by Meg Cabot
“Who the hell,” Cooper asks, “eats rat poison on purpose?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “There was one guy on there who ate his own car. ‘When a hobby becomes an obsession,’ ” I inform him, quoting from one of my other favorite shows, “ ‘it’s called an addiction. That’s when you need an intervention.’ ”
Cooper is silent for a moment. Then he says, “I’m canceling our cable subscription. You watch way, way too much television.”
“Said the man who carries a gun in a fanny pack. You’re hardly one to talk.”
“I do not—what are you—” he sputters. “Who told you that?”
“Whatever, Cooper,” I say, glancing at Sarah. She’s spun her desk chair to face the wall and is speaking in hushed, angry whispers into her phone. I assume she’s talking to Sebastian. After the near-death experience we’ve both witnessed, it makes sense that we’d reach out to loved ones. It also makes sense that we might lash out at them. Tensions are running high. “I know all about it, okay? I know why you were so hot and bothered about finding your cargo pants. I know you lied to me about owning a gun. And that’s fine, because guess what? I have secrets too.”
“What secrets?” Cooper demands. “And I didn’t lie to you exactly. I omitted telling you the truth about something I knew was only going to—”
“Excuse us.” Two figures appear in the doorway to the office. It’s Mrs. Upton and her daughter Cassidy. I have to restrain a groan. Really? Now?
“I have to go,” I say to Cooper. “I will speak to you at a later time about that subject of which we were discussing.” I hang up and smile at the Uptons with as much graciousness as I can muster. “Hello, ladies. Is there something I can do for you?”
“I certainly hope so,” Mrs. Upton says, steering her daughter by the shoulders into the office first, then plunking her onto the couch across from my desk. Cassidy’s expression is mulish, and when her mother releases her shoulders, she collapses onto the couch as if there isn’t a solid bone in her body.
Her mother settles herself into the chair next to my desk. I’m willing to overlook it this time, because I’m so terrified of Mrs. Upton, but I didn’t ask her to sit down.
“The young woman at the front desk told me you were the person to whom I should speak about this,” Mrs. Upton says with a gracious smile, evidently not remembering our encounter from earlier in the morning. Jamie, I know, is working the desk while Gavin and Brad are in with the police. “I’d like to see what I can do about having our room changed.”
I look from Cassidy to Mrs. Upton and back again. Cassidy’s expression is still mulish. Her elfin face is tilted at the ceiling, her lower lip jutting out, her long blond hair splayed out across the blue couch.
“I see,” I say. “May I ask what’s wrong with your current room?” Besides the fact that it used to be a creepy tribute to Prince Caspian. “Because I know that Cartwright Records went to a great deal of trouble to furnish it—”
“Oh, it’s not the furnishings,” Mrs. Upton says pleasantly. “They’re very nice. It’s just that Cassidy has never had to share a room before, and now she’s sharing one with not just one but two other girls, as well as me, and I’m afraid that isn’t going—”
“You’re in a separate room,” I point out. I know it’s rude to interrupt, but after the day I’ve had, I can’t help it.
“Yes,” Mrs. Upton says, her voice not quite as pleasant as before. “But the girls have to walk through mine in order to enter and exit the suite.”
“Right,” I say. “Because they’re fifteen years old, and you agreed to be their chaperone. New York College doesn’t allow residents under the age of eighteen—”
“Well, that’s plain silly,” Mrs. Upton says, beginning to swing her Louboutined foot. “My Cassidy is very mature for her age. She knows perfectly well how to handle herself—”
“What are those?” Cassidy asks, pointing at the condoms in the candy jar on my desk.
Mrs. Upton looks in the direction that Cassidy is pointing and turns a shade of pink that contrasts nicely with the many yellow gold necklaces she’s wearing.
“Put your finger down, Cass,” she says, glancing quickly away. “You know better than to point.”
“But what are they?” Cassidy asks. “I’ve never seen candy like that.” There’s a slyness to her perfect little smile that tells me she knows exactly what they are and is toying with us—she’s a teenager after all, surely she’s watched MTV—but her mother evidently doesn’t notice.
“That’s because they aren’t candy,” Mrs. Upton explains in disapproving tones. “They’re something that doesn’t have any place being in a candy jar on a lady’s desk.”
“Then why does this lady have them on hers?” Cassidy asks, cocking her head at me the way Owen cocks his head at the wall when he hears mice scratching inside.
Over at her own desk, Sarah hangs up her cell phone and says loudly, “They’re condoms, as you know very well, Cassidy. Condoms, not candy. Now you know where to get them, since you’re so mature.”
Mrs. Upton inhales sharply. “Ex-cuse me?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Upton,” I lean forward to say, swiftly lifting the jar and setting it onto the floor, out of the girl’s line of sight. “I’m afraid I can’t give you a room change. You signed on to be a chaperone, and if I move you, Mallory and Bridget won’t have an adult of legal age to look after them. I can, of course, move Cassidy if she wants—”
“That’d be fine,” Cassidy says eagerly.
“No,” Mrs. Upton says. “Cassidy, don’t be silly, you can’t live away from me.”
“Why?” Cassidy demands bluntly. “That’s what I want.”
I’m not sure what to do. Maybe Cassidy really does need this room change, to get away from her overbearing mother. Most teenage girls don’t attend summer camp with their mothers sleeping in the next room. I feel a little sorry for Cassidy, despite her seeming like such a conniving little weasel.
“If I move you, you’ll still have roommates,” I warn her, reaching for my roster. “And an adult chaperone in the next room, just like you do now.” I can make the change, but I’m pretty sure Stephanie will have an embolism if I do. But the Rock Off will no doubt turn out the same, if Cassidy is as talented as everyone says . . .
“Fine,” Cassidy says. “I’ll live with anyone except my mom.”
I raise my eyebrows at this burst of teenage snarkiness, my compassion switching instantly to Mrs. Upton.
“Cassidy,” Mrs. Upton says, climbing to her feet, “now you’re being rude. You know you don’t mean that. Come on, we’ve bothered Miss . . .” She looks at me questioningly.
“Ms. Wells,” I say, with the emphasis on the “Ms.”
“. . . Miss Wells enough for one day. Let’s go.”
“Yes, I do mean that,” Cassidy protests. “It’s not fair. Mallory and Bridget don’t have to live with their mom—”
“Well, their mothers don’t care like I do,” Mrs. Upton says. “They didn’t sign up to do this.” She reaches down to grasp Cassidy by the arm, pulling her on the word “this.”
Although the gesture is abrupt, I can see that the woman has no intention of hurting Cassidy. She’s just grown frustrated with her daughter’s sulky behavior.
Still, Cassidy reacts as if her mother has stabbed her.
“Ow!” she cries, leaping to her feet and cradling her arm. Mrs. Upton recoils in alarm. “Did you see?” Cassidy asks Sarah and me, large tears glistening in her baby blues. Her acting skills are phenomenal. “Did you see what she did to me?”
“Zip it up, drama queen,” Sarah snarks from her desk. “People are trying to have a meeting in there.” She points at the door to Lisa’s office. “And yes, we both saw it. Your mother barely touched you.”
“But”—Cassidy swings her teary-eyed gaze at me—“but you saw it. She hit me.”
Mrs. Upton gasps. “Cassidy! I did nothing of the sort. What’s wrong with you?”
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong with her,” Sarah says. “Classic narcissistic personality disorder, brought on by a mother who’s constantly reinforced her conviction that she’s the most gifted and talented child who ever lived—”
“Sarah.” I close my roster. Cassidy is getting a room change over my dead body . . . er, poor choice of words. What I mean is, I’m not moving her to make her some other chaperone’s problem. “I’ve got this. You know something, Cassidy?” I look the girl straight in the eye. “You’re lucky you have a mom who cares about you so much. Some of us aren’t as fortunate. Now . . . go to your room.”
The tears in Cassidy’s blue eyes dry up instantly.
“We’ll see what Tania has to say about all this,” she says coldly. “Won’t we?”
“Oh, we certainly will,” I reply, just as coldly. Is this girl kidding me? Who does she think she is?
“Come on, Cass,” Mrs. Upton says, grabbing her daughter’s hand and pulling her out into the hallway. “Let’s go upstairs and see what Mallory and Bridget are doing.”
“I hate them,” I hear Cassidy whine.
“Don’t forget, part of your Tania Trace Rock Camp experience,” I call after them, “is getting to know new people and new cultures at New York College in New York City.” This is the line we’re supposed to say to students and parents who come into our office complaining about their roommates, usually because they’re of a race, religion, or sexual orientation not their own. “Keep an open mind and open heart!”
“Exactly,” Cassidy’s mother says. I hear her bang on the button for the elevators. “Did you hear what the lady said? We don’t hate anyone . . .”
“I hate you,” Cassidy assures her, making sure her voice is loud enough for me to hear. “And I hate that fat lady in there.”
Before I have a chance to properly digest this, the door to Lisa’s office is thrown open and Detective Canavan from the Sixth Precinct steps out of it. He’s spent so much time in Fischer Hall over the past year due to all the deaths in the building, I’m not surprised that he feels as if he works here. But that doesn’t give him the right to yell.
“What the hell,” he asks, his gray mustache bristling, “is going on out here? It sounds like an episode of that damned show my daughter is always watching, the one about Bruce Jenner’s daughters.”
It takes me a second to realize he’s talking about the Kardashians.
“They’re his stepdaughters,” I say. “And it was only girl talk.”
“Huh,” the detective says, but looks as if he doesn’t believe it. He plucks an unlit cigar from the pocket of his khaki trousers and jams it into one side of his mouth. “So what’s this I hear about you being engaged?”
I glare at Sarah, but she only shakes her head vigorously and mouths, It wasn’t me. “I’m not engaged.” I hold up my left hand. “See? No ring.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Detective Canavan says. “I heard you’re eloping. Don’t give me that dopey look. I been in this business thirty years. Anyway, mazel tov.”
“I’m not eloping,” I say, feeling my face heating up.
“Sure you’re not,” Detective Canavan says. “Don’t forget to register somewhere. My wife’ll send you and Cartwright a nice Crock-Pot. You two.” He turns and gestures into the inner office. “Come on.”
Gavin and Brad come slinking out of the residence hall director’s office. They both have their heads sunk between their shoulders, looking like kids who’ve been caught shoplifting.
“What’s wrong with you guys?” I ask, relieved to have the detective’s attention off me.
“Apparently my powers of observation leave something to be desired,” Gavin says, shooting an indignant glance in Detective Canavan’s direction.
“Worst witness I ever had,” the detective agrees, glowering at Gavin in disapproval. “And then he tells me he wants to direct. Films, no less. Scorsese, he ain’t.”
“It was really crowded when I opened the desk this morning,” Gavin says to me. “People were pushing roses and boxes at me right and left. How am I supposed to remember who left what?”
“If it was the ice cream cake,” Brad chimes in, “I could tell you. That I remember, ’cause I really wanted a piece. Not that I’d have one, because all that sugar is really bad for your body.”
“I think it was a guy,” Gavin says.
“A guy,” Detective Canavan says. “Do you hear this kid? He thinks it was ‘a guy.’ A real Francis Ford Coppola he’s going to be when he graduates. Tell her what ‘the guy’ looked like.”
Gavin looks down at me uncomfortably.
“Um,” he says. “I don’t know. I think he was wearing a baseball cap. And a hoodie. I couldn’t really see because there was a big crowd. I just took everything they handed to me and put it on the table.”
Back in Lisa’s office, the police officer taking notes can’t stifle his laughter.
“Don’t call us,” Detective Canavan says to Gavin and Brad, making a pistol out of his index finger, then shooting. “We’ll call you.”
Dejected, Gavin and Brad slink from the office. When they’re gone, I say scoldingly, “You didn’t have to be so hard on them. We have the security footage from the lobby and the cameras in front of the building. Didn’t you get anything from those?”
Detective Canavan shakes his head. “Oh yes,” he says. “A grainy image of a large crowd of Tania Trace fans, one of whom was male and wearing a baseball cap and a hoodie. He was carrying a white plastic bag that appeared to contain a box. My guess is that it was a box of Pattycakes cupcakes. Highly observant, that lad of yours.”
My phone rings . . . my office phone this time. I see a number on the caller ID that I don’t recognize. I pick up and say, “Hello, Fischer Hall, this is Heather, how may I help you?”
“Oh, hi, Heather, it’s Lisa.” Lisa’s voice sounds strained. “Stan—Dr. Jessup—asked me to give you a heads-up. We’re still at the hospital.”
“Oh,” I say. “Great. How are things going?”
“Well, there’s good news and bad news,” Lisa says, still sounding upset, but as if she’s trying to hide it. “The good news is, the hospital has figured out what’s wrong. You were right, there was rat poison in those cupcakes.”
“Oh,” I say. I’m not sure how this is good news. “Okay.”
“Fortunately, neither Stephanie nor Simon ate enough of them to be affected.”
Oh. That’s how.
“The bad news,” Lisa goes on, “is that Jared Greenberg did. He passed away a little over an hour ago.”
Chapter 15
Pink Greyhound
2 ounces vodka
4 ounces freshly squeezed pink grapefruit juice
Ice
Mix vodka, juice, and ice. Shake thoroughly.
Optional garnish: rosemary sprig
All I want to do when I get home that night is make myself a stiff drink, strip off my clothes—which smell faintly of vomit, and on which I’ve found even more spots of Jared Greenberg’s blood—get into a hot bubble bath, and soak my troubles away.
Instead, I find myself squeezed into a dress that I hardly ever wear, a pair of Spanx, and a pair of too-tight high heels, heading uptown in the back of a black Town Car sent to fetch me by Cartwright Records Television.
It isn’t by choice.
“Please,” Cooper begs.
I notice the Town Car with the tinted windows parked in front of our brownstone as I’m returning from walking Lucy after work, but I don’t realize it has anything to do with me until Cooper calls to say that he’s at his parents’ penthouse with a near-catatonic Tania and that Detective Canavan has just left there, frustrated. Tania would barely even speak to him. Cooper wants me to come uptown to help him deal with her . . . and the rest of his family.
“You seem pretty optimistic about what my answer’s going to be,” I say. “You already sent a car.”
I hear Cooper making a slight hissing sound. I know he’s wincin
g.
“Sorry,” he says. “It wasn’t supposed to be there yet. Look, I know what you’ve been through—”
“Do you?” I ask. “When’s the last time you got thrown up on? Or bled on? Or been called fat by a bratty teenage girl?”
I know the last one shouldn’t bother me so much given that a man has lost his life—and it doesn’t bother me that much—but it hasn’t done much to enhance my mood.
“One of them called you fat?” Cooper sounds amused. “Did you tell her that your boyfriend thinks you’re perfect just the way you are and also that your boyfriend owns a gun and a permit to carry it in New York City?”
I don’t find this amusing.
“No. What I should have told her,” I say, “is that she isn’t going to get very far in life if she doesn’t learn not to insult people who don’t give her exactly what she wants.”
“Interesting,” Cooper says. “She reminds me of someone. Who could it be? Oh, right. My dad.”
I swallow. Grant Cartwright was so furious when his eldest son declined to enter the family music business that he cut Cooper off, refusing even to pay for college. Cooper wouldn’t back down, however, working round the clock in order to pay for school himself, so impressing his grandfather Arthur that he paid off Cooper’s tuition bills, then left him the brownstone when he died . . . which only further enraged Grant Cartwright.
I too had earned Cooper’s father’s scorn for trying to think for myself. Tired of the bubble-gum stuff the label was churning out for me to sing, I convinced Grant Cartwright to listen to some songs I’d written myself. This turned out to be a big mistake. Next thing I knew, Tania Trace was opening for Jordan instead of me . . . in more ways than one.
“Look, Heather,” Cooper says, “I get that you don’t want to be here tonight. I don’t want to be here tonight. But this is the first family dinner I’ve been to in ten years. I can’t handle it without you.”