Текст книги "Size 12 Is Not Fat"
Автор книги: Meg Cabot
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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
“Oh, c’mon, Chris,” Cooper says. “You expect us to believe that with all the publicity on campus after those supposed accidents—”
“I didn’t know!” Chris splashes one hand into the water to emphasize his words, and gets Lucy’s paws wet. She looks down at them quizzically, then goes to work with her tongue. “I swear to God, I didn’t know. I don’t exactly have a lot of free time, and what I do have I’m not going to waste reading the newspapers. I mean, of course I heard two girls in Fischer Hall had died, but I didn’t know they were my two girls.”
“And you didn’t notice that neither of the girls was returning your calls?”
Chris ducks his head. Shamefacedly, I think.
“Because you never called them again.” Cooper’s voice is cold as ice.
Chris looks defensive. “Do you?” he demands, of Cooper. “Do you always call the next day?”
“If I want there to be a next time,” Cooper replies, without missing a beat.
“Exactly.” Chris’s voice drips with meaning. At first I don’t get what he means.
Then I do.
Oh.
Cooper shakes his head, looking as disgusted as I feel. Well, almost, anyway. “You expect me to believe that you never knew those girls were dead until you heard it from Heather the other night?”
“That’s right,” Chris says, and suddenly he flicks his cigarette into the rhododendrons and hauls himself out of the Jacuzzi. All he has on is a pair of baggy swim trunks. His frame is lean but muscular, his skin tanned to a light gold. There isn’t a single patch of body hair on him, unless you count what curls out from beneath his arms.
“And when I heard about it, the first thing I did was, I came here.” Chris stands up, wrapping himself in a wide, pale pink towel. “I needed to get away, I needed to think, I needed to—”
“You needed to avoid being hauled in for questioning by the cops,” Cooper finishes for him.
“That, too. Look, so I slept with ’em—”
I can stand it no longer. Really. I feel sick—and not just because of all the Indian food we’d eaten in the car on the way over, either.
No, this isn’t just indigestion. It’s disgust.
“Don’t act like it’s no big deal, Chris,” I say. “Your sleeping with those girls, then not calling them again. Not even telling them your real name in order to keep them from knowing who your father is. Because it is a big deal. Or it was, to them. You used them. You used them because you know you… you know you’ve got… well, performance inadequacies.”
“What?” Chris looks shocked. “I do not!”
“Of course you do,” I say, knowing I sound like Sarah, and not caring. “Why else were you looking for girls who don’t have any sexual experience—until Hope here—so they don’t have anything to measure your performance by?”
Chris looks as stunned as if I’d hit him.
And maybe, in a way, I have.
Cooper tugs on my sleeve and whispers, “Whoa, tiger. Simmer down. Let’s not get our roles here confused. I’m the bad cop. You’re the good one.”
Then, patting me gently on the back—the way I pat Indy when I want him to calm down—Cooper says to a red-faced Chris, “Listen, nobody’s accusing you of murdering anybody. What we want to know about is your relationship with Rachel Walcott.”
“Why?” Chris is over being scared, and back to being surly. My remark about performance inadequacies has upset him. Undoubtedly because it’s true.
Chris strides past Cooper, heading for the pool. “What about it?”
“Was there one?” Cooper wants to know.
“A relationship?” Dropping the towel, Chris climbs onto the diving board. A second later, he’s sprung into the pool, hardly making a splash as his long, lean body arcs through the water. He swims up to the side of the pool we’re standing on, then surfaces, seeming to have had a change of heart under water.
“All right,” he says. “I’ll tell you everything I know.”
27
She told me
She thinks you’re fine
She told me
It’s just a matter of time
She told me
She’ll get you someday
But I told her
Not if I have something to say
’Cause you’re
My kind of guy
Yes, you’re
My kind of guy
My friends tell me I’m high
But you’re just
My kind of guy
“My Kind of Guy”
Performed by Heather Wells
Composed by Dietz/Ryder
From the album Summer
Cartwright Records
“Okay,” Chris says, through chattering teeth. “Okay. So I slept with her for a few months. It’s not like I asked her to marry me, or anything. But she went fucking psycho on me, okay? I thought she was going to cut my balls off.”
I scoop up Chris’s towel and drape it over his shivering shoulders. He doesn’t seem to notice. He’s on a roll. He’s climbed from the pool and has started walking toward the house, Cooper and Lucy and I following behind, like an entourage after…
Well, some famous rock star.
“It started my junior year,” Chris says. Now that he’s started talking, it’s like he can’t stop. Or even slow down. You have to admire Cooper’s technique. Not hitting the guy had done the trick. “A bunch of guys and I got in trouble for smoking pot in the dorm, you know, and we had to go see the dorm director—Rachel—for sanctioning. We all thought we were gonna get kicked outta school. So some of the guys, they were like, ‘Chris, put the moves on her,’ ’cause, I dunno, I was a little older than they were, and I had this reputation with the girls, you know?”
I envision Rachel—in her Manolo Blahniks and tailored Armani—being hit on by this smooth-talking, golden-haired Adonis. No, he isn’t the suave businessman she’d been hoping to attract with her rock-hard glutes and blown-out hair.
But he has to have been the closest thing she was likely to get to it in Richmond, Indiana.
“Anyway, she let us off. For the pot-smoking thing, you know? Said it would be our little secret.” There’s a smirk in Chris’s voice. But it isn’t a happy smirk. “At first I thought it was because of whom my father is. But then we started running into each other in the cafeteria and stuff. More like—well, she’d run into me, you know? And the guys were like, ‘Go for it, man. You start going with the dorm director, we can get away with anything we want.’ And I had nothing else going on, you know, lady-wise, so I figured, ‘Why not?’ And one thing led to another, and then, well, we were an item, I guess.”
He ducks under an archway, and we follow, through an open sliding glass door and into a dimly lit, sunken living room, where the primary decorating theme appears to be black leather. The couches are black leather. The ottomans are black leather. Even the mantel appears to be encased in black leather.
But surely not. I mean, wouldn’t that catch on fire?
“Turns out, I was her first,” Chris explains, going to the mantel and twisting a dial. Suddenly the room is bathed in an unearthly pink light. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought we’d walked into a bordello. Or maybe one of those oxygen bars in SoHo. “She wasn’t always as… put together as she looks now. She was actually kinda… well, when I knew her, back in Richmond, Rachel was kinda fat.”
I blink at him. “What?”
Cooper throws me a warning glance. Chris is on a roll, and Cooper doesn’t want me interrupting.
“You know.” He shrugs. “She was fat. Well, not fat, really. But like… chubby. And she wore sweats all the time. I don’t know what happened to her, you know, between now and then, but she slimmed down, majorly, and got, I don’t know, like a makeover, or something. Because back then… I don’t know.”
“Wait.” I am having trouble processing this. “Rachel was fat?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe there is less… pressure being with someone who doesn’t have anyone else to measure you by. There was definitely something—I dunno—exciting about being with this older chick who was so smart in some ways, and so dumb in others… ”
“She was fat?” I am seriously stunned. “She runs like four miles a day! She eats nothing but lettuce. With no dressing!”
“Well,” Chris says, with another shrug. “Maybe now. Not back then. She told me she’d been heavy her whole life, and that’s why she’d never… you know. Had a guy before.”
Whoa. Rachel had still been a virgin post—grad school? Hadn’t she metanyone in high school? In college, even?
Apparently not.
“So how long did this go on? This affair,” Cooper asks, apparently in an effort to get me off the Rachel was fat? thing.
Chris sinks down onto one of the black leather couches, not seeming to care whether he got the cushions wet. When you’re as rich as he is, I guess things like that don’t matter.
“Till midway through my senior year. That’s when I realized I had to start really studying, you know, to get decent scores on my LSATs. After letting me goof off through most of my twenties, my parents were riding me, you know, to get into law school. I told her—Rachel—that I was going to hafta play it cool for a while. It seemed like a good time to break it off. I mean, it wasn’t like it could go anywhere, her and me, after I graduated. No way was I sticking around Richmond.”
“Did you tell her that?” Cooper asks.
“Tell her what?”
I see a muscle in Cooper’s jaw twitch. “Did you tell Rachel that it couldn’t go anywhere?” he elaborates, with forced patience.
“Oh.” Chris doesn’t meet either of our gazes. “Yeah.”
“And?”
“And she flipped on me, man. I mean, really flipped. Started screaming, tearing stuff up. She picked up my computer monitor and threw it across the quad, no joke. I was so scared, I moved in with some buddies of mine off-campus for the rest of the year.”
“And you never saw her again?” A part of me can’t believe Chris’s story. Another part of me believes it all too well. Not that I can picture Rachel throwing a computer monitor across the room.
But I can’t picture her killing two girls—and almost killing three other people—either.
“No,” Chris says. “Not till a couple weeks ago, when I got back from Richmond. I spent the summer there, doing volunteer stuff, as part of the deal I had with my dad about law school. Then I walked into Fischer Hall, and the first thing I see is Rachel, up at the reception desk, bawling some kid out for something or other. Only, you know, she’s all… skinny. I nearly passed out, let me tell you. But she just smiled, cool as can be, and asked how I’d been. No hard feelings, and all that.”
“And you believed her.” Cooper’s voice is toneless.
“Yeah.” Chris sighs. “She seemed cool with it. I thought—you know, the weight loss, her new hairstyle, the clothes… I thought it was a good sign, you know. That she was moving on.”
“And the fact that she had purposefully set out to get a job managing the building your parents live in,” Cooper says. “That didn’t raise a red flag that she might not be as ‘cool with it’ as you thought?”
“Obviously not,” Chris says. “Until… well, what I found out last night.”
A bell-like voice cries out, “Oh, there you are! I looked all over outside. I didn’t know you’d come in.”
Hope comes traipsing down the stairs, holding a tray of what looks—and smells—like spinach pastry puffs in one hand, and the hem of a floor-length, leopard print robe in the other.
“The canapés are ready,” she says. “Do you want them in here, or out by the pool?”
“Out by the pool, okay, honey?” Chris smiles weakly at her. “We’ll join you in a minute.”
Hope smiles good-naturedly and detours toward the sliding glass doors.
“Don’t be long,” she warns us. “They’ll get cold.”
As soon as she’s gone, Chris says, “I’ve gone over it and over it—since talking to you the other night, I mean—trying to figure out if Rachel could have done it. Killed those girls, I mean. Because I’m good, you know… but not exactly anybody worth killing over.”
He smiles weakly at his own little joke. Cooper doesn’t smile back. I guess we are still playing good cop/bad cop. Since I’m apparently the good cop, I smile back. It isn’t even hard. I mean, in spite of everything, I still sort of like Chris. I can’t help it. He’s just… Chris.
“I mean, when she and I broke up,” Chris goes on, as if there’d been no interruption, “I told you she was—well, violent. She threw my computer across the quad. That’s like a hundred and fifty feet. She’s pretty strong. A girl—a small girl, like Beth or Bobby. Well, that’d be nothing for Rachel. If she was mad enough.”
“And you believe that’s what happened to those girls?” Cooper seems to be making sure. “Not that they died accidentally, but that Rachel killed them?”
Chris is sinking deeper and deeper into his parents’ leather couch. You can tell he totally wants to disappear.
“Yes,” he says, in a small voice. “I mean… that’s the only explanation, isn’t it? Because that whole elevator surfing thing… Girls don’t elevator surf.”
I throw Cooper an I told you so look. But he doesn’t see it. He is too busy staring stonily at Chris.
In the silence that falls after this, I can hear a cricket start to chirp loudly outside. I have to admit, I’m kind of… well, moved by Chris’s speech. Oh, I still think he’s a pig and all of that. But at least he freely admits it. That’s something, anyway.
Cooper doesn’t look nearly as impressed as I am, however.
“Chris,” he says. “You’re coming back to the city with us now, and tomorrow morning, we’re going to the police.”
It isn’t a request. It’s a command.
Chris grimaces. “Why? What good will it do? They’ll just arrest me. They’ll never believe it was Rachel. Never.”
“Not if you’ve got alibis for the times of the murders,” Cooper says.
“I do,” Chris says, brightening suddenly. “I was in class when the second girl—Bobby, I mean—died. I know, ’cause we all heard the sirens and looked out the windows. Fischer Hall is right down the street from the law building… ”
Then Chris shakes his head. His hair is drying like a golden helmet on top of his head. “But they aren’t seriously going to believe that Rachel Walcott is killing the girls I’ve slept with. I mean, c’mon. Rachel just won a fucking Pansy Award for Good Samaritanism, or whatever.”
Cooper just stares at him. “Are there any girls you’ve slept with this year who aren’t dead?”
Chris looks uneasy. “Well, no, but—”
I look over my shoulder, at the archways that lead out to the pool. “What about Hope?”
“What about her?”
“Do you want her to end up dead, too?”
“No!” Chris looks appalled. “But… I mean, she’s the au pair from next door. How’s Rachel even going to—”
“Chris,” Cooper says. “Have you ever thought about taking a sabbatical from dating?”
Chris swallows.
“To tell you the truth,” he says. “I’m starting to think that might not be such a bad idea.”
28
I don’t want flowers
Red yellow or blue
And I don’t want diamonds
I know other girls do
And I don’t want money
I’ve seen what money can do
All I want is you
All I want is you
All I want is you
“All I Want”
Performed by Heather Wells
Composed by Dietz/Ryder
From the album Magic
Cartwright Records
“Think about it,” I say to Patty. “Rachel meets this guy, this really handsome guy, who acts like he genuinely likes her, and maybe there’s a part of him that really does… ”
“Yeah,” Patty agrees sarcastically. “The part he keeps in his briefs.”
“Whatever. This guy, he’s the first guy she’s ever come across who is interested in her, let alone meets all of her qualifications for a boyfriend. You know, he’s hot, he’s rich, he’s hetero. Okay, maybe he’s a bit of a ne’er-do-well”—I lift up the glass of orange juice that’s sitting by my bed and sip it—“living off his trust fund or whatever. But aside from that—”
“Hold on a minute.” Patty turns to say, “Put that down,” to her son. A second later, she’s back.
“Right,” she says. “Where were we?”
“Rachel,” I say.
“Oh, right. So this Christopher guy. Is he really that hot?”
“He’s hot. Plus he’s a student,” I tell her. “You aren’t supposed to sleep with students, so that makes him forbidden fruit, on top of everything else. She starts having all these fantasies—I mean, why not? She’s hit her thirties. And she’s a modern twenty-first-century gal, she wants it all: career, marriage, kids—”
“License to kill.”
“What have you. Then just as she’s getting set to circle the wagons, li’l ol’ Cowboy Chris rides off into the sunset by himself.”
“Hold on, Heather,” Patty says. To her son, she goes, “Indy! I said no! Indy—”
I hold the receiver to my ear as Patty yells at her kid. It’s nice, in a way, to be snug in my bed, not even thinking about murderers for a change, while everyone else is out running around, actually doing something about them. I’d wanted to go with Cooper and Chris to see Detective Canavan. Really. I’d told him last night, as I’d stumbled up to bed in my apartment, to wake me up before he left in the morning.
But I guess the shock from all the excitement of the day before—the explosion, the trip to the hospital, the drive to Long Island and back—had finally taken its toll, because when Cooper had tapped on my bedroom door to see if I was up, I’d yelled at him to go away.
Not that I remember doing this. I mean, I would never have been so rude if I’d actually been conscious. Cooper left a note explaining the situation, and ending with the words,Do not go to work today. Stay home and rest. I’ll call you.
And okay, he didn’t sign it Love, Cooper. Just Cooper.
But still. He has to at least, you know, respect me more now. Now that it turns out I wasn’t making it all up. About how someone had been trying to kill me, and all. I mean, he has to be thinking what a fantastic partner I’d make, to detect things with.
And who knows where that might lead? I mean, wouldn’t the next rational step be for him to fall madly in love with me?
So yeah. I’m in a good mood. It’s pouring rain outside, but I don’t care. I’m snug in my bed, watching morning cartoons with Lucy by my side. Maybe it’s only because I’d come so close to losing it, but life is seeming really, really good.
Or so I’m excitedly telling Patty. She seems very impressed by my theory—the one I’m hoping will send Detective Canavan, when he hears what Chris has to say, directly to Fischer Hall with an arrest warrant.
“I’m back,” Patty says. “Where were we?”
“Rachel. Suddenly she’s left holding the reins to the chuck wagon all by her lonesome,” I say. “So what does a modern twenty-first-century gal like Rachel do?”
“Oh, wait, wait, let me try,” Patty says, excitedly. “Rounds up a—what do they call it? Oh yes. A posse?”
“Gets rid of the competition,” I correct her. “Because in Rachel’s twisted mind, she thinks if she kills all Chris’s girlfriends, she’ll get him back through default. You know, if there aren’t any other girls left, he’ll have no choice but to return to her.”
“Wow.” Patty sounds impressed. “So how’s she doing it?”
“What do you mean, how’s she doing it? She’s pushing them down the elevator shaft.”
“Yeah, but how, Heather? How is a skinny bitch like Rachel pushing full-grown women—who surely don’t want to die—down the elevator shaft? I mean, I can’t even get my sister’s damn chihuahua into his carrier, and he’s just a tiny dog. Do you have any idea how hard it must be to push someone who doesn’t want to die down an elevator shaft? You have to open the doors first. What are these girls doing while she’s doing that? Why aren’t they fighting back? Why doesn’t Rachel have scratches on her face or on her arms? My sister’s damned dog scratches me hard when I try to put him in his Sherpa.”
I think back to my formative years of television viewing. “Chloroform,” I say, simply. “She must be using chloroform.”
“Wouldn’t the coroner be able to find traces of this?”
Wow. Patty is good. Especially for someone who claims not to have time to watch CSI.
“Okay, okay,” I said. “Maybe she conks them on the head with a baseball bat and slings ’em down the shaft while they’re unconscious.”
“The coroner wouldn’t have noticed this?”
“They’ve just fallen sixteen stories,” I say. “What’s another bump?”
Beep.
My call waiting is going off.
“Oh, that’s gotta be Cooper, Pats,” I say. “Listen, I’ll call you later. Want to go out for a celebratory brunch tomorrow? I mean, after they’ve incarcerated my boss?”
“Sure. Be there with bells on.” Patty hangs up. I push down on the receiver, then say, “Hello?” after I hear the line click.
But the voice I hear isn’t Cooper’s. It’s a woman’s voice.
And it sounds like whoever it belongs to is crying.
“Heather?”
It takes me a second, but then I realize who it is.
“Sarah?” I say. “Is that you?”
“Y-yes.” Sarah sniffles.
“Are you okay?” I sit up in bed. “Sarah, what’s the matter?”
“It’s… it’s Rachel,” Sarah say.
Whoa. Had the cops gotten there and arrested her already? It’s going to be a blow, I know, for the building staff, what with Justine turning out to be a ceramic heater thief, and now Rachel turning out to be a homicidal maniac.
But they’ll get over it. Maybe I’ll bring in Krispy Kremes for everyone tomorrow.
“Yeah?” I say. Because I don’t want to let on that I’d had anything to do with the arrest. Yet, anyway. “What about Rachel?”
“She… she’s dead.”
I nearly drop the phone.
“What?” I cry. “Rachel? Dead? What—”
I can’t believe it. It isn’t possible. Rachel? Dead? How on earth…
“I think she killed herself,” Sarah says with a sob. “Heather, I just came into the office, and she’s… she’s hanging here. From that grate between our office and hers.”
Oh my God.
Rachel’s hanged herself. Rachel realized that the jig was up, but instead of going quietly, she killed herself. Oh my God.
I have to remain calm. For the building’s sake, I realize. I have to be the one in charge now. The director is gone. That leaves me, the assistant director. I’m going to have to be the strong one. I’m going to have to be everybody’s beacon of light in the dark times ahead.
And it’s okay, because I’m totally prepared. It won’t be any different, really, than if Rachel had been hauled off to jail. She’s really just going to a different place. But she’s gone, just the same.
“I don’t know what to do,” Sarah says, her voice rising to a hysterical pitch. “If anyone walks in and sees this—”
“Don’t let anyone in,” I cry. Oh God. The RAs. This is the last thing they need. “Sarah, don’t let anyone come in. And don’t touch anything.” Isn’t that right? Isn’t that what they always say on Law & Order? “Call an ambulance. Call the police. Right away. Don’t let anyone into the office but the police. Okay, Sarah?”
“Okay,” Sarah says, with another sniffle. “But, Heather?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you come over? I’m… I’m so scared.”
But I’ve already sprung from my bed and am reaching for my jeans.
“I’ll be right there,” I tell her. “Hold on, Sarah. I’ll be right there.”
