Free The Square Root of Murder (Professor Sophie Knowles) by Ada Madison Page A

listen,” he said, playing with my fingers for a moment. “The limit used to be a little more than eleven hundred feet, now it’s three hundred sixty, but that’s not zero, oh mathematician.”
    You’d think a mathematician would have a better concept of where three hundred and sixty feet up was located, but I had a hard time visualizing it, other than picturing a thirty-six-story building, which required a mental journey to Boston or Providence, Rhode Island. The tallest structure in Henley, Massachusetts was its combination courthouse and city hall, a whole six stories high.
    I filled Bruce in on Virgil’s visit and Rachel’s second call. I was still smarting from how much evidence pointed to her, and still red-faced at how I’d kept shooting the messenger, Bruce’s best friend.
    “Did Virgil tell you how I was a basket case last night?” I asked.
    Bruce bit into the center of his bun, the best part, where most of the gooey sugar was concentrated. I often stole that part from him. He shrugged his shoulders. The stall spoke volumes. I had to wait until he swallowed to hear his answer.
    “Virge deals with a lot of people in critical situations; he’s seen a lot of different responses, all legitimate.”
    I laughed, only slightly annoyed to be lumped in with “a lot of people.” “Did you learn that in your ‘How To Deal With Trauma Victims’ class?”
    He took another bite of pastry, hard to do when you’re laughing. “Mmaypbe,” he said.
    “Seriously, Bruce, I don’t know who could have killed Keith, but I know it wasn’t Rachel Wheeler. I’m wracking my brain”—I shook my fork at him and a tiny bit of egg fell onto the table—“but not to come up with suspects. To eliminate them. The whole population of Franklin Hall could have done it, plus the entire membership of the faculty senate.”
    “Even you, huh?”
    “Yes.” I chose to ignore the attempt at derailment, but his comment did remind me that I had to call Virgil’s partner to schedule an interview. “Did I tell you that Keith tried to change the bylaws for choosing a faculty member for the Aurelius Henley Distinguished Professor Award?”
    “Uh-huh,” Bruce said, but that didn’t stop me.
    “Do you think that’s fair? Keith wants to change the requirements from ‘twenty-five years of service’ to ‘twenty-five continuous years of service.’ He only suggested it to eliminate Fran Emerson. My department head,” I added, making it sound like a personal slight.
    “She’s been there almost thirty years but she took maternity leave twice,” Bruce said.
    I gave a vigorous nod and took a mouthful of perfect eggs, not dropping a morsel. “I could go on—not only a bunch of students, but even Dean Underwood has her beefs with Keith over a number of things.” I paused. “ Had her beefs. I’m telling you, Rachel’s alleged motive, that Keith was giving her a hard time with her thesis—hardly even stands out in that crowd of suspects. Keith alienated almost everyone.” I took another breath and evaluated my conclusion. “Sorry, that’s a terrible thing to say about a dead colleague.”
    Bruce reached for my hand and let me wallow in guilt for a few moments. He knew me well.
    “Maybe it’s like Murder on the Orient Express ,” he said, holding his fork like a dagger. “You know, the movie where it ends up that everyone did it.” I turned away as he mimicked stabbing motions with the fork.
    “You’re not helping.” Not quite true. Both the awesome breakfast and the objectivity Bruce brought to the table helped a lot.
     
     
    After Bruce left, I had about an hour to get dressed, prepare the house for Ariana’s beading group, call Archie at the police station, and get to the Henley airfield where MAstar’s base station was located and where Rachel would meet me at noon. The downside of sleeping in—the day flew by.
    To make up for skipping the beading class, I set out my most prized snack, peanut butter-filled