The Probability of Murder

by Ada Madison

  “I’ll follow you home, then.”

  “I need to stop in Franklin Hall first.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  Sometimes I was glad for Bruce’s persistence, and this was one of those times.

  My task at Franklin Hall was to revisit the scene of the party and make sure things were put away and neatened, in case old Woody, our friendly, trusted janitor, had buckled under the extra workload. The math and science students were dependable, taking turns as cleanup crew, but the arrival of the city of Henley’s entire emergency crew had significantly changed the Friday afternoon rhythm.

  I knew my own rhythm would be thrown off indefinitely. Time would help, but the best feelings would return only when the police had found my friend’s killer. I wished I could do something to help them.

  Bruce and I entered the pitch-dark basement of Benjamin Franklin Hall just before eight o’clock. Smells from chemistry on four and biology on three always permeated the air when the doors and windows had been closed up even for a couple of hours. I imagined drips of nasty stuff seeping down, polluting the clean floors of math and physics on one and two. Down here below street level, the atmosphere was worst of all, since there was nowhere else for the ghastly molecules to go.

  The old building seemed to creak under our weight and I was doubly glad of Bruce’s presence. I flicked on the lights as we made our way to the elevator.

  When the doors opened on the first floor, I was surprised to see a light at the end of the hall, leaking out from under the door to the lounge. Woody wouldn’t ordinarily close the door while he was working, nor would the frugal old man leave a light on.

  Bruce instinctively put his arm out and walked in front of me, the way parents do when they’re about to stop short and don’t want their kids taking a header through the windshield.

  But years of living with students and knowing their habits told me what was happening in the lounge after hours. As we walked toward the lounge, I coughed so loudly that Bruce stopped and turned to face me. “What’s happening?”

  “I’m sounding an alarm,” I said.

  His confusion was short-lived as Chelsea and Daryl, the guy who’d challenged her Escher-like one-surface loops, stepped to the door of the lounge, still arranging various parts of their clothing. I was glad that academic differences hadn’t kept them from a budding relationship. Or maybe it was in full blossom.

  “Oh, hi, Dr. Knowles and Mr. Granville. We’re just, like, cleaning up,” Chelsea said, though the long conference table we’d used for this afternoon’s buffet was still piled with the detritus of the Möbius party.

  “How nice of you,” I said.

  “It’s so sad about Ms. Crocker,” Chelsea said, running her fingers through very long and tangled chestnut hair. I didn’t blame her for being eager to shift my attention from the shoes next to the brown plastic couch. I knew she was an easy mark if I chose to tease, but I was in a mood to let her off the hook.

  “Yes, it is sad,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Daryl added. He patted all sides of the small patch of blond hair on his chin as if it were the most rumpled part of his overall look. “Have they caught the guy yet?”

  “How’s her family doing?” Chelsea asked.

  “I don’t know anything yet,” I said. I realized I knew very little about Charlotte’s family. I decided to call her nephew in Boston, Noah, if I could find his number.

  “Well, if you see them or anything, tell them we’re really sorry,” Chelsea said.

  “Thanks, I will. I’ll be in my office if you want to store any of these leftovers for next week.” I had no desire to talk about Charlotte with students who had other pressing things on their minds.

  “We’ll just take everything back to the dorms, if that’s okay,” Chelsea said.

  “No problem. Have a great weekend,” I said, as if one were in store for me, too.

  The couple’s faces took on expressions of joy, pleasure, anticipation, a very cool evening to come. I couldn’t name it, but whatever the emotion, it butted up against my feelings of loss, for Charlotte, for everyone who would not have a very good weekend.

  I turned and nearly ran down the hallway.

  “That was too much of I don’t know what,” I half-explained to Bruce as we sat in my office. “How can anyone be happy right now?”

  “I get it. Let’s just do what you have to do here quickly and go home. How did those kids get in anyway? And why’d they pick this building for their romp?”

  I was glad to have something to smile about. “Students are very resourceful when they need privacy. The couch in the lounge may be the best they can manage that doesn’t cost money.”

  Bruce nodded understanding, his eyebrows raised in an expression that said he finally got it. Perhaps remembering his own college days? Another time, I’d have teased him.

  “This year, with men on the campus, things are even worse,” I added. “The girls are crowded into Clara Barton and Paul Revere dorms, so the guys can have a whole building to themselves. The boys are in the middle dorm. Nathaniel Hawthorne.”

  “Girls to the left; girls to the right,” Bruce joked.

  “And you can imagine how much jockeying around goes on. The math and science students are lucky”—I spread my arms to indicate all of Franklin Hall—“they have their own building. Every Franklin resident knows Woody’s schedule. He leaves the basement door open while he wheels the trash out from various locations, and during that twenty or thirty minutes a marching band could enter the building.”

  “So much for security. You might want to rethink that campus safety plan.”

  I sighed. “No kidding.”

  I threw folders into my briefcase. A mere gesture, since I doubted I’d get much done this weekend.

  My eyes landed on a green-and-gold duffel bag in the corner. Charlotte’s. I remembered now that Charlotte had given it to me on Wednesday after lunch. It was a different one from the navy blue bag she regularly took to the gym. Though I was happy to do her a favor, I remembered being confused by the reason she wanted to leave the bag with me.

  “I’m going to visit a friend in a convalescent hospital that’s not in the best part of town,” she’d said. “I’d feel better if I didn’t have anything tempting in my car.”

  “Isn’t this just full of your gym clothes?” I’d asked.

  “More or less,” she’d said.

  “But I guess a break-in artist wouldn’t know he was stealing dirty laundry until he’d already broken in.”

  “Uh-huh. That’s why I’d like to leave it here. And, just think, if I don’t come back for it”—she’d pointed to the duffel—“it’s all yours.”

  “Thanks a lot,” I’d responded.

  Now I regretted how I’d hesitated to grant what turned out to be my friend’s last request. Had I missed an important signal by not asking her to explain what she meant by not coming back for it?

  Bruce picked up Charlotte’s green-and-gold duffel along with my briefcase and my own red-and-gray duffel that served as supplementary overnight luggage.

  “Feels like her rock collection is in here,” he said, pretending to be bent from the weight of Charlotte’s bag.

  “You always say that,” I reminded him.

  “Because you gals always carry way too much.”

  “Remember that the next time you want to borrow my nail clippers.”

  Here we were fooling around as if my friend hadn’t just been murdered. I stifled a sob, but not before Bruce heard it.

  Bruce led me out of the building with a look that said he wasn’t willing to negotiate. “I’m driving you home,” he said.

  This time I didn’t argue.

  It felt better than ever to be off the campus and on a stool at my country kitchen island. Bruce made himself at home with my pots and pans and the meager contents of my fridge. I’d planned to grocery shop after our getaway in Boston. Still, I knew Bruce would work his magic, and there’d be a spicy concoction for our la
te dinner.

  I drained my now lukewarm mocha and ate another chocolate cookie for an appetizer. Comfort food always helps.

  While he peeled and chopped remnants of veggies and stirred something aromatic on the stove, Bruce tried to distract me with talk of his upcoming climb. On Sunday, he’d be off to a mountain in New Hampshire with Kevin and Eduardo, two flight nurses from MAstar.

  “Have you ever thought of paying the small fee and just taking the tram ride to the top? The view’s the same, right?”

  Bruce smiled a no comment, and I remembered how he felt about people who rode the tram. He insisted that climbers shouldn’t have to share the same peak with those who were carried up in luxury.

  “This’ll be Kevin’s first major climb,” he said, proceeding on his own track. “He doesn’t know it, but he’s going to be our belay monkey.”

  “Is this a test to see if I remember what that means?” One of the first things Bruce had taught me about climbing was that belay was not a verb form of belie. I took the bait and the opportunity to show off. “Kevin is going to feed you guys the rope at the beginning of a pitch, and a pitch is sort of a section of the mountain, one rope length long, and you climb one section at a time.”

  “Not bad.”

  “I also remember that climbing in New Hampshire is where your friend Larry fell and broke his wrist in three places and dislocated all the bones in the palms of his hands.”

  “There you go, exaggerating. Larry broke only three of eight bones in his right wrist. He’s been climbing different routes on that peak since he was in college. He got sloppy is all.”

  “That’s comforting.”

  Why Bruce thought this topic was a good distraction was beyond me. An image of him two hundred miles away and several thousand feet up on the side of a mountain with dried fruit for meals was not what I needed in a time of stress. But he chattered on.

  “This will be Kevin’s first multi-pitch, alpine-like climb, so it will be fun for Eduardo and me to teach him a few things.” Bruce smiled playfully and tossed a carrot in the air before setting it on the cutting board. I hoped he didn’t have something similar in mind for Kevin.

  “I wish you weren’t going,” I said.

  Where had that come from?

  Bruce was understandably concerned at my remark. It wasn’t like me to dissuade him from indulging a hobby he loved. You couldn’t ask a guy who’d done a tour in Saudi Arabia and now landed helicopters on the freeway for a living to sit out all other adventures. Besides that, in times of stress, my preferred state was solitude.

  He turned off the stove and came over to me. “Really? Because I’ll cancel the trip right now.”

  I quickly waved away the idea. “No, no. I don’t know why I said that.”

  “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that right away.” His beautiful dark eyes turned sad. “Here I am joking around and you’ve just lost a friend.”

  Now I felt really bad. Guilt-tripping my boyfriend. Hours of planning and expense had already gone into the climb. I had to buck up and send him on his way.

  “I’m going to feel worse if you miss this trip,” I said. “Thanks for offering, though. I’m fine.”

  Bruce sighed, and I could see that he was weighing his next move. I hated that I’d put him in a no-win situation with a silly comment. “Soph—”

  I held up my hand. “I promise I’ll get Ariana to come over if I feel like having company.”

  Bruce finally grinned. “Beading as therapy?”

  “Hey, it works sometimes.”

  Anything was worth a try.

  I’d convinced Bruce to go home to his place after a delicious casserole dinner. Even in my anxious state, I’d been able to eat enough to show my appreciation. Melted Black Diamond cheese will do it every time.

  I wasn’t going to be very good company anyway. One of us moping around my house was enough, and I knew Bruce could use the extra time to pack and prepare the equipment for his trip.

  Boys and their toys. Bruce owned duplicates and triplicates of each important piece of equipment, selecting certain sizes and brands depending on the kind of climbing he anticipated. Much of the gear he left behind was stored in my garage, since his own was substandard and barely housed his car, he claimed.

  The amount of gear he carried on each climb astounded me. I could name a few pieces, like the belaying device that attached to a climber’s harness and controlled the rope, special self-boring ice screws, and strange-looking clips called carabiners. And who couldn’t identify pitons, steel spikes of different lengths and thicknesses, that appeared in every movie-climbing scene? I flashed onto Roger Moore clutching the side of a straight-up-and-down mountain face in one of Bruce’s favorite James Bond movies, the titles of which were interchangeable to me.

  I worried about Bruce’s center of mass shifting, what with his backpack, plus all the odds and ends hanging from his harness.

  “Everything’s attached and racked very carefully,” he’d assured me. He favored me with a demo of where each screw, each piece of nylon webbing, each layer of extra clothing was assigned its location, packed in the order in which he might need it while standing on a tiny ledge, or in other situations I preferred not to hear about.

  Now, sleepless at one in the morning, I wished Bruce were here. Fortunately, I’d had the good sense not to call and invite him over. He’d made good on his promise to get Kevin to help ferry my car here before morning. They’d put my Ford Fusion on the street at the end of my walkway, to keep from waking me up with a noisy garage door opening, I figured. I could, therefore, drive to his house across town right now.

  Not a good idea.

  I wandered around my small cottage-style home, picking up puzzles here and there. First I worked on some of my own construction, for my freelance work. I had a brainteaser due to a puzzle magazine in a week.

  Or, more exactly, my aka, Margaret Stone, had a delivery deadline. I’d been using my mother’s name for my second vocation, at the request of the college administration, particularly the academic dean, who wanted me to keep my professional research identity unsullied by frivolous pursuits. While I’d resisted the edict at first, I now found it fun to have another persona.

  I finished the puzzle, formatted it for submission, and started two more beginning-level teasers involving puns on the names of the days of the week and months of the year.

  When those problems didn’t make me sleepy, I went to work as a solver myself. I sat in my den and polished off two diagramless acrostics. I cracked the code of a difficult crossword called “Reverse the Terms,” waving my fist in the air and hooting at figuring out the answer to the clue “Laundry room short.”

  “Fire in the iron!” I shouted to the empty rooms.

  A few more successes like that—“Hand in the bird” for the clue “What a turkey stuffer has”—and I switched to cryptograms from an old book Ariana had found for me on one of her many yard sale excursions. The cryptoquote that resulted made me smile: “The mind that is anxious about the future is miserable.”

  Had Seneca been thinking of me?

  Puzzled out, I considered working on a bracelet I’d started in Ariana’s shop, A Hill of Beads, but decided I needed daylight to work the tiny glass beads. Ariana would have rolled her eyes at my excuse.

  I left my den and plodded into the kitchen. Maybe more food would induce sleep. I took the remains of the dinner casserole from the fridge and sat at my counter pulling burnt cheese, my favorite part, from around the edges. I wouldn’t tell Bruce his creation tasted better cold.

  A few casserole bites and cookies later, I headed down the hallway toward my bedroom, regretting that it was too late to call Ariana to tell her how good her peanut butter fingers were.

  I passed my home office on my left and saw my duffel bag near the doorway. Bruce had dropped off the load—my briefcase, my red-and-gray bag that had been destined for Boston, and Charlotte’s bag of gym clothes. All three were lined up, their contents a
ll less important than they were even twelve hours ago.

  Might as well unpack my bag, however; maybe the exercise would tire me out.

  I flicked on the light and knelt down to unzip my bag. Something shiny on Charlotte’s bag caught my eye. A small silver padlock hanging from the main zipper of the green-and-gold duffel.

  Strange. Why would anyone lock up sweats and sneakers, clean or dirty?

  Not my business.

  I pulled my vacation clothes out of my own overnight duffel and carried them to my bedroom. Upscale sweats for the long ride and one relatively nice pair of pants for the Friday night dinner that never happened. I put my duffel back in a low corner of my garage with the rest of my luggage, as usual leaving in it small bags with duplicate cosmetics and other essentials for the road, like my favorite travel slippers. I’d need everything soon enough for our Thanksgiving weekend at Bruce’s cousins’ place in Connecticut.

  I looked over, past my car, at what we called Bruce’s corner of my garage. I generously allotted one whole wall where he could display some special pieces, like an antique ice ax his father had given him. I frankly didn’t see the difference between the forty-year-old ax and the brand new one next to it. They both looked lethal, with the sawtooth heads and pointy tails that could dig into hard ice.

  The shiny padlock on Charlotte’s bag called to me. I kept thinking about it, as if it were a logic puzzle I hadn’t been able to solve.

  Not my business.

  On the other hand, Charlotte was gone forever and her bag was in my possession. I thought back to her facetious comment about how it would be all mine if she didn’t reclaim it. For whatever reason, Charlotte had left it in my care.

  Who else’s business was it now? What if there was something in the bag that would help the police find her killer?

  Maybe Charlotte kept an address book in her bag, or even her cell phone. I could use it to contact some of her friends and family and notify them of her death. I had no idea even how to reach her nephew, perhaps her only relative. Noah’s telephone number could be in the book that I was now positive I’d find. I’d done a cursory checking of my own records for his information earlier this evening and had come up blank. I knew the police would track all this down, but wouldn’t Noah like to hear from his aunt’s friend also?