“When’s breakfast?” I asked, pushing happy thoughts in front of depressing ones.
“In two minutes breakfast will be served and it will be your turn for a full report.”
“Okay.”
Fair was fair.
I waited until Bruce had tasted his three-cheese and mushroom omelet, made with stale eggs, and pronounced it perfect. He took a sip of dark roast that I’d brewed from freshly ground beans a few minutes earlier, and looked at home and relaxed in my sun-filled kitchen.
I told him the story of Woody and the red metal dolly.
“You took what? From where?” Bruce leaned across the table, wide-eyed.
“I think the dean wanted me to,” I said.
He suppressed a grin. “Yeah, sure. I’m surprised she’s not on the doorstep right now thanking you for your service, presenting you with an award.”
An award. Why did that sound familiar? Something clicked, something about Keith’s wall of awards, but I couldn’t quite finish the thought.
“Hello?” Bruce said, waving his arms to get my attention. “What were you thinking when you cleaned out the office of a murdered man and carted his stuff home?”
“That I could help. My two police interviews didn’t go well. I made a fool of myself with Virgil and I don’t know what happened with Archie, except that he was this close”-I indicated a very small gap between my thumb and index finger-“to accusing me of murdering Keith, and I got no new information from him.”
“Why do you need information about a murder case? You’re not a cop; you’re a math teacher.”
“Associate professor of mathematics at a renowned college,” I said. Going for distraction through humor, since I hadn’t even gotten to the empty workbench yet.
“Where is all the stuff, anyway?”
Uh-oh.
“Someone broke into your house-”
“My garage.”
“-and you didn’t think to call the cops?”
“Nothing was taken except those boxes and some usable discards. What was I going to tell the police?”
“I see your point. You had stolen goods in your possession.”
“I wouldn’t say stolen exactly.”
I hated being grilled by Bruce. His crisp white T-shirt seemed to blind me as he threw questions and accusations at me. The fact that he had my own well-being in mind should have mattered more than it did.
Bruce had left his seat by now. I looked at his omelet and imagined I could see its molecules turn to a cold gel on his plate as he paced around the table. My own omelet was untouched.
“Sophie, I want you to promise me you’ll cool it on this… this investigating.”
“What investigating? I’ve barely talked to anyone but Rachel and the police.”
“Who saw you take Appleton’s things?”
“Just Woody knows about it, I think. A few of the girls saw the boxes but they had no way of knowing what was in them. And I suppose anyone could have been looking out a window and seen me, but I could have been cleaning out my own office for all anyone would guess. It was broad daylight, but it’s not as if the boxes had Keith’s name written on them.”
Bruce sat back down and pushed food around his plate. His thick, dark eyebrows were pinched in concentration. He took a long pull of his juice. From his look and his body language, if I didn’t know it was OJ, I’d have sworn he was swigging down a stiff drink.
“That’s it,” he said, setting the glass on the table with a purposeful thud. “I’m moving in until this is over.”
“How romantic.”
Bruce smiled. “You know what I mean.”
“I do, thanks.”
“Do you want me to cut out of my shift tonight?”
Bruce had one more shift, from nine tonight to nine tomorrow morning, and then he’d be off for seven days. I could certainly keep myself safe for twenty-four hours.
“No, I’ll be fine. Just call me often.”
“Deal.”
I looked at my breakfast. Even the apple slices had gone brown.
We clicked mugs and picked from the plate of scones, the only still appetizing part of the menu.
CHAPTER 13
It came to me that I’d imposed a deadline on myself when I called for meetings with Pam, Liz, and Casey. Though my real reason for wanting to talk to them had to do with what Bruce might erroneously have called “investigating,” I needed to have a proposal for an acceptable ending to the summer statistics class by eleven o’clock this morning.
Bruce moved into the living room and picked up the Sunday newspaper, a break from our routine. He usually left for his home across town right after breakfast, did errands or puttered in his workshop for a while, and then took a short or long nap, depending on how busy he’d been all night. Since last night had been extra stressful, I’d expected him to be on his way to a Big Sleep. Like the movie, he’d have said.
I kissed his scruffy cheek as I walked by his chair.
“Gotta go prep for my student conference,” I said. I was glad he couldn’t see my face, which would have outed the half-truth.
I sat in the comfy leather chair in my office. The only window looked out on a large maple that was as old as the Henley hills. I swiveled toward my west-facing side yard, shadowy now before noon. There was no reason that a tree should remind me of Keith, but everything seemed to have that effect on me this weekend. I thought of the kind words both Woody and Elteen had for him, neither one of them obliged, as the dean was, for example, to sing his praises. There was no question, he’d been a large and powerful presence on campus and the hole he left would be obvious only when the fall semester began without him.
I turned from the window. Work beckoned.
I picked up my copy of the text, an intro to the practical uses of statistics. I wanted to have a list of potential topics to suggest to an uncreative student. I made a quick list: health and nutrition data, such as cholesterol levels; designing samples for studies of all kinds; testing the significance of survey results.
All fascinating to me.
I opened the “Applied Statistics” folder on my hard drive, and clicked on the file, “Roster.” The names of twelve students, all of whom were science majors entering junior year in the fall, popped up on a spreadsheet. The three who yesterday had achieved special status as persons of interest in a murder investigation were chemistry majors taking an extra math class as an elective.
I added a comments column where I could write notes on each student according to her current grade and how I saw her finishing the class.
I made some quick decisions. For the students getting an A so far, I’d ask for a short paper, due in two weeks, on a topic of their choice. Three students, including Pam, fell into this category. I jotted down some useful references and more detailed topic ideas to get them started. I hoped one of them would work on kinetic theory, since there were such beautiful equations involved. For the six B students-Liz was in this group-I’d ask for a longer paper. For Casey and two other students with C or lower, I’d require a paper plus an oral exam with me some time in the next two weeks.
I’d present this plan to the students by individual emails, except for the Big Three who would hear it in person soon. All was negotiable, to a point.
As I rushed off to my bedroom to get dressed for my consultations, I noticed Bruce, legs over the arms of the easy chair, working the crossword puzzle in the newspaper. Another great deviation from the norm.
I walked over to him. “What’s this?” I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s sort of relaxing.”
No “I told you so” left my lips.