Read The Square Root of Murder (Professor Sophie Knowles) for Free Online

three kinds of cheese, and plain crackers. I called it a meal; Bruce would have called it the first round of appetizers before the prime rib. Bruce claimed I wasn’t being true to my country kitchen décor with such insubstantial menus.
    “You should make some meatballs,” he’d said on his last day off.
    “Excuse me? Meatballs?”
    “You know, like that scene in Goodfellas , where the wiseguys are making an Italian dinner in prison?” Bruce tended to bring everything back to a favorite movie.
    “Funny, that scene doesn’t stand out for me,” I’d answered.
    “How about the potato soup and quail in My Dinner With Andre ?”
    The only way to stop Bruce at times like that was to force-feed him the most convenient snack, often involving high salt content.
    There was no question tonight that I needed to finish up my latest journal article. Publish or perish was still an operative phrase in academia. Full professorship was contingent on a substantial publication record, and my clips from puzzle magazines didn’t count. I had a respectable list of peer-reviewed articles, but one could never have too many when one’s dean had an eagle eye out for maintaining Henley College’s accreditation. And mine.
    I took care of the one additional reference I needed to round out my article on traveling waves of the mathematical kind. I printed and signed my cover letter and prepared the package for mailing on Monday to the antiquated press that didn’t take email attachments. They’d still have it long before Labor Day, and I could add the note to my resume by the official opening of the fall semester and the first meeting of the promotions committee.
    I could now check off Lofty Academic Responsibilities and turn to my latest puzzle, which was calling to me loudly. I couldn’t stand that no one at the party had liked it. I picked up a copy of the brainteaser that had been ix-nayed by the Ben Franklin group this afternoon. Too tough, eh? What did they want? Simple word-in-word puzzles, like figuring out that CHIMADENA is “MADE in CHINA,” or that O ER T O is a “PAIN-less operation?”
    Maybe I should heed the second loudest call instead. I put the puzzle aside and took out my bead case. I’d invested in a portable cabinet organizer that Ariana had recommended as a starter piece.
    “Starter?” I’d exclaimed. Equipped with fifteen clear jars, three sliding storage boxes and many dividers, the cabinet seemed sufficient to last a lifetime of beading.
    “You’ll see,” Ariana had warned.
    She was right. I was already thinking of buying extra canisters to accommodate the charms I’d bought to add to key chains and bookmarks. Once into a hobby, I did tend to go all out.
    I looked around at the ragged piles of books and journals scattered throughout my kitchen and den, and the overflowing briefcase I used for school. Beading was now the most organized area of my life.
    I settled on a saddle stool at my large kitchen island, one of my favorite spots in the house. I pushed aside an issue of Bruce’s Rotor magazine and a copy of an article from the Mathematical Association of America to make room for one of my bead drawers. The light was good in the spacious, cheery yellow room, and I was comfortable with my food and my work, overlapping them in some spots.
    A section of orange in one hand, I sifted through my collection of silver charms with the other. I picked out a few that I’d decided to use for my next projects. A tiny airplane charm for Bruce, since I hadn’t found a helicopter yet; a cupcake for Ariana, whose sweet tooth was legendary; and an old-fashioned telephone for my aunt in Florida who was once a switchboard operator.
    Rrring. Rrring. Rrring.
    Speaking of which . . . I should have unplugged the phone when I started working. Too late now, since I could never let a phone keep ringing.
    My screen told me the call was from a private party. I grimaced. I liked the option of knowing who was on the other end. More