by Meg Cabot
Jasmine’s floor is one of the highest in the building, which means it’s one of the most desirable (this is why the prince was assigned to a suite just above it).
“Most of the rooms on the upper floors were chosen in last year’s room selection lottery by upperclassmen before you—or Jasmine—ever even got here,” I go on, “which means only a few of the rooms on Jasmine’s floor were left to assign to incoming freshmen and transfer students. Since orientation week is only for new students, first year and transfer, most of the upperclassmen don’t choose to arrive until the weekend before classes begin.”
“True,” Lisa says hesitantly.
“So this is sad, but not as sad as if it happened in the middle of the year. The only people on her floor right now, really, are Kaileigh and Ameera and those other girls. You’ll pull someone in off the RA wait list to replace Jasmine, and the majority of kids won’t even know there was a death in the building, because it happened before they got here.”
“Heather!” Lisa says with a gasp.
“I said it was sad. I didn’t say it was fair. We have to be practical about it.”
“This job has hardened you,” Lisa says, not unkindly. “What if Jasmine died of what I have? What if I gave it to her? What if it’s some kind of deadly—”
“She didn’t,” I say flatly. “I already checked her trash can and toilet. There’s no vomit. And Howard Chen has what you have too, and he’s not dead.”
“Oh, great.” This is Lisa’s first student death—although we’d come close before—and the stress in her voice is almost palpable. “Wait. I just thought of something. The prince. You don’t think there’s a connection, do you, between Jasmine dying and the prince?”
“I don’t see how there could be,” I say.
“He clearly knows her residents.”
“I know, but no one said anything about Jasmine not answering her door to go to Nobu, just Ameera.”
But the coincidence—a VIR about whom there’d been death threats, and then a death in the room on the floor below his? It was going to be too big for some people (particularly the media) to ignore, and Lisa knew it.
“Okay,” Lisa says firmly. “That’s it. I’m coming up there right now.”
That’s when I hear a deep voice—familiar and resonant—through Lisa’s phone.
“You aren’t going anywhere except where Heather said, home, to bed.”
“Cooper?” Lisa sounds startled. “Oh my God, you’re still here?”
My thought, exactly.
“Of course I’m still here,” he says. “I’m supposed to be having lunch with my bride-to-be, remember?”
“Oh, Cooper,” Lisa cries. “Of course. I’m so sorry—”
“You’re going to be sorrier,” I hear him say, “if you don’t take care of yourself now, and get sicker later.”
“But,” I hear Lisa protest weakly.
“No ‘buts,’ ” Cooper says. “You’re going back to bed even if I have to carry you there.”
“You can’t lift me,” I hear Lisa say, but there’s uncertainty in her voice.
“What are you talking about?” Cooper sounds offended. “I carry Heather to bed every night. How do you think I maintain this buff physique?”
Lisa probably would have laughed if the situation hadn’t been so bleak.
I, on the other hand, frown. Cooper does have a buff physique, but he doesn’t carry me to bed every night. There’d just been that one night when I’d had a few too many grapefruit and vodkas and we’d started horsing around—
“Okay, okay,” I hear Lisa say. “I’m going. But first let me—”
“Oh my God, go home before my fiancé has to sling you over his shoulder King Kong style,” I practically shout into the phone.
Lisa gives in, says good-bye, and hangs up. I hang up too, but only to go and sit on the bed opposite Jasmine’s to make another phone call, careful not to touch anything, or shed any of my DNA, or look in the direction of the dead girl lying opposite me.
All RAs are assigned a single room, but these contain enough furniture for a double, since Fischer Hall lacks storage space. What the RA chooses to do with his or her extra furniture isn’t any of our concern, so long as it’s back in the room by the time he or she has moved out.
Jasmine had chosen to use both of her beds, one as a couch for visitors to lounge on, and the other for sleeping. I’m sitting on the one she’d reserved for visitors. The other bed is the one on which Jasmine lies, very, very dead.
“Gavin?” I say, when the person on the other end of the phone picks up.
“Hey, Heather,” he says. He sounds a lot more subdued than when we’d spoken earlier. “Sarah told me. Bummer.”
Only Gavin would call a girl dying in the prime of her life a “bummer.”
“Yes,” I say. “It is, indeed, a bummer. Have the police shown up yet?”
“No. I heard there’s a subway fire over at the Christopher Street station. You know they never show up for a dead body if there are live people they have a chance of saving. You guys shouldn’t have said Jasmine’s dead. You should have said she’s dying. Then they’d come faster.”
I sigh at the truth of this. “Is Sarah there?”
“She’s here,” he says, not sounding too thrilled about it. “She’s, like, crying all over the magazines I was saving to read later.”
“Gavin,” I say. “You’re not supposed to read other people’s magazines. You’re supposed to put them in the mailboxes of the people to whom they are addressed.”
“I know,” Gavin says. “But there’s been another death in the building, and the new issue of Entertainment Weekly just arrived. I need something to calm my nerves.”
I look at the fluffy white clouds Jasmine painted on the ceiling. “Fine. Listen, Gavin. Can you do me a favor?”
“For you? Anything.”
“Good. I need you to get out the emergency phone list—”
It’s his turn to sigh.
“—and text all RAs that there’s going to be an emergency staff meeting today at six in the second-floor library. Oh, and then can you put a sign on the door of the second-floor library that it’s going to be closed for a meeting at six? We’re going to have to break the news to them about Jasmine.”
Gavin says, “Intense. I’ll do it, but if you’d let me set up a group text on your phone, you could do it yourself next time.”
“I sincerely hope there isn’t going to be a next time, Gavin. And I don’t think my phone knows how to do that.”
“Your phone knows how to do it,” Gavin says, sounding amused. “You don’t. Look, I get a break in an hour. Why don’t you let me take you to lunch in the caf, and I’ll set up the group text for you.”
“Gavin,” I say, with practiced patience. “I’m engaged. You got an invitation to my wedding, remember? You RSVP’d that you’re coming . . . with your girlfriend.”
“Yeah, but you’re not married yet. There’s still a chance for me. I’m pretty sure I can win you over with my advanced technological know-how, which is vastly superior to your fiancé’s, or he’d have shown you how to group text, or even text, period, something I’ve noticed you seem to have a little trouble with. Not that it bothers me. It only makes you even more adorable.”
“Gavin,” I say, with a glance at Jasmine. “This is a highly inappropriate time for you to be hitting on me. Not that there’s ever an appropriate time to hit on your boss. Besides, what about Jamie? She’s a lovely girl, who is also your age.”
“I know,” he says. “But I met you first. Anyway, Jamie knows how I feel about you. We have an arrangement. You’re my freebie.”
“Your what?”
“My celebrity freebie. If I ever get a chance with you, Jamie says it’s okay to take it. Her celebrity freebie is Robert Downey Jr., but she says she only wants him if he’s in his Iron Man suit, so I don’t think that one is going to happen.”
“How nice,” I say. “Please will you just send th
e group text?”
“Okay, but I don’t know how many of those RAs are going to show up because of the flu.”
“Gavin, why do you keep saying it that way?”
“What way?”
“As if they don’t really have the flu.”
“I ain’t saying nothing,” Gavin says. “I ain’t no narc.”
“Gavin,” I say. “You grew up in the suburbs and now attend a major private nonsectarian American college in New York City. It doesn’t sound natural when you use double negatives.”
“Harsh,” Gavin responds.
A knock sounds on Jasmine’s door.
“I have to go,” I say, getting up to answer it. “Send the group text. And tell them if I hear about any RA faking sick, there’s going to be major trouble.”
“Oh, trust me,” Gavin says. “They ain’t faking.” He hangs up.
So do I, then open Jasmine’s door. I expect to see men and women in blue from the Sixth Precinct standing in the hallway.
But that’s not who it is.
6
Five Tips for Writing Your Wedding Vows
Waiting till the last minute to write those vows? Don’t panic! Answer these questions and you’ll come up with the perfect thing to say to that special someone on your special day:
How did you two meet?
I was his brother’s fiancée.
What hobbies do the two of you share?
Solving murders.
How does he react in times of crisis?
He shoots someone.
What made you fall in love in the first place?
He’s hot and makes me laugh.
What do you plan to name your children?
Who wrote this stupid quiz?
I got your boss to her apartment,” Cooper says gruffly by way of greeting. He immediately fills the small room with his strong masculine energy. “And that dog of hers too. I left her on her couch with her phone and a couple of bottles of ginger ale. You should call her husband to let him know how sick she is. I doubt she’s told him.”
He goes straight to Jasmine’s bed to peer down at the dead girl. “Christ, Heather. Are they getting younger or are we getting older? This one looks like she’s barely twelve years old. Are you sure she isn’t sleeping?”
“I’m sure,” I say. “Cooper, thanks for coming up to check on me, but the police are going to get here any minute. You’re probably getting DNA all over the place. And you know not everyone on campus likes you as much as I do, especially since you shot that guy over the summer.”
He looks hurt. “I got named Hot Stud of the Week by New York College Express, the daily student news blog, for doing that.”
“I know,” I say sympathetically. “And while they and I personally appreciated it very much, especially since you saved my life, I still think you’d better go. There’s that anti-gun-violence group on campus. They complain anytime anyone uses a gun, even against someone who deserves it.”
He ignores me, looking around Jasmine’s room. “Any sign that someone was in here last night when she died?”
I shake my head. “Sarah says everything was exactly like this when she arrived—and I want to keep it that way, so don’t touch anything.”
He gives me a sour look. “Who do you think you’re dealing with here? This is what I do for a living.”
“I thought you make your living sneaking into hotel rooms and planting hidden cameras to take pictures of people cheating on their spouses.”
“Well, that too,” he says, with a shrug of his big shoulders.
“Everything was exactly like this except that her computer was on—” I point to a laptop on Jasmine’s desk. “It was playing a song list set on repeat. Sarah switched it off in order to call the office, so she could hear me. That’s it.”
Cooper walks over to the desk, leaning down to look at the computer. “Weird that someone would have music playing when they’re trying to fall asleep.”
“Weird for you,” I say. “You live in your own multimillion-dollar brownstone. Try living in a noisy dorm, especially on a floor with a lot of new students across the hall, away from home for the first time. Lots of people in that situation can’t sleep without music playing. It drowns out all the ambient noise. These walls are thick, but not that thick. Cooper, what are you doing?”
He’s taken one of his ubiquitous handkerchiefs from his pocket and hit the return key on the computer keyboard. He always carries a neatly folded bandana (preferably in blue) somewhere on his person, a trick he picked up from one of his many formerly incarcerated friends. Keeps you from leaving fingerprints, he says.
“Just checking to see the last thing she was doing on the computer before she went to bed, besides listening to iTunes.” He squints down at the keyboard, then the screen. “Twitter,” he says with some disgust.
Cooper refuses to participate in any form of social networking. He doesn’t have a Web site advertising his private investigation business. His clients come from lawyers he knows, word of mouth, and a discreet listing in—of all things—the phone book. He seems to have all the work he can handle, though, proof that not everyone turns to the Internet for their professional needs.
“What a shocker, a college student using Twitter,” I say sarcastically. “Now, come on, you know if the cops find you here they’re going to blame me for messing up their crime scene . . . if her death turns out to be murder.”
He pokes around a little more on her computer. “She wasn’t logged on,” he says. “To Twitter. It’s just the whaddayoucallit, home page. What was her Twitter handle?”
“How would I know?”
He looks around. “Where’s her phone?”
I follow his gaze. “I don’t know.”
“Do you have her phone number? We could call her phone.”
“Of course I have her number,” I say, pulling out my phone and—a little proudly—the wallet-size list of emergency numbers I’d made. “But why is it so important we find her phone?”
“Because then we can find the last person she was talking to. It’s possible that person could give us a little insight into how she died.”
“Or we could just wait for the OCME to tell us.” I’m dialing. “And don’t you have a case of your own you’re supposed to be working on?”
“It’s insurance fraud, a little less pressing than this,” Cooper says. “No dead bodies are involved.”
“Oh.” I hold my cell phone away from my ear. “That’s weird. Jasmine’s phone is ringing in my ear, but not in her room. And now it’s gone to voice mail.”
“Her phone’s not in here,” Cooper says, looking around the room.
“Of course it’s here,” I say, looking around as well. “She must have it on vibrate.”
The clothes Jasmine had worn the day before are in a heap on the floor beside her bathroom door. I walk over to the pile and begin to feel through the pockets of her jeans.
“What young person do you know who doesn’t take her phone to bed with her?” Cooper points at Jasmine’s nightstand, which sits beneath her wide casement window, between the two beds. “It should be right there. But it’s gone.”
“It’s not gone,” I say. Look, her wallet’s here.” I hold it up. “Cash, credit cards, ID, everything still inside. Even her keys.” I jingle them. “So she wasn’t robbed. Who would steal her phone and not her cash? There’s a hundred bucks in this wallet. And that laptop over there is top of the line. It’s not like someone broke in here—there’s no sign the door’s been tampered with. Who would take her phone but not her laptop and cash?”
Cooper shakes his head, unconvinced. “Then where is her phone?”
I eye Jasmine’s body. “Probably there.” I point.
Cooper’s gaze follows the direction of my finger, which is aimed at her bedclothes, tangled around the bottom of her legs. He takes a quick step backward.
“No way,” he says.
“Well, you’re the one who thinks all young people take t
heir phones to bed with them,” I say. “Where else is it going to be? Except maybe under her.”
“Well, I’m not going to look,” Cooper declares. “You do it.”
“I’m not doing it,” I say. “That’s disturbing the dead. It’s my job to make sure no one messes with her . . . including me.”
“But how else are we going to know whether or not it’s there?”
“We aren’t going to know,” I say firmly, beginning to shove him toward the door. “The OCME will find it, if it’s there. The only thing either of us has to do is leave, meaning you, before the cops get here and arrest you for disturbing a potential crime scene. Go do your job, and I’ll do mine.”
“Fine,” he says, tugging on his shirt, which I’ve caused to become untucked with all my shoving. “I will. You don’t have to get so huffy about it. Just because your case is more interesting than mine—”
“This isn’t a case, Cooper. It’s a resident in my building who died, and it’s tragic, but you yourself reminded me just the other day that more young adults end up in hospital emergency rooms than any other age group . . . and more of them die in those emergency rooms than any other age group too. So I guess it’s natural that we might lose someone, even this early in the year. But you can’t leap to the conclusion that there was foul play involved, because we don’t know yet—”
Cooper turns by the door somewhere in the middle of this long speech to put his hands on my shoulders. When I’m finished, he says, “Heather. Heather, I know, okay? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry this happened, and I’m sorry to have upset you. That’s the last thing I’d ever want to do. I only wanted to help. I promise I’ll stay out of it from now on, if that’s what you want. I’ll go home and call Perry to cancel our lunch appointment. Okay?”
I groan. I’d forgotten all about our meeting with the wedding planner.