And I realize I’m feeling something else, a third thing. Envy.
I want that. What they have.
I thought I had it. Sort of. But fortunately, I realized in time that I didn’t. Not that I was in any real danger of doing anything foolish about it, like getting married, or hiking the Appalachian Trail for the summer.
Still. I’d like what the two of them have. Someday.
I settle for saying, gruffly, “Well, remember, you two—practice safe sex. And Sarah, you’re still on duty. If the RA calls, you have to respond, no matter what.”
Sarah’s blush deepens. “Heather,” she says to the floor. “Of course.”
A resident, hearing my name, inhales deeply, and rushes over.
“Oh my God, are you Heather Wells?” she cries.
I look heavenward for strength. “Yes. Why?”
“Oh my God, I know the hall office is closed, but my cousin showed up from out of nowhere, I swear, and I need a guest pass, and if you could make an exception, just this once, and sign one for me, I would be forever in your debt—”
I point at Sarah. “She’s the girl you want to see. I’m out of here.”
And I make my way out of the lobby and back out into the fresh evening air.
Standing in the blue light cast from the building’s security lamp, I look out across the park, trying to ignore the clusters of smokers whose voices drop to a whisper when they see me, recognizing me as a “narc.” The chanting over by the arch has changed to “Union contract now! Disrespect us never!” It’s a mouthful, but they seem to be enjoying themselves.
It’s a beautiful evening—too beautiful to turn in so early. On the other hand, now that my dad’s moved out, I have a dog to walk… not to mention a semi-concussed private detective to look after.
I wonder what I’d do if I were a normal single girl in the city—like Muffy. Go out for cocktails, no doubt, with my girlfriends. Of course, I don’t have any girlfriends. Well, that’s not true. But my single girlfriend is busy stalking one of our coworkers and his kids, and my married girlfriend is too hormonal to be any fun.
I can’t help looking at that Ryder truck. It’s still sitting down the street.
What’s going to happen to Muffy, I can’t help wondering, after the strike is over? I mean, it’s going to have to end eventually. The president isn’t going to settle for having a giant inflatable rat sitting outside his office for long. She won’t lose her job, of course, which should be a relief to her—she won’t have to give up her apartment, which she sold all that wedding china for. But what will she do all day?
Well, I guess she can start training for that hike with Tad. They do make a cute couple. It’s true they have even less in common than he and I do. I can’t imagine Muffy on the Appalachian Trail. How is she going to make her hair all big like that without a blow dryer? And I can’t see Tad ever developing an interest in china patterns.
But people can change.
Someone always benefits from murder.That’s what Cooper said, while standing not very far from where I’m standing now.Always.
And, just like that, it hits me. I suppose it was there all along, just simmering on the edge of my subconsciousness, like how I really felt about Tad all along. But I kept pushing it away, for whatever reason… probably because it just wasn’t convenient for me to deal with.
This time, however, I let it in.
And it stays.
And I know I have to deal with it.
Now.
I turn on my heel.
Only instead of turning left, toward Waverly and home, I turn right, toward Owen’s building, and that Ryder truck. I keep walking, straight into the building where Pam is staying. I walk right up to the doorman, and ask him to buzz Owen’s apartment.
“Whom may I say is calling?” he asks. He’s one of Rosetti’s men, trying hard to make a good impression—not easy, with a toothpick in his mouth.
“Tell her it’s Heather,” I say.
“Sure,” he says. A second later, when Pam picks up the intercom phone, he does just that. Pam, sounding surprised, tells him to let me up.
I don’t know why I do what I do next. All I know is that I’ve begun to shake. Not with fear.
With anger.
All I can think about is that stupid rag doll sweatshirt she’d been wearing… the one with the black rag doll and the white rag doll holding hands.
It’s weird what you think about when your boss’s life is flashing before your eyes.
I march toward the elevator. Owen’s building—which he happened to share with President Allington and his wife—is nothing like Fischer Hall. It’s elegant, all marble and brass and quiet—absolutely quiet—this time of the evening. There is no one else in the elevator with me. I can’t even hear the GSC rally in the car. My ride to the sixth floor, where Owen lived, is silent until the bell rings—ding! — to indicate our arrival—and the doors slide back.
Then I step out into the hallway and go to apartment 6–J. Owen’s apartment.
Pam has the door open before I even knock.
“Heather!” she says, with a smile. She’s changed out of the black suit she’d been wearing at the memorial service. And, yes, she’s back in the rag doll sweatshirt. Like some sweatshirt showing interracial rag dolls holding hands is supposed to bring harmony to the universe.
“What a surprise!” she cries. “I wasn’t expecting you. Did you stop by to check up on me? I suppose because of that fracas at the memorial service. Wasn’t that horrible? I couldn’t believe that happened. Please, won’t you come in?”
I follow her inside the apartment. Just as I had suspected, it’s gone. All of it. The china, I mean. Every last speck of the blue and white patterned china Owen had had on display in the hutch in the dining room is missing.
So is the hutch it was sitting on.
“This is just so sweet of you,” Pam goes on. “Owen always did say the nicest things about you—how thoughtful and kind you were to the students. I see it extends beyond your professional life, as well. But, please, you needn’t worry about me. I’m fine. Really. Would you like a cup of coffee? Or herbal tea? It’s no trouble. I was just about to make some for myself.”
I turn to face her. I see that Garfield is curled up on the couch, sleeping. Pam had clearly been sitting next to him. The television is on, and the remote lays next to the cat. She’d been watching Entertainment Tonight.
“Where is it?” I ask her. My voice is hoarse. I have no idea why.
She looks at me blankly. “Where is what, dear?”
“You know what,” I say. “Is it in that truck downstairs?”
She still looks blank—but a tinge of color appears in each of her cheeks. “I… I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Heather.”
“The china,” I say. “The wedding china Owen got in the divorce settlement. The wedding china you killed him for. Where is it?”
21
Friday’s guy’s not gonna call
Saturday’s guy’s not into girls at all
But Sunday’s guy is the worst of all
He’s glued to the set and that dang football
“Guys of the Week”
Written by Heather Wells
“Just give me the keys,” I say, holding out my hand.
For a minute Pam just looks at me with a very surprised expression on her face. Then she throws back her head and laughs.
“Oh… you!” she says, reaching out to give me a little push. “Owen always said you were a kidder. In fact, he said you spent so much time kidding around, sometimes he worried about you getting the job done.”
Now that—as opposed to the typing thing—I believe Owen actually said.
“I’m not kidding,” I say. “And you know it. Give me the keys, Pam. I’m not letting you get away with this. And you know the cops aren’t going to, either. You can’t just pack up a murder victim’s stuff and drive away with it. I’m sure there’s some kind of protocol that has to be followed—”