A Function of Murder (5 page)

The enterprise provided fun times for me as well. I’d researched educational sites
and found myself getting hooked on math games. From simple arithmetic functions to
pre-algebra reasoning problems, the games were lively and instructive for the most
part. So what if the “rewards” for correct answers involved sound effects, balloons,
critters, and spaceships. I harbored the vague notion that one day I’d take on the
task of creating more sophisticated games for kids, with more fun math and fewer whistles.
When Bruce and Ariana heard me suggest that lately, they both declared
sophisticated games
an oxymoron. To my dismay, Ariana also challenged
fun math
as a legitimate phrase.

I’d been aware of tensions between the Zeeman Academy administration and the city
officials, but I’d blocked out the details as much as possible.

At dinner now, after Mr. Johnson’s tirade, all eyes had shifted to Kira and her dessert
plate. We all seemed to be thinking the same thing: A hot fudge brownie sundae would
make quite a mess on the sea blue carpet of the Inn at Henley. I pulled my lemon sorbet
closer to me and kept two hands on the plate under the bowl.

“It’s beyond me how that man got into office. Oh, wait, he’s part of the family, with
a capital
F
,” Mr. Johnson said, continuing his rant. “His father, his grandfather, probably eventually
his son will—”

“Let’s not get into that now, dear,” Mrs. Johnson interrupted, while Nicole made a
visor for her eyes with the palm of her hand.

“You mean you don’t want to talk about how Graves is determined to make his way up
the ladder on the backs of our kids?” Mr. Johnson continued.

Mrs. Johnson put her hand on her husband’s arm, a universal signal from one spouse
to another, meaning
Cool it, Sweetie
. Hubby finally got the message and focused on his drink. He retained his sour look,
however, making a point that he was not pleased at being cut off. I was glad I wouldn’t
be riding home with them this evening.

During the Johnsons’ display, Kira’s parents, the shyest of the group, took long swallows
of wine. Kira, bless her, excused herself from the table and headed for the restroom.
Nicole and two other new graduates followed her.

And the second party of the day came to an abrupt, awkward end.

After witnessing a few tearful good-byes among the students and participating in more
keep-in-touch promises, Fran and I walked out of the restaurant and into a pleasantly
chilly night. Fran would be driving me back to campus where Bruce would pick me up.
My own car was in the shop downtown having its dashboard warning lights reset to “Don’t
stay on all the time.”

“Do you like my new wheels?” Fran asked, as I buckled myself into her shiny minivan.
“I bought this to accommodate my grandkids and their teams. There’s a game console
in the back.”

“That’s great. You can always use the experience to advise the first student who submits
a thesis proposal for the application of mathematics to the mechanics of video games.”

“Do you know someone who wants to take that on?” Fran asked.

“Not yet, but I can almost guarantee that some guy from the freshman class will want
to do it in three years.”

“I’ll be deep into retirement and soccer-grandmother duties by then.”

“Nuh-uh.” I couldn’t bear the thought of the department without Fran. “You’d miss
days like today.”

Fran blew a raspberry unbecoming a mathematician grandmother, and clearly indicating
that she was too young to retire.

Bruce assumed his hunky stance as soon as Fran approached the parking lot near Franklin
Hall. He leaned against the front fender of his new black muscle car, his arms folded
across his chest, his dark hair rustling in the slight breeze. All he needed to complete
the picture was pointy leather boots and a cowboy hat, but instead he wore his usual
off-duty khakis and a black polo shirt. I couldn’t see his grin, but I knew it was
there, and I loved it.

Ten minutes later, with Fran on her way home, Bruce and I were next in line at Jimmie’s
“Not Just Ice Cream,” across from the east side of campus. I almost chose a red velvet
cupcake, to go along with the new dessert craze in Henley, but in the end walked out
with my usual chocolate-chocolate milk shake.

“No dinner at the Inn?” Bruce asked. He who had dined on granola bars and orange-colored
chips all day was satisfied with a waffle cone of butter toffee ice cream.

“The classier the restaurant, the smaller the portions,” I explained.

We strolled the campus, now minus the ugly temporary stage, taking the long way to
my office and Bruce’s car, both on the west side. Most of the buildings were dark,
with only a smattering of students in each of the three dorms.

I was surprised to see lights on anywhere in the Administration Building, but especially
on the ground floor of the faculty offices wing. The humanities profs weren’t lucky
enough to have their own building as we in the math and science community did, so
their offices were jammed together at the back of Admin. Some dedicated English or
history teachers were working late tonight. I doubted they were poring over the fall
syllabus. More likely, cramming to get grades done so they could take off and not
show up again until Labor Day.

During my early days at Henley, I’d thought it strange that the imposing Administration
Building, with its English Collegiate Gothic architecture, faced away from the rest
of the campus. I was used to schools where the main building opened onto a quadrangle
of sorts. But Henley’s Admin fronted on the busy Henley Boulevard. Once I learned
the history of the college, I realized that the only way for the school to grow from
that single building a hundred years ago was to plant its newer structures in back.
Later a fountain was built a few yards from the rear of Admin, and now it served as
the center of campus.

Bruce and I drifted toward the fountain, enjoying Jimmie’s ice cream, ready to take
turns sharing “how was your day” stories that didn’t fit into text messages.

“The Bat Phone was quiet until about four this morning,” Bruce said. “Then this semi
on I-495 by Hopedale runs into an SUV coming back from the Cape.” He used his hands,
tipping his waffle cone precariously, to mimic a collision that I knew couldn’t have
had a happy ending. “This little kid, maybe six years old, was asleep on the backseat.
No seat belt.” Bruce uttered a sad grunt. “We flew the boy and his mother to County
General. An ambulance took the dad and the semi driver, but…” He shook his head and
drew a long breath.

We sat down on one of the curved concrete benches surrounding the fountain. I put
my head on his shoulder and rubbed his back for a few quiet minutes.

“Did anyone make it?” I asked.

“The little boy, Ricky, is badly injured, but he’s going to
be okay. So’s his mother. But the father, who was driving, is gone. And the semi driver
doesn’t have a scratch on him.” He turned and brushed the concern from my face with
his hand and a slight, resigned smile. “How about you?” he asked. “How was all the
pomp and circumstance?”

“Really?” I asked Bruce, our shorthand for “Do you want me to tell you silly, distracting
commencement day stories?”

Outbursts like Kira’s, disputes over petty politics and whatever else was going on
in the schools or at the mayor’s campaign headquarters, paled in the light of Bruce’s
Bat Phone duties.

“Really,” Bruce said. “Tell me some campus gossip.”

My most upsetting moments today, besides our aborted parties, had come from Elysse
Hutchins, a student who was unhappy with her final exam grade and wanted me to reconsider.

I launched into the reasons for my annoyance with Elysse—she’d disputed points I’d
taken off her exam for not following instructions on a statistics problem. She’d blasted
me in an email after I explained my reasoning for the grade and declined to change
it.

“She’s a transfer student and I’ve given her special attention all semester,” I said.
I remembered all the times I’d sat in front of the whiteboard with the thin, pixie-haired
blond, reviewing math methods long after office hours were over. “I’ve gone out of
my way to make up for any gaps caused by the transfer.”

“I’m sure you have,” Bruce said, trying hard to pay attention, but not fully engaged.

I switched topics and brought up the tension over the performance of charter schools
and the way they’re funded. “Some of the families were accusing Mayor Graves of neglecting
the charters,” I reported.

“The charter setup is made for disaster,” Bruce said,
coming to life again. “You know what I mean from working at Zeeman, but the problem
is system-wide. I remember when my niece was in a charter school in Boston. My sister
was on the board and went nuts trying to keep it together, with more reporting and
paperwork than teaching going on, and no one seemed to care about discipline or standards.
It was always a question of ‘Who’s in charge?’ You’ve got a school that is and isn’t
under supervision of the district and the superintendent of schools.”

“I wouldn’t want Pat Collins’s job,” I said, remembering the superintendent’s glowering
visage on the stage today.

“He goes home to a cushy residence on the Cape, remember. During my pilot-to-the-stars
days, I picked him up now and then to take him to a meeting here, but I guess now
he has a home in Henley, also.”

“It’s hard to say who’s right in all this. It’s probably not all the superintendent’s
fault. Not the principals’ either,” I said.

“Nothing works if there’s no clear line of authority.”

Thus spoke a retired air force man.

By ten fifteen, according to the old chimes from Franklin Hall, we decided it was
time to leave. We stood and brushed off particles of dust and leaves deposited by
the breeze, ready for the walk to Bruce’s car, marveling at how still and lovely the
campus was. The graduation hubbub and the squealing from one of the last all-female
graduating classes were over. Who knew what kind of celebratory sounds the male grads
would make in a couple of years? Perhaps they’d simply say, “Good job, bro,” and knock
knuckles.

Seemingly out of nowhere, we heard clumping noises—dragging sounds on the lawn and
then shuffled footsteps on the pathway, coming from the direction of the dorms and
the east end of the Administration Building.

“Help!” a low, pained voice cried. “Help me!”

We turned and saw a man in a light business suit
staggering toward us, as if he would topple over on the next step. He looked a lot
like the mayor, with auburn highlights showing up under the campus security lamps.

On closer inspection—it was the mayor.

I could hardly believe it. He teetered and swayed till he got to the edge of the fountain,
where we’d been sitting, then fell in, headfirst. His commencement speech wasn’t that
bad, I thought, that he had to get himself wasted. How embarrassing. What was he thinking?
He should be grateful that it was Bruce and me who were here and not someone from
his opponent’s campaign or parents with a decidedly negative opinion of him to begin
with.

Bruce didn’t stop to judge or make a guess about what had happened or why. He snapped
to it, on full alert, as if he were back in the air force in Saudi Arabia, or at the
MAstar helipad rushing to get to an accident scene. He made it to the fountain in
three long steps and lifted the mayor out by the shoulders. He laid him facedown on
the grass.

I was confused—why didn’t he put him on his back? That’s what television emergency
crews did when they gave CPR. Faceup.

Then I saw the blade sticking up in the air.

I drew in my breath. What had happened?

“Your sweater.” Bruce addressed me more calmly than I would have thought possible.
“And nine-one-one. Make sure you give the address.”

Bruce was on autopilot, so to speak, issuing commands. I was grateful for his reminder
that the emergency dispatcher might not be able to trace the exact location of my
cell.