The Bride Wore Size 12 (26 page)

31

I
n my country,” Rashid explains, “for me to marry a woman who is not a member of the royal family is a sin punishable by death. Stoning for her. Beheading for me.”

“Oh,” I say. Good Lord. I’ve never thought of my future in-laws as particularly warm, but at least they don’t want to execute me. “Well, as long as you both die, and they keep it fair between the sexes.”

I’m being flippant, but I don’t really feel that way. I’m horrified . . . horrified for them, and horrified at myself. My butt may more than fill Lisa’s chair, but I don’t know what I’m doing in it. I’m completely out of my depth. I’m the assistant resident director of Fischer Hall! I’m used to dealing with complaints about hair-clogged shower drains, roommates who won’t stop eating one another’s cereal, and making sure the payroll gets done.

I don’t have the slightest idea how I’m supposed to deal with a resident who is going to be executed if his countrymen find out he’s married outside the royal family.

Rashid has smiled weakly at my pitiful joke.

“We met at the Summer Olympics,” he says, tightening his arm around Ameera. “I had no idea women like her even existed—or that if they did, one of them would ever be interested in an idiot like me.”

“Don’t,” Ameera says, reaching up to stroke his face. She still looks frightened, but not as much now that Rashid is beside her. “Don’t speak about yourself that way. You’re not an idiot.”

“I am,” the prince informs me. “She’s the smart one. Perfect test scores! She’s here on a full scholarship, can you believe it? But for some reason she likes me.”

“Everyone likes you,” Ameera says warmly.

“Not my father,” Rashid says, with a scowl. “He thinks I’m a wastrel because I’m not interested in his missiles and defense systems. But when I told him I wanted to give up tennis and go to college in the States, he was overjoyed. He moved heaven and earth to get me into this school. The only thing I didn’t tell him was why it was so important that I go to New York College, of all places—that I was following my strong, beautiful, intelligent wife there. She wants to be a pediatrician—”

Ameera laid a hand on his chest and said, blushing, “Darling, stop it.”

“I won’t. I wish I could tell everyone in the world about how wonderful you are. But for now I’ll have to settle for Miss Wells.”

“So all the partying?” I ask. “The Shiraz thing? It’s an act to cover up the truth?”

“Of course.” Rashid regards me as if I really am the dumb blonde I’m occasionally told I look like. “Ameera and I don’t even drink. Our religion forbids it. But I can’t let anyone find out the truth, or it could endanger our lives.”

“But you’re not even a resident of Qalif,” I say to Ameera. “Aren’t you British?”

She nods.

“No one can drag a British citizen to a foreign country and stone her, no matter who she’s married to. Not without facing some really severe consequences. And you.” I look at Rashid. “There’s no way a father would have his own son beheaded.”

Rashid looks at me sadly. “My father had his own sister shot in the middle of a public square when she tried to flee Qalif with a commoner with whom she’d fallen in love. He had the commoner beheaded. The charge was fornication. You can look it up if you don’t believe me, it was only a few years ago.”

“It’s one of the many human rights violations for which Rashid’s father has been criticized,” Ameera says, just as sadly. “It’s why some of the faculty members of this college didn’t want to take the money he donated.”

“Oh God.” I sink my head into my hands. I need to think. This is all happening too fast, and I’ve only drunk half my coffee.

“That’s why we’ve tried to keep this a secret, Miss Wells,” Rashid says gently. “We don’t want to endanger anyone else by dragging them into it. I love the country in which I was born, but some parts of it are ugly . . . very ugly. If I live long enough to rule Qalif someday, I hope to change the ugly things. But I honestly don’t know if that will ever happen.”

“Worry,”
Patsy Cline wails over Lisa’s computer speakers
. “Why would I let myself worry?”

Easy for her to say.

“Okay,” I say, lifting my head. “Okay. So who else knows you two are married? Does the State Department know? Special Agent Lancaster?”

Rashid and Ameera look at each other blankly. “No,” Rashid says. “I certainly hope not.”

“For obvious reasons,” Ameera says, “we’ve told as few people as possible, and I’ve tried to keep people from suspecting we’re even acquainted by not being seen alone with him, and not accepting expensive gifts from him—for example, large floral arrangements.” She nudges Rashid reproachfully in the knee.

“You don’t have to go that far,” he protests. “I got flowers for the two ladies in this office as well.”

“My family doesn’t even know,” Ameera says.

“They don’t?” I’m shocked. “What’s the point of even getting married, then, if it’s going to put you both in so much danger?”

The young couple exchange knowing glances, the way people who share a secret often do.

“Because we love each other, of course,” Rashid says simply.

“So your family doesn’t know, Ameera,” I say, frustrated. “And obviously Rashid’s doesn’t know. Your roommates don’t know.” Obviously, or Kaileigh would have figured out where Ameera was going every night. “Who
does
know?”

“Well, you, now,” Rashid says. He glances once more, at the grate. “And Hamad and Habib, of course.”

“Your
bodyguards
know?”

“Of course,” Rashid says, as if I’m a fool not to have guessed this. “They know everything about me.”

“But don’t you think that’s risky?” I ask, thinking of Hamad’s burning gaze, and the iron grip in which he’d held my wrist the day before. “Isn’t there a chance they might tell your father?”

Anger flashes across Rashid’s face. “Of course not,” he says. “My men are completely loyal to me. They would die for me! They might
literally
have to die for me one day if our secret gets out and my father sends his own men to kidnap us and take us back to Qalif for punishment—”

“Do you think your men would kill for you?” I interrupt.

“Of course they would,” Rashid replies, without hesitation.

“Did one of them kill Jasmine Albright?” I ask. “Is that why she’s dead? Was she about to reveal your secret to the world?”

Rashid and Ameera exchange glances again, but this time those glances aren’t knowing. They’re bewildered.

“Did she see something the night of your party—maybe the two of you kissing, or something—and take a photo of it?” I press on. “Did one of your bodyguards go into her room and steal her cell phone and suffocate her to death in order to save your life, Rashid, and your bride’s?”

Ameera’s face disintegrates into tears at the same time that Rashid stands up, so swiftly that he knocks over the chair in which he’s been sitting.

“No!” he cries. No amount of Patsy Cline is going to drown out his angry voice. “How dare you? How dare you even suggest such a thing?”

A second later, there’s pounding on the door to Lisa’s office, and someone is trying to turn the knob, but thankfully the door is locked.

“Your Highness!” Hamad shouts. “Your Highness, open the door. Your Highness, what’s wrong? Are you all right?”

I stare up at Rashid, breathing almost as heavily as he is.

“Someone suffocated Jasmine to death, Rashid,” I whisper. “Someone held a hand over her mouth and nose until she died from lack of oxygen. She was leaking things about you to the
Express,
the student news blog. She was at your party, and she saw something, and someone killed her a little while later to keep her quiet about it. What did she see?
What did she see?
”

Rashid swings around to look at Ameera, who has tears streaming down her face. She’s shaking her head, mouthing the word “No. No, no, no.”

“Your Highness!” Hamad shouts again, beating on the door.

“I’m all right,” Rashid calls to his bodyguard. “Stand down.” To Ameera, he whispers, “What could she have seen?”

Ameera shakes her head, pressing a hand to the two rings she wears on the chain around her neck . . . rings I now realize, belatedly, are her and Rashid’s wedding rings. She wears them over her heart.

“
Nothing
, Rashid,” she whispers back. “I’ve been playing that night over and over in my head, ever since I saw her body. And there’s
nothing
. We never even looked at each other at that party. We were so safe. I stayed on one side of the room, and you stayed on the other. It wasn’t until after—after everyone left—that we—that we—”

She breaks off, sobbing, and Rashid wraps his arms around her, then looks at me, his expression desperate.

“She’s right,” he says. “Whatever it was the girl photographed at my party—if there
was
a photo—it wasn’t us. We’re careful in public. The parties are so my father won’t suspect. I have to maintain my image—Rascally Rashid.” He gives a single, bitter laugh. “I can never let him know who I really am—a married man.”

A married man—married to the Fischer Hall “slut.”

Cooper was right. Things aren’t always what they seem.

“But if Jasmine wasn’t killed because of something to do with you,” I say bewilderedly to Rashid, “what
was
she killed for? It had to have been something that happened at your party.”

Rashid has sat down again, this time to cradle a sobbing Ameera in his arms. He doesn’t seem particularly interested in my questions. I guess I wouldn’t be either if I were a boy and the girl I loved had been ignoring me for days and was now suddenly weeping against my chest.

“How should I know?” he asks. “Why don’t you ask one of your precious RAs? They were all there. Maybe one of them saw something. I had no idea the girl was even murdered. I thought she died of asthma.”

“
I
thought she was murdered,” Ameera sobs. “I took one look at her face and all I could think was, ‘That’s going to be me someday. Someone’s going to sneak into my room and do that to me in my sleep one night—’ ”

“Shhh,” Rashid says, burying his face in her hair. “No, they aren’t, not if you spend every night with me. You know you’re safe with me, you silly thing. Stop sleeping in your room with those terrible roommates of yours, and sleep with me, where you belong . . .”

He continues murmuring to her, but I’ve stopped listening.

Something that Rashid has said has caused my blood to run cold. Suddenly I realize that Cooper’s wise words from last night aren’t entirely true after all. Sometimes things are
exactly
as they seem.

It just takes a while to figure it out.

32

Y
ou two,” I say, pointing vaguely in Rashid and Ameera’s direction as I rise distractedly from Lisa’s chair. “Stay here. Don’t go anywhere. We’re going to notify the State Department about your situation.”

Rashid lifts his head from Ameera’s hair.
“What?”

“No,” Ameera cries in a panic-stricken voice. “You can’t!”

“Relax,” I say, lifting my purse. “They probably already know you two are an item. There are security cameras on the fifteenth-floor pointing toward your door, Rashid. I’m sure they’ve got plenty of shots of Ameera slinking in and out of there this past week.”

The young couple throw desperate glances at each other.

“Security cameras,” Rashid repeats bitterly as Ameera slips a fingernail between her teeth and begins to nibble it again. “I should have thought of that.”

“Don’t worry, no one’s going to deny you asylum in the United States,” I assure them. “You face certain death if you ever return to Qalif as man and wife. We can give you married student–housing here in Fischer Hall.” I pause as I place my hand on the doorknob. “I think so, anyway. We’ve never done it before, so far as I know, but considering how much money your dad’s given the college, I’m sure the trustees will make an exception.

“Besides,” I add, “it’s hardly in your father’s best interest to go around executing young lovers in the age of social media networking. Can you imagine what people would say about Qalif on Twitter if they beheaded you, Rashid, and stoned you to death, Ameera?” I shake my head. “Trust me, your father will back off when blogs like the
Express
get hold of this.”

“Miss Wells,” Rashid says as I open the office door. “I really don’t think my father is the type of man who cares what anyone says on Twitter.”

“Tell that to the guy who used to govern Egypt.”

I stick my head out the door and into the main office. Both of the prince’s bodyguards tense when they notice me. I’m surprised to see that Dave Fernandez is sitting beside Sarah’s desk, engrossed in conversation with her.

“Oh,” I say. “Hey, Dave. It’s me, Heather Wells.”

“Hello, Heather.” He climbs to his feet, cane in hand, smiling broadly. “I hope you don’t mind my stopping by. Lisa let me know that the room won’t be available for a while, but I like Fischer Hall so much, I can’t seem to stay away.”

He likes
Fischer Hall
so much. Right. And his increasingly frequent visits have nothing to do with Sarah, whom I notice surreptitiously checking her reflection in a pocket mirror she keeps in a desk drawer, which is sweet, given that Dave is blind. It’s funny how hard it is to break our old habits.

Like failing to see what’s staring us straight in our faces, even if we possess 20/20 vision.

“No problem, Dave” I say. “Visit Fischer Hall all you want.”

“Hey, guys,” I say to Hamad and Habib, who’ve both come to crowd around the door. “The prince and Ameera are ready to tell the State Department the truth about—” I wink broadly at both bodyguards. “
You know
. Sarah, can you call Special Agent Lancaster in the surveillance room down the hall? I think he’s going to be the best person to handle this.”

“Sure, Heather,” Sarah says, and picks up her office phone to dial the extension.

Both bodyguards look shocked.

“Wait,” Hamad says, flinging a hand toward Sarah to stop her. “Do not make this call!”

“Uh.” Sarah stares at him blankly. “I already have them on the line—”

Hamad rushes forward, snatches the handset from her, then slams it back down onto the receiver with enough violence that I’m certain I hear plastic crack.

“How dare you?” Hamad seethes at me. Then he pushes me aside—not hard enough to cause me to fall down, since, as Hal mentioned, my center of gravity is quite low—and rushes toward Lisa’s office door, behind which the prince and Ameera are still huddled.

“Your Highness?” Hamad asks. “Are you all right?”

“Of course we’re all right,” I hear Rashid say. “Thank you, Hamad. Do you think you could find some water, though, for Ameera? She’s feeling a bit under the weather.”

“I’ll get it,” Dave volunteers. He walks unerringly in the direction of the office watercooler, finds it by whacking it with the tip of his cane until it makes a telltale bubbling sound, leans down to fill a paper cup with cool water, then brings it back an instant later. “Will this do?”

Habib looks at him in astonishment.

“It will do very nicely,” he says. “Thank you, sir.” Then he takes the water into Lisa’s office, where Hamad and Rashid are consulting in hushed voices.

Sarah stares up at Dave worshipfully. “We have work-study-student office hours available this semester, don’t we, Heather?” she asks. “To help out processing service requests and stuff. Maybe we could hire Dave to fill some of them.”

“Maybe.” I roll my eyes. It’s okay, because neither of them notices. One is too busy staring at the other, and the other can’t see.

“Did someone from this office just call me? Is something wrong?”

Special Agent Lancaster is standing in the doorway to the outer office, panting a little. He’s clearly run from the conference room, where the surveillance cameras have been set up. He’s got his firearm in one hand, and a half-eaten jelly donut in the other. He’s also forgotten his suit jacket, his tie, and the fact that his shirt is untucked and that he’s got a paper napkin pressed into his shirt collar to keep errant jelly donut guts from getting on the front of his pure-white shirt.

“Yes,” I say. “We did just call you. But no, nothing’s wrong, so you can put that away.”

I point at the gun, which Lancaster seems for the first time to notice he’s holding. He looks embarrassed, stuffs the jelly donut in his mouth, and holsters the gun, then begins tucking in his shirt.

“The prince has something he wants to tell you.” I point at the half-open door to Lisa’s office. “It’s pretty big news, so you might want to call for reinforcements.”

Lancaster nods, then reaches for his cell phone, dialing one-handed while ripping the paper napkin from his collar. “It’s not about the girl, is it?” he asks with his mouth full.

“The dead one? No,” I say. “But there
is
a girl involved.”

He looks up, sharply. “The British one?”

It’s my turn to nod. “I thought you guys might have noticed her.”

“She turns up a lot on the monitors. What about her?”

“You’ll never guess, so I won’t hold you in suspense. They’re married.”

He utters a curse word that blisters even my hardened ears.

“Wow,” I say. “I’ll be sure to pass on your congratulations to the happy couple.”

“Sorry,” he says, and lowers his head to his phone again. “This has to be why the other girl—the RA—was murdered. Why the reporter was attacked too. The RA must have found out those two were married, and was going to leak the story.”

“Maybe,” I say noncommittally. “She was going to leak something, but we can’t know for sure it was that, can we? Not until we find her phone. And her murderer too, of course. How did you know Jasmine was murdered? That hasn’t been released to the public.”

He gives me a sarcastic look. “I work for the government, Ms. Wells. Besides, I’ve been talking to that friend of yours, Eva.” He’d pronounced it the way Eva does, the Russian way, without the long
E,
so I know that, though his tone is dismissive, the dismissiveness is feigned—they know each other well . . . especially since the skin around his neckline, no longer hidden by the napkin, is turning pink. “We’ve chatted a couple of times. Strictly work-related, of course.”

“Of course.” Although I can’t imagine the Eva I know letting any relationship with a guy she’s really attracted to remain “strictly work-related” for long.

“Anyway,” he says as he texts, “when Rashid’s father finds out the kid’s married a commoner, it’s going to be the shit storm to end all shit storms. And we’re the ones who are going to have to clean up the debris.” He points at me, then himself.

I remember Detective Canavan’s accusation that I’m a shitkicker. Now, apparently, I’m also someone who clears away debris from storms composed of—what else?—shit.

“Great,” I say with mock cheer. “And it’s all going to happen here, in Fischer Hall.” I glance over at Sarah and give her a big smile. “Did you hear that, Sarah?”

Sarah shakes her head. All her attention’s been focused on Dave. “I’m sorry, Heather, what?”

“Never mind,” I say to her. “I’m going to the desk for a few minutes to check on some things. Hold down the fort for me back here, okay?”

Sarah throws me a dazzling smile. “Of course!”

“See you later, Heather,” Dave calls sunnily, waving in my general direction.

“Not if I see you first,” I say, waving back, before realizing how completely asinine it was of me to say such a thing, since
obviously
I’m going to see him first, and he’s going to see me never. Fortunately he doesn’t seem to have noticed my gaffe, as he’s turned back toward Sarah, still smiling, to continue their discussion on his cat, or the problems with nuclear proliferation in undeveloped countries, or whatever it is they’re talking about.

I take myself and my handbag up to the front desk, where I’m unsurprised to find Gavin working on his screenplay instead of the mail forwarding, though he at least hastily closes his laptop and swings his slippered feet down from the desk when he sees me.

“I just needed to finish this one scene where the zombies eat my protagonist’s parents’ brains,” he says. “I got a sudden burst of inspiration. Please don’t yell at me for not doing the mail forwarding. I’m an artist, I’m fragile.”

“I don’t care about the mail forwarding right now. I need to talk to you.”

I open the door to the desk area and slip through it, placing my bag on a stack of
New York Times
whose owners have yet to come to the desk to ask for them.

“This looks serious,” Gavin says, spinning around on his elevated reception chair. “Please, lovely lady, have a seat. Let’s discourse. What’s troubling you?”

He gestures toward the shelf next to the backs of the mailboxes. I sit down on it, cross my legs, and say, “Remember the night of the prince’s party, the one you said you were working during?”

“Jamie and I split the shift,” he says, nodding while he strokes the few dark wisps of the goatee he’s apparently trying to grow. “But yes, I recall it. Why?”

“Who was the RA on duty that night?”

Gavin leans forward to retrieve the duty log. I require the desk attendants to record every communication of note that takes place during their shifts. Only through organization have I kept Fischer Hall from descending into madness.

“That would have been”—Gavin runs his finger down the log entries for that night—“Howard Chen. Oh, yeah, right, remember? He was still on duty the next morning, when you made me call him to go up to Jasmine’s room with Sarah. He did not like that too much.”

“So I recall your saying. You also said something about him not liking it too much when you called him for a couple of lockouts.”

Gavin nods. “Yeah. Because he was so hungover. He bitched me out. He wanted me to give the keys to the residents anyway, even though they didn’t have ID, because he didn’t want to get out of bed.” His eyebrows gather. “Wait a minute, am I in some kind of trouble? Because I
didn’t
give those residents their keys. I made Howard get the hell out of bed and get down here for the floor masters to let those residents in. He’s a lying little punk if he’s saying otherwise—”

“No, Gavin, you aren’t in trouble,” I assure him. “I’m only double-checking something. Can I see the sign-out log for the floor masters, please?”

He shrugs and says, “Sure,” putting away the duty binder and then walking over to the key cabinet.

Extra copies of keys to every resident’s room are kept in a large metal cabinet behind the desk, as well as master keys that fit into the lock of every room on each floor. While residents who have misplaced their room keys are allowed (three times per semester without charge, with a show of their student ID) to check out spares, only RAs are permitted to use the floor masters to escort a resident who’s forgotten his or her keys
and
ID.

To be escorted to one’s room by a sleepy RA on duty (who’s had to stumble all the way down to the front desk in the middle of the night to get the master key to your floor simply because you’ve lost your ID) is a serious embarrassment, and tends to happen only when students are extremely drunk or in some other way distressed, which is why we don’t allow the front desk attendants to simply hand them a spare key. We require an RA to speak with them, to make sure they don’t require medical care, and of course make sure they really are residents by forcing them to recite their student ID codes from memory. Additionally, the lockout is recorded on the student’s registration card. If such infractions become a habit, the lock to the door of the student’s room is changed as a safety precaution, and the student is billed for it.

Lockouts and lock changes seem to make up a good 25 percent of my job some days.

I run my finger down the floor master checkout log for the night of the party after which Jasmine died. Sure enough, there’s a note in Jamie’s handwriting that the master key to the fourteenth floor had been checked out at 2:45
a.m
.

That’s going to be me someday,
Ameera had wept
. Someone’s going to sneak into my room and do that to me in my sleep one night.

The initials of the person who’d checked out the fourteenth floor master key are
HC
.

I feel the same chill sweep over me that I’d felt in Lisa’s office.