The Bride Wore Size 12
Page 32
written by Heather Wells
So,” Lisa says, after she’s composed herself. “What do you think I should do?”
“Well,” I say, going back to my desk. “I’m going to guess that the whole thing yesterday with Special Agent Lancaster had to do with the fact that Prince Rashid’s people already knew that Jasmine Albright had been to his party. That’s why they were so careful to keep the cops away.”
Lisa pauses in shock while noisily blowing her nose. “Oh God. Of course. You know what I bet? I bet that weirdo prince roofied all the drinks.”
Surprised that someone has suggested something even creepier than I could imagine, I say, “Okay, let’s not get ahead of ourselves” as I pick up my phone. “But I’m going to give Eva over at the medical examiner’s office a call to let her know there was some illicit partying going on—”
“If they think I’m not sending that rotten royal a disciplinary letter,” I hear Lisa muttering behind her computer screen, “just because his daddy’s rich and donated a ton of money to this school, they’re crazy. I’m hitting him with every sanction in the book. And I’m putting every single one of those RAs who was at his party on probation. One more strike and they’re out.”
“Can you do that?” I ask curiously. “I thought it was three strikes and you’re out.”
“Why not? I already have to hire one new one to replace Jasmine. What difference does nine more make?”
“Um,” I say. “Kind of a lot.” The resident assistants count on their employment with the college for free room and board for the year. Without it . . . well, without it, they’ll suddenly have to find an affordable place to live for the fall and spring semesters. And in downtown New York City, that’s no easy task.
And finding and training nine new RAs, for all Lisa’s bravado, isn’t going to be easy, either.
“Well,” Lisa says primly. “That’s something they should have thought about before they decided to drink with freshmen in my building. I wish I could fire them without putting them on probation first, but that would be a violation of their employment contract. So probation is what they get.”
Lisa’s on fire this morning, I think to myself as I flip through my Rolodex for Eva’s number. She should get a twenty-four-hour flu more often.
“Hi, Eva?” I say, when I hear a grumpy voice at the end of the line say something very quickly that may, or may not, be, “OCME.”
“Hold on. I’ll go see if I can find her.” I hear footsteps walk away from the phone and the grumpy voice yell, “Eva! You left your phone in the locker room again!”
As I’m holding, a key rattles in the lock to the director’s office door, and Sarah comes trundling in, holding her backpack, a can of Coke, a paper bag with oily food stains on the sides, and her laptop.
“Why is this door closed?” she demands.
As usual, Sarah appears to have rolled out of bed and come directly downstairs for work without bathing, although she clearly stopped in the caf for breakfast. The aroma from the bag indicates that she too has opted for the dining hall’s less than healthy options, most likely a bacon-egg-and-cheddar sandwich. She has her wildly frizzing hair pulled back into a single clip and is wearing her ubiquitous overalls, though at least she appears to have changed into a fresh T-shirt.
“What are you guys doing?” she asks, throwing an aggravated look at me and Lisa as she heads to her desk, where she dumps her breakfast, beverage, backpack, and laptop. “Why isn’t the office open? It’s nearly nine-thirty. What’s the matter with you two? God, never mind, have you seen this morning’s New York College Express, the daily student news blog?”
“I’m on hold with the medical examiner,” I say, pointing to the receiver.
“I’m putting all the RAs on probation,” Lisa calls from her office. “No, wait, not all of them. Just the new ones who aren’t already dead.”
Sarah ignores us. She doesn’t think we’re serious.
“Check it out.” She opens her laptop and, sitting in her office chair, begins scooting toward me. “It’s another one about Rascally Rashid.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “Is it about how he’s been throwing wild blowout parties in his room every night since he’s checked in?”
Sarah stops midscoot.
“What? No. How could he have been doing that? We’d have heard about it. He’d have been written up.”
“Not if all the RAs were on his guest list,” Lisa calls from her office. “Which they were.”
“The RAs have been going to parties in Prince Rashid’s room?” Sarah’s mouth falls open.
“Howard Chen didn’t have the flu,” Lisa calls. “He was just hungover.”
Sarah’s mouth snaps shut, and her eyes flash. “I rubbed his back while he puked, and he was just hungover? That little shit.”
There’s a fumbling sound from the other end of the phone, and then I hear Eva’s voice, sounding a little breathless and none too happy. “Hello? Who is this?”
“Eva,” I say quickly. “Sorry to disturb you, it’s Heather Wells from Fischer Hall.”
“Oh.” Eva doesn’t sound pleased to hear me. “Hey, Heather. Look, the M.E. hasn’t even gotten to your dead girl yet, things are so backed up around here—”
“No, no,” I say. “That’s fine. I only wanted to let you know we found out a couple of things about her activities the night before she died.”
Rapidly, I fill Eva in about the party Jasmine attended in Prince Rashid’s room.
“So were they sick because they were hungover,” Eva asks in a much more interested tone when I’m finished, “or because they ingested something at the party that might have been a toxin? And because our vic was an asthmatic, and had a weakened immune system, it ended up killing her?”
I hadn’t considered this. “I don’t know.”
“Of course you don’t know. See, this information about the party would have been helpful to know yesterday.” Now Eva sounds irritated. “That way we could have done things a little differently.”
“Believe me,” I say. “I know.”
So,” Lisa says, after she’s composed herself. “What do you think I should do?”
“Well,” I say, going back to my desk. “I’m going to guess that the whole thing yesterday with Special Agent Lancaster had to do with the fact that Prince Rashid’s people already knew that Jasmine Albright had been to his party. That’s why they were so careful to keep the cops away.”
Lisa pauses in shock while noisily blowing her nose. “Oh God. Of course. You know what I bet? I bet that weirdo prince roofied all the drinks.”
Surprised that someone has suggested something even creepier than I could imagine, I say, “Okay, let’s not get ahead of ourselves” as I pick up my phone. “But I’m going to give Eva over at the medical examiner’s office a call to let her know there was some illicit partying going on—”
“If they think I’m not sending that rotten royal a disciplinary letter,” I hear Lisa muttering behind her computer screen, “just because his daddy’s rich and donated a ton of money to this school, they’re crazy. I’m hitting him with every sanction in the book. And I’m putting every single one of those RAs who was at his party on probation. One more strike and they’re out.”
“Can you do that?” I ask curiously. “I thought it was three strikes and you’re out.”
“Why not? I already have to hire one new one to replace Jasmine. What difference does nine more make?”
“Um,” I say. “Kind of a lot.” The resident assistants count on their employment with the college for free room and board for the year. Without it . . . well, without it, they’ll suddenly have to find an affordable place to live for the fall and spring semesters. And in downtown New York City, that’s no easy task.
And finding and training nine new RAs, for all Lisa’s bravado, isn’t going to be easy, either.
“Well,” Lisa says primly. “That’s something they should have thought about before they decided to drink with freshmen in my building. I wish I could fire them without putting them on probation first, but that would be a violation of their employment contract. So probation is what they get.”
Lisa’s on fire this morning, I think to myself as I flip through my Rolodex for Eva’s number. She should get a twenty-four-hour flu more often.
“Hi, Eva?” I say, when I hear a grumpy voice at the end of the line say something very quickly that may, or may not, be, “OCME.”
“Hold on. I’ll go see if I can find her.” I hear footsteps walk away from the phone and the grumpy voice yell, “Eva! You left your phone in the locker room again!”
As I’m holding, a key rattles in the lock to the director’s office door, and Sarah comes trundling in, holding her backpack, a can of Coke, a paper bag with oily food stains on the sides, and her laptop.
“Why is this door closed?” she demands.
As usual, Sarah appears to have rolled out of bed and come directly downstairs for work without bathing, although she clearly stopped in the caf for breakfast. The aroma from the bag indicates that she too has opted for the dining hall’s less than healthy options, most likely a bacon-egg-and-cheddar sandwich. She has her wildly frizzing hair pulled back into a single clip and is wearing her ubiquitous overalls, though at least she appears to have changed into a fresh T-shirt.
“What are you guys doing?” she asks, throwing an aggravated look at me and Lisa as she heads to her desk, where she dumps her breakfast, beverage, backpack, and laptop. “Why isn’t the office open? It’s nearly nine-thirty. What’s the matter with you two? God, never mind, have you seen this morning’s New York College Express, the daily student news blog?”
“I’m on hold with the medical examiner,” I say, pointing to the receiver.
“I’m putting all the RAs on probation,” Lisa calls from her office. “No, wait, not all of them. Just the new ones who aren’t already dead.”
Sarah ignores us. She doesn’t think we’re serious.
“Check it out.” She opens her laptop and, sitting in her office chair, begins scooting toward me. “It’s another one about Rascally Rashid.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “Is it about how he’s been throwing wild blowout parties in his room every night since he’s checked in?”
Sarah stops midscoot.
“What? No. How could he have been doing that? We’d have heard about it. He’d have been written up.”
“Not if all the RAs were on his guest list,” Lisa calls from her office. “Which they were.”
“The RAs have been going to parties in Prince Rashid’s room?” Sarah’s mouth falls open.
“Howard Chen didn’t have the flu,” Lisa calls. “He was just hungover.”
Sarah’s mouth snaps shut, and her eyes flash. “I rubbed his back while he puked, and he was just hungover? That little shit.”
There’s a fumbling sound from the other end of the phone, and then I hear Eva’s voice, sounding a little breathless and none too happy. “Hello? Who is this?”
“Eva,” I say quickly. “Sorry to disturb you, it’s Heather Wells from Fischer Hall.”
“Oh.” Eva doesn’t sound pleased to hear me. “Hey, Heather. Look, the M.E. hasn’t even gotten to your dead girl yet, things are so backed up around here—”
“No, no,” I say. “That’s fine. I only wanted to let you know we found out a couple of things about her activities the night before she died.”
Rapidly, I fill Eva in about the party Jasmine attended in Prince Rashid’s room.
“So were they sick because they were hungover,” Eva asks in a much more interested tone when I’m finished, “or because they ingested something at the party that might have been a toxin? And because our vic was an asthmatic, and had a weakened immune system, it ended up killing her?”
I hadn’t considered this. “I don’t know.”
“Of course you don’t know. See, this information about the party would have been helpful to know yesterday.” Now Eva sounds irritated. “That way we could have done things a little differently.”
“Believe me,” I say. “I know.”
