The Square Root of Murder (Professor Sophie Knowles)

face my passenger. “I didn’t realize you were actually moving in now . Into my car, too?”
    “I’ve always wanted to see that new library on campus. It’s a good day for a tour.”
    “You should be home sleeping. Weren’t you up all night? And besides, I don’t need a babysitter.” And three more reasons I couldn’t quite think of why Bruce should not be accompanying me to the library.
    “I can nap in the library.”
    “I thought you wanted a tour of it.”
    “That, too.”
    “I have to go over class work with three different students, separately.” Never mind the “what’s your alibi for Friday afternoon” part. “It could take a couple of hours and there’s nothing for you to do there. The library isn’t exactly conducive to napping.”
    “I can read.”
    “They don’t subscribe to Air & Space magazine.”
    “Why not?”
    Sensing a losing battle and running out of time to argue, I grunted at my droopy-eyed boyfriend and started the car.
     
     
    I parked in the vicinity of my usual spot near the tennis courts, avoiding the exact slot that was the site of yesterday’s box-loading episode. Bruce had his briefcase with him also. As a cover? Or was he sneaking in more word puzzles? Maybe I could enlist him to help me with my crossword deadline.
    We entered the main reading room of the library, nicely appointed with a decent shade of beige carpeting and floor to ceiling windows looking out onto the imposing academic buildings and brilliant green lawns. Most of the chairs were big enough for a family of four—or for one student, a backpack, and a laptop.
    Bruce took a seat in the corner with the best view of the campus. I wondered if he was using his USAF surveillance training, or just liked looking at the landscape. I noticed he’d brought his own copies of Air & Space and a couple of other flying periodicals. His puzzle phase might be over already.
    My three students were waiting at the other end of the room, where there were groupings of chairs and small tables, suitable for study dates. I tried to think of this morning’s meetings as a series of three study dates.
    After brief greetings, Pam got us started. “We were thinking we could all go in together,” she said. “It would save you time.”
    I laughed. “What are you? Trial lawyers in disguise?”
    “It’s just that we’re nervous,” Liz said.
    “She means about our grades,” Pam said, with her now famous reproachful glance at her friends.
    “Me, too,” Casey said, by way of nothing.
    I was not in the mood for more arguing. My breakfast of coffee and a few crumbs of scone, meager as it was, did not sit well.
    I looked each one in the eyes. “Here’s the plan. I’m going to take you one by one in that corner”—I pointed to the farthest set of table and chairs—“and the other two will wait here. Is that clear?”
    “Okay, then.” Pam said. “Go ahead, Casey. You’ll be fine.”
    What? She never quit. Didn’t they all know I had a cushy side job that honed my skills as a strategist every day? Last year I had a perfect score on the Mensa quiz-a-day site. I could certainly outmaneuver three nineteen- or twenty-year-olds.
    Pam was the leader here, and she recognized that Casey was the weak link. She wanted to play cleanup. I knew what I had to do—start with Pam and let the weak link stew for a little longer. I mentally rubbed my hands together: Then she’d be mine.
    I looked at the three girls, lined up abreast, waiting for my next words. Had they deliberately all worn something pink today, to look soft and innocent? Pam had pink sandals with enough plastic daisies to look like she was standing in her own private flower patch; Liz and Casey, both blondes, wore pink tank tops in different shades and different placements of lacy trim. With my pale green sundress and dark hair, I felt I was in a stand-up life-size chess game where pink had three times more pieces than green.
    I’d had these students in class every semester since they began at Henley. I’d taught them two semesters of calculus and special topics that fit them as chemistry majors. They were the types to hang around teachers, often volunteering as party cleanup crew, so I knew them better than I did most of my students. Was I seriously thinking that one or all of them was involved in a monstrous deed?
    Don’t be fooled by the pastels , I told myself.
     
     
    “First, Dr. Knowles, I want you to know that Liz and Casey and me, we’re one