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—”