A Function of Murder (34 page)

Anticlimactic though it was, ten minutes later I stood in the checkout line at Al’s
with the handles of a red plastic basket cutting into my arm. My goal at any market
was the same as what Bruce described as the rules of a skirmish: Get in and get out.
But I’d inadvertently chosen a lane with a chatty checker and a customer who was needy.
I tapped my feet and perused the environment. I scanned the tabloid headlines, but
saw no name I recognized, no “famous” bride or groom who’d sold their wedding photos,
no unexpected split-up I cared about.

My eyes were drawn to a large barrel in the corner of the store, one that I’d seen
before, where customers could drop in donations to a food bank. I was sorry I hadn’t
remembered to pick up a couple of canned items to add to
the container. Next time for sure. The plain brown barrel, made of super heavy cardboard,
had a crude sign taped to it—a letter-size piece of paper with the words “NOT TRASH”
in thick black marker. I hadn’t noticed it before, but I saw the wisdom of such a
warning, given the trash-can-like appearance of the container.

I smiled as I thought of Woody’s “TRASH” and “NOT TRASH” signs in Franklin Hall and
the amusing origin of the practice, going back to Fran’s messy pile of research papers.

I missed my girlfriends. I hadn’t talked to Fran today or to Ariana since the weekend.
I realized they didn’t know about the brick or even the outcome of the Elysse Hutchins
situation. I’d debated whether to call them several times, but fortunately thoughtfulness
and reason won out as I let them have some time with family (Fran) and new friends
(Ariana). Eventually, they’d both hear all my sorry tales.

The needy customer in front of me described to the clerk what she was going to do
with the mushrooms, breadcrumbs, and onions in her basket. Bored as I was, I thought
of taking a phone photo of Al’s Market’s version of “NOT TRASH” and sending it to
Fran. I pulled out my phone and clicked on the camera icon. I framed the picture,
centering the sign.

A flash went off, but not from my camera. From my brain, which finally put itself
in gear, and I knew what our deceased mayor had been doing in my office on graduation
day. More accurately, where exactly he was doing it. He’d hidden something—evidence
I assumed, though of what I wasn’t sure—in the “NOT TRASH” pile. The one place I hadn’t
looked.

In retrospect, it was the smartest place he could have chosen, essentially directing
me to it.
Look here
, he was saying.
It’s not trash.
He knew that no self-respecting janitor would toss something labeled “NOT TRASH.”

The only thing left for me was to dig it—whatever it was—out of the pile, and I’d
have all my answers.

I was so excited about going back to my office, I almost missed my turn when the needy
lady left.

My trunk loaded with four plastic bags from Al’s Market, I drove toward the college.
Still early. I could make a quick trip to my campus office before heading home. Thanks
to Bruce’s taking charge of the ice cream, nothing I’d bought was perishable, unless
you counted the freshly shaved Parmesan.

I wondered if the old-fashioned radio in my car was up to the task of reporting news
in a timely way. If nothing else, the radio would give me a less complicated focus
on the current crime wave than the theories I kept dreaming up.

I caught the end of a story involving the ribbon-cutting ceremony for an important
building in Taunton, about twenty-five miles away, and an upbeat feature on how Stoughton,
another neighboring town, had been chosen as the site of a statewide swim meet at
the end of the summer. I turned up the volume when I heard the start of local Henley
news.

“Birdhouses?” I asked the empty car. There was no accounting for what robbers found
attractive. Maybe they were eBay’s hot item of the month.

I tuned back to the female voice.

Enough. I punched the button for an all-Chopin station, in honor of my piano-playing,
mathematician father. I hoped Cody Graves would eventually be able to enjoy good memories
of his father also.

Rring, rring. Rring, rring.

My Bluetooth rudely interrupted a lovely concerto.

“Hey, Sophie.” Worse, it was Monty’s voice. Hadn’t he hung up on me the last time
we talked on the phone? “Sorry to keep bugging you. I really need your advice. Do
you think I should go to the police and tell them that Chris was there? You remember,
right? What I explained to you about the fight in Admin that night and how Graves
left her, very much alive?”

“You know this because she told you, right?”

“Yes, as soon as it came out that he’d been killed. She called me and I rushed to
campus.”

Surely Monty realized that a devoted brother wasn’t the most credible of witnesses.
I didn’t know what advice to give. I didn’t see how his statement would help Chris.
It wasn’t as if he could alibi her. But I didn’t want to be the one to dissuade him
from going to the cops either.

All I could do was repeat an old refrain. “I’m really sorry I can’t advise you, Monty.
Maybe you should just trust your sister, that she’s told the police the truth, and
if she’s innocent—”

“She is innocent.”

“Then she’ll be fine.”

I tried to put a tone of conviction, but not in the legal sense, behind my words,
as if it were as simple as the quote etched above the entrance to the Henley courthouse:
“The truth will set you free.” Hearing the catch in his voice, I was moved to give
Monty something a little more concrete.

“Actually, if you can just be patient, I’m on the trail of something that might clear
Chris.” For all I knew, what I found in my office might implicate his sister further,
but I wasn’t about to tell Monty that. This was me, bolstering up a distraught colleague.

“Wow. Wow,” Monty said. “I knew you’d come through. What is it, Sophie? Can I help?
Wow.”

Loud and excited as it was, Monty’s voice was nearly overridden by sudden noise in
the background, what sounded like carnival music. “Are you at Disney World?” I asked,
lightening the mood now that we seemed to be less antagonistic toward each other.

Monty laughed. I really had made his day, and hoped I could deliver. “My window’s
open. My office building overlooks the kiddie park on the east side. It’s kind of
fun hearing the kids have such a good time.”

Melanie loved to go to the park when she visited. She went for the rides; we went
for the fresh, hot kettle corn. Henley had something for everyone. But the juxtaposition
of the kids running wild with cotton candy and the cool-but-sophisticated professional
didn’t quite jibe with my image of Monty Sizemore. It could be that I’d been too quick
to judge him.

“Let me close the window,” Monty said. I heard a thud, after which the sound of screaming
kids, newly freed from school, went away. “There, is that better?”

“Yes, but I have to go, anyway. I’ll talk to you later, Monty.”

“You’ll call if you find something that would help Chris? I’ll do anything, make it
worth your while. Name your price.”

What was that about?
Did Monty think I’d work harder if there were a carrot dangling in front of me? I
guessed he never did leave his bottom-line businessman persona far behind. I figured
I’d better hang up before Monty talked himself back to the usual low place he had
on my list of respected academics.

I parked in my usual place near the tennis courts and walked to Franklin Hall. As
I inserted my key in the front door, I wondered when the spring semester would really
be over and I wouldn’t be coming into work every day.

I walked toward my office, my excitement over the “NOT TRASH” pile abating. I started
to doubt my initial reaction to the sign at the market. What a silly idea, thinking
a town dignitary had stashed an important message to me in an innocuous pile of papers
in my office.

I entered the room and looked immediately toward the mound of filing, some of which
by now was actually “TRASH.” My office felt colder than usual at this time of year,
and I wondered if Woody had forgotten to turn off the air-conditioning. The chill
might also have come from the looming paperwork in the corner. I changed into a pair
of jeans that I kept in my tiny closet, made myself a cup of tea from the supplies
in the bottom drawer of my desk, and took a seat on my rocker, diagonally opposite
the heap of
paper. I longed to stay on the chair, Margaret’s blue afghan around me, close my eyes,
and have a quick nap. But that would have been a stall, putting off disappointment.
If the “NOT TRASH” pile was a bust, I had nowhere else to go.

I took a few deep breaths and headed for the pile when my phone rang. A legitimate
stall. Someone was helping me procrastinate.

Kira Gilmore. I hoped she wasn’t back to looking out her dorm window, waiting for
company.

“I don’t want to bother you, Dr. Knowles. I saw your car and I just want to say good-bye.
I’m going to spend a couple of weeks at home with my family, and then move into the
apartment in Cambridge. I’m really excited about it.”

“That’s great news. I’m excited for you, Kira.”

“I have a little thing I want to give you. I’m right outside Franklin. Can I stop
in for a minute?”

I could hardly refuse a present. I eyed the small mountain of “NOT TRASH,” which seemed
to be taller each time I looked, and left my office.

I let Kira in through the front door. We took seats in the large lecture hall nearest
the entrance instead of walking all the way back to my office. In jeans and a flowered
top that was new to me, Kira seemed to stand taller today. Most likely because she’d
lost the hangdog look and attitude I’d become used to.

“I’m going to miss this place,” she said. “But, you know, I’m kind of through with
it.” She put her hand to her mouth. “I didn’t mean it that way, Dr. Knowles.”

I gave her a broad smile. “Not to worry, Kira. I’m glad to hear it.” In fact, it was
music to my ears.

Kira spent a few minutes telling me about her new apartment, which was only a short
walk from the MIT Museum, with its fabulous (her word) holograms and an exhibit of
Harold Edgerton’s high-speed photography, groundbreaking in its day. She loved her
new roommate, a grad student in physics, and couldn’t wait to walk around
her new Cambridge neighborhood. I couldn’t have been more thrilled.

“Well, I’m sure you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have work to do, so…” She reached
into her tote and pulled out two items. She handed me the first one, the sliding block
puzzle I’d given her at one of her worst hours.

I saw that the puzzle had been completed, displaying M. C. Escher’s
House of Stairs
, in its black-and-white glory, with unidentifiable creatures crawling around a complicated
set of steps and walls.

“Done,” Kira said, and I know she meant it on many levels.

Next she handed me a small box, wrapped in tissue. “When I saw this, I had to get
it for you, Dr. Knowles.”

I opened the package and let out a gasp of pleasure, much to Kira’s delight. On the
white cotton batting lay a piece of costume jewelry, in the steampunk style, with
a montage of flowers, leaves, brass curlicues and findings, and a tiny silver heart
on a ring. Best of all, in the center was a small replica of a crossword puzzle. A
disembodied feminine hand adorned with a lacy glove held a thin yellow pencil. The
piece was about two inches across, larger than any in my collection, with a sturdy
pin on the back.