I look at her in surprise. “Really? That’s—that’s weird, right? I mean, wasn’t it weird? Am I wrong to think that’s weird? Is your ex a loser? Because mine’s a huge loser. And it’s weird to think of him being responsible for another human life.”
“Mine’s the CEO of a major investment firm back in Atlanta,” Muffy says, keeping her face turned straight ahead, “who left me for my maid of honor the night before our wedding. So yeah, I guess you could say I think it’s weird. In the same way I think it’s weird that millions of little tiny babies in Africa starve to death every year while I freak out if my barista uses full fat instead of nonfat foam in my morning latte. Why didn’t you tell me you were Heather Wells, the former teen pop sensation?”
“I tried,” I say lamely.
“No.” Muffy skids to a stop in her Manolos just outside the building’s front door and stabs an accusing index finger at me. “All you said was that your name wasn’t Jessica. I do not appreciate bein’ kept in the dark. Now, what else are you not tellin’ me? Do you know who killed that man?”
I gape down at her. I have a good five inches on her, but she makes me feel as if I’m the one who has to look up at her.
“No!” I cry. “Of course not! Don’t you think that if I did, I’d have told the police?”
“I don’t know,” Muffy says. “Maybe ya’ll were havin’ an affair.”
“EW!” I yell. “DID YOU EVEN KNOW OWEN?”
“I did,” Muffy replies, calmly. “Simmer down. I was just askin’.”
“And you think I was sleeping with him.Me.”
“Stranger things have happened,” Muffy points out. “This is New York City, after all.”
And suddenly a lot of things become clear: how Muffy’s ring became “accidentally” attached to President Allington’s jacket; why she’d ever think I might have been after Owen Veatch; what the pencil skirt and high heels were all about; what she’s doing in New York City in the first place, so far from her native Atlanta.
Look, I’m not here to make judgments. To each his (or her) own, and all of that.
But the idea of any woman moving to New York and entering the workforce with the express purpose of snagging a husband is sort of… well. Gross.
Who knows what I might have said to Ms. Muffy Fowler if at that very moment something hadn’t happened to distract me? Something so momentous (to me, anyway) that all further thought of conversation with her flees my brain, and I forget I’m standing in front of Fischer Hall, the sight of another major crime scene, and the place in which I regularly consume way more than my governmentally advised daily calorie allowance.
And that’s the sight of my landlord, semi-employer, and love of my life, Cooper Cartwright, hurrying up to me, panting, “I came as soon as I heard. Are you okay?”
6
Watching jets cross the midday sky
Disappearing in the bright sun’s eyes
Think of the Biscoffs t hey’re unwrappin’
Wish I could have my own to snack on
“You Can Buy Biscoff Online”
Written by Heather Wells
“Well, hello, there.”
That’s what Muffy Fowler says to Cooper after she turns to look at him. The next thing I know, she’s pivoted her weight to one hip and propped a hand to her infinitesimally small waist, her doe-eyed gaze going from the toes of Cooper’s running shoes (well, he’s a private detective after all. One assumes he often has to run after people, such as bad guys and… I don’t know. Perps. Or something) to the top of his dark, slightly-in-need-of-a- haircut head.
“Uh.” Cooper looks from me to Muffy and then back again. “Hi.”
“Muffy Fowler.” Muffy sticks out her hand—the cocktail ring (which I now realize is the engagement ring from her called-off wedding) glinting in the noonday sun—and Cooper takes it in his to shake. “New York College public relations. And you are?”
“Uh, Cooper Cartwright,” he says. “Friend of Heather’s. I was wondering if I could speak with her for a few minutes?”
“Of course!” Muffy holds on to his hand a little too long—like she thinks I won’t notice—then flashes me a smile and says, “You take as long as you need, now, Heather, you hear? I’ll just be right inside with President Allington if you want anything.”
I stare at her. Why is she talking to me like she’s my supervisor—or sorority sister—or something?
“Um,” I say slowly. “Sure thing… Muffy.”
She gives me a quick but supportive hug—enveloping me not just in her arms, but in a cloud of Chanel No. 19—then hurries into the building. Cooper stares at me.
“What,” he says, “was that.” It’s not exactly a question.
“That,” I say, “was Muffy. She introduced herself. Remember?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I noticed. I thought it might have been a hallucination.” He glances over his shoulder at the press, who, far from taking Muffy’s advice and packing up to go home, are stopping students as they cross the street, trying to get back to Fischer Hall for lunch after class, to ask them if they knew Owen Veatch and how they feel about his brutal and untimely death. “This is unbelievable. Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” I say, in some surprise. “I’m fine. Why?”
“Why?” Cooper looks down at me, a very sarcastic expression on his face. “Gosh, I don’t know. Maybe because someone shot your boss in the head this morning?”
I’m touched. Seriously. I can’t believe he cares. I mean, I know he cares.
But I can’t believe he cares enough to come over personally and check up on me. Granted, the Sixth Precinct’s taken over my office and I was being interviewed by Fox News so it wasn’t like I was picking up my cell.
But still. It’s nice to know Cooper’s got my back.
“So what do you know about this guy?” he wants to know, balancing a foot against one of the planters the residents routinely use as ashtrays, despite my well-placed and artful sign age exhorting them not to. “Anyone you know of might have reason to want him dead?”
If one more person asks me this, I seriously think my head might explode.
“No,” I say. “Except Odie.”
Cooper looks at me oddly. “Who?”
“Never mind,” I say. “Look, I don’t know. Everybody and his brother has asked me this. If I knew, don’t you think I’d have said something? I barely talked to the guy, Coop. I mean, we worked together for a few months, and all, but it’s not like he was my friend—not like Tom”—my last boss, with whom I still meet regularly for after-work beers at the Stoned Crow. “I mean, aside from this whole GSC fiasco, I can’t think of a single person who had something against Owen Veatch. He was just… bland.”
Cooper blinks down at me. “Bland.”
I shrug helplessly. “Exactly. Like vanilla. I mean, for someone to hate you enough to kill you, you at least have to… I don’t know. Have done something. Something interesting. But there was nothing remotely interesting about Owen. Seriously.”
Cooper glances across the street, at the reporters and their vans with the satellite dishes sticking up out of the roofs. Standing to one side of the vans, still in the chess circle—but on the outer rim of the chess circle, because the old guard who ruled the chess circle have finally gotten fed up with them, and thrown them out—is Sarah and her GSC posse, including a slouching Sebastian, muttering darkly amongst themselves because the
