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. Voilà, the perfect breakfast treat.
I put it on a plate, the plate on a tray with the coffees, and am heading out of the café 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. “Assistant 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 assume 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 Washington, 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 fashion 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 shit Ann was doing to annoy her.”
“Stupid shit 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 Female — type thingies.”
I’m sure Detective Canavan jumped on the “Single White Female—type 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.
