In the Club (9 page)

7

Good Girl Gone Bad

J
essica Paderman rushed through the private side entrance of the St. Regis Hotel on East Fifty-fifth Street. Reserved for penthouse residents, the small double doors led directly to a bank of elevators far away from the busyness of the lobby. Her shoulders were slumped. Her eyes were cast downward. Anyone spotting her disheveled appearance would know there was something terribly wrong.

Ordinarily, Jessica liked passing by the front desk and waving to the lobby attendants. She liked eyeing the excited tourists too. In the past, she had even stopped to chat with many of them, happily offering pointers on what sites to visit. She generally instructed first-time visitors to avoid the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building, especially during the summer months. Why deal with stinky elevators and crowded observation decks? There were far better places to visit in Manhattan. Her favorite was the American Museum of Natural History on the Upper West Side. After that, she loved Carnegie Hall and Lincoln Center and the Central Park Zoo. That was Jessica: brainy, reserved, proper to a fault. And always eager to please.

But right now, she didn’t even want to
think
about anything remotely cerebral. Certainly not classical music. Not Beethoven or Tchaikovsky or Vivaldi. And definitely not Mozart.

The eerie notes of the Requiem were still playing in her mind. She heard them as she stepped into the elevator and jammed her fingers against the penthouse button. She saw that frightening image flash through her mind—the cage descending from the ceiling, the trail of blood dripping from one end. She squeezed her eyes against it and tried to steady her breaths.

Damien is dead.

A sob shot past her lips. When the elevator yawned open, she stepped out into the antechamber of her family’s penthouse, dug into her purse for her key, and jammed it into the lock. She threw open the door. All was blessedly quiet. Her mother was asleep upstairs, and her older brother wouldn’t be home till morning. As tears blurred her vision, Jessica bolted for her bedroom. She didn’t turn on the lights. She didn’t kick off her shoes or get undressed. She simply stumbled through the darkness and collapsed onto her bed.

The night, at last, was over. But as that realization dawned on her, so did everything else.

She felt a surge of guilt so powerful, her entire body trembled.

She was lying flat on her back. Thin streams of light cut through the window blinds and played across the ceiling. She let her eyes trace over them until they all converged into a single square. Almost like an exit sign. The irony of the image wasn’t lost on her. She wanted to find a way out of this whole unexpected mess, a doorway that would lead her into a safe world where there weren’t any dead bodies or ugly big shoes.

A world where there weren’t any secrets.

The minutes continued to tick by, and Jessica had to wrestle herself out of her stupor. She was sure she was experiencing a classic state of shock. She had seen it on TV—people witnessed horrible events and then went totally still, like mannequins in a store window. Their minds just…shut down. Sometimes they even picked up and ran away because they forgot who they were. That had happened countless times on
All My Children.
A case of temporary amnesia. It would certainly make life easier right now. If she could play the role of forgetful victim, maybe the cops wouldn’t come knocking on her door.

But as Jessica rose unsteadily to her feet, she knew it was an impossibility. She didn’t fit the psychological profile of someone who collapsed under pressure. Her whole life, she had been the strong, determined, intelligent girl who got things done. She was an outstanding student. She had won many academic awards. She didn’t abuse her connections or her clout as a celebutante like most of the kids at St. Cecilia’s Prep. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she had actually made a mistake. When she got that ugly B—in history last term, she worked insanely to memorize all the complex dates and historical facts and in a matter of weeks became the best student in the class. When she scored 2200 on her SATs, she reviewed her notes obsessively, not sleeping, walking into school every day exhausted and pale; the second time around, she upped her score to a near-perfect 2350. Last month, determined to outrank even the most seasoned players at the annual school chess tournament, she walked away with not one but two trophies. And she had accomplished all these feats while counseling her parents through a messy divorce and trying to steer her brother off his addiction to Wite-Out and superglue.

People had only one image of Jessica Paderman: straitlaced and capable. There wasn’t anything she couldn’t do. And when it came to the silly, immature antics that so often got teenagers into trouble—drinking, smoking, partying all night with the wrong crowd—Jessica was never mentioned. She didn’t partake in frivolous activities. She saw no point in acting seventeen just because she
was
seventeen. Her mind was focused on more serious ventures.

Or, at least, it always
had
been.

My fault,
she thought.
It’s all my fault.

She didn’t know what instinct had led her to join the Black Cry Affair. It had been an uncommonly rash decision, and now she realized that it was the worst decision of her life. If she’d stuck to her one-track ways, she would never have gotten so close to Damien Kittle. She would never have gone to the damn opening of Cleopatra either. And she obviously wouldn’t be in so much trouble right now.

Kicking off her shoes, Jessica cursed that day six months ago when she’d inadvertently caught a glimpse of Concetta Canoli’s hand and noticed the Roman coin stamp on her palm. Jessica’s curiosity had led to several questions. Concetta had been evasive but still a little too giddy, saying things like:
It’s nothing you’d be interested in, Jess. It’s not for girls like you. You don’t have the time for fun anyway.
Jessica, both hurt and offended, had challenged Concetta’s mysterious response.
I can have fun,
she said.
I’m not as nerdy as you think. Tell me, what is it?
Later that afternoon, Concetta invited Jessica into the Chamber, and Jessica had been blown away by the elaborate town house basement. Dozens of colored lightbulbs, chests filled with costumes and sparkling jewelry, long antique swords. Standing there in the thick of it, Jessica hadn’t been able to speak. She’d felt like she’d stepped into another world.

And then came Concetta’s scintillating question:
Who do you
really
want to be, Jessica? I mean, in your heart of hearts, what kind of a person do you wish you were?

Jessica’s initial response had been perfunctory and typical:
I like who I am. I’m happy being me.
But her eyes had belied the confidence in her voice. She shrank away from Concetta’s knowing stare, not wanting to admit the truth—that deep down inside, she had always fantasized about being a bad girl, about exploring the wild side of life. Let her hair down. Kiss whomever she wanted to kiss and laugh out loud without worrying about who might cast her a scornful glance. What would that be like?

In the end, Concetta had seen right through Jessica’s steel wall.
I know there’s a lot of you that you keep hidden, Jess,
she’d said.
You can’t always like being the one to do everything right. Even the smart girls need to cut loose every now and then. Do you want to be a member? Do you want to enter the universe of the Black Cry Affair?

Despite the goody-goody instinct telling her to walk away, Jessica smiled. She’d thought:
I can come here and live out my fantasies. I can be a Greek goddess or slutty princess. I won’t have to live by the rules once I enter the Chamber. No one except the other role-players will ever know about it.

And up until tonight, that had been absolutely true.

Being a member of the secret club had taken the edge off her otherwise rigid personality. It had even boosted her confidence a little. Prancing around in those elaborate costumes, forgetting herself for the space of a couple hours, just plain
cutting loose
from the tensions of everyday life…it had given her a sense of freedom unlike any she had ever known. That was why she had accepted the Hamilton triplets’ invitation to attend the opening of Cleopatra. That was why she’d worn a tight-fitting silk dress instead of a typical—and more conservative—floor-sweeping gown. Before the Black Cry Affair, Jessica would never have ventured to a nightclub, much less onto a dance floor. Hours spent bumping bodies with a bunch of drunken, sweaty classmates? Of course not. The old Jessica would have opted to spend the night doing homework or perfecting her college application essays.

The old Jessica wouldn’t have lost control.

Another sigh broke from her lips.
I’m an idiot,
she thought.
A moron and a jackass. Why did I let myself get involved with that stupid group? Now look at what’s happened.

She tore off her dress and kicked it across the floor. She stomped into the bathroom, flicked on the light, and stared at herself in the mirror. She looked worse than ever. Dark circles rimmed her eyes. Her cheeks were puffy and damp. Every last stitch of makeup had disappeared from her face. And yet, when she studied her reflection, she saw a faint glimmer of coolness in it, an edgy poise that hadn’t been there several months ago. Maybe what Damien had told her was true—that when you go a little crazy and have a little fun, everything else falls into place. That had certainly been her experience when in his company. She could see it now in the way she stood, in the way her shoulders fell back in a relaxed posture. She could feel it in her heart too.

But when the police and the reporters and the public all caught wind of the club, her own stellar reputation would be as cheap as last season’s wardrobe.
Jessica Paderman was involved in something so silly and immature? Good, smart Jessica? What on earth got into her?
She could already hear the slanderous comments, the disappointment, the shock. There had to be a way to stop it from happening.

Tonight, seeing Damien’s body on the floor of that cage, she had thought only of that. Of herself and the embarrassment she would face
after
the fact.

Soon enough, everyone would know. She wouldn’t be able to keep the secret.

She leaned over the sink and took several deep breaths.

I’m sorry, Damien. I’m so sorry. But I did what I had to do.

“Jessica?”

She jumped as her mother’s voice echoed from the dining room. She slammed the bathroom door closed. “Yeah, Mom?” she yelled out. “What is it?”

Abigail Paderman’s heavy footsteps clunked on the hardwood floors. “Oh, thank God you’re home! I’ve been calling your cell! Come out here!”

“I can’t, Mom,” Jessica said. “Give me a minute.”

“It’s all over the news!” Abigail shrieked. “The nightclub! Damien Kittle! Is it true? My God!”

Yes, it’s true.

“I’m okay. I’ll be right there,” Jessica called out. And then she swept her long red hair into a ponytail, turned on the faucet, and began washing the blood from beneath her fingernails.

8

Secretive Sisters

“D
etention for one month!”

Mother Margaret John’s outraged voice echoed through the principal’s office and out into the empty fifth-floor hall. At nearly three o’clock in the morning, she looked like a penguin that hadn’t slept in decades. Her habit was wrinkled and uneven. Her veil was crooked. She kept pacing the same length of floor while wringing her hands.

Madison, Park, and Lex were sitting side by side in front of the huge L-shaped oak desk. For the past five minutes, they had listened to Mother Margaret scream on and on about school policies and procedures, about what happened to people who committed felonies, and about a particularly nasty prison upstate where young rich girls wore polyester jumpsuits and were denied manicures. It was all nonsense, of course. Nothing more than the ramblings of a distraught woman. Mother Margaret wasn’t handling the news of Damien Kittle’s murder well.

Madison had expected this sort of hysterical display of emotion. In just a few short hours, Mother Margaret had been forced to accept a scandal that would rock the foundation upon which St. Cecilia’s Prep had been built. One student was dead. Another was in police custody. The media storm would descend on the uppity principal like an avalanche.

“Bad signs!” Mother Margaret shouted, pointing at the triplets. “These are bad signs about what will become of you girls! Breaking and entering! Sneaking around private property! What’s next? A gambling ring? A drug cartel in the gymnasium? I
won’t
have it!”

Madison sighed. “Reverend Mother, please calm down.”

“Don’t speak until I give you permission to speak, young lady!” Another wag of her long, bananalike finger.

“Madison is right, Mother.” Park straightened in her chair. Her voice was firm. “We get the picture, okay? What we did was wrong and we apologize. But we didn’t break into the school just for fun. We obviously have a very good reason for doing it.”

“I don’t care about your reasons!” Mother Margaret went on. “When school starts up again in September, you will each be spending
every day
in detention. September first to the thirtieth. Monday through Friday. Three o’clock to five-thirty.”

“Like hell!” Lex shot back.

In a far corner of the office, standing beside a bookshelf, Sister Brittany gasped.

Mother Margaret’s jaw dropped.
“What did you just say?”

“There’s no
way
we’re spending the whole month in detention,” Lex told her. “And if you even
try
to pull that punishment off, there’ll be
huge
consequences.”

“There really will be,” Madison agreed quietly.

“Huge,” Park echoed. “Like, as huge as Bloomingdale’s and Saks put together.”

Mother Margaret, her eyes softening slightly, pulled out her chair and sat down slowly. “What are you girls trying to say? And why do I feel as though I’m being threatened?”

“You’re not being threatened,” Park said offhandedly. “You’re just being…informed.”

“Informed of what?” Sister Brittany asked, stepping forward.

“Well, July is usually when our dad makes his annual donation to the Order of Our Lady of the Avenue recreation fund.” Madison crossed her legs and leaned back in the chair, assuming a relaxed position. “If he’s upset about any kind of cruel and unusual punishment being inflicted on us, there’s no telling what he might do.”

“And let’s not forget,” Lex jumped in, “that the Hamilton donation is always the biggest, Reverend Mother. Three commas in that check. Count ’em. One. Two. Three.”

“So much money, in fact, that the convent usually finds itself flush with more cash than it knows what to do with.” Park frowned. “If I’m not mistaken, Mother, last year you and the other sisters took a two-week vacation to Biarritz right after our dad dropped his annual check.”

“That’s
right,
” Lex said. “You haven’t forgotten, have you, Mother? Last year I bumped into you in Barneys. You were buying a vat of Kiehl’s moisturizer. And you had a slammin’ tan.”

“Enough.” Mother Margaret held up her hands, but she did it calmly. The fury had left her face. “There won’t be any detention. But you girls
will
tell me and Sister Brittany everything you know about what happened tonight.” She lowered her eyes. Tears spilled onto her cheeks. “Because I still can’t believe it.”

Thankfully, Madison, Park, and Lex hadn’t had the awful task of breaking the news to Mother Margaret and Sister Brittany. All the nuns had been awakened long before the news aired on television. A phone call from the British embassy had informed them of Damien Kittle’s murder.

Park didn’t want to revisit those frightening moments again, so she doled out a brief synopsis of what had happened inside Cleopatra, right down to Concetta Canoli’s bare foot and the horrid pink stiletto that should have been on it.

“You’ve told me what I already know,” Mother Margaret said. “But what I want are the details—the ones you girls aren’t sharing with anybody. And don’t play foolish. I know how you triplets operate.”

“All one brain,” Sister Brittany commented, smoothing her hands down the length of her habit. “But really, girls, you
should
tell us everything you know.”

Park stared at Lex. Lex stared at Madison. Then they all stared at one another. Although no one would have known it, they were, in fact, beginning a conversation. Albeit a strange and silent one.

Park asked the first question. She did this by swinging the strap of her purse over her left shoulder as she stared intently at Madison and Lex. The slight gesture, in Hamilton triplet code, meant:
Should we tell them?

Lex answered immediately. She opened the magic purse, pulled out a lip gloss, and quickly ran it over her lips. This was a clear and adamant
no.

Just as swiftly, Madison reached for the pearls around her neck and gave them a hard shake.
Yes.

Lex didn’t appreciate that at all. She pursed her lips, threw her head back, and shook out her long locks. She had just asked another question:
Why should we?

Park lifted her right arm, rattling the bracelets on her wrist. This meant
I think we have to
or
It’s the right thing to do.

Lex went into the magic purse and pulled from it a small custom-mixed bottle of perfume. Then she carefully and very clearly spritzed some onto the left side of her neck. Translation:
You’re both wrong. It’s a mistake.

Using her right hand, Madison slipped several strands of hair behind her ears.
I say we do it.

Park stretched out her left leg and extended her foot, as if modeling her shoe.
Whatever is fine with me.

Growing more agitated, Lex pulled at the spaghetti strap on her right shoulder.
Let’s keep our mouths shut.

“Oh, my!” Sister Brittany said, watching the odd exchange, her head bouncing from Madison to Park to Lex and back again. “It’s some sort of code.”

“Yes, I’ve seen them do it before.” Mother Margaret sighed. “To the ordinary observer it looks like an innocent primping session. All we can do is wait until the conversation is over.”

In response to Lex’s last gesture, Madison yanked a tube of lipstick from her purse and ran it over her lips in counterclockwise motion.
Don’t argue with me.

Lex dabbed moisturizer onto the back side of her right hand and rubbed it in.
I know what I’m saying.

Madison flicked her left earring.
I’m warning you…

Park lifted her hands up and out, then splayed her fingers apart as if studying her nails.
Both of you, stop it. I’m getting a headache.

Lex crossed her right leg over her left.
It’s not my fault. I’m not the bonehead.

Park rattled the bracelets on her left wrist.
That’s not nice.

Lex yanked on a bra strap.
I’m tired of being nice.

Madison scowled. It was time to end the conversation. She reached back into her purse, pulled out her sunglasses, and slipped them on. She looked to the left. She looked to the right. Then she removed the shades and pushed them onto the top of her head.
What I say goes. Don’t challenge me.

It was the final, decisive gesture. As the eldest and firstborn, Madison had the power to overrule her sisters, and she had just used it.

Lex sighed, disappointed and defeated.

Madison said, “Okay, Mother, we’ll tell you everything we know.”

“But only on one condition,” Park said coolly.

Mother Margaret raised her eyebrows. “And what would that be?”

“That you don’t tell our dad we broke into the school,” Lex said. “Will you accept the deal?”

Mother Margaret leaned back in her swivel chair. “I’ll accept it fifty percent.”

“Impossible.” Park shook her head. “That doesn’t give us any return on our investment. And, mind you, we’re giving you this deal interest-free.”

“Sixty percent,” Mother Margaret offered.

“In this market?” Lex’s voice shot up. “We could easily take our information elsewhere, Mother. What we know is worth a lot.”

Madison nodded. “We really would need you to accept our terms one hundred percent, Mother. I think we’re being very nice here. We’re basically giving you a chance to buy a lot of stock before the shares rise and split.”

Mother Margaret remained silent for several long moments. She looked at Sister Brittany, then nodded. “Okay. Deal.” She raised the pinky finger of her right hand and traced a big letter
C
in the air; short for
Cecilia,
it was the sign of an oath taken in the strictest confidence. All St. Cecilia’s Prep students made promises this way.

“Deal,” Madison, Park, and Lex replied in unison. In synchronization, they repeated the gesture, each tracing a letter
C
in the air.

“Now tell us what you know,” Sister Brittany said.

Madison cleared her throat. “It looks like the pink stiletto really is the murder weapon. We inspected Damien’s body before the police arrived, and Lex deduced that the wound was consistent with the size of the shoe’s steel tip.”

“We also noticed some kind of glitter around the wound,” Park said. “Glitter is used in a number of hair gels and sprays, but none of us has ever known Damien to use anything with it.”

“So you think the glitter could have been left there by the killer,” Sister Brittany stated.

Park nodded. “Probably. Especially if the killer sprayed or styled his or her hair and didn’t wash his or her hands.”

“Does Concetta use this glittery product?” Mother Margaret asked.

“Not that I’ve ever noticed,” Park replied.

“Me neither,” Park said.

Lex shook her head. “Same here.”

Park shifted in her chair, leaning her tired body against the armrest. “So the way it looks now, Damien died as a result of blunt impact trauma. The stiletto slammed into his skull at a totally twisted speed, and with lots of force. And Concetta’s really the only logical suspect.”

Mother Margaret sighed and ran a hand over her face.

Sister Brittany said, “What about other evidence? Did you girls notice anything else in or around the cage?”

“We didn’t have time to collect trace evidence, Sister,” Park said. “If there was anything suspicious in the cage, the forensic techs hopefully found it.”

“One of my students is dead, and another is being charged with his murder.” Mother Margaret wiped more tears from her eyes. “Can it get any worse?”

“We also found a strange…symbol on Damien’s palm,” Madison said. “It’s a stamp of a Roman coin—a male head wearing a Corinthian helmet. And that pretty much leads us to why we broke in here.”

Both Mother Margaret and Sister Brittany leaned closer to them.

“We wanted to break into Concetta’s locker and see what we could find,” Lex explained. “And we found a lot. We matched the symbol on Damien’s palm to something in Concetta’s locker. We actually found a whole lot in Concetta’s locker.”

Mother Margaret swiveled her chair to the left and stared out the dark window. “The Black Cry Affair,” she said. “Right?”

Madison and Park gasped.

Lex flung her hand in the air in a gesture of disbelief. “Excuse me? You
know
about this secret club, Mother? Hello?”

“I’ve known about it for some time,” Mother Margaret said gravely.

“How?” Lex waved her hand again.

“I once overheard Concetta talking about it,” Mother Margaret explained. “It was a few months ago, and Concetta was in the first-floor parlor waiting for her mother to come pick her up. I heard Concetta talking on her cell phone. She was trying to be as quiet as possible, but I was walking by and couldn’t help overhearing her. She must’ve been chatting with one of the other members of the club, because she was mentioning some of their…practices.”

“So you were eavesdropping,” Lex said flatly.

“I was, yes. Concetta never saw me. But I heard her talk about a few things, mainly about how they apparently play different roles.” Mother Margaret shot a glance at Sister Brittany. “It seemed very…innocent. But maybe it’s not.”

“Is that all you heard?” Park asked. “Did you hear her mention any names?”

“Yes. I had already assumed immediately that Emmett McQueen was a member of the club,” Mother Margaret said. “But I was shocked to learn that Damien was a part of it. And Julian Simmons.”

“
And
Jessica Paderman,” Sister Brittany blurted out.

“Jessica Paderman!” Mother Margaret’s voice shot up like a rocket. “That can’t be!”

“It is,” Park informed her. “We just saw Jessica’s name in the diary Concetta keeps about the club.”

Madison shot Sister Brittany a sharp stare. “How did
you
know that?” she asked, her tone blatantly suspicious.

“It was an assumption,” Sister Brittany replied quickly. “I’ve seen Jessica and Concetta together a lot. I’ve even tried to talk to Jessica, to get her to open up to me the way so many of the other girls do, but she never has.”

Mother Margaret shook her head. “I really hadn’t given that club much thought until a few weeks after I overheard Concetta’s conversation.”