A Function of Murder

by Ada Madison

  As I thought about it, I was uncomfortable with Virgil’s plan. “I don’t want to worry everyone, especially Celia and Evelyn. Obviously, the brick was meant for me. Do we really need to make a big deal of it?” This from the woman who’d been wigged-out less than an hour ago. I pointed over my shoulder to my bedroom, the crime scene. “There must have been quite a bit of noise when the brick hit my door. If a neighbor was around and heard anything, wouldn’t that person have called nine-one-one, or the police station right away?”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “You always say that.”

  “Because you’d be surprised.”

  I decided to take a chance and move to the other reason for Virgil’s frequent visits, and for my constant state of angst for the last couple of days.

  “I heard on the news that Mayor Graves’s wife was on a plane to Europe right after the graduation ceremony.” So what if it was Kira, not I, who was tuned into the news?

  “Did you?”

  “I guess that’s about as solid an alibi as you can have.”

  “Could be.”

  “Unless she paid someone to, uh, do the deed?” I didn’t know why my mind was going in a direction I hadn’t planned. My goal was to get information from Virgil, not hand him silly theories.

  Virgil grinned. “I wouldn’t rule that out, but using a letter opener that probably happened to be handy isn’t exactly the style of your typical hit man.”

  “Thanks. I love hearing the insights of the HPD.” I bit into a cookie. Nervous eating, since I was still full from dinner and I knew the cookies were tasteless. “I also heard that Chris Sizemore, who teaches art history at Henley, was taken in for questioning. Or maybe arrested.”

  “You hear a lot of things. Anything else?”

  “I heard you were at Zeeman Academy this afternoon.”

  “Did you?” Said in mock surprise.

  I laughed. “You almost knocked me over.”

  “Was that you?”

  “Come on, Virgil. Give me something. I’m having a rough time here.” For emphasis I pointed again toward my bedroom, recently visited by a nasty foreign object.

  “Okay, because it affects you in a way, I’ll tell you we found some email and other communications from the mayor that implied he was investigating the school as you indicated. That same grade issue you and I talked about. I wanted to catch Richardson but he’d gone for the day. You didn’t happen to talk to him?”

  “No, he was rushing out when I arrived.”

  I left out the part where I’d talked to two of his trusted employees. Why bother mentioning lunchroom chatter? It would all be considered hearsay in the end. I cringed at my amateur legal reasoning. At some point today, I must have decided that a man who commanded the loyalty and respect of Rina and Dan, two such honorable and excellent teachers, couldn’t be a killer. Could he?

  “Someone will be coming around in the morning to talk to you and then to the neighbors. I promise whoever comes will play the incident down to the ladies next door, not to worry them,” Virgil said, moving me away from a sensitive topic.

  “Thanks.” How about not worrying me? I wanted to ask.

  “The officers will have some questions for you and the usual forms to fill out. You may not think it’s important, but fill them out anyway. You never know what this might connect to.”

  “You mean, in case there have been other bricks from the same dye lot thrown in Henley recently?”

  “Something like that.”

  “With a reference to me on them?”

  “The officers will want to know if you remember anything else about tonight. Any detail at all.”

  “I have to be out of here for an eight-thirty meeting tomorrow morning.”

  Virgil made a note. “I’ll tell them to get here by seven, seven thirty. You’ll be up and about?”

  I nodded, resigned to the paperwork follow-up, and to failure in my attempts to help with, or intrude into, Virgil’s murder investigation. He’d shared a lot more about the brick throwing than the stabbing.

  In any case, our interview ended when a glass-bearing truck rolled up. Virgil opened the door to a man—closer in looks to the old baseball coach in the ads than to the beautiful people—who immediately went to work in my bedroom. Virgil chatted with him and I checked my email, taking care of some busywork, happy to find no lurking crisis.

  Virgil had called a company he’d dealt with a lot and, whether because they practiced great customer service or because the request had come from a cop, my non-custom patio door was repaired in a jiffy.

  “I guess you’re all set,” Virgil said. “I’ll be on my way. Let you get some rest.”

  As if.

  I ushered Virgil out the door. “I can’t believe anyone would go to these lengths over a few points on an exam,” I said.

  “You’d be—”

  “Surprised. I got it.”

  By eleven thirty PM, you wouldn’t have been able to tell that there’d been an official, police-defined “incident” at my house, except for the rather nervous homeowner inside and the unmarked cop car outside. I wondered if every brick victim got such treatment. I hoped so.

  I put water on for tea and planned to relax in my newly glassed-in bedroom. I texted Bruce, in case he was catching a nap, and told him our hero, Detective Virgil Mitchell, had saved the day again. Nothing to worry about.

  He called me right back, wanting to know details.

  I briefed him and added, “I have a sparkling-clean patio door.”

  “We should get the guy to come over here. You can’t even see through the trailer windows anymore.”

  “I believe you. Want me to throw a brick?”

  “Not funny,” my serious, concerned boyfriend weighed in.

  “Aren’t you glad I’m not still freaked out?” I asked.

  “I suppose so. What’s up for you tomorrow?”

  I ticked off the details of my full day of meetings.

  “Wait, did you say the eight thirty is with Elysse? The one who threw the brick?” Bruce’s voice was rising in pitch, his tone more and more incredulous. “You’re not going alone?”

  I laughed. “A police escort? I don’t think so. For one thing, the note says “Support Elysse,” so she didn’t write it. She would have said, “Dr. Knowles, Support Me,” or something like that, using first person.”

  “You think everyone cares about grammar the way you do? I’m off at nine. Can you move the meeting up?”

  “Nuh-uh. I told you, I’m booked through till after lunch. It’s not a problem. I believe I weigh more than Elysse, anyway.”

  “Still not funny, Sophie. I’ll cut out of here early. Ernie won’t mind fudging his time a little.”

  “It’s not necessary, Bruce. Elysse is not a violent person. After two years, I think I would know that. This is a prank. Committed by some kid who happens to know about our little squabble.”

  “Or someone who wants you to think it’s a kid.”

  “Elysse may not even know about it. Besides, I’m not showing up to meet her with my boyfriend.”

  “Where are you meeting her?”

  “In my office on campus.”

  A heavy groan from Bruce. “Think, Sophie. It’s vacation time. Is it likely that there’ll be anyone else in the building?”

  “You’re scaring me, Bruce.”

  “Good. Humor me and at least change the meeting to someplace public. Or even the Administration Building. They keep regular office hours right through the summer, don’t they?”

  “Yes, they work full-time, as our deans and staff are always reminding the faculty. Okay, I’ll think of another place.”

  “I mean it, Soph.”

  “I’ll change it, really. We can meet at the Coffee Filter. It’s mobbed on a weekday morning with everyone stopping in before work.”

  I heard a relieved sigh from Bruce. I had to admit, I felt better, too, once I thought about it. Situated at the very edge of campus, Ben Fra
nklin Hall could be creepy during the off-season. And if there was one thing I didn’t need any more of this week, it was creepy.

  I started down the hallway toward my bedroom with my cup of tea, grabbing three paperbacks from my to-be-read pile on the counter, plus my e-reader, since I wasn’t sure exactly what reading mood I was in.

  Once I cleared the books away, I noticed the message light blinking on my landline handset.

  No way. My day was over. Wasn’t it?

  I turned away, stopped, and turned back again.

  I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep unless I checked off all the channels in and out of my communications network. Might as well give in.

  I hit the button. A computer voice told me I had two messages, then played the first for me. “Dr. Knowles. Uh, Sophie. This is Doug Richardson, principal at Zeeman, I’m sure you know. Sorry I had to rush by you at school today. I need to talk to you. Someplace other than my office. Please call me on my direct line so we can set up a meeting. The number is 508…”

  I pressed pound to stop the message replay. I dropped my books back on the counter and sat down on a kitchen stool. In spite of what should have been a calming sip of tea, an eerie feeling took over my body. Was Principal Richardson channeling the deceased mayor, copying his message, in spirit, and practically verbatim? Right down to using his nickname, whereas we had never even used first names before? Just as the mayor had done on the day he was murdered?

  Ed and Doug, my new best friends. Except one of them was dead.

  I seemed to be starring in the movie where the same thing kept happening over and over. Speaking of channeling, I was channeling poor Bill Murray. What was happening to my orderly world?

  What was the protocol for returning messages to school officials? If midnight was the cutoff time, I should get on it. Or wait until tomorrow morning. I wouldn’t want to wake up his entire family for some silly reason. Maybe I had left my sunglasses outside his office, or a sheet of paper from my stack slipped under his door during the spill when Superintendent Collins rammed into me.

  Uh-oh. Was Superintendent Collins going to call me next and leave a message, from “Pat,” that he needed to talk to me?

  Something nagged at me and pushed me in the direction of returning the call now. I realized I was concerned that Principal Richardson—Doug—might die before I could talk to him, as had occurred with Mayor—Ed—Graves.

  I had to call back, no matter what the hour. I couldn’t stand it if something happened to Principal Richardson and I was left with another death on my hands. I played the message again, this time writing down the telephone number.

  Fortified with a long swallow of tea, I dialed his number. At each new ring, I was tempted to hang up.

  Finally, I heard my new friend Doug’s voice. I was so grateful he was still alive, I almost cheered.

  “Dr. Knowles, hello. I appreciate your calling me back.” Spoken in a near whisper.

  “Sorry it’s so late. I—”

  “No, no this is fine. Will you let me take you to lunch tomorrow? I have a few things I’d like to talk to you about,” he said, still whispering. I pictured his wife and family, if he had either, in the next rooms, sleeping.

  I didn’t hesitate. “I’ll be glad to meet you,” I answered, needlessly lowering my own voice.

  “Great. I’ll make a reservation for noon at the Inn at Henley. Will that work for you?”

  “Sure, I can do that.”

  “Thank you, Sophie.”

  A quick two-minute telephone interaction during which Doug went from Dr. Knowles to Sophie and snagged my attention with a promise of a classy lunch. No vending machines for the Doug and Sophie meeting.

  I considered telling Principal Richardson on the spot that I had an inside scoop, that the police had already found evidence of grade inflation fraud and that he was a wanted man. It would save him the cost of lunch for two at the pricey Inn.

  As usual, my head was foggy on the applicable law. Should I give the principal a head start? Would I then be encouraging a fugitive from justice? It was too late in the day to be having these challenges, making these decisions.

  Before I could come up with an answer, Principal Richardson signed off.

  I thought about my day tomorrow. I’d be awakened by police officers at seven or seven thirty, pummeled by an unhappy student at eight thirty, used by an unstable student as an escort to a memorial service at ten, and—I guessed—drawn into a charter school web at noon.

  Some kind of summer vacation.

  I sent a text to Elysse, telling her to meet me at the Coffee Filter instead of my Franklin Hall office, counting on the fact that she’d see the message. I could think of no one Elysse’s age who would neglect to check her cell phone during waking hours. Nor anyone my age, as I’d proven repeatedly.

  I settled in my bed with books and tea. Not that it did much good. Unable to read or sleep, I envisioned what must have been the catalyst for my lunch with Principal Richardson.

  I envisioned a chagrined Digital Dan Sachs and a distressed Rina Flores going into the principal’s office this afternoon to confess their indiscretion in essentially admitting to me that their boss was involved in grade inflation and test score fraud. Were they all worried now that I’d call the state board of education? Was there a state board of education? I couldn’t remember much of my research at .edu. If the principal characters in the upset at Zeeman Academy knew how uneducated I was in the structure of their organization, they wouldn’t have worried.

  Besides, the issue was moot if Virgil was holding all the evidence he needed. Which didn’t seem to be the case if, one, the police had picked up Chris, and, two, Virgil wasn’t exactly rushing to take Richardson into custody.

  It was about time I saw that there could have been two crimes—fraud by Richardson, and murder by Sizemore.

  I began to drift off, then on again, wishing someone would take me into custody, and find a way to clear my head and put me to sleep.

  Not yet. I heard the low buzz of my cell phone, on vibrate while it was charging. I looked up at the ceiling to see who could possibly be kidding me.

  I checked the screen and saw that it was Monty Sizemore calling. It made sense that he wouldn’t be able to sleep either, especially if his beloved sister was still being held at the police station. I wavered on whether to take the call, but I couldn’t pass on it. Thus showing how desperate I was to get ahead of things in this case. Maybe Monty had some news that I wouldn’t be the last to know.

  “Hey, Monty,” I said, as if it were one in the afternoon and not close to one in the morning.

  “Sophie, I hate to bother you. I know it’s late but I left a message earlier and didn’t hear back.”

  I remembered now that I’d had two messages on my landline answering machine. The first message, from Doug Richardson, had consumed me and I’d forgotten to go back and listen to the second one.

  “I’m sorry, Monty, it’s been a stressful evening.”

  “I’m frantic,” he said, not bothering to ask about my stresses. What happened to the “routine questioning” line he’d given Courtney, the dean’s secretary? “I’m sure you heard about Chris.”

  “Yeah, I did. Is she okay?” I asked, feeling slightly guilty that I’d helped make Chris’s pickup the buzz of the day around the campus.

  Monty’s strained, anxious voice was enough to soften me, and I really did hope Chris wasn’t in trouble. Unless she’d murdered Mayor Graves, of course.

  “I didn’t know who else to call. They’re keeping her overnight. I didn’t think they could do that, but our lawyer says they can. They haven’t charged her, but what if they do?”

  Monty fell silent, as if he was expecting me to answer the question. “What can I do for you, Monty?” I asked.

  “You know a lot of these small-town cops we have, right? Through your boyfriend?”

  There was a time when people buttered you up if they were in desperate need of a favor. Apparently not anymo
re.

  “What’s your point, Monty?” I asked.

  Monty didn’t flinch, though I felt my response was on the edge of rudeness once I determined that Monty was singing the same old song. “I thought maybe you could find out why they’re keeping her down there. Did they find something? They won’t tell me a thing.”

  I almost felt bad for Monty, but no way near enough to call Virgil or any other cop at this hour. If and when I called Virgil, we’d work through my own agenda, not the Sizemores’. Did Monty think that Virgil and the rest of the Henley PD—the “small-town cops”—were sitting around in the wee hours of the morning hoping I’d call them with a question about one of their suspects? I avoided the whole friends-with-cops issue and queried Monty back.

  “Can you think of anything the police might have found? Any reason they might suspect Chris?”

  Neither of us had explicitly mentioned what they might suspect her of or what the charge would be, should one be filed. The matter of the murder of Henley’s mayor hung in the air.

  “Chrissy wouldn’t hurt anyone. Even though the idiot mayor led her on for a year and—never mind. Chrissy is simply not capable of hurting anyone.”

  I wished I had the gumption to quiz Monty on the relationship between the mayor and Chrissy. It was the season of nicknames. I wished I had one, other than Soph, which only Bruce and close friends were allowed to use.

  It would have been nice to know that Mayor Graves and Ms. Sizemore had a full-blown affair, which would mean the deceased mayor wouldn’t have had time for Kira.

  I groaned at my own petty focus, as if the only important repercussions of such an affair were those that affected me and mine. I needed some sleep. Which meant getting Monty off the line. I felt like a hostage negotiator.

  “If Chrissy is innocent as you say, then I’m sure she’ll be on her way home soon,” I told Monty, with an air of finality, as if I was convinced of the infallibility of our justice system.

  “You don’t understand.”