Size 14 Is Not Fat Either Part 9

Pete lets out a bark of I told you so laughter.

"What?" I cry. "He's my father. He raised me for my first ten years or so."

"Right," Pete says cynically. "And now he wants to mooch off your fame and fortune."

"What fortune?" I demand. "He knows perfectly well his ex-wife stole all my money."

Pete, chuckling, heads for the coffee machine.

"Why can't he just want to rebuild his relations.h.i.+p with the daughter he barely knows?" I shout after him. Which just makes him laugh harder.

"That's all right, honey," Magda says, patting my hand. "Ignore him. I think it's nice your daddy came back."

"Thank you," I say indignantly. "Because it is."

"Of course it is. And what did Cooper say when you asked him if your daddy could move in?"

"Well," I say, unable to meet Magda's gaze all of a sudden. "Cooper hasn't said anything about it yet. Because I haven't asked him."

"Oh," Magda says.

"Not," I say quickly, "because I don't believe my dad is totally on the up and up. I just haven't actually seen Cooper yet. He's busy with a case. But when I do see him, I'll ask. And I'm sure he'll say it's all right. Because my dad really wants to turn his life around."

"Of course," Magda says.

"No, Magda. I really mean it."

"I know you do, honey," Magda says. But her smile doesn't reach her eyes. Kind of like Dad's, as a matter of fact.

But that, I tell myself, has nothing to do with anything I've just said to her. It has to do with what happened yesterday, with Lindsay.

And as for Pete...well, let him laugh. What does he know?

Although considering he's a widower with five kids to support on his own, he might actually know quite a lot.

Dang.

Scowling, I head for the bagel bar and pop a plain in the toaster. Then I hit the coffee dispenser. I make one for Tom-with cream and sugar-and one for me, half coffee, half hot cocoa, lots of whipped cream-then return to the bagel bar as mine pops up from the toaster, slather each side in cream cheese, slap on some bacon, then meld. Voila, the perfect breakfast treat.

I put it on a plate, the plate on a tray with the coffees, and am heading out of the caf when I happen to spy, out of the corner of my eye, a flash of gold and white. I turn my head, and see Kimberly Watkins, one of the Pansies' varsity cheerleaders-in uniform because it's a game day-sitting by herself at a table, a large textbook open in front of her, alongside a plate appearing to contain an egg-white omelet and half a grapefruit.

And before I think about what I'm doing, I find myself plonking my tray across the table from hers and going, "Hey, Kimberly."

9.

Touching me Something always touching me When I ride the subway.

"Subway Song"

Written by Heather Wells

"Um," Kimberly says, looking up at me suspiciously, clearly uncertain who I was, and why I was suddenly sitting across from her. "Hi?"

"I'm Heather," I say. "a.s.sistant hall director?"

"Oh!" Kimberly's suspicious expression changes to one of recognition, even casual welcome. Now that she knows I'm not there to try to-well, whatever it was she thought I was there to do...hit on her? proselytize?-she seems to relax. "Hi!"

"Listen," I say. "I just wanted to see how you were doing. I mean, about this whole thing with Lindsay. I know you two were friends...."

Actually, I don't know this. But I just a.s.sume two girls who were on the same cheerleading team would be friends. Right?

"Oh," Kimberly says, in a different tone, and the bright, Crest-Whitestrip smile she'd flashed me vanishes. "I know. It's so awful. Poor Lindsay. I...I can't even think about it. I cried myself to sleep last night."

For a girl who'd cried herself to sleep the night before, Kimberly looks pretty good. She apparently spent her break somewhere warm, because even though it's winter, Kimberly's bare legs are tanned. Apparently she isn't too concerned about the cold outside, or the blizzard New York One still insists we're supposed to be getting at any moment, but which has currently stalled over Was.h.i.+ngton, DC.

She doesn't seem too concerned about eating breakfast in the place where, twenty-four hours ago, her good friend's severed head was found, either.

"Wow," I say. "You must be devastated."

She crosses her long, coltish legs beneath the table and begins to twist a strand of her long black hair-straightened, naturally-around and around one finger.

"Totally," she says, her doe eyes wide. "Lindsay was, like, my best friend. Well, after Cheryl Haebig. But Cheryl doesn't really like to hang out anymore, 'cause, you know, she spends most of her free time with Jeff. Jeff Turner." Kimberly blinks at me. "You know Jeff, right? He's one of Mark's roommates, in Two-twelve."

"Sure, I know Jeff," I say. I know all the basketball players, they've been down to the office so many times for disciplinary hearings, primarily of the keg-smuggling variety. Fischer Hall is supposed to be dry.

"Well, the two of them, they're, like, practically married. They hardly ever want to party anymore."

And now that Cheryl's moved into Lindsay's room and will most likely not receive a new roommate, she and Jeff will be able to canoodle uninterrupted....

But wait. That's no reason so kill someone.

"So, after Cheryl, Lindsay was your best friend," I say. "Gosh, that must be awful, to lose someone that close. I'm surprised you can-no offense-even eat in here."

Reminded of her food, Kimberly takes a big bite of her egg-white omelet. Inspired by this, I take a bite of my bacon-and-cream-cheese bagel. Mmm. Heaven.

"Yeah, well," Kimberly says, "I don't go in for ghosts, and all of that. When you're dead, you're dead."

"That's very practical of you," I say, after taking a sip of my cocoa-coffee.

"Well," Kimberly says, with a shrug, "I'm in fas.h.i.+on merchandising." And indicates the intimidating-looking textbook in front of her. Introduction to Managerial Accounting.

"Oh," I say. "So since you knew Lindsay so well, would you know of anyone who maybe had a grudge against her? Maybe wanted her out of the way? Enough to kill her, I mean?"

Kimberly twists the long strand of dark hair around her other finger for a while. "Well," she says slowly. "A lot of people hated Lindsay. I mean, they were jealous of her, and stuff. I did tell that policeman, the one who came by last night, about her roommate, Ann."

"Ann hated Lindsay?"

"Well, maybe not hate. But they didn't get along. That's why Lindsay was so psyched when Ann finally agreed to swap rooms with Cheryl. Even though Cheryl doesn't hang out with us much anymore, at least Lindsay didn't have to worry about all the stupid s.h.i.+t Ann was doing to annoy her."

"Stupid s.h.i.+t like what?" I ask, taking another bite of my bagel.

"Oh, just dumb stuff. Erasing messages people left for Lindsay on her dry-erase board on the door. Drawing devil horns on all of Lindsay's photos in the school paper before handing it to her. Using all of Lindsay's tampons and not replacing the box. Stuff like that."

"Well, Kimberly," I say, "it sounds like Ann and Lindsay didn't exactly get along. But you don't really think Ann actually killed her, do you? I mean, why would she? She knew she was moving out, right?"

Kimberly looks thoughtful. "Well, yeah, I guess. But anyway, I told that detective guy to make sure she's got a, whad-duya call it? Oh, yeah, an alibi. 'Cause you never know. It could be one of the Single White Femaletype thingies."

I'm sure Detective Canavan jumped on the "Single White Femaletype thingie" lead. Not.

"What about boyfriends?" I ask.

This cognitive leap is too much for Kimberly's tender young brain to process. She knits her slender eyebrows in confusion. "What?"

"Was Lindsay seeing anybody? I mean, I know she was dating Mark Shepelsky...."

"Oh." Kimberly rolls her eyes. "Mark. But Lindsay and Mark, I mean, they were pretty much over, you know. Mark's so...immature. Him and Jeff-you know, Cheryl's boyfriend-all they're into is drinking beer and watching sports. They never took Lindsay and Cheryl out clubbing, or whatever. Which I guess is fine for Cheryl, but Lindsay...she wanted more excitement. More sophistication, I guess you could say."

"So is that why she started seeing someone else?" I ask. When Kimberly's eyes widen, I explain, "Mark stopped by the office this morning and mentioned something about a frat guy?"

Kimberly looks contemptuous. "Is that what Mark called him? A frat guy? He didn't mention he's a Winer?"

"A what?" For a minute, I think she's saying Lindsay's new boyfriend complains a lot.

"A Winer. W-I-N-E-R. You know." When I continue to regard her blankly, she shakes all her long hair in disbelief. "Gawd, don't you know? Doug Winer. The Winer family. Winer Construction. The Winer Sports Complex, here at New York College?"

Oh. Now I know what she's talking about. You can't pa.s.s by a building under construction in this city-and, despite the fact that Manhattan is an island and you'd think every piece of usable land on it has been developed already, there are quite a few buildings under construction-without noticing the word WINER written on the side of every bulldozer, spool of wire, and piece of scaffolding connected with the job site. No building in New York City goes up unless Winer Construction puts it up.

And apparently the Winers have earned a bit of money because of that fact. They may not be Kennedys or Rockefellers, but apparently, to a New York College cheerleader, they come close. Well, they did donate a big chunk of cash to the college. Enough to build the sports complex, and everything.

"Doug Winer," I repeat. "So...Doug's well off?"

"Um, if you call being filthy rich well off," Kimberly says, with a snort.

"I see. And were Doug and Lindsay...close?"

"Not engaged or anything," Kimberly says. "Yet. But Lindsay thought Doug was getting her a tennis bracelet for her birthday. A diamond one. She saw it in his dresser." Momentarily, the pathos of Lindsay's death strikes, and Kimberly looks a little less bubbly. "I guess he'll have to take it back now," she adds mournfully. "Her birthday was next week. G.o.d, that's so sad."

I agree that the fact Lindsay did not live to receive a diamond tennis bracelet for her birthday is a shame, then ask her if Lindsay and Doug had had any disagreements that she knew of (no), where Doug lives (the Tau Phi Epsilon House), and when Doug and Lindsay had last seen each other (sometime over the weekend).

It soon becomes clear that though Kimberly claims to have been Lindsay's best friend, either the two of them hadn't been all that close, or Lindsay had led a remarkably dull life, because Kimberly is unable to reveal anything more about Lindsay's last week on earth. Anything more that could help me to figure out who killed her, anyway.

Except, of course, that's not what I'm doing. I'm not getting involved in the investigation into Lindsay's death. Far from it. I'm just asking a few questions about it, is all. I mean, a person can ask questions about a crime without actually launching a private investigation into said crime. Right?

I'm telling myself this as I walk back into the hall director's office, holding Tom's coffee (I got him a new one, after the original went cold while I was talking to Kimberly) in one hand, and a new coffee-cocoa-whipped-cream concoction for myself in the other. I'm not too surprised to see that Sarah, our grad a.s.sistant, has shown up to work wearing an unhappy expression. Sarah's unhappy most days.

Today, her bad mood appears to be catching. Both she and Tom are slumped at their desks. Well, technically, Tom is slumping at my desk. But he looks plenty unhappy, until he sees me.

"You," Tom says, as I plop his coffee in front of him, "are a lifesaver. What took you so long?"

"Oh, you know," I say, sinking onto the couch next to my desk. "I had to comfort Magda." I nod at Tom's office door, which is still closed. Behind it, and through the grate, I hear the low murmur of voices. "She still in there with Mark?"

"No," Sarah says disgustedly. "Now she's in there with Cheryl Haebig."

"What's with you?" I ask Sarah, because of the scowl.

"Apparently," Tom replies in a long-suffering voice, since Sarah just sinks more deeply into her chair, refusing to speak, "Dr. Kilgore is one of Sarah's professors. And not one she likes very much."

"She's a Freudian!" Sarah bursts out, not even attempting to lower her voice. "She actually believes that s.e.xist c.r.a.p about how all women are in love with their fathers and secretly want a p.e.n.i.s!"

"Dr. Kilgore gave Sarah a D on one of her papers last semester," Tom informs me, with only the tiniest of smirks.

"She's anti-feminist!" Sarah a.s.serts. "I went to the dean to complain. But it was no use, because she's one of them, too." Them, apparently, referred to Freudians. "It's a conspiracy. I'm seriously considering writing a letter to the Chronicle of Higher Education about it."

"I've suggested," Tom says, still with that very slight smirk, "that if Dr. Kilgore's presence is such an aggrievance to Sarah, she take the petty cash vouchers over to Budget for disburs.e.m.e.nt...."

"It's like five degrees outside!" Sarah yells.

"I'll go," I volunteer sweetly.

Both Sarah and Tom stare at me incredulously.

"Seriously," I say, setting down my coffee-cocoa and getting up to grab my coat. "I mean, it's not like I'll be able to get any work done, with you at my desk, Tom. And I could use some fresh air."

"It's like five degrees out!" Sarah shouts again.

"It's no big deal," I say. I wind my scarf around my neck. "I'll be back in a jiff."

I scoop up the petty cash vouchers sitting on Sarah's desk, and sail from the office. Out in the lobby, Pete starts laughing when he sees me. Not because I look comical in all my outside layers, but because he's remembering what I'd said about my dad.

Well? Why can't he just want to rebuild his relations.h.i.+p with the daughter he barely knows?

Seriously, with friends like Pete, who needs enemies?