Size 12 and Ready to Rock (23 page)

I’ve decided to stick with criminal justice as a major, as psychology seems a bit harsh.

It takes me a minute to realize that Tania is gone, having slipped away unnoticed during the girls’ argument. I only spy her as she reaches the glass doors to the penthouse and goes inside, Baby at her heels. I throw a questioning glance at Cooper, and he nods.

I wipe my mouth with my napkin and lay it beside my near-empty plate—my serving of rib eye was too large even for me to finish, and I’m a girl who appreciates a well-prepared steak. But I managed to polish off all my mashed potatoes.

“Excuse me,” I murmur and stand up, not missing the look of gratitude Cooper sends me across the table. He knows where I’m headed and is thankful. Tania needs looking after. No one else notices I’ve gotten up.

“Jess,” I hear his brother Jordan say in a sympathetic voice as I head away from the table, “I get the appetite suppressant thing, I really do. But smoking cigarettes is so bad for you. Get Dr. Shipley to write you a script for an ADD med instead. That’s what I do when I need to lose a few before an appearance. Those things work like magic. And the side benefit is that the pills really help me focus, like, on my choreography and stuff.”

“Perhaps because you actually have ADD,” Cooper suggests, but Jordan only laughs and punches him in the arm.

“In our day,” Grant Cartwright says, “they called those pills ‘speed.’ ”

“Right,” his wife agrees. “Remember that time we took all that speed, then went for the drive on Martha’s Vineyard, darling?”

“No,” Grant Cartwright says. “That was the time we had all the margaritas.”

“Oh, right,” Patricia Cartwright says. “People didn’t seem to frown on drinking and driving as much then as they do now. Although that farmer was upset about his fence.”

“You people are disgusting,” Nicole says.

Jessica seems to agree with her sister for once. “Seriously.”

Their voices fade into the background as I follow the pathway—now subtly lit by halogen bulbs hidden in plantings—into the penthouse. There’s no sign of Tania when I get inside, but I hear the sound of a television and the tinkling of a dog’s collar . . . Baby is scratching himself. I go toward it until I find myself in a media room, all dark-wood paneling and black leather couches, and spy Tania sunk into the middle of one, bathed in the light of a flat-screen TV. She has a faux-fur chinchilla throw pulled up over her bare legs to ward off the chilly air conditioning, and Baby is on her lap, energetically scratching his ears. Both of them look up at me as I appear in the doorway.

“Oh hi,” I say hesitantly. Neither dog nor mistress seems particularly glad to see me. “I was just . . .”

Trying to find the bathroom? On my way out and I took a wrong turn?

You know what? Screw that. A producer this girl has been working with daily died today, practically in my arms. I deserve some answers, and it’s time to see if she has any.

“I was wondering if I could join you,” I say and come into the room, closing the door behind me. “I can only take so much Cartwright family togetherness.” I cross the room, looping around the large glass coffee table on which rests a decorative basket of rattan balls (dear decorators of the world: what’s up with the rattan balls?), heading directly for the couch on which she’s sitting. “Scoot over.”

She remains exactly where she is, wide-eyed and confused.

“There’s lots of room over there,” she says, pointing with the remote control she’s clutching at the couch opposite hers.

“Yes,” I agree, “but you’ve got all the blankets.”

I lift the faux chinchilla and sit down beside her, careful not to touch her, slipping off my shoes—what a relief!—and tucking my legs beneath me, imitating her posture. We learned in our psych class that study after study has shown that subtly imitating another person’s body movements heightens one’s chances of a successful interpersonal involvement. Baby certainly appears to find the situation acceptable, since he quickly settles into the small faux-fur gulley that has formed between us.

“So,” I say. “The Cartwrights seem to really like you. That’s nice. They’re kind of nuts, but I think most families are. Certainly all the ones down at New York College, where I work, are. I don’t think there’s any such thing as a normal family. What does normal even mean anyway?”

Tania doesn’t reply. She keeps her gaze on the TV. She’s switching channels like no one’s business, seeming to be having trouble finding anything to watch, although the Cartwrights have satellite and Tania’s already reached the 900s. But she’s turned the sound down, which is a good sign.

“It’s nice,” I say, trying again, “that when you have your baby, she’ll have so many people to care about her, even if their sanity might be slightly questionable. I’ve heard you can restrict how many people can be in the room when you give birth, so you might want to consider that. Otherwise, I could see Nicole wanting to be there through the whole thing so she can gather material for a song about tasting the placenta—”

Tania finally cracks a smile.

“No,” she says, dragging her gaze away from the television screen. “She wouldn’t.”

“I’m serious,” I say. “She might. It’s hard to find words to rhyme with ‘placenta,’ but I bet Nicole will manage. ‘It was the color magenta. It tasted like polenta.’ ”

“Stop,” Tania says, laughing. Picking up a nearby throw pillow, she tosses it lightly at me, causing Baby to let out a tiny bark.

I pick up the pillow and pretend to conk Tania over the head with it, then say, while Tania is still laughing and Baby is running around the faux chinchilla in excited circles, “So. Do you want to tell me who hates you enough to try to poison you? Because I think you know.”

Tania’s laughter abruptly dies. She sinks back against the leather cushions and stares up at the TV screen, but it doesn’t seem to me as if she’s really seeing it.

“I don’t,” she says. She’s wearing a filmy, multicolored dress, her shoulders bare, her hair loosely curling all over. When she shakes her head, the curls tremble. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t lie to me, Tania,” I say. I’m no longer mirroring her posture, which is slumped in defeat. I’m sitting up straight. “You can lie to everybody else, but you can’t lie to me. You
owe
me. You actually owe me double, because Jared died in my building.” This is a slight exaggeration, because Jared died hours after he collapsed in front of me, in the hospital, but I’m pretty sure Tania doesn’t know this. “And if it wasn’t for you,
I’d
be the one married to Jordan.”

I’m piling lie on top of lie, but I tell myself it’s for the greater good, which is getting to the truth. If I hadn’t caught Tania with Jordan, he and I would have broken up anyway, because I’d have wised up on my own and realized what a terrible couple we made . . . and how much of a better fit I’d be with his older brother, Cooper, if only I could get him to glance my way. (I can’t believe it took as long as it did to get him to.)

Tania doesn’t need to know this, however.

Finally, she glances at me.

“I thought you were over Jordan,” she says, looking slightly suspicious. “I thought you were with Cooper now.”

I’m so stunned, I nearly kick Baby off the blanket and across the room, like he’s a little Chihuahua football.

“How did you know
that?
” I demand, my voice rising to a squeak.

“Stephanie told me,” Tania says.

Who
didn’t
Stephanie tell?

“Does Jordan know?” I ask. I assume not, or Jordan wouldn’t have been so chummy with Cooper at the dinner table . . . unless that was all an act to lull Cooper into a false sense of security so Jordan can push Cooper off the deck later. But I don’t think Jordan is capable of that kind of duplicity, and Cooper is armed anyway.

“No,” Tania says, shaking her head. The curls tremble. “Jordan doesn’t know. Stephanie said not to tell him. She says . . . she says you guys are getting married.”

“Well,” I say. I’m going to punch Stephanie in the face next time I see her. I don’t care that she spent the day getting her stomach pumped full of charcoal because she ate rat poison. “There’s no date set or anything, but it’s something Cooper and I have talked about. Stephanie’s right, it would be great if you wouldn’t tell Jordan yet. It’s a little . . . awkward.”

“I understand,” Tania says, and she looks down at her fingers. On the third finger of her left hand is a diamond that’s approximately the size of Dayton, Ohio, or possibly even Paris, France. “Jordan can be a little . . . babyish about some things.”

“Yes,” I say, surprised by the maturity both of the admission and of her tone. “He can be sometimes.”

“I’m sorry I did that to you,” Tania says, speaking to her diamond ring. “What you caught me doing that day with Jordan. I knew you were still with him, but I . . . I
needed
to.”

You
needed
to give my live-in boyfriend a blow job? I want to ask.

Instead I say, “I understand,” even though I don’t.

“Have you ever been married before, Heather?” Tania asks, still looking at her ring.

“No,” I say, unable to restrain a smile. Tania doesn’t mean to be funny, I know, but I can’t help laughing a little. It suddenly strikes me as amusing that she’s about to give
me
some marital advice, even though I’m so much older than she is. She’s closer to Jessica and Nicole’s age than Jordan’s.

“Well,” she says with a gusty sigh, “I have. That’s why all this is happening.”

“Wait,” I say, my smile disappearing as I realize Tania was asking if I’ve been married before because
she
has. But that’s impossible, because the girl is barely old enough to drink legally . . . plus a few years. “
What?
”

“That’s why all this is happening,” she repeats. “You’re right, I
do
owe you the truth. And you know what? I feel better about it now that I’ve told you.” She smiles and picks up her dog, giving him a little squeeze. “Wow, you’re easy to talk to. I knew you’d understand. No wonder you’re so good at your job. I bet those students tell you stuff all the time. Secret stuff they’ve never told anyone before, like what I just told you. I’ve never told that to anyone before, not even my stylist. Or Jordan.”

I’ve thrown off the chinchilla rug, put both feet on the floor, and am staring her straight in the face. Only she won’t look at me, because her face is buried in Baby’s fur.

“Tania,” I say. “What
exactly
are you talking about? What secret? What is happening?”

“Everything,” she says with a shrug of her elfin shoulders as she hugs Baby so tightly that he begins to struggle. She doesn’t let him go, she doesn’t look up, and her voice is muffled as she hides her face in shame. “Why I had to steal Jordan away from you. Why Bear got shot. And why Jared died today.”

“Why?” I ask, even though I think I finally know.

When she looks up at last, her cheeks are wet with tears.

“Because of my ex-husband,” she says. “He says he’s going to kill me.”

Chapter 17

Baby Mama Drama

Baby mama

That’s what he calls me

Don’t want no drama

So I don’t say a thing

But I ain’t his mama

And this ain’t his baby

So there’s gonna be trauma

If I don’t nip this thing

“Baby Mama”

Performed by Tania Trace

Written by Larson/Trace

Cartwright Records

So Sue Me
album

“So what’d she say?” Cooper asks as soon as he climbs back into the Cadillac Escalade in which we’re being driven home. He’s just come from escorting Tania and Jordan up to their apartment, which is in a building a few blocks downtown and west, on Fifth Avenue, from Grant Cartwright’s. I elected to stay in the car, too disturbed by the story Tania told me back at Cooper’s parents’ place to do more than utter a polite good night.

“I’ll tell you when we get home,” I say, my gaze on the driver.

“Are you sure?” Cooper asks, looking surprised.

“Oh yes,” I say. “I’m sure.”

Cooper, after giving me a questioning glance, leans forward to give the driver our address, and I sink back against the hand-stitched leather seats, staring unseeingly out the tinted window.

“Just making sure Dad gets his money’s worth,” Cooper had joked when Jordan—and the building’s doorman—insisted it wasn’t necessary for him to accompany Tania all the way to the door and then
inside
the apartment she shares with Jordan.

“Our security in this building is very good, sir,” the doorman said to Cooper. “We have a night watchman posted at the door to the garage downstairs and monitors on all the exits and stairwells.”

“And our lock’s a Medeco,” Jordan pointed out proudly.

“I think you should let him,” I’d said from inside the Escalade.

Cooper, Jordan, and the doorman had all leaned into the open car door to look at me oddly. Tania kept her face buried in her Chihuahua’s sparkly jacket, looking at no one at all.

“Excuse me, miss?” the doorman had said.

“I think they should let this man escort them to their apartment,” I’d said. “I’ll wait down here in the car for them. It will just take a minute. I don’t know if you heard, but there was a murder today. A stalker of Ms. Trace sent her a box of cupcakes tainted with rat poison, and someone ate one and died. Whatever your building’s normal security precautions are for her, quadruple them. And do not eat or even open anything addressed to her. I’m sure the police have been by—”