Size 14 Is Not Fat Either

“Stupid shit like what?” I ask, taking another bite of my bagel.

“Oh, just dumb stuff. Erasing messages people left for Lindsay on her dry-erase board on the door. Drawing devil horns on all of Lindsay’s photos in the school paper before handing it to her. Using all of Lindsay’s tampons and not replacing the box. Stuff like that.”

“Well, Kimberly,” I say, “it sounds like Ann and Lindsay didn’t exactly get along. But you don’t really think Ann actually killed her, do you? I mean, why would she? She knew she was moving out, right?”

Kimberly looks thoughtful. “Well, yeah, I guess. But anyway, I told that detective guy to make sure she’s got a, whad-duya call it? Oh, yeah, an alibi. ’Cause you never know. It could be one of the Single White Female–type thingies.”

I’m sure Detective Canavan jumped on the “Single White Female–type thingie” lead. Not.

“What about boyfriends?” I ask.

This cognitive leap is too much for Kimberly’s tender young brain to process. She knits her slender eyebrows in confusion. “What?”

“Was Lindsay seeing anybody? I mean, I know she was dating Mark Shepelsky….”

“Oh.” Kimberly rolls her eyes. “Mark. But Lindsay and Mark, I mean, they were pretty much over, you know. Mark’s so…immature. Him and Jeff—you know, Cheryl’s boyfriend—all they’re into is drinking beer and watching sports. They never took Lindsay and Cheryl out clubbing, or whatever. Which I guess is fine for Cheryl, but Lindsay…she wanted more excitement. More sophistication, I guess you could say.”

“So is that why she started seeing someone else?” I ask. When Kimberly’s eyes widen, I explain, “Mark stopped by the office this morning and mentioned something about a frat guy?”

Kimberly looks contemptuous. “Is that what Mark called him? A frat guy? He didn’t mention he’s a Winer?”

“A what?” For a minute, I think she’s saying Lindsay’s new boyfriend complains a lot.

“A Winer. W-I-N-E-R. You know.” When I continue to regard her blankly, she shakes all her long hair in disbelief. “Gawd, don’t you know? Doug Winer. The Winer family. Winer Construction. The Winer Sports Complex, here at New York College?”

Oh. Now I know what she’s talking about. You can’t pass by a building under construction in this city—and, despite the fact that Manhattan is an island and you’d think every piece of usable land on it has been developed already, there are quite a few buildings under construction—without noticing the word WINER written on the side of every bulldozer, spool of wire, and piece of scaffolding connected with the job site. No building in New York City goes up unless Winer Construction puts it up.

And apparently the Winers have earned a bit of money because of that fact. They may not be Kennedys or Rockefellers, but apparently, to a New York College cheerleader, they come close. Well, they did donate a big chunk of cash to the college. Enough to build the sports complex, and everything.

“Doug Winer,” I repeat. “So…Doug’s well off?”

“Um, if you call being filthy rich well off,” Kimberly says, with a snort.

“I see. And were Doug and Lindsay…close?”

“Not engaged or anything,” Kimberly says. “Yet. But Lindsay thought Doug was getting her a tennis bracelet for her birthday. A diamond one. She saw it in his dresser.” Momentarily, the pathos of Lindsay’s death strikes, and Kimberly looks a little less bubbly. “I guess he’ll have to take it back now,” she adds mournfully. “Her birthday was next week. God, that’s so sad.”

I agree that the fact Lindsay did not live to receive a diamond tennis bracelet for her birthday is a shame, then ask her if Lindsay and Doug had had any disagreements that she knew of (no), where Doug lives (the Tau Phi Epsilon House), and when Doug and Lindsay had last seen each other (sometime over the weekend).

It soon becomes clear that though Kimberly claims to have been Lindsay’s best friend, either the two of them hadn’t been all that close, or Lindsay had led a remarkably dull life, because Kimberly is unable to reveal anything more about Lindsay’s last week on earth. Anything more that could help me to figure out who killed her, anyway.

Except, of course, that’s not what I’m doing. I’m not getting involved in the investigation into Lindsay’s death. Far from it. I’m just asking a few questions about it, is all. I mean, a person can ask questions about a crime without actually launching a private investigation into said crime. Right?

I’m telling myself this as I walk back into the hall director’s office, holding Tom’s coffee (I got him a new one, after the original went cold while I was talking to Kimberly) in one hand, and a new coffee-cocoa-whipped-cream concoction for myself in the other. I’m not too surprised to see that Sarah, our grad assistant, has shown up to work wearing an unhappy expression. Sarah’s unhappy most days.

Today, her bad mood appears to be catching. Both she and Tom are slumped at their desks. Well, technically, Tom is slumping at my desk. But he looks plenty unhappy, until he sees me.

“You,” Tom says, as I plop his coffee in front of him, “are a lifesaver. What took you so long?”

“Oh, you know,” I say, sinking onto the couch next to my desk. “I had to comfort Magda.” I nod at Tom’s office door, which is still closed. Behind it, and through the grate, I hear the low murmur of voices. “She still in there with Mark?”

“No,” Sarah says disgustedly. “Now she’s in there with Cheryl Haebig.”

“What’s with you?” I ask Sarah, because of the scowl.

“Apparently,” Tom replies in a long-suffering voice, since Sarah just sinks more deeply into her chair, refusing to speak, “Dr. Kilgore is one of Sarah’s professors. And not one she likes very much.”

“She’s a Freudian!” Sarah bursts out, not even attempting to lower her voice. “She actually believes that sexist crap about how all women are in love with their fathers and secretly want a penis!”

“Dr. Kilgore gave Sarah a D on one of her papers last semester,” Tom informs me, with only the tiniest of smirks.

“She’s anti-feminist!” Sarah asserts. “I went to the dean to complain. But it was no use, because she’s one of them, too.” Them, apparently, referred to Freudians. “It’s a conspiracy. I’m seriously considering writing a letter to the Chronicle of Higher Education about it.”