It’s time to do it on your own
“No Use Crying Over Spilled Desserts”
Written by Heather Wells
I consider ducking beneath the cashier’s desk and hiding under Magda’s feet, but this seems unprofessional.
Instead, I stand my ground, while President Allington—as always inexplicably attired in a New York College letter jacket, white painter’s pants (although it’s not yet Memorial Day), and running shoes—enters the cafeteria, flanked on one side by the housing director Dr. Jessup, and on the other by Dr. Flynn, the department’s on-staff psychologist. All three men are listening in what appears to be a semistupefied manner to Muffy Fowler, the public relations guru the college has hired to help deal with press involving the graduate student union negotiations.
Now, however, Muffy appears to be doing damage control on Dr. Veatch’s murder.
“Well, you just have to get them out of here, Phil,” Muffy is saying, in her strong Southern accent, as the four of them walk in. “This is private property, after all.”
“Actually,” Dr. Flynn says, his voice completely toneless. “New York City sidewalks are not private property.”
“Well, you know what I mean,” Muffy says. I can’t help noticing that every male eye in the room is on her. The thirty-something-year-old former beauty queen (no, really. It said so on her CV in The Pansy, the newsletter that is distributed to all New York College administrators once a month) wears her chestnut brown hair in a large poufy helmet around her head—known in a previous decade as a bouffant, in this one as… I don’t even know—and shows off her slim figure to an advantage by sporting a pencil skirt and high heels.
I guess I can see why every guy in the vicinity is so attracted to the vivacious, well-coiffed Ms. Fowler—at least until she opens her mouth.
“We don’t want to send one of those rent-a-cops ya’ll like to call security, either, to just shoo them away,” Muffy says. “Freedom of the press, and all. We need to take a more delicate approach to this. I think we should send a woman. Someone from the administrative staff.”
I can feel my spine going cold. I have no idea what she’s talking about, but all I can think is No. For the love of all that is holy.
“We’ve arranged for a grief counselor for any Fischer Hall residents who might feel they need to talk to one,” Dr. Jessup is trying to tell the president. “Dr. Kilgore is on her way. And since news of the murder’s already been all over the local radio stations and New York One, we’re encouraging students to call their parents to let them know they’re all right… ”
We are? Wow, you miss a lot when you’re an actual suspect in a murder, as opposed to an innocent bystander, like I usually am.
But President Allington isn’t listening to Dr. Jessup. Maybe that’s because all of his attention is focused on Muffy—possibly because she’s managed to snag her ginormous diamond cocktail ring on a loose thread attached to the gold letters NY stitched onto one side of his jacket.
“Oh my goodness,” Muffy laughs. “I gotcha good, didn’t I, Phil? Don’t move an inch now, we’re dealin’ with a three-carat canary diamond here… ”
Dr. Allington stands there looking down at the top of Muffy’s helmet head and laughs in a manner that can only be called foolish. I glance at Magda and see that she is staring at the president and public relations manager as if they’ve just beamed down from another planet. I sort of understand her astonishment. It’s true that ever since an attempt on her life in this very building, Mrs. Allington spends most of her time at the couple’s Hamptons home.
Still, you’d think her husband would be a little less obviously delighted to be receiving so much attention from a member of the opposite sex. Even one as attractive as Muffy Fowler.
“Wasn’t that funny?” Muffy asks the room in general, when she finally manages to disentangle herself from the president. Not that anyone seems to have been laughing. Except her and “Phil.” Although, to be truthful, everyone is staring at her now—even all the women. “Now, where were we? Oh, right. Do you have someone you can send outside to deal with the press, Stan? Someone who can act caring?”
“Well,” Dr. Jessup begins. “We can always send Gillian, when she gets here. But wouldn’t that be something you, Ms. Fowler, might want to do, seeing as how the university hired you to—”
But before Dr. Jessup can finish, President Allington’s gaze falls upon me… just as, deep down inside, I’d known it would, somehow. I mean, really. Isn’t that the story of my life? Got a really unsavory task? Why not send Heather Wells to do it? She lost her uterus in the park this morning, after all. It’s not like she’s of any use to society anymore anyway.
“Oh, Jessica,” Dr. Allington says, coming momentarily out of his Muffy-induced stupor and recognizing me as the girl who once saved his wife’s life. Or something like that. “Jessica’s here. Why can’t Jessica do it?”
For reasons that will never be clear to me, President Allington thinks I’m Jessica Simpson.
No. Really. No matter how many times people (including me) tell him I’m not.
“Now, Phil,” Dr. Flynn says. Dr. Flynn has always been a stand-up guy. Possibly because he doesn’t live on campus, but manages to keep a sense of perspective by commuting in every day from the suburbs. “That’s Heather. Remember? And Heather’s had a hard day. She’s the one who found Owen—”