Irrational Numbers Page 2

  Strangely enough, she did. She even remembered giving the paper containing her name and phone number to Leo Quinn at his graduation. Another bit of good intention that didn’t fail to bare its teeth and bite me on the derriere.

  “I recognize the damn thing. What of it?”

  “We found it in Leo’s pants pocket. Not in his wallet, mind you, but in his pants. The boy either called you recently or was meaning to.”

  Bonnie took several breaths to settle her temper. It wouldn’t do her cause any good to lay into Byron for intimating she was a liar. If she were in his size twelve Nikes, she’d make the same assumptions.

  “He never called. I haven’t heard from him.”

  Though Byron nodded, Bonnie was unsure if he was merely moving on with his questioning or really believed her.

  Screw you, Deputy Hickman. She gave Byron the frosty smile she usually reserved for students she wanted to throw from a precipice.

  Byron tapped on the baggie. “Do you have any idea why he might have wanted to talk to you?”

  Her first thought was to reply with something sarcastic, but she thought better of it. Leo Quinn was dead. She needed to do anything she could to help. “No idea.”

  Byron nodded again, clearly unsatisfied with her answer. “Do you know of anyone who might wish Quinn harm?”

  “Only about half of East Plains.”

  “You got my attention.”

  Bonnie peered at Byron, wondering how he could have lived in East Plains in 2001 and not heard of Leo Quinn.

  Although there was that pesky business at the World Trade Center.

  She decided to give Byron the benefit of the doubt. “To really appreciate the turd Leo threw into everyone’s punch bowl, you need to know the kind of unique individual Leo Quinn was.”

  “To be salutatorian, he had to be some kind of special.”

  “He was. But that’s not all. He’d played varsity basketball since he was a sophomore, lettering all three years and taking the team to state in his senior year. President of his class both as a junior and a senior.”

  “Sounds like an exceptional young man. Did you know him well?”

  Bonnie nodded absently. Did anyone really know Leo Quinn well?

  “I’m not finished. The boy rode in the homecoming parade and was on the royal court for all four of his high school years, was the homecoming king as a senior. Not to mention prom king that same year—took Seneca Berringer, the most popular girl in the school and valedictorian. His selection as a salutatorian was only natural. A lot of people thought he, and not Seneca, should have been valedictorian.”

  “I heard he went a little crazy at graduation?”

  So you did hear what happened. Stop playing games with me, Byron.

  Bonnie gave him an icy stare. “Depends on how you define crazy. Some people believed what Leo did might have been one of his saner moments. Certainly, it was one of his braver.”

  Bonnie peered down at her hands while she gathered her thoughts. This promenade down memory lane was proving harder than she thought it would be, if for no other reason than what had ultimately happened to this wonder boy.

  God damn you, Leo. Why the hell didn’t you get your thin ass out of East Plains?

  “On the day of graduation, I was in my classroom. I think I was putting the finishing touches on a few presents I had to wrap. Anyway, someone knocked at my door. I opened it to find Leo standing there. I’d never seen him so flushed, so agitated.”

  A sudden thought brought Bonnie up short. Ben, her late husband, had been with her cooling his heels until the ceremony in the gym. The first signs of the cancer that would ultimately kill him were just starting to raise their ugly little heads.

  “Bon? You okay?” Armen asked.

  Bonnie blinked at the question. “Yeah, I’m fine. Anyway, Leo told me what he meant to do, and why dropping his bombshell in such a public venue was important. In the months leading up to graduation, we’d grown close; you could even say we were confidants. Not that he was asking my permission or even soliciting advice. He’d already made up his mind.”

  “What did you think of his decision?” Byron’s blank expression betrayed nothing.

  Again, Bonnie wanted to throw something at Byron for playing the innocent. He obviously knew about Leo and what transpired that long-ago day.

  Okay, you little shit-head. We’ll go on playing this game. “I disagreed with it. I asked him if he’d told his father. His mother being long since dead.”

  “Had he?”

  Bonnie shook her head. “Leo just smiled. You kidding? he said. Dad would have to blow something up, probably with me strapped to it. Leo got this faraway look. He damn well knew what was about to happen between him and the father who had been so proud of him.”

  “What did happen?”

  “As far as I know, Alf Quinn hasn’t spoken to the boy since that day. Leo moved in with an ailing uncle, who I believe eventually died.”

  “What about the speech itself? Was it the bombshell everyone says it was?”

  “You have no idea. Leo started in with thanking everyone for all they’d done for him. He talked about the future, colleges, careers, all the standard stuff. Then with a shaky voice, he said, I need to tell all of you something I should have told you years ago. I’m gay. Two words that changed everything, in not only his life, but the lives of dozens of other people. You could have heard a pin drop. I think a lot of people were waiting for Leo to start laughing like he’d told a joke and was going to take it all back. Instead, he picked up his speech, straightened the pages, and walked out of the gym.”

  CHAPTER 2

  BONNIE GAVE BYRON A KNOWING SMILE. “I DON’T NEED to tell you how much emotion a place like East Plains invests in its local heroes. Small towns can teach Gila monsters a thing or two about how to hold on and not let go. Hell, youngster, fifteen years ago you were a golden boy.”

  “Thanks, Missus P, but even on my best days I wasn’t in Leo Quinn’s league. But I know what you mean. I have baseball fans buying me drinks to this day—remembering scores of games I’ve long ago forgotten.” Byron chewed on his lower lip. “I got to tell you, a lot of East Plains’ ideals went belly-up when Leo came out of the closet. Folks looked on that graduation announcement as a betrayal.”

  “You think?” Bonnie remembered the stunned silence, the incredulous stares, first at the podium then at one another. The disbelief that quickly turned to anger. “Back in Leo’s senior year, when the basketball team went to state, we closed school early, took three school buses up to Denver—two for the kids, one for the fans in the community. Even when we lost, no one blamed Leo. East Plains loved that boy. For that type of loyalty, people expect things of their heroes. Telling the world you’re gay in your graduation speech isn’t on the menu.”

  Byron drew in a long breath and let it out through his teeth. “Those same good citizens ended up hating him—hating him enough that three years later maybe one of them killed him.”

  Bonnie pursed her lips. “You don’t have to go back three years to find folks willing to do ragged mischief on homosexuals—not in East Plains, not in a lot of small towns. You’ve lived around here long enough to know what I’m talking about.”

  “Normally, I’d agree with you.” Byron shook his head slowly. “Not this time. Not the weird way it went down.”

  Bonnie wasn’t sure she should ask the next question. Did she really want to know? Her voice had a mind of its own. “How did Leo die?”

  Byron hesitated so long Bonnie felt he might not answer. “We found him out on Squirrel Creek Road. You know that stretch going toward Pueblo?”

  Bonnie nodded, cognizant Byron wasn’t really looking for an answer, just an excuse to keep talking. Now was not the time to interrupt with a geography question.

  Byron inhaled deeply, then let the breath go with a sigh. “Someone, probably several someones, stripped him down.”

  “Naked?” Armen asked.

  “As a mole rat.
The funny thing is, they folded his clothes, his pants, and his shirt, even stuffed his socks into his shoes. Made a neat little pile.”

  “That’s just bizarre.” Bonnie could picture the scene. A remote stretch of dirt road. A pickup full of drunks. What she couldn’t fathom was what Leo was doing out on Squirrel Creek. Maybe his murderers snatched him somewhere else and took him there. You couldn’t ask for a more isolated place to do dirty work.

  But what the hell is up with the folded clothes? Did they play some sort of game with him before they killed him?

  “What did they do to him, Byron?” Bonnie heard the strain in her voice but was beyond caring. “What the hell did the cowards do once they humiliated him?”

  Armen pulled her close. “Maybe we shouldn’t ask.”

  She shrugged out of his embrace. “I have to. I need to know.”

  Byron glanced from Armen back to Bonnie. “They tied him to a section of barbed wire, like that kid up in Montana, or was it Wyoming?”

  “Matthew Shepard,” Armen offered.

  “Yeah,” Byron agreed absently. “But different from the Shepard case. There’s no evidence of beating. Don’t get me wrong. Leo struggled and has bruises to prove it. And you don’t get stripped and tied to barbed wire without getting cut up, but nothing on his face, no contusions, no black eyes, no bloody nose.”

  “Real gentlemen.” Bonnie spat the words. “I guess that brings me back to my first question. How did Leo die?”

  “Three shots to the chest. A tight pattern around the heart.”

  Bonnie clutched the cup of black coffee like she wanted to strangle it. Open on her breakfast island were four yearbooks—the Leo Quinn years.

  Armen licked his thumb and turned a page. “Camera certainly loved the lanky son of a buck. He has … had a Jimmy Stewart quality—chewed up the scenery even in still photographs.”

  In frozen images, the evolution of a small town hero played out—pimply faced freshman to handsome young man ready to take on the world. Memories masquerading as photographs. Winter Spirit Week—Leo dressed as a cheerleader kick-stepping with the basketball squad. Leo, his face covered in whipped cream after a pie-eating contest. Leo dancing with Seneca Berringer. Leo dribbling a basketball staring steely-eyed into the camera.

  The senior yearbook might as well have been titled the Quinn Edition. Oh, God, we loved you, Mister Quinn. Did we love you to death?

  The truth of her musing struck Bonnie full in the face. Or was it the heart? If Leo hadn’t been the golden boy, he never would have been at that podium, never given that ill-advised speech. For that matter, if he hadn’t been the embodiment of East Plains’ hopes and dreams, no one would have given a rat’s furry derriere about his preferences, sexual or otherwise.

  Don’t kid yourself, Pinkwater. There would have still been those who would have despised him—just maybe not as much.

  “And why in hell did you have my name and number in your pocket?” The whispered question was out of Bonnie’s mouth, like it needed to be heard out loud.

  And answered.

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing myself,” Armen said. “Byron’s right, you know? Leo Quinn was at least toying with the idea of contacting you.”

  Bonnie couldn’t deny the high probability. “I guess what’s drilling a hole in my psyche is why. After three years, why would Leo Quinn decide to call me?”

  “Then get murdered before he does it.” The thought was heartbreaking. “Maybe we’re jumping too fast here, Mister Mouse. There’s got to be an explanation that doesn’t lead to Leo Quinn considering a hypothetical phone call to his old math teacher.”

  “Sure.” The look on Armen’s face couldn’t exactly be interpreted as skeptical. Even the sound of his voice would make a stranger think he agreed with her.

  But he didn’t fool Bonnie. “I’m full of crap, ain’t I?”

  Armen showed her a centimeter gap between his thumb and index finger. “Only a little.”

  “Okay, okay, try this one. Our clothes-folding murderers go through Leo’s wallet and find the scrap of paper with my name and number. To throw off the police, they transfer the paper to Leo’s pocket, knowing the cops’ll find it and have to haul me in.” She’d been avoiding Armen’s stare. Now she risked a glance. “How am I doing?”

  Armen’s expression was noncommittal. “Go on.”

  Cut me some slack, lover. “You got to admit, an hour spent interrogating me is an hour not spent looking for the real killers. Plus, it muddies the motive waters.”

  “How so?”

  Bonnie could feel the soil gathering near her armpits as she dug herself deeper and deeper.

  In for a penny.

  “On the face of it, we have a hate crime. Now Byron has to consider another possibility. He has to figure me into the mix.” She fixed Armen with a direct stare, daring him to refute her.

  Armen nodded slowly, but without conviction. “A nice theory, but it all starts with a redneck shooting a homosexual.”

  “I don’t see—”

  Armen held up a silencing hand. “Yeah, you do, Bon. You detest the thought Leo was killed senselessly, but that’s likely the case. Now put yourself in the killer’s pointy-toed boots. I don’t care how isolated Squirrel Creek Road is. You just fired a gun not once, but three times, after spending a good ten minutes stripping and tying your gay victim to a fence. Unless you got ice water in your veins, you’re looking over your shoulder right about now. The best thing you can do to save your homophobic rear end is to skedaddle.”

  Bonnie didn’t have the energy to defend a hypothesis she herself had trouble believing. “I could bring up the possibility our clothes-folding killers had found the paper before they killed Leo, but I won’t. Occam’s razor demands we consider the simplest explanation.”

  “Leo put the note in his own pocket.”

  She nodded in resignation. “Leo put the note there himself.”

  Bonnie flipped a page in the senior yearbook. “Damn, damn, damn.”

  “What?”

  She stabbed a photo with her finger. Mugging for the camera, Leo had his arm around Seneca Berringer. The girl’s hand was poised over Leo’s head making rabbit ears.

  Bonnie let the bittersweet memory take her away. She could hear Seneca’s laughter. Smell her perfume.

  You sweet girl, how are you holding up? Did you keep in touch with Leo?

  The last Bonnie heard, Seneca had married some cowboy, a bull rider from over in Punkin Center. The match made sense, considering Seneca herself was a champion barrel racer.

  Absently, Bonnie let her eyes sweep over the calendar hanging by the sink. She’d blocked off the dates of the El Paso County Fair, half-intending to go. Armen had never been to a rodeo, and tomorrow night was barrel racing.

  “Mister Mouse, I would consider it an honor if you would join me for a hefty slice of Americana pie.”

  When her clock went off Monday morning, Bonnie was tempted to throw the damn thing against the wall. Instead, she hammered it into submission, then peered at Big Ben, blearily trying to focus.

  Six thirty.

  Back in May, it seemed like such a great idea to teach an accelerated Women in Mathematics class to gifted high school students. Now that the end of July had come, Bonnie would gladly have endured a high colonic if she could just have one more hour of sleep.

  Dear God, what was I thinking?

  “At least you get to stay in bed.” She rolled over to give Armen a kiss.

  His side of the bed was empty. The memory of last night’s reasonable decision—which didn’t seem so reasonable in the light of day—came flooding back. Armen had gone home. After all, she had to work, and he didn’t. She wouldn’t see him until tonight when he picked her up for the fair.

  In disgust, she threw back her duvet and swung her feet over the side of her water bed. Hypatia nuzzled against her leg. Absently, Bonnie stroked the dog’s silky fur.

  “Hypatia, my love. Stupid as it sounds, I miss him. How
could one man, in such a short time, wheedle his way so far into this hard heart of mine?”

  The golden retriever snorted as if to say, It does sound stupid. You got me. What more do you need?

  Bonnie roused herself and stood. “You’re right. I am a capable, fully functioning, independent woman. And I have a class to teach.”

  Bonnie finished taking attendance and set down the computer sheets. She sat atop one of the student desks in her room.

  “All right, here’s the deal. Because we have a limited amount of time, I’ve boiled down our fun and games to six female mathematicians.” Bonnie let a smile creep onto her face. “But they’re good ones. Another decision I’ve made on your behalf is that I’m not going tell you their names.”

  As she expected, the announcement elicited excitement and side talk. Like a wave at an athletic event, energy swept through her baker’s dozen of brilliant female students.

  Let it grab hold of you, cuties.

  “We’re talking about a scavenger hunt, using any method at your disposal—the Internet, reference help at the library, whatever. Shoot, I don’t care if you work in teams, but here’s the deal. By this time tomorrow, I expect you to deduce the names of all six mathematicians. If you’re interested in extra credit, pick one of them and do a report.”

  She sat back. Silent, and not-so-silent alliances were established across the room.

  “Wanna team up?”

  “My dad’s got math history books.”

  “We can go over to my house after school.”

  Bonnie clapped her hands. “All right, here’s your first clue.”

  She wrote France at the top of her chalkboard. Next to this she wrote 1706—1749. “The first of our mathematicians was married to a French nobleman, making her a marquise in her own right. But neither this nor the brilliant mathematics and science she produced is how she is remembered. Before the ink on her marriage license dried, she became the lover of none other than Voltaire.”