A Function of Murder

by Ada Madison

  “What don’t I understand?” I asked. “Chris is not in jail; she’s simply being questioned. If she tells the truth, that will be the end of it.”

  “You know, Sophie, this was a mistake. I don’t know what I was thinking. You’ve had your own stressful evening, as you said, and I shouldn’t have called. Have a good night.”

  With that, Monty hung up.

  Strange. In a period of much strangeness. I wondered if Monty was making the rounds of faculty, or calling just those of us who were known to hang around cops. I doubted I’d heard the last of him, though his “Have a good night” had sounded close to “Have a good life.”

  I switched my phone to nothing. Off. No ringing, no beeping, no vibrating.

  I lay down and looked across the room at my new patio door. Not that I could see it, since my lavender drapes were drawn. But I knew the doorframe now held glass that was shatterproof, like the newest house on the block. It was cleaner than any glass since Margaret bought the house decades ago. I also knew a cop was on alert on the other side of the drapes.

  Those facts alone seemed to be enough to put me to sleep.

  Unlike Virgil, the two patrol officers who rang my buzzer at seven thirty on Tuesday morning did not bring donuts. I was sorry I’d tossed out the old ones. I knew for a fact that microwaving did wonders for stale junk food.

  On the other hand, these officers looked like they ate only healthy salads and yogurt and started every day with a rigorous workout with a personal trainer. The new breed of patrolman?

  “Morning, ma’am,” said officer number one and officer number two in quick succession, making me feel very old. I wondered if their combined ages added up to mine.

  Too bad I’d had to abandon my usual very chic look today and dress for a memorial service. A black skirt, closed black flats, and a dark paisley top didn’t have much to recommend them other than a mourning look. The brightest part of my outfit was a string of brown and gold beads created for me by Ariana.

  I could hardly wait till my friend and beading tutor returned. If Ariana had been home, I’d have shared every last detail of the downer events of the weekend and beyond. I also would have had fresh home-baked treats to offer my uniformed guests, which seemed to be the only kind of guests I’d entertained lately.

  Fortunately for the young officers, I remembered that I had one of Ariana’s delicious blueberry loaves in the freezer and could serve it now.

  The officers accepted my suggestion of a coffee break and my apology for not having more choices of snack. I emphasized that the bread had only the freshest organic ingredients, which was true, with 90 percent certainty.

  “That’s okay, we just had donuts, ma’am,” officer one said.

  Officer two punched him in the well-muscled arm and laughed. I followed suit, with the laughing, skipping the punching.

  “I’m Officer Nolan and this is Officer Coyne,” I heard, as the guys remembered the protocol.

  Officer Nolan, who filled out his short-sleeved uniform shirt nicely, handed me two flyers from two different glass companies. “These were in your driveway, ma’am,” he said.

  I took the damp papers from him and scanned the full-color ads, one with a screaming red background, the other a dull blue. I’d never seen the flyers or heard of the companies or needed glass before. I wasn’t a big believer in coincidence.

  “I don’t understand how these flyers got here,” I said.

  Officer Coyne shook his head. “Vultures,” he said. “They know you had a problem with a window or door and they’re knocking one another over to get your business.”

  “I already have new glass. And, anyway, how would they know?”

  Officers Nolan and Coyne took turns explaining what was clearly one of their pet peeves.

  “They want your business the next time, or they want you to recommend them to someone else who needs glass.”

  “And they go ’round looking for this kind of thing. They may have seen the workman’s truck outside here last night.”

  “If you’d called us directly, you’d have had more flyers than you could fit in your trash.”

  “Plus people showing up on your doorstep with special deals. They all have scanners these days.”

  It was another world out there in Vultureland. I thought it sad that young officers like Nolan and Coyne were so smart about the worst aspects of people’s behavior, and that they had to be, to do their jobs. I found myself wanting to teach them math and give them both A’s, to show that some people were fun and kind, like mathematicians, for example.

  “We need to go over the incident here last night,” said Officer Coyne, who seemed to be slightly senior. I nodded in acknowledgment that we had business to do. “We know Detective Mitchell took care of getting the evidence in, and talked to you. Is there anything else you can remember about it? You came home and…” He drew circles slowly with his wrist to prompt me.

  I thought a minute, taking no pleasure in reliving the experience. It had taken all this time to relax and forget it; now it was back in the form of official police business. I knew I should be grateful that my little problem was being handled, but the sooner it would disappear, the better.

  I tried to conjure up some detail that would help the officers. I’d been out all day, so there was no way I would have seen either a stranger or an unfamiliar car lurking in my neighborhood.

  Finally, I shook my head. “Nothing comes to mind. I just came home and there was the brick.” I pointed over my shoulder and down the hall to where the brick had entered my home.

  Officer Nolan pulled a sheaf of papers from a large envelope. “I understand, ma’am. In that case, would you please read over this description by Detective Mitchell, including your own statement of last night and, if you agree, and have nothing to add, please sign at the bottom?”

  I loved the smell of boilerplate in the morning.

  I took the papers to my kitchen island while the officers continued with what might have been their first or their third breakfast, depending on when their shift started and how many acts of vandalism they’d been assigned to follow up on.

  I read Virgil’s summary, but just barely. The form itself was intimidating, with categories like “Involved Persons” and “Affected Property. In the “Narrative” section, words like penetrated and shattered stood out and made me nervous.

  I trusted Virgil. I didn’t need to edit his prose. I noticed he’d already had the photos printed and had attached them to the file. Unlike me, apparently, the man made good use of his sleepless hours. “This looks fine,” I said, signing the pages and returning the package to Officer Nolan. “Are you going to talk to my neighbors?” I hoped Coyne and Nolan had been briefed on suburban sensibilities.

  “Yes, ma’am. Detective Mitchell advised us to be especially careful with the ladies next door.” I was impressed to see that Officer Nolan pointed in the correct direction for Celia and Evelyn. “We’re going to come back at ten when their caregiver, Wanda, last name unknown, will be present.”

  Officer Coyne took over, pointing to our newest housing development across the street. “We should tell you, we already talked to a neighbor in that cul-de-sac”—he checked his notebook—“a Mr. Lawrence, who left late for work yesterday morning, around nine thirty, and says he saw a silver SUV pull away from in front of your house. He says they were in a hurry. He could not say how many were in the vehicle, nor could he describe them.”

  “That make any sense to you?” Officer Nolan asked, his Adam’s apple on the move.

  “I don’t know anyone who owns a silver SUV, if that’s what you mean.”

  “What time did you leave here?”

  I thought back to what seemed like ancient history, when I left my house yesterday for Zeeman. I’d wanted to be there by ten, so I left…I drew in my breath. “I left about nine thirty,” I said. “I just missed them?”

  A new brand of shiver went through me as I contemplated the arrival of criminals in broad daylight
. How would I have dealt with meeting them in person? Would they have aimed the brick directly at my head?

  Officer Coyne seemed to sense what was going through my mind. “They probably waited around the corner for you to leave,” he said, in his low, comforting voice. “That’s what they do.”

  “I would have thought they’d wait till it was dark.”

  “Well, ma’am, this is good news in a way. It shows they didn’t want to take a chance that you’d be home. They weren’t out to hurt you,” Officer Coyne said. His partner nodded reassuring agreement.

  “Thanks,” I said, returning to my normal breathing. “Both of you.”

  As the officers took their leave a short while later, I made a note to tell Virgil what a good job they were doing at the police academy these days.

  I couldn’t afford useless dallying, running different brick scenarios through my head. I had a meeting to get to. I checked my phone and found a text from Elysse.

  “C U at CF.”

  Message received. Did Elysse figure out why I’d switched the meeting to CF? Was she happy that her brick-throwing plan worked, and frightened me—or, rather, my boyfriend—into choosing a public place? Did I care?

  I checked Elysse’s Facebook page before I left and was relieved to see that action had slowed on her wall. Whew. I was already old news. Her friends had moved on. To vandalism?

  I’d taken Elysse’s initial phone call as a sign of conciliation. Now I questioned her motives. I could hardly wait to find out what else she had in mind. If the brick was some kind of opening salvo, she had a lot to learn about negotiating.

  I parked on campus and walked past the Student Union building and out through the gate behind the Clara Barton dorm, where Kira was still in residence. I wondered if she was up yet, and how she’d react at the Graves memorial in less than two hours. I was glad yesterday’s rain was short-lived. Services for lost loved ones were sad enough without a downpour from the sky. At least Kira would wake to bright, pleasant weather.

  Let’s take care of one student at a time, I reminded myself. Elysse Hutchins was next. But as I crossed Main Street, I allowed myself thirty seconds to clear my head of all student issues and focus on the magnificent median strip. A riot of orange and yellow daylilies with profuse green foliage lined the street for several blocks in either direction. It was enough to make me want to take very early retirement and do gardening full-time.

  The Coffee Filter was busy enough that Bruce wouldn’t worry for my safety—he’d already checked in to make sure I kept my promise about meeting my antagonist in a public place—but not so crowded that I couldn’t get a good table that allowed for me sit with my back to the wall, eyes front, to spot Elysse when she came in.

  At almost all surrounding tables were people working on laptops or other electronic devices. I noted only one table with two women talking to each other without technological assistance. Like all the coffeehouses of today, the Coffee Filter served a whole different purpose from even a few years ago. Instead of asking, “Cream and sugar?” which were now off on a counter for self-service, customers were offered the Wi-Fi password with their drinks.

  I made it a policy never to arrive unprepared to wait for a meeting to start, whether a whole academic department or only one other person was involved. I kept a thin leather travel portfolio stocked with printouts of puzzles, some to solve, some on the way to completion for my puzzle magazine editor. Often, I’d become so engrossed in a conundrum or a math game or a twisty puzzle, I’d forgotten that a meeting had been set up.

  Today was no exception. I arrived at the Coffee Filter at 8:17, ordered a latte and a cheese Danish, and settled in for a puzzling session. It was a much more reasonable way to spend the time than fretting over what Elysse might want or what my strategy should be, especially regarding the brick incident.

  I pulled out a set of riddles sent by a grad school friend who had moved back to his hometown in Iowa. We’d been mailing occasional challenges to each other for many years. I wondered why this set seemed particularly easy, until I read the accompanying note. John was offering riddles that I might use for my younger Zeeman Academy students. I whipped through the first few.

  What word is heavy when written forward and not when written backward?

  Answer: Ton.

  On to the next one.

  The letters in the phrase redo now can be rearranged to form one word. What is it?

  The answer was too easy, even for fourth graders: redo now is an anagram for one word.

  I appreciated the value of fun-filled wordplay to help sharpen the critical-thinking skills of young minds, but I needed something more difficult if I was going to steer clear of worrisome thoughts.

  I abandoned the grade school riddles and started working on a seven-by-seven grid wordplay puzzle. I kept coming back to the day’s meetings, however, projecting ahead to Elysse’s arrival, to the memorial service, to lunch with Principal Richardson. To many questions. Was Elysse going to be packing another brick and try to ambush me in the Coffee Filter’s ladies’ room? Would the service for Mayor Graves be formal or informal? I’d dressed for in between and hoped I’d blend in. Was Principal Richardson going to fire me? I’d grown to like the younger kids and hoped to do another volunteer year at Zeeman Academy.

  I’d already run through several possible openings for the moment when Elysse plunked herself down across from me. My practice dialogue ran the gamut from sarcastic to pleading to threatening.

  Thanks for the new window.

  I’m so sorry, forgive me, please don’t ruin my reputation as a good, fair teacher.

  Back off, or we’ll rescind your degree.

  Here’s your A, now go away.

  On second thought, I’ve given you zero points on every problem, retroactive to your full two years.

  I was contemplating Can you help me get more Friends to Like my cause? when Elysse showed up, dressed scantily for a chilly morning—two or three pastel tank tops over a pair of denim shorts. I considered it a lucky break for me since I wouldn’t have to be concerned that she was wearing a wire. And her pixie haircut was too short to hide any ear device. So far, so good.

  “Hey, Dr. Knowles.”

  “Hey, Elysse.”

  An awkward silence followed the “hey” volley, but I felt it was her turn. I couldn’t remember ever being so intimidated by a student. I’d had my share of complaints before, especially about grades, but I’d always been able to work it out. More often than not, the student was successful in convincing me that I’d misjudged or been unclear about an aspect of an assignment or exam. For years, I’d done this amicably, without the help of social networking or messages dispatched in unconventional ways.

  Elysse had picked up an iced coffee on the way to the table and set it down now, nearly tipping it over in the process. Maybe she was nervous, too. Or it could have been simply that her loose backpack gave her an unstable center of mass.

  “I got your message,” she said. She cocked her head from side to side. “Duh. Of course I did. That’s why I’m here”—she pointed in the direction of Franklin Hall—“and not there.” Her expression turned serious. “And I got your other message, too.”

  “What other message?”

  I wished I’d looked over our email communication again so I’d be ready for whichever email or text she was talking about.

  But apparently she was referring to something altogether different.

  She reached into her pocket for a piece of paper, folded into one quarter its size. “This one,” she said.

  My first shock was that Elysse’s tight shorts could have held such a thickness. My second shock came when she unfolded the sheet and showed me a note, neatly typed on the paper.

  You’ll be sorry if you continue this fight.

  S. K.

  I stared at the paper. “What does this mean?” It took a beat for me to realize why she was showing me the note. And much longer than it should have to realize that S. K. were my o
wn initials. “You think I sent this?”

  “It was slipped under my door. It was there when I woke up yesterday.” She pointed to the letters at the bottom of the note and frowned. “S. K. That’s you, right?”

  I shook my head, slowly, trying to make sense of the message and the presence of my initials. “I don’t even know where you live right now, Elysse.”

  “I’m crashing with my cousin until my apartment in Boston is ready.” She sat back. “That’s right. How would you know that?”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “Kira didn’t tell you?” She frowned. “Wait. I don’t think Kira knows yet. Then who sent it?”

  “I don’t know. It must be some other S. K,” I offered.

  “But I’m not fighting with anyone else.”

  “Are we fighting, Elysse?” I took out my phone and opened my photo gallery to the pictures I’d taken of the incident that became the subject of a Henley PD police report. “Now that I think of it, I guess we are.”

  I placed the phone to face her, showing her first the photo of the shattered glass of my patio door, then scrolling to the brick and the note, then back. I doubted she could have faked the horrified look on her face.

  Elysse pulled the phone closer to her and scrolled back and forth herself, stopping at the glaring “Support Elysse.”

  “Is this your house, Dr. Knowles?” The question was pitched high, with the word house at the highest pitch of all, from a very upset young woman.

  “Elysse—”

  “I know I started this with Facebook and all, but I never, never would do that.” Elysse pointed to the phone and the offending photos, then pushed the phone away and crossed her arms over her chest. “I never meant for things to get this far. I’m on Facebook, you know, like all students, and we vent. It’s just to vent. Do you think my friends are doing this? I mean my”—she made quotation marks in the air—“‘Friends’ on Facebook?”

  “I don’t know what to think, except that we should settle this issue once and for all before we leave here. I’m sorry—”