The Square Root of Murder (Professor Sophie Knowles)

marriage, one between fine arts and history and the other between biology and phys ed.
    “I wonder why the dean wanted the material so quickly after the police left?” I asked Lucy, all naïveté.
    “She said there were some sensitive files in his office and she wanted to be sure they were secure. She was very upset when I had to call her and tell her the drawers were empty.”
    I’ll bet. I made a mental note: check what’s sensitive to the dean. “Did you ever find out who took the files?” I asked, wondering if everyone in Back to the Grind noticed how shaky my voice was.
    Lucy shook her head. “Nope.”
    So the dean hadn’t broadcast the fact of my little trick. The only questions that remained: Who retrieved the boxes from my garage? And what material did the dean consider sensitive? I knew Lucy wouldn’t be able to help me with either.
    It was time to do what Bruce would call fish or cut bait. “Keith must have thought a lot of you,” I told her. “He told his cousin in Chicago all about you.”
    Lucy’s eyes brightened. “He did? Wow. Thanks for telling me. He wouldn’t let me mention anything to anyone around here.”
    “That sounds like Keith. I hope you didn’t argue too much over it.”
    Subtle. That was me.
    “Oh, no, I didn’t care, really. We loved the same things. We went to Boston most of the time. To the theater, the ballet, the MFA, the science museum. There’s nothing like that in my little Down East town, believe me.”
    Lucy’s eyes, fixed on a spot over my shoulder, told me she was traveling back a few weeks and reliving her excursions with Keith. I was amazed to hear that Keith had taken that much time to experience the arts and leisure Boston offered. Maybe all he’d needed was a companion who gave him a chance to show his better side.
    I wished again that I’d tried harder to understand him. And, as current wisdom had it, I was his best friend. Except for Lucy.
    “Lucy, did you see Keith on Friday at all? The day he . . . died?”
    Lucy came back to the current reality. “No, I went to the party and he was going to come down later. When he didn’t make it, I figured he was just too busy,” she said, blinking back tears.
    “Or, before Friday, did he mention anything unusual happening around him?”
    “The police asked me that, too. I didn’t tell them I was having a relationship with Keith outside of school, though. Do you think I should have?”
    Not unless you had a big fight and killed him. “That’s up to you, Lucy. If you think it will add to their ability to find his killer, then you should.”
    She shrugged. “I don’t see how it could help them, and I don’t think I have the energy right now.”
    So far I was batting zero on getting people to go to the police with what they knew of Keith or his death.
    “You don’t have to decide now,” I said. “You might feel like going in the next day or so, or you might think of something that would help them.”
    “Maybe.” Lucy looked at me and smiled, but once again she was smiling at the past. “Do you know how we started going out?”
    “No, I don’t.”
    “Actually our first date? I asked him . I had these tickets to the special Renaissance exhibit at the Gardner that my friends in Maine gave me as a going-away present. Everyone else I’d met up to then was married or in a relationship, so I asked him. I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to, that he was mean and all. I just thought it would be nice to have a friend who wasn’t hooked up either.”
    How simple it all sounded.
    Lucy’s eyes teared up. She brushed back her very straight, very shiny black hair. I could almost read her face: Now I don’t have a friend anymore.
    I couldn’t bring myself to put her through another minute of anguish. I took a small piece of paper from my purse and slipped it across the table to Lucy.
    “This is the address for Elteen Kirsch, Keith’s cousin in Chicago. In case you want to send her a note.”
    Lucy let out a little gasp. “Thank you very, very much, Dr. Knowles.” She put her hand, warm from the mug of hot chocolate, on mine. “It’s so good to have a friend,” she said.
    I felt like a heel.
     
     
    It was now close enough to ten o’clock so I went to the police station to meet Virgil. I hoped he didn’t expect me to simply hand over my bag of samples. In my mind, he and I sat at a table that was anywhere but in Interview Two and worked together, comparing loops and slants until one of us