Free The Quotient of Murder (Professor Sophie Knowles) by Ada Madison

in common except one bend in the road.
    “Sophie?” Virgil said. Thinking he’d lost me? Pretty close.
    I stood and cleared my head. “Never mind,” I said. “We should probably call it a night. I know you still have work to do.”
    “You sure?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    I heard great relief as Virgil pushed his bulk off the recliner and grabbed his coat. I was relieved, too. Another two minutes and I was sure he’d have recommended therapy. Or something more serious, involving heavy doses of psychiatric meds and a skeleton key.
    • • •
    Could it be? My day had begun with simple calculus problems. It was now after nine in the evening, cold and windy in Massachusetts; three in the morning in Rwanda. Not a great time to call Fran. Unless she’d be thrilled to hear that a snowstorm was predicted for the weekend in the southern part of the state, namely, Henley, and she’d be missing it. I doubted Fran would have to worry this winter about polishing calf-length boots.
    For another possible distraction, I could call Ariana in Florida for a simple chat. But, first, it was prime dating hour in Florida, and second, in spite of what I’d told Virgil, I wasn’t ready to call it a night on Kirsten Packard.
    Being, for the most part, a dutiful teacher, researcher, and puzzle-creator, I thought I’d better check my email. But not without sustenance. I raided the leftovers on my kitchen counters and in the fridge and made up a plate of the least nutritious morsels I could find. A few potato chips, two cookies, and a sliver of previously frozen strawberry shortcake. Tomorrow I’d balance it all out with a real dinner, I promised myself. I took the food and my laptop back to the couch. Tomorrow I’d also exercise, by the way.
    My email inbox was overflowing. A quick glance told me there was nothing from Fran. I’d been hoping for a note saying, “Please call me at any hour of the day or night for any reason at all.”
    As I read notes from students, mostly about Jenn Marshall and not homework, I kept track of whom I might invite to the screening of security videos. I identified only two others besides the friends who’d been at my home this evening.
    I emailed an invitation to all of the students, asking them to be ready to appear, time and place to be announced as soon as I knew.
    I picked at the shortcake, which was mediocre at best, the kind of frozen dessert that has the smell and taste of ice, no matter what the ingredients listed on the box.
    Skipping to puzzle business, I noticed a note from one of my magazine editors. I opened it, not ready for trouble. But there it was.
    I’m writing to introduce myself—I’m your new copyeditor and look forward to working with you. By the way, on the most recent crossword you submitted, I took the liberty of changing the wording on some of your clues. I don’t think it’s anything your going to have to check, however, since we’re going to press soon. (signed) Kenny Simmons
    What? This was completely out of line with our procedures. And what copyeditor didn’t know the difference between
your
and
you’re
? I’d already gone through rounds of revision on the puzzle. I’d assumed I’d already seen the final copy, ready for print. And what adult, if he was an adult, still called himself Kenny?
    My reaction was far beyond reasonable for the situation. And I thought I knew why. Nothing had gone well today, starting with a trip to the faculty lounge, where all I’d hoped for was a little warmth and friendly conversation, and ending with this. This Kenny person.
    I’d have to drag out my contract with the publisher of the magazine and see what kind of recourse I had. The puzzle was my creation, and while it was not up for a Pulitzer, my name, or at least my pseudonym, was on the page, and I should be allowed to see the copy before it went to press.
    This was no time to respond to Kenny, but I couldn’t take the chance that I’d be too late. I sent a quick reply for