The Quotient of Murder (Professor Sophie Knowles) (20 page)

“Sounds like you’ve thought this through pretty well.”

I gave a vigorous nod, though no one was around to witness it. “The question is, how did Einstein know that Jenn did find the stash on that particular trip last Thursday?”

“Wait, are you poking holes in your own theory now?” Bruce asked.

“I like to stay objective,” I said, picking the last crumbs of cracker from the plate. I pulled an afghan over my legs and stuck another pillow behind me on the couch. This might be my bed for the next two-hour sleeping segment, I mused.

“I’m thinking that Einstein attacked Jenn and then killed Ponytail, which implies he was successful in getting the money finally, and didn’t need Ponytail’s help anymore,” I said. “The fact that he took a chance attacking her means somehow he was sure she had the money in her backpack.”

“Maybe he saw her go up into the tower that day and come down right away, no chance to practice,” Bruce offered.

“Good thinking,” I said. “Plus, there was that one bill that fell out at the scene. Maybe there was another one, or more, before that.”

“Like he saw her leave a trail of bills.”

“Uh-huh. HPD still has the one I found, in their lab.”

“So to speak.”

“Meaning?” I asked.

“Their facility for forensics leaves a lot to be desired. It’s very hard for small departments like Henley to get the resources for any kind of timely reporting, even on things as simple as fingerprints.”

“You sound like Virgil. But I get it.”

I made the mistake of giving in to a yawn and Bruce picked up on it.

“Are you near a bed?”

“Close enough,” I said.

“Do me a huge favor and get some rest. The problems will all be there in the morning.”

It sounded like something my mother would say. I didn’t find it comforting when she said it either.

I thought I’d earned a good night’s sleep, overrated as it might be.

I’d done my part in creating a reasonable theory that tied up crimes spanning twenty-five years. Now if Jenn would continue to recover, and the HPD would simply bring in Einstein and make sure Wendy Carlson was safe, I could get on with my math classes and differential equations research, with puzzling, beading, and lots of quality time with Bruce on the side.

Surely that wasn’t too much to ask.

After a quick check out the window to wave to my protectors in the unmarked car, I took a normal shower and changed into my usual winter nightwear. Feeling somewhat human, I slipped into the guest bed—tomorrow I’d restore my bedroom to its pre-intruder state—at a little before one o’clock in the morning, not even bothering to read before turning out the light and hitting the pillow.

• • •

Clang, clang. Clang, clang.

This time the alarm went off according to plan. After six solid hours of sleep, I was ready to face the day. If all went well, I’d soon know who’d been bombarding my email inbox with junk. My cyberlife would be pleasant again.

I grabbed a cup of coffee and toast and called it breakfast, eating at my counter, watching local news. There was no mention of the Henley campus, but the murder of one Gabriel Warnocky earned a few minutes of attention. The sight of his unpleasant expression and stringy ponytail brought a bitter taste to my mouth, and I added a spoonful of apricot marmalade to my toast.

“A career criminal,” Ponytail was called, with no connection to the area. In other words, citizens of Henley should not be worried about this small blip in the city’s crime stats. The implication was that Ponytail committed his crimes elsewhere, his body inconsiderately dumped in Henley. The upbeat news lady almost made me cheer.

Back in my bedroom, which still seemed unclean to me, I donned wool pants and three layers of upper wear. I was in as good a mood as possible, given the five to ten extra pounds of attire necessary to weather the outdoors. As I laced up my short black boots, unfashionable according to Ariana, I missed her and my sandals.

• • •

I drove along Henley Boulevard and turned into the southwest entrance to campus at eight fifteen, an hour later than my customary arrival time, but more rested than I’d been in several days.

Morty Dodd, one of the regular security staff, greeted me. “Morning, Professor Knowles. Lots of action here already today.”

“Really?”

He pointed toward the fountain. “There’s a bunch of cop cars over in back of Admin.”

I felt my pulse quicken.
Not another incident.
I couldn’t stand the idea of another crime or insult to me or my campus.

“What happened?” I asked, shutting my eyes for a moment, shielding myself against the answer.

“Dunno, but they drove in about an hour ago and they’re still buzzing around back there. Us guards are the last to know.”

“I’ll see what I can find out,” I said. I shifted to drive and rolled away toward the tennis court parking area. Once I passed the west wing of Admin, I was able to see two HPD cars between the fountain and the wing. Not exactly “a bunch of cop cars” as Morty had reported, and I didn’t see cops “buzzing around” either, but the position of the vehicles directly at the rear entrance to the tower was ominous.

Until I thought of my conversation with Virgil. The HPD was here to search the tower for a stash of money. I wished I could have given back that extra hour of sleep and been here to greet them.

I parked quickly in the one available spot in what we considered the Ben Franklin lot, and walked back toward the action. I was glad for my extra layers of clothing this morning. Temperatures had plummeted, according to the weather lady on the morning news, and I felt every additional lost degree.

The wind and freezing air triggered a hope that the Franklin Hall heater was fixed by now, and not by Einstein. The thought of Harold Warnocky, aka Einstein, aka murderous fugitive from justice, skulking around our basement last week sent an extra chill through me. What if Judy, who’d reported seeing the “hunky guy,” or one of the students had engaged him in conversation and he’d become agitated and had struck out at them in some way? He’d shot Ponytail—allegedly, I added, in deference to the letter of the law—so it was conceivable that he carried a gun on a regular basis.

I wondered if the HPD had searched the grounds for him. Maybe they’d find him in the tower. Which was where I was headed. Smart.

My eyes watered and my cheeks burned from the cold. I pulled one thickness of my knit scarf over my nose, leaving just enough of an opening to breathe, and continued on until I reached the yellow and black tape that warned of construction hazards. I figured our PR representatives convinced the cops that the message was just as effective in keeping people away. Another dose of crime scene tape so soon after the last one wouldn’t be good for our image.

Since it was only a warning, not a “Keep Out—This Means You” sign, I slipped under the stiff plastic and walked as close as I could to the tower entrance, where a uniformed officer stood guard. Perhaps it was the stately shape of the tower that inspired him to stand as stiff as a royal guard, arms straight by his side, an imaginary rifle perched against his shoulder.

“Hey, good morning,” I said to the tall, lean young man, as if I were reporting to work on the project. I tried to present a purposeful demeanor, someone with a right to proceed into the tower. A musician, perhaps, ready for an early morning practice session. Or the cleaning lady, hired to polish the enormous bells and dust the keyboard.

“Morning,” the officer said, moving his body toward the center of the opening, the better to block it from my meager frame.

I looked past him—stopping only to read his name,Dillon—and at the yawning cave-like opening. I knew the main tower entrance was through the front of Admin, up the grand set of steps that led to the vestibule of the building, but off to the left. I guessed the cops had chosen to use this rear entrance to the tower rather than park their vehicles out front. I commended them for not appearing to commandeer the whole building, which faced Henley Boulevard, the wide commuters’ thoroughfare.

“Is Detective Mitchell here yet, Officer Dillon?” I asked.

He looked at his watch. “Should be here any minute,” he answered.

I tilted my head even farther to the side, past his shoulders, toward the sepulchral mouth of the tower entrance.

“Okay if I go in?” I asked, hoping he drew his own conclusion, that once Detective Mitchell arrived I’d be going in anyway.

“Hmm, uh,” he said, relaxing his posture, frowning. Considering the reasonableness of my request, I hoped.

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other to emphasize how cold it was and how inhumane it would be to leave a lady outside in these hostile weather conditions. Especially since she clearly was here to meet the detective in charge. It wouldn’t be good for Officer Dillon if he were reported as being uncooperative.

“I guess it would be okay,” the accommodating officer said, stepping aside.

“Great, thanks,” I said, and hurried by him before he could reconsider.

Once through the opening, I needed a good minute to adjust to the darkness. And to the sour, dank odor. It was going to take an enormous dose of air freshener to prepare this venue for concerts, no matter how much structural retrofitting had been done.

I remembered reading FAQ in memos distributed by the administration when the tower work started. One hundred seventy-six feet tall with a belfry at the top. I recalled phrases such as “a beautifully appointed lobby,” “historical artifacts,” and “newly refurbished practice rooms.” Not that I could see any of that at the moment.

Andrew—along with Jenn, before her recent troubles—was excited about a complete schedule of concerts, six days a week when school was in session, and tours of four levels of the tower, which would include the Henley College Carillonist’s (that would be Randy Stephens’s) studio, and a carillon library.

Was I in the right tower? I couldn’t connect any of the buzz and brightness of the memos and brochures with the hollow aboveground crypt, a monument to mustiness, that I’d wheedled my way into.

In the dark, I nearly tripped over the first step, only two or three inches off the stone floor. I braced myself, slamming my hands against the wall, and decided I’d have to throw away my gloves at the first opportunity.

Was the passageway this unpleasant when Wendy Carlson climbed the steps twenty-five years ago to play an instrument that gave out such beautiful sounds? When Kirsten Packard climbed them? Had it been in her plans that she’d never walk down them that last time?

The stone steps spiraled up, making it difficult to see past a couple of feet. I climbed farther, turning corner after corner, hoping a ray of light might seep through the thick, damp wall. I could hear nothing but a whooshing of the wind (
please—wind, and not bats’ wings
) and an occasional tapping or rummaging sound.

If the two police cars had arrived fully loaded, there could be as many as seven officers upstairs, the eighth being my manipulable young friend who was stationed at the doorway, though not too effectively, as I could attest. For all practical purposes, I was surrounded by cops. Why did I feel completely alone and unsafe? I had probably climbed the equivalent of only one normal flight of stairs up from the guard and the sunlight. Still, I wouldn’t have been surprised if I heard a loud clank and the turning of a giant key, locking me in the tower forever.

If I were going to turn back, now would be the time.

I forged ahead, rounded one more corner, and finally heard muffled voices. I considered yelling for help. Maybe one of the cops would come down and escort me the rest of the way. I was saved from embarrassment by a shaft of light through a window in what I guessed was the belfry. I climbed the steps leading to it, expecting eventually to see the practice room.

Creak, creak, creak.

I jumped at the sound of a door opening just behind me.

A voice, low and menacing, nearly knocked me off the step.

“I thought you’d never get here.”

I turned to see Virgil. Did everyone expect me these days? From the BPL to the Henley College tower, I seemed to show up on a cue that I didn’t know about.

I bent over to catch my breath.

“I’d have been here a lot earlier if I’d gotten the memo you distributed to all the badged officers in the HPD,” I said.

“You did okay anyway. Didn’t mean to scare you, by the way,” he said. Unconvincing. My judgment was that he enjoyed my little gasp of fear ever so slightly.

“I walked right by this door. How did I miss it?” I asked him and myself.

“Maybe because it’s the same color as the wall?” Virgil said, ushering me into a brightly lit room, the lobby described in the administrative memos and in the shiny brochures we approved at faculty senate meetings.

The room was warm enough for me to lower my scarf to a fashionable level around my neck. Although the temperature wasn’t so comfortable that I could remove any layers of clothing, it was clearly okay for Virgil, who’d draped his coat over a chair. I was tempted to throw it over my shoulders, but with my knit hat and bulky jacket, I looked enough like a waif as it was.

I saw immediately that the room had two entrances. The normal one from the front tower entrance, at the top of the steps facing Henley Boulevard—the one Virgil had used—and the slimy back entry that I’d so wisely chosen. What I’d done was like climbing to the top of the Empire State Building, then realizing there was a bank of elevators.

The ordinary visitor here for a tour or a concert wouldn’t—shouldn’t—see the innards I’d just passed through. Why hadn’t the guard sent me to the nice part of the tower? Maybe he thought I knew what I was doing. Wrong.

And which portals did Jenn use, entering and leaving? I wondered.

I followed Virgil into the lobby, also a museum of sorts. Wood and glass display cases in the center of the room housed yellowed pages of sheet music and black-and-white photographs of the original construction of the Administration Building, tower included, almost one hundred years ago. At one end of the rounded enclosure was a stained glass window depicting what looked like a gathering of gods and muses, perhaps those especially assigned to music. Upright cases against the wall held small instruments and parts of instruments with documentation I felt sure was interesting. A blowup of a schematic showed how the bells in the tower were connected to the keyboard by a system of wires, springs, and levers. The drawing looked like something Ted’s physics students might have left behind in a Franklin Hall classroom. Fascinating, but for another time.