The Bride Wore Size 12 (12 page)

It’s exactly how I’ve been feeling for ten years about my mother.

“Oh, Lisa,” I say. I slip out of my chair and go to lean over her desk to hug her. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Lisa hugs me back, stifling a sob.

“I know I should really be trying to view this as a professional advocate for students’ rights to grow and develop individually and collectively,” she says in a choked voice, “but I can’t, because I kind of hate my job so much right now.”

“It’s okay,” I say, patting her on the back. “I kind of hate my job right now too.”

13

S
o,” Lisa says, after she’s composed herself. “What do you think I should do?”

“Well,” I say, going back to my desk. “I’m going to guess that the whole thing yesterday with Special Agent Lancaster had to do with the fact that Prince Rashid’s people already knew that Jasmine Albright had been to his party. That’s why they were so careful to keep the cops away.”

Lisa pauses in shock while noisily blowing her nose. “Oh God. Of course. You know what I bet? I bet that weirdo prince roofied all the drinks.”

Surprised that someone has suggested something even creepier than I could imagine, I say, “Okay, let’s not get ahead of ourselves” as I pick up my phone. “But I’m going to give Eva over at the medical examiner’s office a call to let her know there was some illicit partying going on—”

“If they think I’m not sending that rotten royal a disciplinary letter,” I hear Lisa muttering behind her computer screen, “just because his daddy’s rich and donated a ton of money to this school, they’re crazy. I’m hitting him with every sanction in the book. And I’m putting every single one of those RAs who was at his party on probation. One more strike and they’re out.”

“Can you do that?” I ask curiously. “I thought it was three strikes and you’re out.”

“Why not? I already have to hire one new one to replace Jasmine. What difference does nine more make?”

“Um,” I say. “Kind of a lot.” The resident assistants count on their employment with the college for free room and board for the year. Without it . . . well, without it, they’ll suddenly have to find an affordable place to live for the fall and spring semesters. And in downtown New York City, that’s no easy task.

And finding and training nine new RAs, for all Lisa’s bravado, isn’t going to be easy, either.

“Well,” Lisa says primly. “That’s something they should have thought about before they decided to drink with freshmen in
my building
. I wish I could fire them without putting them on probation first, but that would be a violation of their employment contract. So probation is what they get.”

Lisa’s on fire this morning, I think to myself as I flip through my Rolodex for Eva’s number. She should get a twenty-four-hour flu more often.

“Hi, Eva?” I say, when I hear a grumpy voice at the end of the line say something very quickly that may, or may not, be, “OCME.”

“Hold on. I’ll go see if I can find her.” I hear footsteps walk away from the phone and the grumpy voice yell,
“Eva! You left your phone in the locker room again!”

As I’m holding, a key rattles in the lock to the director’s office door, and Sarah comes trundling in, holding her backpack, a can of Coke, a paper bag with oily food stains on the sides, and her laptop.

“Why is this door closed?” she demands.

As usual, Sarah appears to have rolled out of bed and come directly downstairs for work without bathing, although she clearly stopped in the caf for breakfast. The aroma from the bag indicates that she too has opted for the dining hall’s less than healthy options, most likely a bacon-egg-and-cheddar sandwich. She has her wildly frizzing hair pulled back into a single clip and is wearing her ubiquitous overalls, though at least she appears to have changed into a fresh T-shirt.

“What are you guys doing?” she asks, throwing an aggravated look at me and Lisa as she heads to her desk, where she dumps her breakfast, beverage, backpack, and laptop. “Why isn’t the office open? It’s nearly nine-thirty. What’s the matter with you two? God, never mind, have you seen this morning’s
New York College Express,
the daily student news blog?”

“I’m on hold with the medical examiner,” I say, pointing to the receiver.

“I’m putting all the RAs on probation,” Lisa calls from her office. “No, wait, not all of them. Just the new ones who aren’t already dead.”

Sarah ignores us. She doesn’t think we’re serious.

“Check it out.” She opens her laptop and, sitting in her office chair, begins scooting toward me. “It’s another one about Rascally Rashid.”

“Let me guess,” I say. “Is it about how he’s been throwing wild blowout parties in his room every night since he’s checked in?”

Sarah stops midscoot.

“What? No. How could he have been doing that? We’d have heard about it. He’d have been written up.”

“Not if all the RAs were on his guest list,” Lisa calls from her office. “Which they were.”

“The
RAs
have been going to parties in Prince Rashid’s room?” Sarah’s mouth falls open.

“Howard Chen didn’t have the flu,” Lisa calls. “He was just hungover.”

Sarah’s mouth snaps shut, and her eyes flash. “I rubbed his back while he puked, and he was just hungover? That little shit.”

There’s a fumbling sound from the other end of the phone, and then I hear Eva’s voice, sounding a little breathless and none too happy. “Hello? Who is this?”

“Eva,” I say quickly. “Sorry to disturb you, it’s Heather Wells from Fischer Hall.”

“Oh.” Eva doesn’t sound pleased to hear me. “Hey, Heather. Look, the M.E. hasn’t even gotten to your dead girl yet, things are so backed up around here—”

“No, no,” I say. “That’s fine. I only wanted to let you know we found out a couple of things about her activities the night before she died.”

Rapidly, I fill Eva in about the party Jasmine attended in Prince Rashid’s room.

“So were they sick because they were hungover,” Eva asks in a much more interested tone when I’m finished, “or because they ingested something at the party that might have been a toxin? And because our vic was an asthmatic, and had a weakened immune system, it ended up killing her?”

I hadn’t considered this. “I don’t know.”

“Of course you don’t know. See, this information about the party would have been helpful to know yesterday.” Now Eva sounds irritated. “That way we could have done things a little differently.”

“Believe me,” I say. “I know.”

“Get the trash bags your housekeeper says he found outside the kid’s room,” Eva says. “The ones with the cups. And any bags you can find containing vomit from the other victims who allegedly had the flu would be superhelpful.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I’ll see what I can do, but that was yesterday’s trash. It went out already. Our trash pickup days are Thursdays and—”

“Holy Christ,” Eva says. “We’ll just have to run a tox screen for everything under the goddamn sun and it’s going to take a month. Meanwhile, her parents will be screaming at us, wanting to know why it’s taking so long, because on TV the M.E.s get their tox screens back from the lab in three hours.”

“If it’s any consolation,” I say, lowering my voice while glancing over at Lisa, who’s still fiddling with her bra straps as she speaks with whomever she’s got on the phone, “my boss really did have the flu. It was the twenty-four-hour kind and she’s better now, but still kind of sore, especially her boobs. Moody too.”

There’s a beat before Eva says, “Your boss is the one who just got married, right?”

“Uh,” I say. “Right.”

“Yeah. There’s no such thing as a twenty-four-hour stomach flu that leaves your boobs sore. Breast tenderness, moodiness, nausea, and vomiting are all early signs of pregnancy. Tell your boss to take an e.p.t. And call me back if you find out anything else about Jasmine.”

I hear a click, and then the line goes dead.

I stare at the receiver in stunned silence for a moment. Lisa? Pregnant? But that’s impossible. Lisa doesn’t want kids. It’s one of the first things she ever told me. She and her husband, Cory, both come from huge families and have tons of nieces and nephews. They’re sick of kids. Tricky, their dog, is enough.

“Well, that’s done.” Lisa, in her office, hangs up the phone. “I’ve left a message with Dr. Jessup that I’m putting all my RAs on probation.”

“Wait.” Sarah rises from her desk chair and goes to stand in front of the door to Lisa’s office. “You were
serious
about that?”

“Not all of them,” Lisa corrects herself. “Only the ones who were drinking while in the presence of residents under the age of twenty-one. One more strike and they’re out.”

“Lisa,” Sarah says, astonished. “You can’t do that. The
entire
staff?”

“It’s my building,” Lisa says. “I can do whatever I want.”

Maybe Eva’s right. Maybe Lisa
is
pregnant, and doesn’t know it. But how is that possible? She’d have to know, right? How could someone not know she’s pregnant?

“No,” Sarah says. “You can’t. If they screw up, how are we going to replace them? We’re going to have to train—wait, how many are there?”

“Nine,” Lisa says. “Ten including Jasmine Albright.”

“
Ten
RAs?” Sarah shakes her head, her frizzy ponytail flying. “How are we going to replace and train
ten
people?”

“Don’t be so negative,” I say. “Maybe they won’t violate their probation.”

Sarah looks at me like I’m crazy. “Have you
met
any of them?”

Lisa shrugs. “It’s going to be a challenge. But it will be better than having lying sneaks who are under a prince’s thumb working on our staff.”

There’s an entire TV series called
I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant
about women who didn’t know they were pregnant and then suddenly gave birth while in the grocery store or on a camping trip. It’s one of my favorite shows. I love to watch it late at night after Cooper’s fallen asleep so he won’t know I watch such dumb TV programs.

But how could my own boss not know she’s pregnant? She has a master’s degree. It’s impossible.

“Listen, I completely agree that what those guys did was terrible, but I think you should only give them a warning,” Sarah says. “I don’t think we should be rocking the boat too hard around here. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you guys. Not only is a girl dead, but this morning, on
New York College Express
—”

“It’s
my
building,” Lisa says, folding her arms over her chest, but careful—I note—to avoid touching the nipple area. “I think I should be able to discipline my staff the way I see fit. And if I feel that I need an entirely new RA staff—or
mostly
new RA staff—for the good of the hall, then you need to support me, Sarah.”

“I do,” Sarah says. “You know I do. But I’m pretty sure you’re going to want to show staff solidarity, especially after you read this.”

She darts back to her desk, retrieves her laptop, then opens it up and hands it to Lisa. I get up to scan it over her shoulder. As I do, my heart sinks.

Living the Suite Life,
the blog post’s title reads.
Rascally Rashid Has Two Double Rooms to Himself in Fischer Hall.

Uh-oh.

14

T
his is bad.” The director of housing, Dr. Jessup, is sitting on an expensive leather chair in President Allington’s office, jiggling his right leg. “This is very, very bad.”

“We know the piece in the
Express
was bad, Stan,” I say. I’m sitting beside him at the vast, shiny conference table, which I can feel shaking because of the force of his jiggling. “But you know what’s worse?”

“Don’t say that a girl died in your building yesterday.”

Dr. Jessup’s got a fake smile plastered across his tanned face—I can tell he played a lot of golf over the summer—and is speaking from the side of his mouth as President Allington’s assistant moves around the shiny mahogany-and-glass conference table, making sure we have enough cream and finger sandwiches.

“I
am
going to say it. A girl died in our building yesterday.” I don’t bother to lower my voice. “And we’re being dragged up to the president’s office just because something about our VIR got posted online. That’s not only worse, it’s a waste of time.”

It doesn’t matter if I lower my voice. No one’s going to overhear me, least of all President Allington. His office is as wide as the Fischer Hall penthouse, and on an even higher floor on a building on the south side of Washington Square Park. It appears to have been decorated by someone with a fondness for black leather furniture and dark wood paneling. Floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides look out across SoHo and Fifth Avenue, while full-length portraits of the president and his wife, Eleanor, scowl down at us from beside a couple of potted palms.

The president’s desk—where he’s currently consulting with media relations expert Muffy Fowler and some of the college’s expert legal team—is approximately the size of a Gap checkout counter and seems a thousand miles away.

It’s intimidating enough to make a person want to throw up . . .

. . . which one person, namely my boss, Lisa, is already doing down the hall in the ladies’ room.

“No,” Dr. Jessup says to me, still speaking out of the corner of his mouth. “That girl’s death, while doubtlessly tragic, does not financially impact our department in any way. That Twitter or Tweet or twat or whatever it was from the
Express,
does.
That’s
why this is worse. Not because these people are bureaucratic nimrods whose thumbs are up their asses.” He smiles beatifically at President Allington’s assistant, who is laying out a silver coffee and tea service. “Those sandwiches look simply lovely, Gloria.”

Gloria smiles back. “Why, thank you, Stan,” she says with a flirtatious wink before walking away.

“It was a blog post,” I tell Dr. Jessup, though I don’t know why I bother, since his gaze is on Gloria’s departing legs. “And how does it financially impact our department?”

“We were supposed to keep the prince’s room assignment a
secret,
” Dr. Jessup hisses. “The fact that he has twenty-four-hour security, and where those security personnel are based, is supposed to be a
secret
. How the hell did the
Express
find out about it? The president’s going to cut off our funding over this. And he’s been very generous with our funding lately. Where do you think we got the money to upgrade your building this past summer? From this office. I was hoping to renovate your friend Tom’s building, Waverly Hall, next. Did you know those boys in the frat houses only have one working elevator? And it hasn’t been upgraded since 1995. But I bet I can kiss that money good-bye now.”

He smiles at one of the guys from Legal who comes over to snag a finger sandwich. “How you doing, Bill?” Dr. Jessup asks chummily.

“Oh, you know,” Bill says, chewing. “Can’t complain. Hey, I played Maidstone over the weekend. Birdied the sixth hole.”

“Did you really, you old bastard?” Dr. Jessup asks. “Guess they’ve lowered their standards.”

Both men guffaw at Dr. Jessup’s joke while I sit there feeling guilty in spite of the fact that I had nothing to do with leaking the information about Prince Rashid to the New York College student news blog. I know how much Tom loves Waverly Hall, and would have appreciated a new elevator.

“You know, Prince Rashid himself could have leaked the information,” I say to Dr. Jessup after Bill walks away. “He hasn’t exactly been Mr. Subtle. I counted over fifty people going into that party he had the night Jasmine died. Any one of them could have tattled to the
Express
.”

“But only someone from your staff could have known about the location of the security detail,” Dr. Jessup says. “The guy can’t be stupid enough to have been bragging to his party guests about that.”

Dr. Jessup has a point. Rashid is followed everywhere he goes by two armed bodyguards. He has to be aware he’s received death threats. He may have nicknamed himself after a dry red table wine, but that doesn’t mean he’s stupid.

“Oh my God.” Lisa returns from the ladies’ room and collapses into the expensive black leather chair beside mine. “Sorry I was gone for so long. Did I miss anything? Ooo, are those cucumber? My favorite.”

She leans over and picks up a tiny sandwich from one of the platters President Allington’s assistant has left in front of us, then pops it into her mouth and begins chewing delightedly. When her gaze meets mine, she asks, “What?” with her mouth full. “Do I have something on my face?”

“No. You must be feeling better,” I say, in a neutral tone.

“Oh, I am,” she says, and pours herself a cup of tea. “I’m starving. I think that was just some of the leftover flu virus before. Or queasiness from the elevator ride. That thing goes so fast. Thirty floors is a lot.”

“Right,” I say, still in the neutral tone.

Is this really how it’s going to go? I wonder. The girl who can’t have kids is going to have to point out to the girl who doesn’t want them that she’s maybe—possibly even likely—pregnant?

“Well, hey there, y’all.”

Muffy Fowler has strolled over to join us at the conference table. She’s wearing a wide smile and a cream-colored skirt and peplum jacket, with matching cream-colored shoes. Beside her is the president of the college, a gray-haired man dressed in a somber business suit (who, I happen to know, since he and his wife live in the penthouse of Fischer Hall, feels more comfortable in a sweatsuit, preferably in the school colors of blue and gold).

Behind the president are a number of men I don’t know, along with one I do . . . Special Agent Lancaster. He’s wearing his seemingly habitual scowl, dark suit and tie, and earpiece.

“Thanks so much for coming, Stan,” Muffy says, reaching out her hand to grasp Dr. Jessup’s as he rises to greet her. The smile she gives me is distantly polite, even though we know each other well. The smile says,
Up here in the president’s office, we’re going to act like we don’t know each other at all, okay? After work, over drinks, we’ll kick off our high heels and eviscerate these people behind their backs
.

Except that I’m wearing flats with my dark stretch cords and equally stretchy black tunic blouse. I didn’t know I was going to have a meeting in the president’s office today.

Muffy introduces Lisa and me to the newcomers, whose names and titles I fail to catch. It doesn’t matter, because I wouldn’t have remembered them anyway. They’re all men in business suits who look exactly the same, have the same kind of nonsense titles—executive vice chancellor for the general council; senior executive of the board of trustees; chairman of global affairs—and, if the
New York College Express
is to be trusted, receive the same kind of enormous bonuses.

They’re here, Muffy explains, to “troubleshoot this here itty-bitty little thing.” In times of crisis, Muffy’s southern drawl becomes more pronounced.

“How about y’all take a seat now, and let’s get right to business,” Muffy says as she tucks her cream-colored skirt beneath her in a ladylike manner. We all do as she suggested and take a seat, with the exception of Special Agent Lancaster, who declares he’d prefer to stand. I suppose if he sat down, the stick up his butt would lodge so deeply into his brain that he would instantly expire, and then we’d have another corpse on our hands, so it’s just as well.

“So,” Muffy says. Her lipstick is a very bright red, as are her fingernails. “I’m sure y’all know why y’all are here—”

“Yes,” I say. “A girl in our building died yesterday.”

“Another one?” President Allington cries in surprise. A bite of egg salad sandwich falls out of his mouth and tumbles down the front of his blue-and-gold tie. “Jesus Christ!”

Gloria comes rushing over with a napkin to sponge the mayonnaise stains off his tie while the rest of us politely avert our gazes.

“Er, yes, Phillip,” Muffy says. “Remember, I told you? She died yesterday, of asthma.”

“Who the hell dies of asthma?” President Allington wants to know.

“Nine people a day,” I volunteer. “It’s one of this country’s most common and costly diseases.”

“Jesus Christ,” President Allington says again, this time less loudly. “Who knew?”

“Yes,” Muffy says, trying to take back control of her meeting. “Well, sad as that is, it’s not what we’re here to talk about. This is about the piece that appeared on
New York College Express
this morning. As y’all know, we’ve gone to great strides to keep that information out of the press—”

“I know, Muffy,” Dr. Jessup says apologetically, “and I just want to assure you that a lot of the particulars in that piece were pure lies.”

“Right,” Lisa says. “That kid does
not
have a water bed. His people asked if he could have a water bed, but we said no, right, Heather? Heather?”

“True,” I say, startled. I’d been distracted by the finger sandwiches. “Water beds are restricted in residence halls.”

“Really?” Bill asks. “Why?”

“Because the weight from the water could cause the bed to fall through the floor, endangering the residents below.”

I can’t help noticing that Lisa, President Allington, and I are the only ones touching the finger sandwiches. I think about putting back the one I’ve just taken, but Lisa is right: they’re really good. Plus the one I’ve snagged is salmon. Everyone knows salmon is good for you. It’s filled with omega-3 fatty acids, which are excellent for brain health.

“The prince doesn’t have a Jacuzzi either,” I add quickly, just so people don’t think I’m not paying attention. “The plumbing in Fischer Hall is so old, there’s no way it would support a Jacuzzi. So both those things weren’t true. I don’t know about the wet bar or home theater.”

“He’s got both of those,” Special Agent Lancaster confirms.

“Hot damn,” Bill says. “That kid’s living the dream.”

“Okay,” Muffy says, sounding a little frustrated. “Those things aren’t really the issue here. The issue we’re concerned with is who gave the
Express
the information about the location of the prince’s security surveillance team. We have good reason to believe it was a member of your staff, Lisa.”

Lisa’s face goes whiter that Muffy’s skirt. “Who” is the only word that comes out of Lisa’s mouth. I get the feeling that she doesn’t risk saying more. Also that she’s probably regretting the cucumber sandwich.

“Well, that’s the dang problem,” Muffy says. “We just don’t know for sure. We think the
Express
knows, but of course they’re claiming freedom of the press and all that fiddle-faddle.”

I cannot believe that Muffy just called the First Amendment fiddle-faddle. Fiddle Faddle is a delicious candy-coated popcorn snack food. It has nothing to do with the Bill of Rights.

“But since this is a private institution and the
Express
is funded by donors,” Muffy continues in a more cheerful tone, “we had the school’s IT department pull all their communication records, didn’t we, Charlie?”