Meg Cabot - Big Boned

“Good, good,” Larry booms, evidently mishearing me. “Been a long time since we last spoke, huh? God, last time I saw you, I think you still had on those see-through spangly pants you wore to the MTV music video awards. You know, the ones you got in so much trouble later with the FCC for ripping off? Which I never understood, because those bikini briefs you had on underneath covered everything. Well, almost. Ah, good times. Anyway, so your dad and I were just sitting here talking about you—I bet your ears were burning—and we were wondering if you’d given any more thought to our proposal.”

“Yeah,” I say. “You know, like I was saying, this really isn’t the best—”

“Because the clock is ticking, sweetheart. We’ve already rented the studio, and if we’re gonna get started, we need to get in there and start banging some stuff out. Not to put any pressure on you. But then, if I remember correctly, you always did your best work under pressure—”

We’re cruising past the low stone walls surrounding rolling green horse pastures and thick woods—hiding multimillion-dollar homes (with sophisticated security systems) that indicate we’re entering the exclusive bedroom community of Rock Ridge. Cooper’s expression, when I glance at it, is as closed as the spiked gates at the end of the long, curving driveways we’re passing.

“Larry, I’m going to have to call you back,” I say. “I’m right in the middle of something at the moment, something work-related.”

“I understand,” Larry says. “I understand. Your father told me how important that little job of yours is to you. I’ve just got four words to say to you, sweetheart. Percentage of the gross. That’s all. Just think about it. Call me. Bye.”

“Bye,” I say. And hang up.

“So,” Cooper says, as we pull into the picturesque village of Rock Ridge proper, all cobblestones and thatched roofs (and security cameras perched on top of the replica antique street lamps, to record the moves of every citizen and visitor to the downtown area). “Tell me.”

“Believe me,” I say. “You don’t want to know. I wish I didn’t even know.”

“Oh,” Cooper says. “I think I do want to know. Do I need to start looking for a new house-mate… and a new bookkeeper?”

I swallow. “I… I don’t know. When I do, you’ll be the first to know. I swear.”

Cooper doesn’t say anything for a minute. Then, to my surprise, he says, “Damn!”

Only not, I realize, in response to what I’ve just told him, but because he’s just driven right past the police station, and has to turn around.

When we finally return to the police station, we’re a little astonished to note it’s one of the few places not marked by a Ye Olde sign. We park in one of the many empty spaces in front—we are, as far as I can tell, the only visitors to the Rock Ridge Police Station on this spring day… a fact that’s confirmed when we step inside and find the place completely deserted except for a corpulent man in a dark blue police uniform, seated at a desk and eating chicken wings. Not far behind him, in the building’s only barred—and scrupulously clean—jail cell, sits Gavin McGoren, his goatee stained orange as he, too, gnaws on chicken wings.

“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 thosebing-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. Ihad 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.”