grade and how I saw her finishing the class.
    I made some quick decisions. For the students getting an A so far, I’d ask for a short paper, due in two weeks, on a topic of their choice. Three students, including Pam, fell into this category. I jotted down some useful references and more detailed topic ideas to get them started. I hoped one of them would work on kinetic theory, since there were such beautiful equations involved. For the six B students—Liz was in this group—I’d ask for a longer paper. For Casey and two other students with C or lower, I’d require a paper plus an oral exam with me some time in the next two weeks.
    I’d present this plan to the students by individual emails, except for the Big Three who would hear it in person soon. All was negotiable, to a point.
    As I rushed off to my bedroom to get dressed for my consultations, I noticed Bruce, legs over the arms of the easy chair, working the crossword puzzle in the newspaper. Another great deviation from the norm.
    I walked over to him. “What’s this?” I asked.
    He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s sort of relaxing.”
    No “I told you so” left my lips.
    No question, the world had shifted since the death of Keith Appleton.
     
     
    Briefcase in hand, I went to tell Bruce I was leaving. The living room chair was empty except for a neatly put back together newspaper. Curious. No see-you-later kiss or “Hi, honey, I’m leaving.”
    It all became clear when I entered the garage, with its door already rolled up. Bruce was belted into my smokestone Fusion.
    I dumped my briefcase in the back and climbed into the driver’s seat, turning to