The Probability of Murder

by Ada Madison

  But lying was never a good way to start a relationship.

  Whirrrr. Whirrrr. Whirrrr.

  Another wake-up call, at seven PM, from my cell phone.

  I couldn’t remember a time since cramming for finals in college when I’d had such crazy sleeping patterns. Even as a child, transitions from sleeping to waking up and back were tough for me, which was why I’d never been a fan of napping. Each time I woke up from the involuntary naps in this latest spree, no matter the length, I was groggy all over again.

  No wonder I felt a week had passed since Charlotte’s murder. Since Bruce left for his climbing trip. Since my home had been invaded and bugged and my duffel bag stolen.

  “Hey,” Ariana said. “I just got your messages. I’m on my way.”

  “Your phone was off.” A completely gratuitous comment, but just another sign of my lack of coherence on first waking up.

  Ariana cleared her throat. “Luke just left.”

  “Got it.”

  Buzzz.

  My doorbell.

  I clicked off with Ariana and tucked the folder of fax sheets under a large coffee table book on the history of mathematics, just in case my visitor wasn’t cleared to see the material on Daryl. If President Aldridge dropped by, for example, she might have questions about how I came to have the files. I smiled at the thought of Olivia’s stopping by for tea.

  My amusement turned to amazement when I looked out the peephole at a tall, fiftyish woman in designer rain gear.

  “Olivia,” I said. “Come in.”

  Olivia kicked off her fashionable burgundy boots before I could tell her it wasn’t necessary, and walked into my humble abode. Though the president was very formal at school, I knew her to be quite the opposite in a social setting. She’d been to my home only one other time, when I hosted a faculty party here and, as I recalled, she’d all but led a conga line.

  “Sophie,” she said, in a tone that was half-reproachful and half-best-friendish. “I assume you know.”

  “And didn’t tell me” hung in the air. That was the reproachful half.

  No sense playing dumb. “I haven’t known for long,” I said, following her to my den. I was impressed that she knew her way, and that she maintained her presidential bearing in the face of a college scandal; that is, she wasn’t hysterical, as I might have been in her shoes.

  While damage to the reputation of the college had slipped through the cracks on my list of concerns around Charlotte’s murder, Olivia couldn’t afford that luxury. I realized now that I should have gone to her with the information, but I’d had no way of knowing if Virgil intended it to be public at that time.

  Olivia plopped into an easy chair in the den, thankfully not near the buried fax sheets, and helped herself to a chocolate from a candy dish on the end table. “How in the world could we have let this happen?” she asked, working her mouth around the truffle.

  I didn’t know whether “this” was Charlotte’s murder or hiring her in the first place, so I responded generically, “We couldn’t have known.”

  “It’s hopeless to raise anyone in Human Resources on a Sunday, but I need to know how an ex-convict could have made it past all the supposedly foolproof screens we have in our hiring process. We buy all this expensive software and still…” She blew out an exasperated breath and took another candy. “You read about this all the time, like that man who forged a Harvard law degree and was attorney general of some southern state for a while.”

  “You just don’t think you’re going to be conned yourself,” I finished, glad to share my sense of betrayal and humiliation with my boss.

  While I made coffee, I texted Ariana and called her off until later in the evening. My antiestablishment friend did not mix well with the upper levels of management.

  “Nothing personal,” she always said.

  For the next half hour, over coffee and a modest plate of snacks I’d put together, Olivia and I commiserated and reminisced about a woman we both mistakenly thought we knew.

  I felt it was about time I shared the highlights of what I’d learned from Charlotte’s rap sheet. Olivia would be facing the press soon, as well as the campus community, and she needed to know at least as much as I did.

  She took it all in with as much equanimity as could be expected.

  “The memorial service,” Olivia said at one point, as if she were announcing an agenda item at an all-hands meeting.

  “I haven’t done anything about it,” I admitted.

  “I should think not.”

  “What are you thinking? Skip it altogether?” I asked, hopeful.

  Olivia took another deep breath; I’d stopped counting how many.

  “This news about Charlotte’s past is just out on one of my Internet news services. I imagine by tomorrow it will be in every paper and on everyone’s tongue. I suppose I’ll call an assembly and just put it out there with some weasel words about how no one is perfect, et cetera. She was a member of our staff and she was murdered on campus. I can’t just dismiss that.”

  Olivia seemed to be brainstorming with herself. I let her talk. She’d been in office about four years and was one of the more forward-looking administrators in Henley’s recent history. I was confident that she would do us proud.

  “I did reach Martin today to get his take on it,” she said.

  “Martin Melrose?” Apparently he was taking calls from the president, if not from me.

  “Melrose, yes. He’s on the hiring committee. I wondered if he remembered any red flags when she was being considered for the job. He says he can’t recall what her application looked like, but he’ll check her file in the morning. He says he’s hardly seen or talked to her since she was hired two years ago.”

  “Is that right?”

  Shame on you, Marty. Lying to the president. At the moment I didn’t feel compelled to explain the lottery pool to Olivia. She had enough to think about without worrying that her money guy might have some shady past of his own. But I planned to grill him intensively at our brown-bag lunch date tomorrow.

  Olivia stood and picked crumbs from her skirt and deposited them on her plate. I followed her as she carried it to the kitchen. Nice manners.

  “We should close the loop on a memorial service soon, but I’m inclined to have a simple moment of silence for her sometime this week,” she said, retrieving her boots from the entryway. “Would that work for you? In lieu of a formal ceremony?”

  I pretended to consider the idea for a few seconds and then nodded, rejoicing inwardly. “Whatever you think,” I said.

  It had been a stress-free visit, with some faculty-administration bonding and a decision that got me off the hook for eulogizing a woman I’d lost all respect for. It felt good.

  Why did Olivia have to spoil the moment? Her gaze landed on one of the framed climbing photographs of Bruce that hung by the front door.

  “That looks very dangerous,” she said.

  “Bruce is an experienced climber,” I said, echoing what all my supporters had been telling me.

  I realized I needed to get some new photographs. Maybe one of Ariana in her shop and a couple of the Friday Ben Franklin Hall parties.

  I hoped Bruce, the experienced climber, would be around to help me mount them.

  My landline rang the moment Olivia drove off. If I didn’t have caller ID, I wouldn’t have answered. I’d been keeping both phones next to me all evening, waiting for a call from Jenna, or from Bruce himself.

  “Hey, Virgil,” I said.

  “I’m soaking wet. I hope you have something stronger than tea,” he said.

  “Where are you?”

  “Two houses down, walking in the rain.”

  “Were you waiting outside for Olivia to leave?”

  “Uh-huh. I pulled up right when she did. I didn’t think she’d stay that long.”

  “You could have joined us,” I said, rummaging in the fridge for a beer, which is what Virgil meant by “something stronger.”

  “I figu
re you had private college business to discuss. And I didn’t figure her digging into the pizza I brought.”

  “I’m starving.”

  “I’m clicking off.”

  By the time I pulled out a beer, Virgil arrived on my doorstep, dripping wet and loaded down. He held in his arms a large moving box and on top of that a pizza box wrapped in a waterproof sleeve.

  “Where did you get this cover?” I asked, relieving him of the food, enjoying the aroma of tomato sauce and the works even through thick, dark plastic.

  “Badges are still good for something,” he said. I couldn’t imagine how Virgil had managed to carry the boxes and talk on his cell at the same time until I noticed his Bluetooth earpiece. “I suppose you’re going to comment on this thing on my ear,” he said.

  “Since you brought food, I’m letting you off the hook, but congratulations, and welcome to a technology that’s only about twelve years old.”

  “Smart aleck.” Virgil removed his Bluetooth device and put it in his jacket pocket. “They gave them out to everyone. I intended to accidently lose it, but I have to admit it’s pretty handy. ’Scuse the pun.”

  I’d waited long enough. I faced Virgil, my back to all the boxes. “Not that you’re not always welcome, but are you here because of Bruce?” I was amazed I got the whole sentence out without falling apart.

  “Bruce? Should I be?”

  Of course not. Only in a state of extreme anxiety would I assume that a homicide detective in Henley, Massachusetts, would have a hotline to a park ranger in Franconia Notch, New Hampshire.

  I gave Virgil a short version, as calmly as I could, of the storm, the avalanche, and Bruce’s status as missing.

  “Sophie, Bruce is—”

  I held up my hand. “Please don’t tell me that Bruce is an experienced climber.”

  “Okay, I get it. I’m sure you’re tired of hearing that. But who says he’s missing? Is that the term the ranger used?”

  “I don’t know for sure. Jenna used it.”

  Virgil walked around me and took a seat at the table, forcing me to do the same if I wanted to maintain eye contact.

  “So there’s nothing official,” he said, settling his bulk on the chair. “Waiting out a storm is not the same as being missing.”

  “It sounds the same to me. The ranger said they couldn’t rescue the guys until things got calmer.”

  “Rescue is another one of those words. You have to ask yourself, did the ranger use it, or was that Jenna’s interpretation?”

  I desperately wanted to adopt Virgil’s perspective. “Okay, you have a good point.”

  “Bruce has been ‘rescued’ many times. And he’s been more annoyed each time than the one before.”

  “I know.”

  “Then you know it just means he needs help getting down, and he hates that. He’d rather slide down a thousand feet with a broken leg, and he’s probably waiting somewhere until the right time to do that.”

  “You think he has a broken leg?”

  Virgil blew out a loud breath. “Come on, Sophie.”

  “Kidding,” I said.

  “I’m glad you got your sense of humor back. But, look, if you want to be alone with this right now, I’m out of here. You want me to leave?”

  Virgil was kindly giving me the option of wallowing in my distress over my non-missing boyfriend. He looked concerned enough even to leave the pizza behind if that’s what I wanted.

  I finally noticed the label on the large carton Virgil had brought in and placed on my kitchen island. The handwritten label read: “PROP, C. CROCKER.”

  Besides pizza, he’d brought me a box of Charlotte’s things.

  I said, “Of course I don’t want you to leave.”

  Virgil promised to review the contents of the box with me as soon as he was a little drier and had a few hundred calories of food and drink in him.

  I handed him a towel and he headed first for the bathroom.

  I headed for the box.

  The top flaps weren’t sealed, but were simply folded over one another. An invitation to dive in, which I did.

  I moved the carton to the floor for easier access and dug through the contents. It wasn’t obvious how or why these particular items had landed in this box. I found a mixture of things, some from Charlotte’s office and some from her home. An engagement calendar and a wall calendar, both with a rare book theme. A small bobblehead doll of a librarian, which I was sure she hadn’t bought herself. A velvet pouch with reading glasses on a beaded chain that I’d made for her, with Ariana’s help.

  An unsealed envelope contained photographs from the library open house during orientation last summer. I sifted through them, recognizing some students and faculty. I picked out Daryl and several other students from my classes. I saw more than one of Chelsea with a badge that said “Sophomore Volunteer.” I hoped her volunteer activities were in her control.

  Charlotte wasn’t in any of the photographs. I never knew until now why she always refused to have her picture taken.

  Various size envelopes in the box were sealed shut. I’d do Virgil the courtesy of waiting for him to open them.

  Surely this didn’t represent the sum total of Charlotte’s belongings. Where were her clothes? Her huge inventory of shoes and purses? What had happened to her furniture?

  I heard footsteps and leaned over to see Virgil coming down the hall, back toward the kitchen. He seemed to have come from the guest room, which was past the bathroom, but I couldn’t be sure.

  “You didn’t wait to look in the box. I’m shocked,” Virgil said, his hair slicked back and drier. I’d raised the temperature on the thermostat when Olivia arrived and left it there now.

  “What about all the rest of her belongings?” I asked.

  “Funny you should mention that. I don’t know how you feel about this, but it would be nice if you worked with the lady at county who’ll have to take care of that. If they can’t find legitimate heirs, it goes through probate. You might be able to make her job a little easier.”

  “I never realized how complicated things could be for a loner.”

  “Can I give her your number?” Virgil gave me fifteen seconds to respond, then said, “You can think it over, decide a little later.”

  “Who gets her body?”

  “Do you want it?” he asked.

  I laughed. “Casual question, casual answer. I can’t believe I asked it that way.”

  “Natural, nervous reactions,” Virgil said. “I knew what you meant. And what I meant was: Do you want to be involved in the disposition of her remains?”

  I didn’t need time to think it over. “No. I’m sorry. I don’t. I guess I was just curious, since there’s no hope of finding a relative.”

  “Well, then, to answer your question, first the state has to offer the body of the deceased to a school that might want it.”

  “You mean a medical school?”

  “Could be. Or it could go to students in dentistry, mortuary science, physical therapy. Most cosmetic surgery teachers want just the heads.”

  I cringed. Sometimes it’s best to keep yourself in temporary denial about the realities of life and death.

  To accompany this weird conversation, Virgil and I separated pizza slices and put them on plates, two for him, one for me. I knew he was just getting started and that there would be no leftovers tonight.

  “I won’t be asking that question again,” I said.

  “Be glad someone else deals with all that for us. As for the rest of the process, there’ll be notices in the paper to see if anyone shows up. If no one claims a body within ten days and no school wants it, the state will pay a flat fee to some lucky funeral director for a suitable burial, including a grave marker, a clergyman, and I forget what else. Massachusetts has more rules than most states. We have stiff requirements.” Virgil shook his head, nearly blushed. “I guess this is my punny day.”

  Miraculously, we both maintained our decorum.

  I kept my word
and watched Virgil down half the pizza and two beers before mentioning his investigation. I stopped after one slice and a ginger ale.

  “Can we share now?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t have come if I wasn’t ready to talk,” he said. “We knew we couldn’t keep things close to the vest forever. When I saw President Aldridge pull up in front of your house, I was even more sure that the word was out.” I nodded confirmation. “Tomorrow’s paper will have the news of Charlotte’s past, and everyone will know what we know.”

  “What was the big secret?”

  Virgil shrugged. “I told you, once we figured out Charlotte Crocker was the woman wanted in several states, we were trying to figure out who her accomplices were. We knew she wasn’t working all by herself.”

  “Did you find anyone?”

  “That we did.” Virgil looked pleased. “The Jane and John Does on the duffel bag notes? We had the cooperation of the lottery commission, and some cops and FBI geniuses got together and found them. They’re in custody and the world has a few less scam artists. Of course, their lottery scams were small potatoes compared to some big-time cons they pulled off.”

  “That was fast work. Was Charlotte working with them or was she their victim or…?”

  Virgil gave me another shrug. Whether it was an “I don’t know” shrug or an “I can’t tell you” shrug, I couldn’t tell.

  “They were already on to some key players,” he said. “The notes just put the icing on the cake and told them exactly which lottery game each one was linked to.”

  “I’m glad I didn’t spend any more time researching Powerball and—I forget the names of the other games.”

  “Look at it this way, now you’ll know what everyone is talking about around the water cooler.”

  “It’s true that more people I know buy those tickets than I thought.”

  “It’s about numbers, Sophie. I’m surprised you don’t play.”

  I shook my head. “There’s nothing to calculate. It’s too much like guessing and a lot of luck.” I looked at Virgil and realization struck. “Do you play, Virgil?”

  He assumed what Bruce and I called his amused embarrassment expression, like when Bruce asked him how he liked a new woman on the police force.