The Quotient of Murder (Professor Sophie Knowles) (11 page)

It took a moment for me to adjust to Wendy Carlson’s greeting.

“Ted Morrell?” I asked, floundering. “Ted said I might be coming?”

Wendy smiled, but not in a way that said she was glad to have bested me. “Yes, Dr. Ted Morrell of Henley College’s Physics Department.”

The same Ted who couldn’t remember your name
, I added silently.
The one who neglected to mention that he was roommates with Kirsten Packard’s father. The one who claimed to have met Kirsten only once or twice.

Wendy’s calm, resigned look and clear, direct gaze disarmed me. Literally. My shoulders, stiff until that point, dropped so alarmingly that my purse slid off my shoulder to the right and crashed to the floor. Three Japanese pocket puzzles that I’d stuck in an outside compartment fell out and half rolled, half slid across the marble, then clanked to a stop. Red-faced as I was, the slapstick performance seemed to loosen Wendy a bit as she came from behind the desk, smiling, and helped me retrieve metal rings, loops, nuts, and bolts.

I struggled with apologies until all the pieces were back in my bag and we stood face-to-face, or my face to her neck.

“I wondered if you could spare a minute.” I didn’t think it necessary to tell her why.

Wendy nodded. “I almost didn’t come in today, but I couldn’t very well take an indefinite leave. Ted had no idea which day you might show up.”

“That’s a relief,” I said.

Finally, a broad smile. “Ted was—is—very solicitous of Kirsten and her memory.”

“I have no intention of spoiling it,” I said, feeling a little guilty as I tried to push the image of Kirsten Packard–cum–Patty Hearst out of my mind.

Wendy picked up her phone, punched in a number, and arranged for a replacement on the desk.

“I’m just filling in here anyway,” she told me, hanging up. “I’m usually up in Research, but our regular desk person lives in Attleboro and was afraid she’d get caught in the storm going home.”

I gulped. Attleboro was just south of Henley. Should I also be worried? I looked out the main door and saw the flakes coming down heavier now, way ahead of the meteorologists’ prediction. As if that mattered to the flakes. Any of them.

• • •

Wendy led me to her office on the third floor. Obviously proud of her place of employment, she couldn’t help playing tour guide, allowing me a peek into the basilica-like Bates Hall, and a moment to admire a mural by John Singer Sargent.

“Imagine, this was the first place in the country where an ordinary citizen could borrow books and materials to take home,” she reminded me. “It was a novel idea in the mid–eighteen hundreds.”

“How does one go from physics to this?” I asked, when we reached her small office. I pointed to the piles of research books and notes that had taken over the space. Tiny as it was, the room had an air of elegance, with a high ceiling; rich, dark woodwork; and ornamental lighting. One wall was a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, with not an inch of empty shelving.

“This was what I needed, afterward,” she said, her voice soft. I could understand that Wendy’s life might be defined by
before
and
afterward
with respect to the terrible death of her roommate. “Especially back then, when you heard nothing above a whisper in a library, it offered a quiet retreat, with limitless resources to absorb my mind.” Wendy spoke slowly, and I could see that she’d have a calming effect on anyone stressed out, looking for research assistance. “I applied for an internship and worked in a few of the branches while I got a master’s in library science.”

I shook my finger at her. “You have an MLS? You didn’t update your entry in the alumni directory.”

We both laughed, and I was amazed that I was joking so comfortably with a woman I’d known less than a half hour.

Wendy sat behind her desk, about the only option in the cramped room besides the one chair in front of it, which I took.

“What is it you’d like to know, Sophie? May I call you Sophie?”

I nodded. Wendy could call me whatever she pleased. I couldn’t believe my luck, or whatever it was that had made Wendy Carlson so receptive to my sudden appearance. Well, not so sudden. Maybe Ted’s warning had the opposite effect from what he’d intended, causing her to open up rather than keep me at bay. Or, maybe whatever Wendy said next was what Ted instructed her to say. In either case, I had nothing to lose.

“I’d love to hear you talk about that time at Henley, and what you think drove Kirsten to”—I threw up my hands, struggling to come up with a phrase that wouldn’t sound offensive—“her death.” I could have done better.

Wendy worked a strand of hair and gazed over my shoulder, at the past, I assumed.

“I met Kirsten my first day at Henley, at freshman orientation, and we really clicked. We were both fairly local, from western Mass. We wanted to room together, but it was the school’s custom to pair one girl from a distance with one from nearby. We petitioned the Dean of Residents—I should say Kirsten petitioned; she was the brave one—and we got to share a room from the start. We were so different. She had . . . spirit. There was something about her that was so confident. She wouldn’t let anyone define her.”

“It must have been hard for her, being the daughter of someone prominent in the criminal justice system.”

Wendy nodded. “I think that was a big factor in what she became in college. Kirsten was supposed to be the ideal, dutiful daughter, the poster girl for one campaign after another. By the time I met her, she was ready to break some rules. As soon as she left home, even though it was only half a state away, that’s what she did. She’d stay out past curfew, sneaking back into the dorm with a bottle of wine.” She smiled. “Or a guy. I loved her spark. Her daring. I was the opposite, yet she never looked down on me or called me the prude I was.”

“I can tell you loved her,” I said. I saw Wendy’s eyes fill up. I stood, a twinge of guilt overtaking my desire to hear more. I couldn’t bear the thought that I’d taken this lovely woman back to what was probably the worst day of her life. “I should go. I’m very sorry to have intruded on you.”

Wendy let out a long sigh. “No, please stay. Will you let me get us some coffee? I didn’t know it, but I have more to say.”

I sat down again, part of me elated that I’d finally get some answers, the other part fearful of what I might be awakening from a long sleep.

• • •

While Wendy was gone, I sneaked a look at my phone. I was amused by a text from Bruce, who hoped I was having a quiet, productive day. I scrolled through just-checking-in messages from Ariana and Fran, and came to—what?—another three hundred spam messages? I ignored them, except to note that they were from the same sites as this morning’s deluge, and clicked over to weather. Not looking good. Nice of the weather gurus to catch up with what I could figure out by looking out the window.

Wendy was gone a long time for a coffee run. I wondered if she’d slipped out to call Ted and get some advice on how to deal with me. Or maybe she was calling BPL security to usher me out to the cold, snowy street.

“Sorry,” she said, entering her office just as I was envisioning the Boston Police coming to arrest me for harassment. “I had to make a new pot.”

I chose to believe her rather than my more dramatic imaginings.

She carried a small tray with two silver BPL travel mugs and packets of sweeteners and whiteners. I declined the extras, but wished I’d thought to bring a little dessert to share.

“I want you to know—” I began, planning to apologize again for stirring up a disturbing era in Wendy’s life.

Wendy interrupted with a hand wave. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said.

“Thanks,” I managed, and listened as Wendy started up again as if there’d been no interruption.

“What I didn’t realize was that Kirsten’s gumption, as inspiring as it was, and as much fun, would get her into trouble.”

I gave Wendy a questioning look, not wanting to distract her by a verbal request for an explanation. I didn’t need to.

“By the end of freshman year,” Wendy continued, “Kirsten had fallen in with some rough types and I started to worry.”

“Were they Henley students?” Not likely, since Henley was a women’s college at the time, but I supposed there could have been some rough-type females around.

Wendy grimaced. “No, not students at all. The guys were dropouts from who knew where, who’d already been in jail or were on their way.”

“Drugs?” I asked, trying to think back to the narcotic of choice twenty-five years ago.

“Not that I could tell. Some drinking, but mostly it was what I’d call petty crime. I told myself they were pranks. There were a couple of guys in particular who’d brag about stealing a fancy car and driving it to the city dump.” She paused. “Maybe not so petty after all, huh? But no one seemed to get hurt. They always had wads of cash, and I knew it wasn’t from their careers. One was a dishwasher, I remember. The others were more freelance, like construction and yard work.”

“Were Kirsten’s parents aware of these new friends?”

“Somehow—not from me, I assure you—they caught wind of what she was up to and made sure she stayed put at home for the summer. She called me two or three times a day to say how bored she was. Of course, I liked that.”

“She counted on you to be there for her.”

Wendy bit her lip. Not used to accepting compliments, I guessed. “All I know is that after the full schedule of political rallies and fund-raisers on the Cape, Kirsten came back to school sophomore year more ready than ever to live it up.”

A small window behind Wendy was a constant reminder of the buildup of snow outside. It had accumulated on the roof of the newer wing of the library, and on the windowsill outside Wendy’s office. I sipped my coffee, torn between making a dash for home and listening for as long as Wendy was willing to talk.

“Did you ever meet these friends of hers?” Was one of them in the tower with her that morning? Had they paired up to rob a bank? I had many questions. Doling them out one at a time was taxing.

“Once in a while Kirsten would invite me to hang out with them. I’m not sure why. We’d meet at a diner or, one time, at an old warehouse right here in Boston, down by the wharf, where there was a lot of merchandise that might have fallen from a truck, if you know what I mean.”

“Did you ever confront Kirsten about the guys or about her choice of friends?”

Wendy shook her head. “I looked up to her. She even tried to fix me up with a couple of the guys.” Wendy pressed her lips together and shook her head. “I knew Kirsten was trying to shake me out of my type, as she called it, which was clean shaven, law abiding, preferably pre-med. I just wasn’t brave enough to step outside what I’d grown up with. Not even afterward.” Wendy smiled. “I went to the junior prom with my cousin, who was an engineering student at Northeastern.”

I sensed a tiny note of regret about how she’d spent her youth. And a touch of relief that she was still alive.

We’d been in sync in our sipping, and now we both sat for a few minutes with our coffee and our thoughts. I felt a great admiration for Wendy’s studied, thoughtful temperament. She took a couple of business calls during our conversation and was in no hurry, either while dealing with customers on the phone, or while answering my questions.

Spending so much time with students in our faster and faster paced society, I’d become accustomed to rapid-fire Q and A; and quick, abbreviated messages.

CU, T2UL8R, LUV
. Some days I gave in and used this new language; other days I missed longhand.

It was calming and refreshing to talk at what might be called an old-fashioned pace. If only the snow weren’t speeding up, swirling madly outside the window.

We hadn’t even come close to the question of how Kirsten died. How did she happen to be in the tower that morning? Was there anything to the rumors that she’d been pushed to her death? Did any of the guys Wendy met seem capable of murder?

Again, I held back.

“Did Kirsten play the carillon?” I asked. Very subtle, leading up to the tower, one step at a time.

“Not Kirsten. Me. I was the carillonist. I always loved it—the fact that you’re high up in a tower and everyone down below can hear you. You have a captive audience, but still you’re anonymous. Invisible. Not like a recital on a stage, which is just plain nerve-racking.”