“Miss Wells is done,” Muffy says, pulling me off the rickety wooden platform one of the news stations had generously rigged for me to stand on. “I’d appreciate it if ya’ll would pack up and go on home now and let the police do their work and these students get on to class—”
I wrench my arm from her grasp. “Wait a minute.” To the reporter, I say, “Tania’s pregnant?”
“You didn’t see the announcement?” The reporter looks bored. “Posted it on her website this morning. Got a statement? Congratulations? Best wishes? Anything like that?”
Jordan’s going to be a father? My God.
My dog would make a better father than he would.
And she’s a girl. And a dog.
“Uh,” I say. “Yeah. Both. Congratulations. Best wishes. Mazel tov. All that.”
It seems like I should say something more meaningful than that, though. After all, Jordan and I dated for nearly ten years. He was my first kiss, my first love, my first… yeah, that, too. Maybe I should say something, I don’t know. About the circle of life and death? Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good. “Um. It just goes to show when one life is snuffed out, another—”
“Come on,” Muffy says, hauling ass. My ass, to be exact.
“God,” I murmur, as she pulls me along. “I can’t believe it. My ex is having a baby.”
“Welcome to my world,” Muffy says. “Mine just had twins.”
I look at her in surprise. “Really? That’s—that’s weird, right? I mean, wasn’t it weird? Am I wrong to think that’s weird? Is your ex a loser? Because mine’s a huge loser. And it’s weird to think of him being responsible for another human life.”
“Mine’s the CEO of a major investment firm back in Atlanta,” Muffy says, keeping her face turned straight ahead, “who left me for my maid of honor the night before our wedding. So yeah, I guess you could say I think it’s weird. In the same way I think it’s weird that millions of little tiny babies in Africa starve to death every year while I freak out if my barista uses full fat instead of nonfat foam in my morning latte. Why didn’t you tell me you were Heather Wells, the former teen pop sensation?”
“I tried,” I say lamely.
“No.” Muffy skids to a stop in her Manolos just outside the building’s front door and stabs an accusing index finger at me. “All you said was that your name wasn’t Jessica. I do not appreciate bein’ kept in the dark. Now, what else are you not tellin’ me? Do you know who killed that man?”
I gape down at her. I have a good five inches on her, but she makes me feel as if I’m the one who has to look up at her.
“No!” I cry. “Of course not! Don’t you think that if I did, I’d have told the police?”
“I don’t know,” Muffy says. “Maybe ya’ll were havin’ an affair.”
“EW!” I yell. “DID YOU EVEN KNOW OWEN?”
“I did,” Muffy replies, calmly. “Simmer down. I was just askin’.”
“And you think I was sleeping with him.Me.”
“Stranger things have happened,” Muffy points out. “This is New York City, after all.”
And suddenly a lot of things become clear: how Muffy’s ring became “accidentally” attached to President Allington’s jacket; why she’d ever think I might have been after Owen Veatch; what the pencil skirt and high heels were all about; what she’s doing in New York City in the first place, so far from her native Atlanta.
Look, I’m not here to make judgments. To each his (or her) own, and all of that.
But the idea of any woman moving to New York and entering the workforce with the express purpose of snagging a husband is sort of… well. Gross.
Who knows what I might have said to Ms. Muffy Fowler if at that very moment something hadn’t happened to distract me? Something so momentous (to me, anyway) that all further thought of conversation with her flees my brain, and I forget I’m standing in front of Fischer Hall, the sight of another major crime scene, and the place in which I regularly consume way more than my governmentally advised daily calorie allowance.
And that’s the sight of my landlord, semi-employer, and love of my life, Cooper Cartwright, hurrying up to me, panting, “I came as soon as I heard. Are you okay?”
6
Watching jets cross the midday sky
Disappearing in the bright sun’s eyes
Think of the Biscoffs t hey’re unwrappin’
Wish I could have my own to snack on
“You Can Buy Biscoff Online”
Written by Heather Wells
“Well, hello, there.”
That’s what Muffy Fowler says to Cooper after she turns to look at him. The next thing I know, she’s pivoted her weight to one hip and propped a hand to her infinitesimally small waist, her doe-eyed gaze going from the toes of Cooper’s running shoes (well, he’s a private detective after all. One assumes he often has to run after people, such as bad guys and… I don’t know. Perps. Or something) to the top of his dark, slightly-in-need-of-a-haircut head.
“Uh.” Cooper looks from me to Muffy and then back again. “Hi.”
“Muffy Fowler.” Muffy sticks out her hand—the cocktail ring (which I now realize is the engagement ring from her called-off wedding) glinting in the noonday sun—and Cooper takes it in his to shake. “New York College public relations. And you are?”