“I guess that’s a ‘no’ on the book club from you and a ‘no’ on your question from me.”
With all her running around-to her beading classes, yoga group, book club, and volunteer work at a shelter, Ariana still seemed to have time for her friends, including three exes. I felt like a slug next to her.
For me a couple of quiet nights at home every week were a must. The days were given over to my students and colleagues, often until early evening; I never stinted there. Bruce’s schedule suited me fine. I could count on seven nights in a row to myself if I so chose.
I enjoyed my small, three-bedroom cottage, the home I’d grown up in. When my mother became ill, I’d moved back until it became necessary to place her where she’d have professional care. That day had been one of the hardest in my life. Margaret, who’d been an independent widow most of her adult life, seemed to take the enormous change better than I did, adjusting to assisted living and claiming that it was enough to know that I was now enjoying the family home. I didn’t see the point in telling her it could never be that easy for me.
People who visited me here for the first time were surprised at the cozy atmosphere, expecting a high-tech look to match my image as a modern-day mathematician. But I liked the contrast: the latest computer and peripherals in my office at Henley, and a claw-foot tub and gingham quilts at home.
On tonight’s list was work on my research, class prep for the rest of the summer session, assignments to post on the web, and journals to read. A periodical with a cover story on nonlinear wave equations was at the top of my pile. I also had puzzles to solve, math games to create, and even a key chain to bead if I was in the mood. I didn’t need to belong to a group for any of these activities.
I made up a plate with oranges and grapes, three kinds of cheese, and plain crackers. I called it a meal; Bruce would have called it the first round of appetizers before the prime rib. Bruce claimed I wasn’t being true to my country kitchen décor with such insubstantial menus.
“You should make some meatballs,” he’d said on his last day off.
“Excuse me? Meatballs?”
“You know, like that scene in Goodfellas, where the wiseguys are making an Italian dinner in prison?” Bruce tended to bring everything back to a favorite movie.
“Funny, that scene doesn’t stand out for me,” I’d answered.
“How about the potato soup and quail in My Dinner With Andre?”
The only way to stop Bruce at times like that was to force-feed him the most convenient snack, often involving high salt content.
There was no question tonight that I needed to finish up my latest journal article. Publish or perish was still an operative phrase in academia. Full professorship was contingent on a substantial publication record, and my clips from puzzle magazines didn’t count. I had a respectable list of peer-reviewed articles, but one could never have too many when one’s dean had an eagle eye out for maintaining Henley College’s accreditation. And mine.
I took care of the one additional reference I needed to round out my article on traveling waves of the mathematical kind. I printed and signed my cover letter and prepared the package for mailing on Monday to the antiquated press that didn’t take email attachments. They’d still have it long before Labor Day, and I could add the note to my resume by the official opening of the fall semester and the first meeting of the promotions committee.
I could now check off Lofty Academic Responsibilities and turn to my latest puzzle, which was calling to me loudly. I couldn’t stand that no one at the party had liked it. I picked up a copy of the brainteaser that had been ix-nayed by the Ben Franklin group this afternoon. Too tough, eh? What did they want? Simple word-in-word puzzles, like figuring out that CHIMADENA is “MADE in CHINA,” or that O ER T O is a “PAIN-less operation?”
Maybe I should heed the second loudest call instead. I put the puzzle aside and took out my bead case. I’d invested in a portable cabinet organizer that Ariana had recommended as a starter piece.
“Starter?” I’d exclaimed. Equipped with fifteen clear jars, three sliding storage boxes and many dividers, the cabinet seemed sufficient to last a lifetime of beading.
“You’ll see,” Ariana had warned.
She was right. I was already thinking of buying extra canisters to accommodate the charms I’d bought to add to key chains and bookmarks. Once into a hobby, I did tend to go all out.
I looked around at the ragged piles of books and journals scattered throughout my kitchen and den, and the overflowing briefcase I used for school. Beading was now the most organized area of my life.
I settled on a saddle stool at my large kitchen island, one of my favorite spots in the house. I pushed aside an issue of Bruce’s Rotor magazine and a copy of an article from the Mathematical Association of America to make room for one of my bead drawers. The light was good in the spacious, cheery yellow room, and I was comfortable with my food and my work, overlapping them in some spots.
A section of orange in one hand, I sifted through my collection of silver charms with the other. I picked out a few that I’d decided to use for my next projects. A tiny airplane charm for Bruce, since I hadn’t found a helicopter yet; a cupcake for Ariana, whose sweet tooth was legendary; and an old-fashioned telephone for my aunt in Florida who was once a switchboard operator.
Rrring. Rrring. Rrring.
Speaking of which… I should have unplugged the phone when I started working. Too late now, since I could never let a phone keep ringing.
My screen told me the call was from a private party. I grimaced. I liked the option of knowing who was on the other end. More inconsistencies in my life. My cottage kitchen had an antique glass-front corner cupboard on one side and the latest phone system on the other. Of course my purse hosted a smartphone.
Since I wasn’t fully in the beading zone yet, I picked up quickly.
“Dr. Knowles?”
I heard Rachel, sounding distraught, even more than yesterday when she’d talked of abandoning her research. Rachel didn’t block her phone numbers, so she must be in distress somewhere remote.
“What’s wrong, Rachel?”
“It’s Dr. Appleton.”
“Is he on your case again?” And after-hours at that.
“No.” I waited while Rachel took deep, audible breaths, as if she’d just come up for air after nearly drowning. “He’s dead.”
“He’s…?” I switched ears as if that would send the message into a parallel mathematical plane where Dr. Appleton is not dead.
CHAPTER 4
A strange feeling overtook my mind and my body. In a matter of seconds, I’d become lightheaded and shivery and a wave of sorrow and guilt surged through me, as if my awful thoughts had caused Keith to have a heart attack and die.
I turned my attention to Rachel, on the other end of the line. “When did this happen?”
“Woody found him in his office,” Rachel said, sobbing now. It might not have been the first thing she’d uttered while I’d been trying to mentally undo the deed. I pictured our poor old janitor coming upon a body, and of someone he knew. I heard Rachel take some breaths. “I guess it was some time around four o’clock when Woody started his rounds on the chem floor.”
“What happened? A heart attack?” I gulped, not wanting to hear that a strong, nasty wish from a mathematician had knocked Keith off course.
“They told me he was poisoned.” Rachel’s voice was weaker with each utterance.
“Food poisoning?” I shot a look at my fruit, crackers, and cheese and lost my appetite on the spot.
I remembered partaking generously of the big spread at the celebration in Hal’s honor. I put my hand to my throat. Was I alive because I’d resisted a second piece of cake? I carried the phone to my patio doors and looked out on my lawn. Who else of the attendees might be sick? Or dead? I paused to check the status of my own system: no stomachache, no headache, no dizziness, no queasy feeling other than my response to this news. I was suddenly grateful for my roses, my crab apple tree, and even my new lawn chairs.