The Square Root of Murder by Ada Madison Read Free Book Online Page A

mind. I knew very little about how a person’s body reacted to poisons and I had many questions. Without answers, my imagination took over. I tried to shake away all the horrible images that flooded my mind.
    Not many murders had been committed in Henley—I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard or read of one—and certainly there were none in the history of the college. I was sure this case was taxing the resources of the small police department. I knew Virgil had more to do tonight than visit his good buddy’s fretting girlfriend. But I believed in Rachel as much as I’d believed in Jessie, and I knew I had to do my best for her.
    While I waited for Virgil, I paced the rooms of my house—leaving the bright kitchen; walking into and around my dark-toned, comfortable den; stepping out the door to the hallway, lined with photos; weaving first into my modern home office; then into my spacious lavender-colored and lavender-smelling bedroom; and then into the whiter-than-white guest bedroom; rambling back down the hallway to the kitchen.
    Along the route, I managed to take calming respites for puzzle solving. I always had a crossword, a jigsaw puzzle, several cubes, and metal and wood puzzles and games laid out strategically in different rooms of my house. I was never far from a mindbender of one kind or another, some bought, some made by me. I encouraged my guests to participate. Bruce, my most frequent guest, hardly ever did, citing his need to reduce stress when he was off the job. He tried in vain to get through to me that solving puzzles wasn’t everyone’s idea of relaxation.
    When the phone rang, I was in my bedroom, leaning on my dresser to work a complex eye twister in a book I’d purchased, trying to determine which figures had been made with one continuous line and which had been constructed of two or more lines.
    I checked the screen on the landline next to my bed and saw a Mansfield number. I picked up the headset and greeted Fran Emerson, my department chair.
    Why hadn’t I thought to call her? Or anyone? It seemed I’d gone into a completely passive state, puttering around my house.
    “Can you believe it, Sophie?” she asked. Her voice was muffled against a background of unintelligible sounds. I guessed I was hearing Fran’s grandchildren, visiting for the summer from out of state. “I feel so bad now, the way we were talking about him this afternoon.”
    I knew what she meant. “You didn’t say anything mean, Fran,” I offered. Unlike me, who had wished the man off the campus.
    I carried the phone to the den and sank into the corner of my couch. On the low antique coffee table in front of me was a beautiful cherry wood frame, four inches square, containing eight L-shaped wooden pieces and one rectangular piece in a different shade of wood. Bruce had given it to me a few weeks ago and it remained unsolved. The idea was to fit all the pieces in the frame, with no space left over. The L-shaped pieces interlocked nicely in the area, leaving only small triangles of space to fit the lone rectangle.
    As I’d done many times before, I fiddled with L-shaped pieces, moving them around to create a space the rectangle could occupy—without chopping it into pieces, that is. Tonight, in only three moves, I met the challenge. I looked at the design, neatly in place.
    Maybe it was a good sign. Or, simply, all my nervous energy had focused itself on the puzzle.
    I heard Fran shush someone, presumably a small someone. I wasn’t sure where we’d left off.
    “Still,” she said, “I certainly had mean thoughts about Keith.” She paused and I imagined her cataloging her uncharitable, if unspoken, words. “I suppose we should be thinking of holding a memorial service. Probably our dear Dean Phyllis is already working on it. Or the president, I’ll bet. I don’t even know where Keith’s family lives. Do you?”
    “He doesn’t have many relatives that he keeps up with. Just one cousin that I know of,