Irrational Numbers Page 21

  “Weird.”

  Weird, indeed. “Now where was I?”

  “Sophia’s love life,” Beatrice offered.

  “Oh, yeah. Bunsen, who was worried that Weierstrass might be overly fond of the young woman, warned him that Sophia was dangerous. Although it needs to be said that Bunsen was a renowned woman hater.”

  From the looks on the faces of several of her charges, she was sure that had Bunsen been present he would have gotten an earful from these feisty young women. They had the makings of dangerous women themselves.

  “I’d like to tell you that Sophia Kovalevskaya was a saint who remained faithful to her husband all through her days. Such is simply not the case. History tells us that Sophia had at least two extramarital affairs.”

  If anything, the silence in the room grew more pronounced.

  Bonnie wondered how many of these young women thought less of Sophia because of this character flaw. Bonnie knew most of their families and many were religious.

  Would you guys be shocked to learn your gray-haired teacher had an affair in her impetuous youth?

  “Of the first affair, I will only say this. It happened while Sophia was in Paris and away from her husband, Vladimir. It ended when Vladimir committed suicide in 1883.”

  If the girls hadn’t been incensed at this long dead mathematician’s behavior before, their openly angry faces showed they were at this juncture. One of the things Bonnie admired about teenagers was their sense of justice. To most of them, right and wrong were acutely defined concepts. Black and white. Only later in life did the majority of the human race get lost in the vast gray areas of morality.

  How did Bobby Dylan put it? I was older then; I’m younger than that now.

  Bonnie considered defending Sophia Kovalevskaya’s choices, telling them about the strain Vladimir put on their relationship by squandering not only his own money but Sophia’s inheritance as well. She decided against it.

  Anger is good for the soul.

  “It’s the second affair that we’ll focus on. Less than two years before her death, Sophia had been altered in almost every conceivable way from the firebrand of her youth. This version of Sophia was superstitious—she spoke constantly of the meaning of her dreams. She’d fretted obsessively about how history would remember her. And she had never really recovered from the breakdown she’d suffered when Vladimir died. Into this atmosphere came Maxim.”

  Bonnie paused to catch her breath and to gauge the attentiveness of her audience. Although they were slouched on their desktop perches, no one’s eyes seemed to have glazed over. And no one was yawning.

  Don’t push your luck, Pinkwater. Run to the end while you still got them.

  “Very little is known about this mystery man except that Sophia loved him as she had loved no one else in her entire life. And for a while, he returned that devotion. He was generous, kind, understanding, solicitous as to her well-being, and made compromise after compromise in order to accommodate the necessities of her mathematical career. Unfortunately, for this new version of Sophia, it wasn’t enough.”

  Bonnie leaned forward and presented her hands as upturned avaricious talons. “She needed to be in control. As he became more devoted, Sophia became increasingly tyrannical. No aspect of their relationship was immune because she viewed all of it in the service of her ambition, her destiny. In the end, her impossible demands drove him away.”

  “That’s so sad,” Beatrice said.

  “I believe Sophia would agree with you. I can’t help feeling there came a moment when she realized what she had done. How she had, after a lifetime of searching, found someone to love, then threw it all away. From all accounts, after Maxim left, her health deteriorated to the extent that one cold night at a railway station in Stockholm, she simply didn’t have the energy to go on living. Many folks say she died of exhaustion. Others say influenza. But I say Sophia Kovalevskaya, arguably the finest female mathematician of all time, died of a broken heart.”

  When Bonnie stopped into the office, Lloyd was on the phone, his feet propped up on his desk, his left hand behind his head. He saw Bonnie and waved her in. She plopped down in the big red plush chair, her notes from her morning lecture on her lap.

  He covered the receiver. “It’s Marjorie. I’ll be right with you.” He handed her a sticky note.

  It contained a short message from Byron Hickman. Seneca Webb had regained consciousness and seemed to be on the mend.

  Bonnie considered beating a retreat to the hall and calling Byron, but her curiosity about Marjorie wouldn’t permit it. Lloyd was actually grinning like a schoolboy.

  Good for you, boss.

  “It’s Bonnie,” Lloyd said. “Sure, why not?”

  He extended the receiver to Bonnie. “She wants to say hi.”

  Bonnie took the phone. “What’s going on in the world of big-time music, girlfriend?”

  “Same old, same old. But Lloyd and I are having dinner tonight. Keep your fingers crossed.”

  “I’ll do that. My toes, too.” Bonnie wasn’t sure how much she should quiz Marjorie with Lloyd sitting just a few feet away. She decided she’d have more to talk about after the dinner date. “I’ll yak at you in a day or two.”

  “Thanks for everything, Bon.”

  “Shut up. I didn’t do anything. You take care of yourself, honey.” Bonnie handed the phone back to Lloyd.

  Her principal chatted for another minute and hung up. He inhaled deeply and regarded Bonnie across the expanse of his desk.

  When after a full minute he still hadn’t said anything, Bonnie rolled her Kovalevskaya notes and slapped them on the desk. “Well?”

  “We talked yesterday.”

  The infuriating man seemed to believe that short sentence would suffice. “You’re going to have to do better than that, Whittaker.”

  A smile sliced across her friend’s craggy face. “Okay, we talked a long time, maybe two hours. Talked about everything. Us. The kids. What happened with what’s-his-name.”

  No way on God’s green earth was Bonnie going to call Marjorie’s erstwhile lover by his Christian name if Lloyd wasn’t prepared to. She merely nodded. “You worked some things out?”

  “You could say that. I’m not saying everything’s perfect. But it’s a start. We’re having dinner tonight.”

  Bonnie reached across the desk and squeezed Lloyd’s hand. “That’s what I heard. Some place romantic, with wine and soft music?”

  “The rib place in Limon.”

  Fair enough. She waved the sticky note. “What’s the skinny on Seneca?”

  Lloyd scratched at his chin. “A severe concussion. A dozen stitches. She’ll probably hang out at the hospital for a day or two.”

  Bonnie considered going to see the girl and decided not to. She’d let Gabe Trotter be a visiting angel without competition from Bonnie Pinkwater. “Did Byron say anything about Rattlesnake?”

  Lloyd shook his head. “I asked. The good deputy said the girl claims to know nothing about the abduction of Rattlesnake or the shooting of Jason Dobbs.”

  Bonnie stood, unable to contain her frustration. She brandished her notes like a war club. “Well, Seneca damn well knows about something. Am I the only one who remembers her shouting, No more killing? Boss, I’m not saying she’s guilty of anything, but come on!”

  Lloyd chuckled. “Don’t hold your feelings in so much, Pinkwater. You’ll hurt yourself.”

  Bonnie stuck her tongue out at her friend. “Well? Did Byron mention anything about Furby or Leo?”

  “First of all, you’re not the only one who remembered the girl’s words. But when I asked about that, Byron clammed up, wouldn’t say a thing one way or the other.”

  Don’t send a man to do a woman’s work. Clam up, my saggy rear end. I damn well would have gotten the youngster to spill the beans.

  Bonnie eased herself back into the stuffed chair. Weariness settled over her that demanded a definitely reduced expenditure of energy. She’d let Byron do his job without
pushing and prying.

  At least not from one Bonnie Pinkwater. “I’m going home.”

  Lloyd rapped his knuckles on his desk. “A capital idea. I’ve got a few things to finish up here, then I’m going to quit this place as well. Got a rendezvous to attend.”

  Bonnie remembered how she’d left things with Armen and blanched.

  “Anything wrong?” Lloyd asked.

  She considered telling him her tale of woe then thought better of it. “Another time, big guy.” She pushed herself to her feet. “Let’s just say I’ve got a rendezvous of my own, and I’m not looking forward to it.” Without another word, Bonnie left Lloyd’s office.

  Bonnie climbed into Alice, tossed her class notes onto the passenger seat, and started up the Subaru.

  Pinkwater, you’ve got a good forty-minute drive to consider what you’ll say, and not say, to Armen.

  As she pulled onto East Plains Highway, Bonnie prepared her battle plan. First, she needed to shake off her lethargy before phoning Armen. It wouldn’t do to lose her cool—and give rein to her Imp of the Perverse—merely because she was brain weary. Right at the moment, she had no idea what she meant to say to the man, but she had an almost geometrical image of how it needed to be said. She would inhabit the midpoint between indignation and graciousness.

  Bonnie intended to listen patiently while Armen made his case for purchasing the tickets without consulting her. The man had had almost twenty hours to construct a logical argument in defense of his position. Bonnie was well acquainted with the inner working of Armen Callahan’s excellent mind and a part of her was looking forward to his verbal machinations.

  On the flip side, she needed to establish some ground rules and parameters for future negotiations. Armen going off and making decisions that affected Bonnie intimately without a by-your-leave would henceforth be unacceptable. If they were to be together—and God knew how that would be defined—they would have to be a team.

  This last thought literally stopped Bonnie in her tracks. Only partially aware she was doing it, she guided the Subaru onto the shoulder of the road.

  A team?

  Where had she last heard those words? Just recently, she was sure. She tugged on her earlobe and engaged her View-Master memory for playback. Immediately, a not-so-still voice sounded in her head declaiming the idea of searching for this abstract tidbit of information, at least at this moment, as a ridiculous waste of precious time. She damn well needed to get ready for what might prove to be one of the most important phone calls of her life.

  For once in your life, Pinkwater, don’t let yourself get sidetracked.

  Bonnie forced herself to resume her homeward trek. Over the next thirty minutes she auditioned, rejected, revised, and polished what felt like a cogent set of reasonable guidelines for a possible future with Armen Callahan. She felt comfortable in her skin and ready to compromise if Armen was reasonable.

  Absently, she had unrolled and smoothed her classroom notes. From the corner of her eye, she caught bits and snatches of her Sophia Kovalevskaya lecture. She had underlined key sections of the talk, and the final piece where Sophia’s romance with Maxim had begun to unravel seemed to leap off the page.

  “Oh, my God,” she exclaimed. “Of course.”

  CHAPTER 24

  “HOW DID YOU GET THROUGH, MISSUS P?” BYRON sounded like he wanted to yank Bonnie through her kitchen phone line and toss her to a pack of wolves. “I left Deputy Fishbach with explicit instructions that I didn’t want to speak with anyone until I finished my lunch. I may have to kill him after I hang up on you.”

  I would imagine my name came up once or twice in that set of explicit instructions. “Don’t be too hard on the poor man. I can be pretty persuasive when I put my mind to it.”

  “Tell me about it.” Byron sighed a let’s get-this-over-with sigh. “So, what earth-shattering news couldn’t wait another twenty minutes?”

  Bonnie had expended all her energy in getting access to her former student, even to the point of hinting she would give preferential treatment to Deputy Fishbach’s daughter Mindy in the coming school year. Now that she had Byron on the hook, she was at a momentary loss. She didn’t want to come off sounding like a loon by informing him she was inspired by the tragic life of a lady mathematician who died almost two centuries ago.

  “Before I get into it, I need you to send someone over to Memorial Hospital. If I’m right, Gabe Trotter is in grave danger.”

  “What are you talking about, Missus P?”

  “I’m talking Seneca Webb, Byron.” Bonnie inhaled once and released it slowly in order to stay calm. Take your time, Pinkwater. Make your words count. “The murder of Leo Quinn was no hate crime. We’re talking love here, or at least the heartbreak that comes from love lost.”

  The sound of Byron’s breathing came back on the line as if he’d had his hand over the receiver. “Missus P, Seneca Webb is one of the victims in this tragedy. Her husband almost killed her yesterday afternoon.”

  “I know but—”

  “No buts. That young woman is in no shape to be a threat to anyone. Hell, I postponed most of my interrogation because I thought she might slip into unconsciousness if I stressed her too much.”

  “Are you through?” Bonnie knew she was treading a very fine line in being terse with Byron, but she couldn’t hold the reins on her Imp of the Perverse. “That young woman, as you put it, has manipulated every man she’s ever met, and now she’s working her magic on you.”

  “I’m going to give you a bye on that one, Missus P, because of our past relationship. But I need to tell you, I don’t appreciate being told I’m someone’s puppet. You got about two minutes to make your case.”

  Two minutes it is, then. Time to play Scheherazade.

  “There’s a photograph in Rattlesnake’s office of Leo Quinn and Seneca, prom night I suspect. Rattlesnake keeps that photo around because he loved Seneca like a daughter. It was his fondest wish that she and Leo would give him grandbabies.”

  “I’ve seen that photo. They looked real good together.”

  “That photograph represented not only Alf Quinn’s plans, but Seneca Webb’s hopes and dreams. Hell, youngster, she and Leo had been inseparable since early childhood. They were sweethearts all through junior and senior high—prom, homecoming, hayrides, bonfires. There must be a dozen snapshots of the pair in yearbooks and the school newspaper.”

  “I get it, Missus P. Seneca Webb loved Leo Quinn.” Byron exhaled loudly across the receiver. “But things and people change. Truth is, she and Leo broke up. Seneca moved on and married Caleb Webb.”

  Bonnie shook her head, even though she knew Byron couldn’t see it. “Yes, she married Caleb, but she never got over Leo.” Bonnie checked her Mickey Mouse watch. Her two minutes were almost up.

  Time to try for the long kick. “Or hating Jason Dobbs.”

  “For stealing Leo from her?” The barest hint of cynicism peeked out of Byron’s question.

  Your’e coming round, Deputy Hickman. “You bet. Then two months ago, Seneca’s world did an about-turn. Jason Dobbs officially made a clean break with Leo. Her one-time soul mate needed a shoulder to cry on.”

  “I think I know where you’re going with this.”

  “Then you also know the math gets a little coincidental here. I have no way of divining the particulars, but I believe Seneca Webb tricked a devastated Leo Quinn into making love to her. Byron, Seneca is two months pregnant.”

  Bonnie braced herself for a battery of objections. What she got was silence. Once again, the sound of Byron’s breathing was absent from the receiver. It returned a few moments later. “I got to go, Missus P.”

  “What’s happening, youngster?”

  “It appears you may have been right. When you first suggested I send someone out to the hospital, I had Vern Fishbach call. Gabe Trotter came to visit Seneca at twelve thirty. The nurses checked the room a few minutes ago. Both Gabe and Seneca are gone.”

  Bonnie hung up her kitche
n phone. She sat down hard at her breakfast island and settled her head onto her arms.

  Seneca has Gabriel Trotter.

  Bonnie had no doubt the murderous heartsick girl would kill Gabe before the day was through. Never mind that the goofball was guilty of nothing that warranted such extremes. A similar truth hadn’t saved either Witherspoon or Furby.

  Or Rattlesnake.

  The faces of the dead crowded into Bonnie’s brain. Furby, with his clown makeup and dirty Pennzoil cap. The Spoonmaster sitting behind the wheel of his muscle car. Alf Quinn, staring out of a photo, his arm around his unfortunate extraordinary son. And these didn’t take into account the suicidal stand of Caleb Webb.

  So many.

  Bonnie had successfully kept the specters in the wings thus far by compartmentalizing her psyche. So many things clamored for her attention since she’d gotten that phone call Sunday morning. Lloyd and Marjorie. Armen’s abrupt exodus to the Garden State. Her class. Each time the knocking of the dead became insistent, she could forestall them with the rationalization that she was busy, had other things to think about. Up until now they seemed to understand.

  Now they were demanding front row center.

  What can I tell you guys? I’m all tapped out. I did everything I could to stop the insanity, but it wasn’t enough.

  Gabriel Trotter’s melancholy countenance swam into focus, baby fat, zits, and all. Soon he would join the troop of the dead. Soon Bonnie would have one more specter rapping at her door.

  “Screw this.”

  Bonnie sat up on her stool. If she was to be of any use to Gabe Trotter, she needed to clear the decks—lay out all the facts and analyze them.

  Bonnie considered calling Lloyd and rejected the idea. Her friend was in no shape to help her sift through details. He had all he could handle with saving his marriage. She reached for the phone and dialed a number in Atlantic City.

  “Callahan’s.”

  Armen seemed so close she could reach out and touch him.

  “Mister Mouse?” Bonnie made no effort to hide how glad she was to reconnect with this man she’d hung up on the previous day. She was also in no mood to play relationship games. “Before you say a word, I need to tell you something.”