Big Boned (15 page)

“There she is,” Chief O’Malley—at least that’s what the nameplate on his desk reads. Plus I recognize his voice—cries happily. “Heather Wells herself! I’d recognize that hair anywhere. But you’ve put on a few, hey, honey? Well, who among us hasn’t?”

“HEATHER!”

Gavin leaps from the single cot in his cell and, chicken wings flying everywhere, wraps his fingers around the bars.

“Hey, there,” Chief O’Malley calls in disapproval. “Don’t you be getting that special sauce all over everything. I just had the rookie clean in there yesterday.”

“
Damn
,” I hear Cooper say, beneath his breath, as he takes in the sight of Gavin behind bars. But this time he’s swearing for yet another reason that has nothing to do with me. “I forgot my camera.”

But Gavin only has eyes for me.

Only not, it turns out, because of his once unrequited crush on me. Because he has something he needs to tell me.

“Heather,” he cries excitedly. “I’m so glad you’re here. Listen, Jamie says she’s sure it wasn’t Sebastian who shot Dr. Veatch. She had an appointment with him yesterday because he was going to help her lodge a formal complaint about a New York College staff member who made unwanted sexual advances toward her. That’s why she got scared and ran home—she thinks it’s her fault he got shot. She thinks it was that person who shot him, before he could lodge the complaint—and that she’s next.”

I feel my heart speed up. “Who was it?” I cry. “Simon Hague?” Oh, please, please let it be Simon Hague. Could anything be sweeter?

“No,” Gavin says. “Some guy the college just hired. Some guy named Reverend Mark.”

I’ve climbed the flagstone steps to the front door—leaded glass. Impressive—and rung the bell. It does one of those
bing-bong-bing-bong, bing-bong-bing-bong
numbers, and then an older-looking blond woman in a lime green sweater and riding jodhpurs—I am not even kidding—with a pink scarf tied all jauntily around her neck answers the door.

“Yes?” she asks, not unpleasantly.

“Hi,” I say. “I’m Heather Wells, the assistant director of Fischer Hall at New York College. Are you Jamie Price’s mother?”

The woman looks a little flustered. “Why, yes…I thought you looked familiar. I think we met when Jamie checked in—”

She slips her right hand into the one I’ve held out almost automatically. “Oh, yes. Deborah Price. Hello.”

I take her hand in mine and shake it. “Hi. Sorry to bother you at home. It’s just that we’ve noticed Jamie hasn’t been around lately, and her roommate said she’d come home, so I thought I’d just come up to check and make sure everything is all right. And if she needs a ride back…well, I’m here…”

“Oh.” Mrs. Price looks even more flustered, but still pleasant. She’s the type that seems to have been trained to be this way—you know, pleasant, no matter what. College administrator appearing out of nowhere on her front steps, naked guy in her daughter’s bed. Whatever. Keep smiling. Beneath the jaunty pink scarf is a pearl necklace. They go nicely with her perfectly polished riding boots, which don’t have a scuff on them. Have they ever even seen a stable floor? “Oh my, well! I had no idea the college offered this kind of door-to-door service!”

“Well, we aim to please,” I say modestly. “Is Jamie here? Can I have a word with her?”

“Oh, well,” Mrs. Price says. “Yes, of course. Come in, won’t you? You said you drove?” I notice her blue-eyed gaze—no wrinkles around her eyes. Botox? Plastic surgery? Or simply good genes?—dart past me, toward the circular driveway. “I don’t see your car.”

“I parked downtown,” I explain. “It’s such a pretty day, I thought I’d walk.”

This isn’t even a lie. Exactly. The Prices don’t live that far, it turns out, from the Rock Ridge Police Department. Chief O’Malley was more than happy to direct me to their house while Cooper was sitting in the car on his cell phone, grappling with one of the many bail bondsmen he happens to know (because, after the initial hilarity rubbed off, in the end, even he couldn’t leave Gavin sitting in jail for another night).

And while I knew Cooper wasn’t likely to approve of my trudging up the long driveway to the big stone house on the hill—with the green and white stables to one side, and the pond filled with giant goldfish (yes, I checked), and the matching Jaguars in the four-car garage to the other—and I’d no doubt hear about it the whole way home, I figured it would be worth it. I
had
to know what the deal was with Reverend Mark.

Because I didn’t—not for a New York minute—believe he’d shot Owen Veatch.

But I was dying to know why Jamie thought he had.

“I won’t lie to you, Ms. Wells,” Mrs. Price says, as we head to the bottom of a long, curling staircase. The house, though furnished with suits of armor and heavy antique furniture to give the impression of being old, is actually new construction, with the ubiquitous “great room” common to the McMansions of the day; the front entrance actually leads into the dining room, living room, TV room, kitchen, and what appears to be a billiard/library. Out back, I can see a gigantic black granite pool, complete with hot tub and, further on, tennis courts. There is no sign of Mr. Price. I can only assume he’s at work, paying for all of this.

“I’m actually relieved to see you,” Mrs. Price goes on. “The past twenty-four hours, since Jamie showed up here, haven’t been the greatest.”

“Really?” I say, pretending not to have the slightest idea what she’s talking about. “Why?”

“Jamie and her father haven’t always gotten along—well, they’re so much alike, you see, and she’s always been Daddy’s little girl, and last night…this
boy
from her school showed up—
here
, of all places—”

I pretend to look shocked. “You don’t say.”

Mrs. Price shakes her head in wonder. Clearly, the idea of any boy finding her daughter appealing is still a new one on her. “We found him in her
bed
! Well, of course, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t been invited, if you know what I mean. I mean, he hadn’t FORCED himself on her. But she’d let him in behind our backs. Roy and I had no idea. She isn’t allowed to entertain boys in her room. I know she’s over eighteen, and a legal adult, but she’s still living under our roof, and while we’re paying for her education, we expect her to live by our rules. We’re Presbyterian. You have to have principles.”

“Of course,” I say primly.

“Long story short, Roy completely overreacted,” Mrs. Price informs me. “He called the police! Now the poor boy is in jail. And Jamie isn’t speaking to either of us.”

“Oh no,” I say, trying to look concerned.

“Exactly,” Mrs. Price says. “You know, Jamie and I have never had a typical mother-daughter relationship. Now, her older sister and I—well, we’re much more alike. But Jamie was always a tomboy, and so…I don’t know. Large. You know. She’s like you…big boned. We never had very much
in common, whereas her sister and I are the same size—an eight. We share everything. So I can’t get a word out of her this morning. Maybe you can?”

I shrug. “Gosh,” I say. “I don’t know. I can try, I guess.”

“Would you?” Mrs. Price cocks her head. “Because, you know, I have to leave for my dressage lesson.”

“Your what?”

“Dressage,” Mrs. Price says again, as if by repeating it, I’ll get it. “Jamie!” Mrs. Price calls up the staircase. “Would you like some coffee, Ms. Wells?”

“I’d love some,” I say.

“Fine. It’s in the pot in the kitchen. Help yourself. There are mugs in the rack. JAMIE!”

“God, what, Mom?” Jamie appears at the top of the stairs, dressed in a pair of terry-cloth shorts and a pink T-shirt, her long blond hair tumbling around her wide shoulders. She appears to have just woken up. Would that I ever looked as good when just roused from slumber.

When her gaze falls on me, her eyes widen.

“You!” Jamie cries. But she doesn’t look inclined to run. She seems more curious than frightened.

“Jamie, Ms. Wells is here from your school,” Jamie’s mom says. “I want you to talk to her. She says she’ll give you a ride back if you want. And it might be better if you just went with her. You know how angry Daddy is. It might be just as well if you weren’t here tonight when he gets home from work. Let things blow over.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jamie declares, her chin sliding out stubbornly, “until he drops all the charges against Gavin!”

I can’t help noticing that at home, Jamie doesn’t do that thing where she ends all her sentences with an interrogative inflection. At all.

“Well, that isn’t going to happen in this lifetime, honey,” Mrs. Price says. “I don’t have time for this now. I have to go to dressage. I told Ms. Wells to help herself to coffee. Stay away from that cherry crumble I made. It’s for my Home and Garden Association meeting tonight. Bye, now.”

With that, Mrs. Price darts from the “great room.” A few seconds later, one of the Jaguars parked in front of the garage roars to life, and Mrs. Price peels out and drives away.

“Wow,” I say, mostly to break the silence that follows. “She must really like dressage. Whatever that is.”

“She doesn’t give a shit about dressage,” Jamie informs me disgustedly. “She’s screwing her instructor. Because, you know, she has
principles
.”

“Oh.” I watch as Jamie comes all the way down the stairs, passes me, heads into the kitchen, takes one of the mugs off the antique-looking rack by the coffeemaker, and pours herself a cup. “I’ll take one of those, too,” I say.

“Help yourself,” Jamie, gracious as her mother, says. She goes to the refrigerator, opens it, and pulls out a pint of half-and-half, sloshing a generous portion into her mug. Then, noticing my expression, she sloshes some into the mug I’ve taken down, as well, before returning the pint to the fridge.

“So,” I say, as I pour coffee into my mug. “You don’t need to worry about Gavin. We’re posting his bail.”

Jamie throws me a startled look. “You
are
?”

I nod. The coffee is delicious. But it would be better with sugar. I look around for some. “He’ll be out in an hour or so.”

“Oh my God.” Jamie pulls a chair from the purposefully old-looking kitchen table and sinks down into it like her legs couldn’t support her anymore, or something. Then she buries her face in her hands. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Don’t mention it,” I say. I find the sugar and ladle a spoonful into my cup. Then, after a moment’s thought, another. Ah. Perfect. Well, almost. Whipped cream would make it perfect. But beggars can’t be choosers. “But I want something in return.”

“Anything,” Jamie says, looking up. I’m surprised to see that her makeup-free face is wet with tears. “I’m serious. I’ve been freaking out all morning. I didn’t know where I was going to get that kind of money to bail him out. I’ll do anything. Just…thank you.”

“Seriously,” I say, pulling out one of the chairs near hers. I can’t help noticing that Mrs. Price has set the cherry crumble down in the middle of the table to cool. It is in a clear glass deep dish, and the sugary crust over the top of the cherry filling is caramelized. Seriously, what kind of demon mom would leave something like that just sitting out, with no protective covering? No wonder Jamie seems to hate her so much. I know I would. “Like I said, don’t mention it. But what’s this thing Gavin told me about you and the Reverend Mark?”

Jamie’s expression falls.

“Oh,” she says gloomily. “He wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about that.”

“Jamie,” I say. “A man is dead. And you seem to think what happened to you might have something to do with it. You can’t tell me not to tell the police about it. You know
they arrested someone for Dr. Veatch’s murder? Someone who may not have done it? At least, if what you’re saying is true.”

Jamie is chewing her bottom lip. I can’t help noticing she’s eyeing the cherry crumble. I’m glad I’ve kept my spoon from the sugar bowl. You know, just in case I need it.

“My parents wanted to make sure I kept up with the whole principle thing,” Jamie says, sipping her coffee, “when I went away to college. And I did. I joined the campus youth group. I like to sing. I don’t want to do it professionally, or anything, like you. I want to be an accountant. I just like to sing for fun. So I joined the youth group choir. I liked it. At least…I used to. Until Reverend Mark showed up.”

To my complete and utter joy, she reaches for the cherry crumble, drags it toward her, and plunges her own spoon into it, cracking the caramelized crust over the top, and causing the thick cherry goo inside to cascade over the edge like lava. Popping the steaming spoonful into her mouth, she shoves the dish toward me. I follow her example.

Hello. Heaven in my mouth. Mrs. Price may be a bitch. But she’s an angel in the kitchen.

“What’d he do to you?” I ask with my mouth full. The crumble is hella hot, as Gavin would say.

“Not just me,” Jamie points out, as I push the crumble back at her. “
All
the girls. And he doesn’t do anything obvious. Like, he’s not sticking his tongue down our throats or anything. But he brushes up against us every chance he gets when we’re setting up the risers, or whatever, then pretends like it was an accident, and apologizes.” She loads up her spoon, then pushes the dish back to me. “Touches our boobs,
or our butts. It’s gross. And I know it’s not an accident. And eventually—not with me, because I’d haul off and break his nose, but with some girl who isn’t as big as me, and is afraid of him, or whatever—it’s going to go too far. And I want to stop it before it gets to that point. I want to stop it
now
.”

I remember how Reverend Mark had blushed when Muffy Fowler had thrust her breast into his hand during our build-a-house-out-of-newspaper game. But that had been no accident…and on
her
initiative, not his. She’d been a willing, not unwilling, participant.

I load up my own spoon. Now that the crumble’s crust has been broken, it’s cooling fast. But still just as delicious.

“So you were going to report it to Dr. Veatch?” I ask.

“I
did
report it,” Jamie says. “I mean, verbally, last week. I was supposed to have a follow-up meeting with him yesterday to fill out the formal written complaint that would go to Reverend Mark’s supervisor, and the board of trustees. Only—”

“Someone shot him,” I say.

“Exactly.”

“But what makes you think it was Reverend Mark that did the shooting? How did he even know you were meeting with Dr. Veatch?”

Jamie winces. And not because she’s accidentally bitten down on a cherry pit.

“I made the mistake of trying to get some of the other girls in the choir to go with me to report him. I mean, he was doing it to
all
of us. I figured if we all went together, we’d have a stronger case. You know how hard it is to prove these kinds of things. The problem was, the other girls, they—”

“Some of them liked what he was doing?” I volunteer, when she hesitates.

“Exactly,” Jamie says. “Or they didn’t think he was doing anything wrong, or believe it really was on purpose, and said that I was making a mountain out of a molehill.” Jamie takes an even bigger than normal heap of crumble, and stuffs it into her mouth. “Who knows? Maybe I was.”

“Jamie,” I say. “You weren’t. If it made you uncomfortable, you were right to say something to someone.”

“Maybe,” Jamie says, swallowing. “I don’t know. Anyway. One of the girls got so mad when she found out what I was doing, she warned Reverend Mark about it.”

“God,” I say. I’d have killed that girl. I admire Jamie for her restraint in not doing so.

“I know. He took me aside after our rehearsal the night before last and tried to talk to me about it. He made a joke out of it, saying he’s just a big friendly guy and doesn’t always know what he’s doing with his hands. It was so…gross.”