A Function of Murder Read online

  Praise for

  THE PROBABILITY OF MURDER

  “A mix of cozy mystery and suspenseful general fiction…The suspense was high…I’d recommend this mystery.”

  —Genre Reviews

  “Ada Madison is a talented writer who knows how to hook her audience from the very first page…A rich and satisfying read.”

  —MyShelf.com

  “This is [an] enjoyable academic amateur sleuth filled with puzzlers, brainteasers, and mathematician quotations. The cozy storyline is entertaining…Fans will appreciate Sophie’s inquiry as she adds the clues and subtracts the red herrings to try to extrapolate the identity of the killer before she becomes a cold statistic.”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

  THE SQUARE ROOT OF MURDER

  “Math professor Sophie Knowles makes an auspicious debut in Ada Madison’s delightful The Square Root of Murder. Petty academic politics and faculty secrets prove fertile topics in Madison’s very capable hands.”

  —Miranda James, New York Times bestselling author of

  File M for Murder

  “A clever puzzle, The Square Root of Murder is well plotted, and the reader will want to see more of Sophie. Madison has found the right equation for success in this entertaining series debut.”

  —Richmond Times-Dispatch

  “I strongly recommend The Square Root of Murder. It offers readers the familiarity of a cozy mystery with some interesting new twists. Five stars out of five.”

  —Examiner.com

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Ada Madison

  THE SQUARE ROOT OF MURDER

  THE PROBABILITY OF MURDER

  A FUNCTION OF MURDER

  A FUNCTION OF

  Ada Madison

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  A FUNCTION OF MURDER

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / January 2013

  Copyright © 2012 by Camille Minichino.

  Math, puzzles, and games by Camille Minichino.

  Interior map by Dick Rufer.

  Cover illustration by Lisa French.

  Cover design by Lesley Worrell.

  Interior text design by Kristin del Rosario.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or

  electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of

  copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-61873-8

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  ALWAYS LEARNING PEARSON

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks as always to my critique partners: Nannette Rundle Carroll, Jonnie Jacobs, Rita Lakin, Margaret Lucke, and Sue Stephenson. They are ideally knowledgeable, thorough, and supportive.

  Thanks to Dr. Jeanne Trubek, mathematics chairwoman at Emmanuel College in Boston; and to Dr. Sally Dias, woman of many titles at Emmanuel, my friend and supporter. Both are outstanding resources for this series

  A special word about experts who are ready to help at a moment’s notice, with a word, a picture, or a seminar’s worth of advice: educator Susan Durkin, chemist and ice climber William McConachie, medevac pilot Mark Ramos, and entrepreneur Mark Streich.

  Thanks also to the extraordinary inspector Chris Lux for continued advice on police procedure. Chris is always available to answer my questions, often the same one for every book, or to share a laugh. My interpretation of his counsel should not be held against him.

  Thanks to the many other writers and friends who offered critique, information, brainstorming, and inspiration; in particular: Gail and David Abbate, Judy Barnett, Sara Bly, Margaret Hamilton, Mary McConnell, Ann Parker, Jean Stokowski, Karen Streich, and Ellyn Wheeler.

  My deepest gratitude goes to my husband, Dick Rufer. I can’t imagine working without his support. He’s my dedicated Webmaster (www.minichino.com), layout specialist, and on-call IT department.

  Finally, how lucky can I be? I’m working with a special and dedicated editor, Michelle Vega, a bright light in my life, who is superb at seeing the whole without missing the tiniest detail. Thanks, Michelle!

  The laws of nature are but

  the mathematical thoughts of God.

  —EUCLID

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Fun (Exercises)

  Answers

  What’s not to like about graduation ceremonies?

  The speeches? Can’t get enough of them. The flowers, balloons, parties, screaming coeds? Love them all. Every year I look forward to a long line of students filing by, one by one, switching the tassels on their mortarboards. I get a shiver of delight as I join the procession, my heavy silk and velvet robes weighing me down. What a pleasure it is to walk around the pathways of the campus and onto the great lawn, a trumpet voluntary r
inging out through the stifling hot and humid air. I never want it to end.

  Not.

  Today, as the faculty sat outside on a makeshift stage, our uncomfortable folding chairs seemed to sway with every warm breeze.

  Fran, my colleague in the Henley College Mathematics Department, nudged me.

  “Professor Knowles, are you bored silly?” she whispered.

  “Totally, Professor Emerson,” I said. “Are you stuck to your chair?”

  “Like white on the blackboards,” answered Fran, who was old enough to remember chalk. “Can you believe this guy? Could he be less inspiring?” Fran gave a surreptitious nod in the direction of the podium where Mayor Edward P. Graves was holding forth as our keynote speaker. The P. was important to distinguish him from his father, Edward D., and his grandfather, Edward K., who had been our mayors before him.

  At only thirty-nine, five years my junior, the current Edward Graves was in the middle of his first term as the youngest mayor in the history of Henley, Massachusetts. Sadly, however, it hadn’t taken him long to pick up the walk and the talk of the average gray-haired politician. He seemed to have put on his smile at the same time as his highly polished shoes.

  “Graduations are double milestones in our lives, because they celebrate the proud accomplishments of our past, while also looking forward to the future,” the latest Mayor Graves said now, as if it were an original, quotable thought and nicely put. Hadn’t Madeleine Albright said it better at my own baccalaureate, lo those many years ago?

  Edward P.’s wife, Nora, perfectly coiffured, sat a row in front of Fran and me, across the aisle, knocking knees with the deans and other college and town officials. She’d already received a commendation from the college president, for her “generous, outstanding work with all the major charities of this city.” Nora Graves kept a steady, pleasant look on her face, apparently neither bored nor sweaty, as Fran and I were. Even without the hat hair I was about to reveal as soon as I removed my velvet tam, my short dark hair would never look as good as our First Lady’s.

  I desperately wished I’d brought a puzzle with me, something with wires or magnets that I could put together by touch as I kept my hands under my robes. Too late now. I made a note to put a couple of pocket-size puzzles with my robes when I packed them away, so I’d be better prepared next year. And hadn’t we already been on this stage for a year?

  Mayor Graves had not been the unanimous choice for commencement speaker. We’d had a last-minute cancellation, and the dean had called an emergency meeting for a replacement. Many of us would have preferred a person of academic standing, like the originally scheduled speaker, who was a retired dean of a Boston medical school. Not that I’d been asked, but I’d have recommended one of any number of noted mathematicians in the greater Boston area. A sparkling equation would have made a nice addition to the commencement address.

  I glanced across the aisle at art history instructor Chris Sizemore, to see how she was holding up. Chris had been one of the most adamant that we should have looked to educational institutions, not to city hall, for a speaker. Her chin rested low on her chest, her long brown hair falling like a veil over her face. She might have been asleep. Not a bad choice.

  Next to her, Montgomery “Monty” Sizemore, Chris’s younger brother and an adjunct professor in Henley’s new business program, was awake, but agitated, and appeared to be commenting under his breath, perhaps doing business through his Bluetooth. Another decent choice.

  The lunchroom rumor mill suggested that Monty had his own special beef with Mayor Graves over some consulting work his Boston-based company had done for the city of Henley. At issue this month was the waste management contract, with two contenders: one the mayor’s choice, the other Monty’s.

  Groan. Why did I have to think of garbage now? Wasn’t I hot and uncomfortable enough? Maybe that’s why Monty was cringing, too, with his mind on which company would be granted the privilege of transporting our smelly refuse to the town dump.

  All in all, surveying the faculty, noting the scattered smiles and frowns, it wasn’t hard to figure out where each one stood on the dicey issue of commencement speaker.

  The Henley College Faculty Senate debate had ended when the scales were tipped by an announcement: Cody Graves, the mayor’s son, who’d be entering his senior year of high school in the fall, had already applied for admission to our college. The gossip from Admissions further hinted that a new gym might be in the offing—the Graves Athletic Center, to be exact—a critical addition now that men were admitted to the Henley campus. It seemed no one noticed the poor condition of our sports facilities until the first coed class arrived last September.

  The prospects of a celebrity freshman next year and a new gym to follow outweighed any desire for academic integrity. Also overshadowed was any suggestion that the mayor’s business dealings might be questioned—was there a waste management CEO among his campaign contributors, for example? It seemed the Faculty Senate was willing to risk a few boos from the crowd. None came. Instead, we entertained a strong but civilized undercurrent of disapproval.

  From behind the podium, the town’s top guy rambled on. “Today is not an end, but a beginning.”

  Another groan. I fanned myself with the fancy vellum program and considered texting Fran, sitting next to me. If our advanced calculus students could thumb their way through a lecture, texting across a classroom aisle, why couldn’t we do a little business as we sat side by side? We’d already stayed quiet during the long ecumenical invocation, stood for the national anthem, and then sat again for speeches by esteemed college administrators and dignitaries from as far away as Boston (forty miles) and Providence, Rhode Island (twenty miles). Since the speeches began, I’d counted nineteen appearances by the word future and twelve by the word beginning, or forms thereof.

  By far the best address today had come from one of the valedictorians, Kira Gilmore. Kira was also active in town politics, known to be one of the best workers at Mayor Graves’s campaign headquarters. Too bad he hadn’t sought her help with his speech. I imagined he was too busy pushing ahead with his career strategy of running for state senator before he completed his term as mayor.

  I’ll admit I may have paid more attention to Kira since she was a math major with a distinguished academic record and a professionally recognized senior thesis. Kira was what my mother would have called high-strung. I was sure there was a more trendy psychological term now for someone who was highly excitable and could make herself ill over the smallest bit of stress. She’d come to my office yesterday, the day before her graduation, and threatened to opt out of her place on the program.

  “I can’t do it, Dr. Knowles,” she’d said. “There’ll be so many people sitting out there, watching me fall all over myself.”

  I was ready with a canned routine that I used periodically on the privileged students of Henley College.

  “Will your parents be among those sitting on the lawn tomorrow?” I asked Kira.

  “Uh-huh, they got in from California last night.”

  “And, tell me, do you owe a lot in student loans?” I asked, knowing that Kira’s hardworking parents had footed the entire bill for her degree.

  Kira had looked perplexed. “Uh, no, I didn’t take out any loans. I thought you knew that my mom and dad paid for—” She’d paused and ventured a tiny smile. “Okay, Dr. Knowles. I get it. My parents deserve to see me up there. It’s not about me; it’s about them.”

  “What a nice thought,” I’d said.

  In the end, as always, Kira had done beautifully. She’d opened her speech with a quote she attributed to her grandmother—“If opportunity doesn’t knock, build your own door”—and closed with one of her own—“Let’s party tonight and change the world tomorrow.”

  I’d clapped loudly and whispered under my breath, Nice going, Kira. MIT was so smart to accept you for grad school.

  With Mayor Graves still at the podium, I slid my hand through the slit on the seam of my robe a
nd fumbled around for my skirt pocket where my phone lay among paper clips, coins, rubber bands, and a roll of antacids. Fran and I could at least work on some issues by text. I was chair this year and needed to remind Fran to give me her fall schedule for the bulletin. It would also be useful to have her recommendation for where my boyfriend, Bruce, and I might stay on the Cape next weekend, plus I wanted her recipe for lasagna. A whole array of important things needed attention. We shouldn’t be wasting precious time.

  My attempt at a covert action was disrupted by polite applause from the stage and from the lawn. The mayor had finished. I’d missed his closing lines, but I’d have bet they included the phrase Go forth.

  “Notice who isn’t clapping?” Fran asked me, as we both joined in the applause.

  “Besides Chris and her brother? Lots. I’m just glad they’re not booing.”

  As the mayor returned from the podium, he caught my eye and smiled. A big surprise. I recovered in time to smile back. He raised his eyebrows in a question and mouthed words that looked like “See you,” a sentiment that did not at all fit our relationship, which amounted to crossing paths now and then at a charter school where I volunteered. Kira helped out at his campaign headquarters, but I’d never been there. I couldn’t think of any other interaction we might have had that would have prompted a “See you” notice.

  “What was that about?” Fran asked, removing any doubt that the gesture was meant for me and not someone sitting behind or in front of me. Nor had it been a nervous twitch.

  “I have no idea,” I said. “Probably part of his twenty-four-seven campaign mode. A verbal handshake for a voter.”

  Mayor Graves stopped where his wife sat, took her by the elbow, and led her off the stage, walking toward the back. Who could blame them for escaping before the conferring of degrees? I envisioned him dumping his robes on the nearest empty chair and silently greeting everyone in the rows behind me with the same “See you” gesture he’d given me.