“Thanks so much for coming, Stan,” Muffy says, reaching out her hand to grasp Dr. Jessup’s as he rises to greet her. The smile she gives me is distantly polite, even though we know each other well. The smile says, Up here in the president’s office, we’re going to act like we don’t know each other at all, okay? After work, over drinks, we’ll kick off our high heels and eviscerate these people behind their backs.
Except that I’m wearing flats with my dark stretch cords and equally stretchy black tunic blouse. I didn’t know I was going to have a meeting in the president’s office today.
Muffy introduces Lisa and me to the newcomers, whose names and titles I fail to catch. It doesn’t matter, because I wouldn’t have remembered them anyway. They’re all men in business suits who look exactly the same, have the same kind of nonsense titles—executive vice chancellor for the general council; senior executive of the board of trustees; chairman of global affairs—and, if the New York College Express is to be trusted, receive the same kind of enormous bonuses.
They’re here, Muffy explains, to “troubleshoot this here itty-bitty little thing.” In times of crisis, Muffy’s southern drawl becomes more pronounced.
“How about y’all take a seat now, and let’s get right to business,” Muffy says as she tucks her cream-colored skirt beneath her in a ladylike manner. We all do as she suggested and take a seat, with the exception of Special Agent Lancaster, who declares he’d prefer to stand. I suppose if he sat down, the stick up his butt would lodge so deeply into his brain that he would instantly expire, and then we’d have another corpse on our hands, so it’s just as well.
“So,” Muffy says. Her lipstick is a very bright red, as are her fingernails. “I’m sure y’all know why y’all are here—”
“Yes,” I say. “A girl in our building died yesterday.”
“Another one?” President Allington cries in surprise. A bite of egg salad sandwich falls out of his mouth and tumbles down the front of his blue-and-gold tie. “Jesus Christ!”
Gloria comes rushing over with a napkin to sponge the mayonnaise stains off his tie while the rest of us politely avert our gazes.
“Er, yes, Phillip,” Muffy says. “Remember, I told you? She died yesterday, of asthma.”
“Who the hell dies of asthma?” President Allington wants to know.
“Nine people a day,” I volunteer. “It’s one of this country’s most common and costly diseases.”
“Jesus Christ,” President Allington says again, this time less loudly. “Who knew?”
“Yes,” Muffy says, trying to take back control of her meeting. “Well, sad as that is, it’s not what we’re here to talk about. This is about the piece that appeared on New York College Express this morning. As y’all know, we’ve gone to great strides to keep that information out of the press—”
“I know, Muffy,” Dr. Jessup says apologetically, “and I just want to assure you that a lot of the particulars in that piece were pure lies.”
“Right,” Lisa says. “That kid does not have a water bed. His people asked if he could have a water bed, but we said no, right, Heather? Heather?”
“True,” I say, startled. I’d been distracted by the finger sandwiches. “Water beds are restricted in residence halls.”
“Really?” Bill asks. “Why?”
“Because the weight from the water could cause the bed to fall through the floor, endangering the residents below.”
I can’t help noticing that Lisa, President Allington, and I are the only ones touching the finger sandwiches. I think about putting back the one I’ve just taken, but Lisa is right: they’re really good. Plus the one I’ve snagged is salmon. Everyone knows salmon is good for you. It’s filled with omega-3 fatty acids, which are excellent for brain health.
“The prince doesn’t have a Jacuzzi either,” I add quickly, just so people don’t think I’m not paying attention. “The plumbing in Fischer Hall is so old, there’s no way it would support a Jacuzzi. So both those things weren’t true. I don’t know about the wet bar or home theater.”
“He’s got both of those,” Special Agent Lancaster confirms.
“Hot damn,” Bill says. “That kid’s living the dream.”
“Okay,” Muffy says, sounding a little frustrated. “Those things aren’t really the issue here. The issue we’re concerned with is who gave the Express the information about the location of the prince’s security surveillance team. We have good reason to believe it was a member of your staff, Lisa.”
Lisa’s face goes whiter that Muffy’s skirt. “Who” is the only word that comes out of Lisa’s mouth. I get the feeling that she doesn’t risk saying more. Also that she’s probably regretting the cucumber sandwich.
“Well, that’s the dang problem,” Muffy says. “We just don’t know for sure. We think the Express knows, but of course they’re claiming freedom of the press and all that fiddle-faddle.”
I cannot believe that Muffy just called the First Amendment fiddle-faddle. Fiddle Faddle is a delicious candy-coated popcorn snack food. It has nothing to do with the Bill of Rights.
“But since this is a private institution and the Express is funded by donors,” Muffy continues in a more cheerful tone, “we had the school’s IT department pull all their communication records, didn’t we, Charlie?”
Charlie, a balding man in glasses who is sitting across the conference table, laughs diabolically. “We sure did!”
Dr. Jessup has begun to perspire visibly. “And what precisely did the IT department discover?”
Charlie opens an expensive leather briefcase that’s been sitting at his feet, then pulls out a file and reads from it.
“Someone with a New York College campus IP address has been sending e-mails to the New York College Express for some time. The techs haven’t been able to trace precisely who it is, but they have been able to pin down that it’s someone from the west side of Washington Square Park. There’s only one building owned by New York College on the west side of Washington Square, and that building,” Charlie concludes dramatically, “is Fischer Hall.”