A Function of Murder (3 page)

Our phones were smart enough to know the value of each letter and kept score for us.
It was twelve to twelve, and we were off.

Fran and I looked up now and then to clap for a student we’d taught, and finally to
watch mortarboards soar through the air.

“Another class goes off into the world,” she said.

I nodded. “I hope they’re ready.”

“The students or the world?” she asked.

“Both.”

In the air-conditioned comfort of Benjamin Franklin Hall, the math and science building,
my feelings were different. Now I really didn’t want the party to end.

This time the awarding of degrees was individual, some might have said drawn out,
in Franklin’s large lecture hall. Each math and science major, twenty-five in all,
made an Oscar-like speech, thanking parents, roommates, the groundskeepers, and—big
thrill here—us, the faculty.

To close the ceremony, the new graduates lined up to receive their official gift from
the college: a letter opener with a replica of the college seal attached at the top.
The blade was sterling silver, with a point sharp enough to open acceptance letters
for grad school or jobs, we claimed.

“I’d love to have the contract for those,” Fran said, as the last letter opener was
removed from its box and oohed and aahed over. “Imagine the number of alumnae who
have them.”

“We should have done the calculation during the
speeches,” I said. “Multiply one hundred years or so of graduates by—”

“Maybe next year,” Fran said.

We repaired to the first-floor lounge to await food and drink from the caterers. With
students, parents, faculty, and guests, the room was stretched to its limit and many
took to the hallways.

At the close of every school year, I hated the idea of losing a class of senior math
majors, plus all the science students I’d gotten close to over four years. I could,
however, understand why they’d want to swear off grueling homework, pop quizzes, exams,
and grades for the rest of their lives.

As always, there was a whole lot of clinging going on, and many promises were made
while a mix of the graduates’ musical favorites played in the background. Pitbull
and Lady Gaga were prominent, as were the surprisingly long-lasting Black Eyed Peas,
who dated back to before most of these students were born.

“I’ll never, never lose touch with you,” Jeanne Flowers, near tears, swore to Bethany
Riggs.

“We totally have to hook up in California in August,” Bethany said to Nicole Johnson.

“I’ll tweet and text you every day,” Nicole told Jeanne.

And so on, with Claudette, Heather, Jessica, and a dozen other flushed young women.

I could have written the script.

After fifteen years of college teaching, I usually came pretty close with my estimate—it
would take two or three months for all but a few graduation-day promises to fall off
to zero; only one month if European travel intervened.

Kira Gilmore, one of today’s academic stars, rushed up to me and nearly knocked me
over with her energetic hug. At close to six feet, a large-boned Californian, Kira
towered over me, her five-foot-three math prof. Only a couple of weeks ago, Kira had
impressed a professional mathematics society with a
research paper based on her thesis—the application of mathematical models to political
science. Knowing Kira’s innate shyness, I was doubly proud of her performance.

“I’m coming back here so often, you won’t even know I graduated,” Kira said now. “You’ve
been the best teacher and the best adviser, Dr. Knowles.”

I thanked her and hugged her back. As much as I cared about her, I hoped Kira would
not keep her promise. What I wanted most was to see her move on.

“Here comes the food,” Nicole said, getting down to basics, and illustrating that
the transition from starving student to sophisticated graduate wasn’t immediate.

Group hugs broke up and cameras were put away for the moment as the caterers hired
by the Franklin Hall faculty entered the lounge with large trays, a pleasing, aromatic
trail in their wake. The food line formed as soon as the trays of delectables hit
the table.

Our building, at the northwestern edge of the campus, was party central all year round,
not just for graduation. Franklin Hall was famous for its Friday afternoon gatherings,
celebrating the birthdays of famous mathematicians, scientists, and inventors. Besides
commencement day, today, May fifteenth, was also Pierre Curie’s birthday. You can
imagine our double excitement, though Pierre had to take a backseat, his extraordinary
scientific work commemorated with only a poster collage prepared by the physics and
chemistry undergraduates.

Like the rest of the faculty, Fran and I had shed our hats and robes as soon as we
could and left them in our offices. Most of my colleagues were a little more dressed
up than on class days, but it was too hot for me to put anything heavy on my small
frame. Fran looked especially elegant in one of her trademark flowing, multicolor
pants outfits. She fit in well with the dressed-to-the-nines parents of the graduates,
but I was probably more comfortable than any of them, in my simple halter-top dress.

None of the honorees had taken off their heavy black mantles. It made them easier
to spot in the crowded room, which, I supposed, was the idea. I saw many proud, loving
gestures as moms and dads adjusted the stiff white collars on their newly anointed
daughters.

Our long conference table doubled as the buffet table at weekly parties, but those
offerings were like table scraps compared to today’s spread of gourmet appetizers.
Instead of giant economy-size bags of cookies and chips, and dips of unidentifiable
ingredients and questionable origin, the caterers had laid down a set of special hot
and cold dishes. The faculty had sprung for clams casino, cherry peppers stuffed with
shrimp, Swedish meatballs, and an assortment of olives, fruits, and cheeses.

For dessert, a large cake took up one corner of the lounge. Baked and decorated by
Franklin Hall’s underclassmen, the cake bore the message “LUV U GRADS” in blue and
gold, to match the streamers and pennants around the room.

“Doesn’t it bring tears to your eyes?” Fran asked me, faking a sniffle.

I uttered a phony sob for Fran’s benefit, though in truth I really was more emotionally
attached to my students than she was. Maybe because she had her own family to fawn
over. For me, single, and an only child, Henley was my family. True, my boyfriend,
Bruce Granville, and my best friend since childhood, Ariana Volens, were indispensable
in my life, but I spent more time on campus than in Ariana’s bead shop or with Bruce
and his crazy schedule as a medevac pilot.

Once the food was served, the party groupings became reminiscent of middle school
dances, where like stayed with like. Parents clustered together on one side of the
room, eating at the small tables scattered around the lounge; the graduates gathered
on the other side, balancing
plates on their knees. Faculty roamed at first, greeting everyone, then we took seats
wherever we found them.

On the parents’ side there were exchanges of photos, both paper and digital, and plans
for the future—the graduates’ futures, strangely.

“Jeanne isn’t interested in settling down until she finishes graduate school at least,”
Jeanne’s mother said, while Dad nodded vigorously.

“Bethany won’t stop until she’s running the cardiology wing at some big Boston hospital,”
Bethany’s father announced, spreading his arms to indicate the size of the medical
facility his daughter would one day oversee.

A few of us knew better. We knew that Jeanne, a bio major, was expecting her boyfriend,
graduating today from a college in Boston, to give her a ring and set a date this
summer. Bethany’s dream, well-known to her friends, was to move across the country
to San Francisco as soon as she could pack up her jean shorts and flip-flops.

“I’ll figure out what to do when I get there,” she’d told us, but apparently not her
parents.

If all went as usual, the parents of the grads would be the last to know.

It didn’t do any good to try to remember my own dreams as a new college graduate.
Life choices were never as simple as they seemed at twenty-one or twenty-two. If I
hadn’t moved back home to take care of my ailing mother…If I hadn’t left the software
company to teach…If I had followed my friend Ariana’s path and gone into business
for myself…If I hadn’t met Bruce five years ago…

Crash! Clatter! Crash!

The sound of china and metal on tile brought all conversation and daydreaming to a
halt. A mishap by one of the catering staff, was my first thought. How embarrassing
for the person.

But it wasn’t a young man or woman dressed in a
black-and-white outfit two sizes too large who’d caused the commotion.

It was Kira Gilmore. She’d dropped, or thrown, her plate and silverware to the floor,
spilling olives, meatballs, and a clump of shellfish on the way, and was now in an
agitated state not consistent with the party atmosphere.

“You shouldn’t be mouthing off about Mayor Graves when you don’t know what you’re
talking about,” she yelled. The comment seemed to have been addressed to Nicole Johnson,
who scooted her chair back from the circle of diners, still sitting and holding on
to her plate of fruit and cheese.

“You have to admit he does have a nerve talking about service to the community when
we know he’s only using his mayorship as a stepping stone for his own advancement,”
Jeanne Flowers said, appearing to defend whatever Nicole had said.

“That is so unfair,” Kira said, nearly in tears.

It seemed that Mayor Edward P. Graves had invaded the party, not in the flesh, but
in conversation.

“Why doesn’t he put his money where his mouth is and fund the charter schools the
same as the others?” Nicole continued, apparently emboldened by Jeanne’s defense of
her initial remark. “Do you know that Zeeman Academy, my little brother’s charter,
might close next year because His Majesty, the mayor, thinks they’re unnecessary?”

That was news to me, but then, my eyes and ears glazed over whenever I heard the Zeeman
faculty discuss issues other than the latest teaching methods.

“Edward is not against Zeeman or any of the charter schools,” Kira said, her face
reddening. “His own son went to Zeeman up to eighth grade. He just wants the schools
to be more accountable. No one gets it.”

“Edward, is it?” Jeanne said, with a
neener-neener
sound that I associated with junior high kids. “He’s such a hypocrite. You’re just
his groupie, Kira, and you see what you want to see.”

“As if your boyfriend is perfect,” Kira managed, though her heart wasn’t in it.

I didn’t really want to hear what college students thought was wrong with one another’s
passions of the month, but I was concerned that Kira was in distress. Her reaction
went far beyond what might be expected of a loyal Henley resident, even one who was
an award-winning campaign worker for the mayor’s state senate run.

The girls’ voices softened finally, and the rest of the guests made awkward attempts
to return to their conversations. The efficient catering staff came in with spray
bottles, cloths, and sponges and relieved Kira’s befuddled parents, who had started
to clean the mess she’d made.

“What do you think that was about?” I asked Fran, who’d taken a seat next to me. I
was still holding on to the notion that a math major, even one who’d graduated, was
my responsibility. And I couldn’t help wondering why one of Henley College’s top students
was defending the mayor as if she were—

“She’s seeing him.” Fran broke into my thoughts, stabbing at a clam at the same time.

“What? Seeing him, as in…?” I tried to erase the image that was forming. “Kira? Seeing
the mayor? Are you sure?”

“It’s obvious,” Fran said.

“Not to me.”

Fran rolled her eyes, a reminder that I seldom got the subtleties of who was hooking
up with whom these days. Was it that long ago that I was twenty? Answer:
yes
. But Fran was older, and a grandmother, so I couldn’t blame my age and state in life
for how often I missed cues regarding personal relationships.

Though no one said so, Kira’s outburst had put a damper on the party. The good cheer
and harmless gossip that were present at the beginning had dissipated. Guests began
saying their farewells and wandered off in family units, presumably seeking a less
charged environment.

There’s some good in every ill wind, my mother, Margaret Stone, used to remind me.
She was right this afternoon. The fact that the party was cut short meant all the
more leftovers for the students who were staying in the dorm until official closing
time next week. The caterers and a few of us faculty and undergrads helped pack up
the savories.

“You really don’t want these meatballs and peppers, Dr. Knowles? Dr. Emerson?” a sophomore
chem major asked, eyes wide.

We shook our heads. “It’s all yours,” Fran said.