The Probability of Murder (21 page)

“Not unless you had a gun. I don’t think anything short of that would have scared him.”

“Maybe not. But I’ll never know, will I? And that’s not all, Dr. Knowles. I’m not even positive I locked the door.”

Hannah placed her hand on her heart, worrying me.

“Are you okay, Hannah? Do you need some water?”

She shook her head, removed her hand, and started to speak again. “I thought the police were going to arrest me when I admitted that, about the door. Like, they thought I deliberately left the door unlocked for someone to come in and murder Ms. Crocker. But I was just muddled when I was leaving because Chelsea was in a hurry. I know that’s no excuse, though.”

Another flood of tears came as Hannah continued to beat herself up. I had the feeling she did it often.

I let her regain some measure of composure and then backtracked to her comment about leaving the library with Chelsea and Chelsea having been in a hurry. I seemed to be running a beat behind her conversation this afternoon.

“Chelsea was with you?” I asked.

“Yeah, Chelsea came by to see if I could go to the party early. I think Ms. Crocker knew we wanted to go together, and that’s why she let me go. Chelsea and Ms. Crocker were close, and she probably wanted to do us both a favor by sending us off for the evening. I think there was some beef lately, though, because the two of them argued a lot this last week.”

Interesting. I wondered why Chelsea had never mentioned having arguments with the librarian-counselor she was so attached to, or, what could have been more important, seeing Charlotte shortly before her murder.

“You and Chelsea were together at the party the whole rest of the evening on Thursday?”

“Well, technically. You know how dorm parties can be. Like, mobbed. The boys are trying to get the Nathaniel Hawthorne accredited as a fraternity, so they want everyone they know to sign the petition. They’re going to call it Beta Omega Gamma, which is, like, Greek for ‘Boys on Campus.’”

Not exactly. “So you didn’t stay with Chelsea?”

“No, you’d never be able to keep track of who you came in with. I guess that’s the idea, right? Meet new people. I didn’t really see her once we squeezed through the front door of the dorm.”

Note to self—Chelsea doesn’t have an alibi. Check with Virgil. Another suspect? About as likely as Hannah, I thought.

“One more thing, Hannah. Do you know what the beef between Ms. Crocker and Chelsea was about?

“No, Chelsea wouldn’t say, but it might be the same problem I had.”

“Which was?”

“Ms. Crocker was terrific in everything. If you needed reference material that was missing, she’d look through the shelves with you and call around to see if some faculty member was hoarding it.” Hannah covered her mouth and uttered an “Oops.”

“That’s okay, Hannah, I know we’re notorious for checking out books and keeping them for years. What was it that Ms. Crocker wouldn’t do for you?”

“The one thing she wouldn’t help with was my career plans. I thought maybe she could advise me on what classes to take for the best shot into grad school in library science, or maybe she could use her contacts and put in a good word. But she just said I should do it all on my own, it would be better for me. But we all know that having an in is what really gets you started on the right track these days. Maybe she acted the same with Chelsea, and Chelsea kept after her.”

I thought I knew the reason Charlotte wouldn’t share her contacts in the world of library science. She didn’t have any. My guess was that Charlotte never did graduate from Simmons in Boston, the premier school for a master’s in library science. If she could fake identities, she could fake a degree. She was smart enough to bluff her way around a computer and help undergrads with term papers, but beyond that, she hadn’t a clue.

My fingers hurt from their clenched position as I thought about the deception that had been heaped on not only me, but on Henley’s student body, who deserved better. This was my cue to take a breath. Every time I remembered something phony about Charlotte Crocker, aka a dozen
other CCs, feelings of anger rose in me. I felt betrayed all over again, and that was pointless.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Hannah?” I asked.

Hannah’s eyes teared up again. Not my intent. She half-stood, leaned over, and nearly lifted me from my chair with her long, thick arms.

“Thank you so much, Dr. Knowles. Just knowing you’re here…”

I regretted again that I hadn’t responded to Hannah’s request for a meeting sooner. She’d simply needed a friend to grieve with her. So far, she seemed the most genuinely upset by Charlotte’s death.

She’d also given me something to think about regarding Chelsea’s relationship with her librarian-counselor.

Whirrrr. Whirrrr. Whirrrr.

Hannah released her hold on me and retreated to her chair while I checked my phone screen.

Jenna Ramirez. Eduardo’s wife.

My heart seemed to stop.

I clicked on, looking out the dormitory window at the sky over Henley College.

It had started to rain again.

“Sophie?” Jenna’s voice. “It’s not good.”

I knew Hannah had no idea why now it was my eyes that were tearing up.

“The storm?” I asked Jenna, my voice cracking.

“A storm, yes, but then there was an avalanche. Someone in the group above them knocked some rocks down, or some snow, too. Ice? I don’t know exactly.”

I wished Jenna would calm down so she could tell me what she’d heard, but I knew I’d be no better if I were in her place.

“Did you speak to an official? A sheriff or a ranger?”

“I think he was the ranger. One of the inexperienced climbers—not one of our boys, I don’t know who—was able to call down to the station, but he was cut off pretty quickly, so the details are sketchy.”

“Is anyone hurt?” I heard my voice as if from a distance.

A sniffle from Jenna, and a child’s voice in the background. I’d forgotten that she and Eduardo had a toddler. I realized Jenna would have to contain her anxiety.

“It’s not clear yet. The ranger who called me said he lost contact before he could get anything but a location. They have to wait until the storm subsides before they can start a rescue operation.” Jenna had adopted the tone that a reporter might use at an accident site. The child’s voice persisted, though I couldn’t understand his words.

Poor Jenna. How do you share this with a two- or three-year-old? I wanted to comfort her. But I couldn’t breathe. Suddenly all the contents of the vending machine seemed to drop away from the supporting wires, slide down the glass, and break open on the floor.

Of all the times I’d worried about Bruce when he was called to an emergency, none of them was as bad as his being on the wrong end of a rescue operation.

As I pulled into my garage, my eyes landed immediately on Bruce’s wall. It was all I could do not to sweep every piece of ice climbing equipment off its peg and into the trash. I couldn’t decide who had angered me more, Bruce or Charlotte. I knew I wasn’t being fair to my boyfriend, who was free to choose his hobbies and the way he spent his time, but I didn’t care. They’d both left me, and I wasn’t happy.

Hannah had done her best to forget her own distress over the death of her mentor and comfort me, but I’d raced out of the Clara Barton dorm as soon as my legs were steady enough to move.

I entered my house and immediately checked my messages on the landline phone in my kitchen, though I’d already accessed them from my car every five minutes on the way home. There was nothing new now on Bruce.

I listened to them again, in case I’d missed something. And also to take my mind off Bruce.

The first message had been from President Aldridge, wondering how I was faring with Charlotte’s memorial
service. Did I think that one week was appropriate, putting the date at next Friday? That way we’d have time to alert the press. Did I know of any relatives who should be invited?

Sure
, I thought.
She has a nephew, Noah.

I wondered about the press and how soon we might expect a revelation concerning the dear departed librarian of Henley College. I didn’t imagine Virgil and his department would be able to contain the information much longer.

Fran had called, wanting to know how I was doing and offering to take my statistics class tomorrow. The gesture was so grand that I called her back.

“Thanks. I really appreciate the offer, but I’m fine for tomorrow,” I said.

“You don’t sound it,” Fran responded.

The tears I’d held back while I was with Hannah, and then while driving home, poured out now on the unsuspecting Fran Emerson.

“It’s not just Charlotte,” I said, recovering my balance. Rather than reveal to Fran the whole Charlotte-as-thug story, which she’d eventually read in the newspaper, I told her about Bruce’s plight. Or disappearance. Or accident.

“No wonder you sound stressed.”

“If something happens in New Hampshire”—I paused to breathe—“then I might need you to cover for me,” I said, not spelling out what the something might be.

“Of course. Of course. You know I’m here.”

“I don’t know what I’ll do, Fran.…”

“I understand how worried you must be, Sophie. But Bruce is an experienced climber.”

I wished everyone would stop saying that. Then again, I’d probably worry more if they didn’t.

“If anyone knows what to do in an emergency, it’s him,” Fran added.

“He knows how to pilot a helicopter in an emergency,” I said. “Not much else. He squeezes his eyes shut at the sight of blood.”

I remembered first learning from Bruce how pilots and
nurses had very specific and separate duties at an accident scene. While the nurses tended to the victims, bloody or not, Bruce’s job was to plot the route to the right medical facility for the situation, and in a way that avoided interaction with trees, buildings, and utility poles. A bloodless but critical task, he’d called it, defending his choice not to learn first aid.

“What about his companions?” Fran asked, bringing me back to the crisis of the moment. “Didn’t you tell me a minute ago that they were flight nurses? How are they with blood?”

I couldn’t help a small laugh. “They’re good with blood,” I admitted.

“Okay, then. Let’s just assume they’re having a little adventure, which is why they went in the first place, and they’ll be home with great stories for your grandkids.” She paused. “Oh, never mind. Make that my grandkids.”

I felt much better after talking to Fran, who was a grandmother to several children, though she looked too young for the title.

I wasn’t completely ready to give up my ill humor, however.

I turned it on Ariana, who wasn’t ready and waiting when I called her. I left messages on her home and cell voice mails, briefly explaining my pressing need for good karma and special prayers, or whatever it was that sent healing vibes to the tops of mountains.

Otherwise, I was helpless as far as Bruce’s welfare was concerned. He would either come back or not, and I already had a lot of practice missing him.

I needed some of the karma for myself, too. My body and soul were overloaded with worry. Jenna and I had promised to keep in touch if either of us heard anything. Neither of us knew who Kevin’s contact was, whether he had a wife or a partner of either gender. I wanted to call Jenna simply to talk about our foolhardy men, but I hated to seem like the clingy girlfriend. I decided to wait at least
another hour before checking back with her. Maybe by then I’d have a message directly from Bruce, who, I now told myself, would soon be home, noisily rummaging in my fridge for a palatable leftover.

The pendulum I’d experimented with in my one and only college physics class didn’t have as wide a swing as my moods today.

Wandering from room to room had become a habit over this stressful weekend, but it offered little solace today.

The very fact that my house was so clean was a reminder of yesterday’s break-in. I was about to sit in front of the special coffee table in the den, which had been my grandmother’s, when I remembered how it had been sullied by an electronic bug. I felt like tipping it over and scrubbing the bottom.

I left the den and walked to my office, where posters and photographs of Bruce and his buddies clawing their way up mountains made it no safe haven from worry, either. The room had its share of other photographs, on the mantel and on the tables, but today the happy faces of my parents and friends were dwarfed by the images of my boyfriend, who was in trouble.

One framed picture of Bruce on the way up Mount Mansfield, the highest peak in Vermont, was especially disconcerting as I looked at it now. The mountainside was clear rock, no ice, except for a wide patch down the middle, made by a waterfall frozen in place. In the photo Bruce and Eduardo, two helmeted creatures joined by a rope, are climbing the icy strip. Apparently the dry rock on either side of the strip of ice wasn’t slippery enough to give them the thrills they were seeking.

I blew out an exasperated breath and moved on.

The guest room was no better. Bruce had appropriated one of the bookcases and kept back issues of magazines he subscribed to. One periodical, the
Accident Review
, was an annual compendium of accident reports from climbers. It was a very bad idea for me to pick up a copy now and glance through it, but the perverse part of my nature reached for it
automatically. Like when I couldn’t stop poking an already sore tooth with my tongue.