The Bride Wore Size 12

by Meg Cabot

  “No one even follows the drag queen version of me on Twitter.” I oblige him, however, by looking around. It’s still a gorgeous day. The sun is brightly shining, and I’ve had to lower my sunglasses to protect my eyes from the glare. “Why would anyone bother to follow me in real life?”

  My voice dries up in my throat as I see one of Prince Rashid’s bodyguards—the one he calls Hamad—strolling along, eating a soft pretzel he evidently purchased from a street vendor, not five yards behind me. Like me, he’s wearing sunglasses, but it’s unmistakably him. No one else in the park is wearing a dark business suit with a matching dark shirt, tie, and earpiece.

  “Heather?” Cooper asks. “Can you hear me?”

  His voice startles me. I jump and turn quickly back around, hoping Hamad hasn’t noticed that I’ve seen him.

  “Yes,” I say. “Sorry. Bad connection.” No way am I telling him that he’s right, and I am being followed . . . if that’s actually what’s happening. Maybe Hamad simply enjoys New York street vendor pretzels and ran out for a quick snack on his break from bodyguard duties. Pretzels are delicious, after all. “Where are you, anyway? You’re not tailing my mother, are you?”

  “Of course not,” Cooper says. “You asked me not to. And I’d never do anything you asked me not to do. ”

  I snort sarcastically at this. “Right.” Fischer Hall is straight ahead. I can see the large blue-and-gold New York College flag hanging above the front door, snapping in the fresh breeze. Home will always be where Cooper is, but Fischer Hall is a close second. I increase my pace. “Just wondering, you sound a little far away.”

  “Only physically, baby,” he says. “My heart’s always with you. I’ll be home in time for dinner . . . which I assume will be finger sandwiches.”

  I try to summon up a laugh at his joke, but I’m feeling a little dispirited because Hamad truly does appear to be following me.

  Of course he is. He works in Fischer Hall too. I’m overreacting.

  “Ha,” I say. “Okay, great. See you then.”

  “Heather,” Cooper says. “Call Canavan over at the Sixth Precinct. Tell him everything you just told me. He may have his hands tied because of the State Department, but I think you should keep him in the loop.”

  “Right,” I say. I’ve begun to walk so rapidly, anxious to get away from my shadow, that I’ve reached Washington Square West—at the exact same time, I notice, as Hamad. He’s finished his pretzel and has raised his sunglasses so he can glare at me, much like the way he’d glared at Sarah the other day in the office . . . like he’d very much like to draw his sidearm and shoot.

  We both stand at the edge of the park. There’s a line of taxicabs and buses that we must allow to go roaring past before we can cross the street to Fischer Hall. While we wait, Hamad stares at me in a manner I can only describe as extremely hostile, his dark eyes like twin black bullet holes.

  “So I’ll see you when you get home,” I say into the phone to Cooper, my gaze still on Hamad.

  “Wait,” Cooper says. “You’re calling Canavan now, right?”

  “I sure am. Just like you’re not tailing my mom. Bye now.” I turn off my phone before Cooper can say another word. I don’t need to be distracted by my boyfriend’s sexy voice as I’m about to be killed on the street by the bodyguard of the son of a foreign dictator.

  “Hello,” I say pleasantly to Hamad as I slip my phone back into my purse. “Have a nice lunch?”

  Hamad doesn’t respond, except to continue to glare at me.

  “I saw that you were enjoying a pretzel,” I say. “Those are a New York City specialty. We’re quite well known for our soft pretzels. Did you have mustard on yours? I find the mustard really brings out the salt in a pleasantly tangy way.”

  Hamad doesn’t say anything. He merely crumples up the napkin the pretzel vendor had given him with his lunch and tosses it without a word into my face. My face.

  Then he steps into the middle of Washington Square West, though the traffic there is still flowing steadily. A taxicab comes screeching to a halt barely a foot before striking him, and the New York cabby—who happens to be Punjabi—leans out his window to scream at Hamad, “Hey! What’s the matter with you? You want to get yourself killed? Wait for the light, you idiot!”

  Hamad continues haughtily the rest of the way across the street, not seeming to care that he’s become the focus of attention of so many people, including a number of blue-and-gold-shirted orientation leaders outside of Fischer Hall, attempting to gather their flocks of first-year students in order to take them to various afternoon outings.

  I lean down to lift the crumpled napkin he’s thrown in my face.

  “Hey,” I call to him, dangling the napkin between my index finger and thumb. “Littering is prohibited in New York City. It’s punishable by a fine of up to two hundred and fifty dollars! So please use a trash receptacle next time.” I walk a few steps to a nearby metal trash can and toss the napkin inside it. “See? It’s not that difficult.”

  Before entering Fischer Hall, Hamad hurls me a look of such pure and utter contempt that, for a moment, it’s as if the sun has gone behind the clouds.

  A chill goes down my spine that’s not unlike the one I felt in Cam Ripley’s office. Maybe I did make a mistake going to the student union after all.

  “Heather?” one of the orientation leaders asks me with concern when the traffic slows down enough for me to cross the street. “Are you all right? Was something going on between you and that guy?”

  “Oh, no,” I say breezily. Though truthfully, I don’t feel particularly breezy inside. “We were just fooling around.”

  “It didn’t look like he was fooling,” she says.

  I smile in what I hope is a reassuring manner and go inside, where there is no sign of Hamad. He probably already took an elevator to the fifteenth floor.

  Hamad is from another country that has very different customs than ours, I tell myself. Maybe in Qalif it’s an insult for a woman to comment on a man’s condiment preferences.

  Or maybe Hamad is a cold-blooded killer and wanted to let me know in no uncertain terms that I’m his next victim.

  Either way, it probably isn’t such a bad idea to make that call to Detective Canavan, like Cooper suggested, and mention the incident.

  It’s busy in the lobby, as it always is after lunch. The residents who’ve slept in are finally up and around, and their more ambitious peers are on to their afternoon activities, as are (unfortunately) their parents.

  “Everything okay?” I ask Pete as I approach the security desk.

  “Depends on who you ask,” he answers with a shrug.

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’ll see,” he says, and smirks as he bites into the tacos I bought for him (well, I paid for, he ordered) from Choza Taqueria on MacDougal.

  My heart sinks. “I’m going to find something waiting for me in my office that I’m not going to like, aren’t I?”

  He stops smirking and looks surprised. “No, you’re gonna like it. Almost as much as I like these tacos—which is a lot.”

  I’m not certain I believe him. Pete might think I’d like finding my mother in my office, but he’d be very wrong.

  “Great,” I say.

  But when I walk into my office, what I find is a pleasant surprise. There’s an enormous floral arrangement sitting in a crystal vase on my desk, and it’s not one of those chintzy FTD ones either, all carnations and baby’s breath, but gorgeous hydrangeas, hyacinths, roses, and some blooms I can’t even identify, they’re so foreign and rare. Every single bloom is pure white, the bouquet perfectly arranged to fit the expensive square-shaped vase it’s been delivered in. The flowers fill the office with their exotic scent.

  Sarah is sitting at her desk, flowerless. The door to Lisa’s office is closed.

  “Nice, right?” Sarah says, when she sees my face light up at the sight of the overflowing vase of blossoms. “Guess you’ve got a fan.”

  Coope
r! I think immediately. He’s the only person I know who would do something so thoughtful—and classy. He knows how much it hurt, having my mother show up like she did last night. That, plus having a student death in the building—when I’d sworn to myself that this year was going to be different—has really thrown me for a loop.

  This is exactly the kind of thing he’d do to cheer me up . . . especially after upsetting me by saying all that nonsense about how he was going to tail her.

  “Oh,” I say softly, reaching out to gently touch one delicate, ivory petal. “He didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”

  “He really didn’t,” Sarah says, taking a big bite of the burger she’s grabbed from the caf and is eating at her desk. “But then,” she adds, with her mouth full, “that’s the kind of guy he is, isn’t he?”

  I lean forward to sniff a rose. Heaven, especially after experiencing so much dark unpleasantness outside the building just now with Prince Rashid’s bodyguard. “I’m so lucky.”

  “You are,” Sarah agrees. “We all are, really. So, so lucky to have him in our lives.”

  There’s something slightly off about her tone.

  “Wait,” I say, lifting my nose from the flowers and stiffening. “These are from Cooper, right?”

  “Ha.” Sarah cackles. “You wish. Open the card.”

  There’s an ivory note card tucked amid the dark green leaves. I reach for it.

  19

  From the Desk of His Royal Highness Prince Rashid Ashraf bin Zayed Sultan Faisal

  FOR MS. WELLS, WITH MY DEEPEST SYMPATHIES FOR YOUR LOSS. I WAS SO SORRY TO HEAR WHAT YOU WENT THROUGH YESTERDAY. PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF THERE’S ANYTHING MY STAFF OR I CAN DO FOR YOU DURING THIS TERRIBLE TIME.

  Yours very truly,

  Rashid

  I turn to stare at Sarah in disbelief. “These flowers are from Prince Rashid?”

  “Or Shiraz.” Sarah rolls her eyes. “Whichever he’s calling himself this week.”

  “But—” I stare at the arrangement. “They’re so . . . nice.”

  “Well, his dad has billions of dollars,” Sarah reminds me with more than a hint of sarcasm in her tone. “I’m sure he can afford a decent florist.”

  Of course she’s right.

  “That’s not what I mean,” I say. “I’m surprised by the gesture. It’s kind of mature. And what’s written in the card is so nice.”

  Sarah snorts as she wipes ketchup from the side of her mouth with a napkin. “He probably didn’t even write it. I bet there’s a palace publicist or secretary who does all his press.”

  I stare at the card. Except for the prince’s title and formal name, which is engraved, the rest is written in somewhat cramped block print, in black ink, by someone clearly better used to texting—or maybe the more manly art of falconry.

  “How did you know they’re from Prince Rashid?” I ask Sarah.

  “Because he’s been down here twice to check if you got them,” she says. “The florist only delivered them ten minutes ago. There’s a bouquet for Lisa too, but she’s been locked inside the office with the new RA candidate since before I got back from Disbursements, so she hasn’t seen it. I had them keep it up at the front desk since there’s no room in here for two gigantic vases of flowers. I think I’m getting an allergy attack from yours alone.”

  I look down at the handwriting on the card. I want to believe that Rashid wrote the message himself, but it seems unlikely. Then again, it’s on Qalif royal letterhead, with the name Rashid signed with a flourish and everything. Forgetting that Sarah is sitting across from me, I do the unthinkable and lick the signature.

  “Oh my God,” Sarah cries, watching me. “What are you doing?”

  “Look.” I show her the card. “The ink is smeared.”

  “So?” Sarah cries.

  “So that’s how you can tell if someone really signed something themselves, or if it was typed, or printed with a stamp. If it smears, they signed it themselves with a pen. It’s an old music business trick to use a stamp to sign head shots because they make you sign so many of them. Or just reproduce the head shot with an autograph already printed on it, not personalized.” I look more closely at the card. “Someone really handwrote this.”

  “Yes, of course someone did,” Sarah says, still sounding disgusted. “I already told you, his secretary or publicist.”

  “Wouldn’t you hire someone with less crappy handwriting to be your secretary if you were going to have them pretend to be you?”

  “What does it matter whether or not he wrote it?” Sarah demands. “It doesn’t change anything. Jasmine’s still dead, Rashid’s still a jerk, and Kaileigh’s mom is still stalking you. She was by here a million times while you and Lisa were out. Here are your messages.” She rises to slam a handful of slips of paper on my desk. “Where were you guys, anyway? I tried calling but neither of you would pick up.”

  I sit down and begin to sort through the “While You Were Out” messages, careful to keep my tone neutral. It’s clear Sarah knows nothing of the fate that’s about to befall the RAs. “Lisa didn’t say?”

  “I told you, she’s been locked in her office since before I got back from Disbursements.” Sarah lowers her voice to a whisper, nodding at Lisa’s closed door. “It says on her calendar that she has the interview with that new RA candidate right now.”

  “Right,” I say to Sarah. “We had a meeting up in the president’s office about Jasmine.”

  Sarah rolls her eyes. “What a waste of time that must have been.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “It was.”

  I don’t dare tell her the truth about what happened during the meeting. When she finds out that all nine of our new RAs are being fired, she’s going to explode with righteous indignation. She’s young enough—and despite her gruff demeanor, tenderhearted enough—that she’ll side with the student workers, and probably even attempt to help them lodge a formal protest.

  Nor do I dare call Detective Canavan, as I promised Cooper I would, since Sarah will eavesdrop on the conversation, and overhear that Jasmine’s cause of death wasn’t natural, something I’d prefer to keep secret as long as possible. I could slip out to call the detective on my cell, but I’m still feeling a little shaken by my run-in with Prince Rashid’s bodyguard. At least with my backside planted firmly in my office chair I know Hamad can’t sneak up behind me.

  Instead, I bend over my messages. One of them is from Julio. He’s written only two words—No trash—but I understand exactly what he means. As I’d expected, Eva’s request for DNA analysis had come too late. All the trash from Rashid’s party has already been put out and picked up at the curb by DSNY, the Department of Sanitation, New York City. Julio and his crew are extremely thorough.

  “Did Mrs. Harris say what she wanted?” I ask Sarah. There are three messages from the front desk saying that Kaileigh’s mother needs me to call her. Both the “Urgent” and “ASAP” boxes are checked.

  A concerned mom is the last person I feel like speaking with at the moment. I hesitate to even pick up my office phone. I can see the red light flashing ominously. She’s probably left me voice messages as well.

  “What else?” Sarah asks. “She’s upset her kid’s RA is dead, and she wants Kaileigh to have a room change.”

  Sarah is making quick work of her cheeseburger, which looks—and smells—like a particularly good one. My stomach rumbles. It seems like it’s been a long time since the finger sandwiches in the president’s office.

  “I told Mrs. Harris yesterday that only Kaileigh can fill out the paperwork to request a room change,” I say.

  “Yeah, well, according to Mrs. Harris, Kaileigh’s roommate Ameera saw their RA’s dead body, and now Kaileigh is too emotionally caught up in her roommate’s trauma over that horrible experience to be asked to do something as mundane as fill out paperwork,” Sarah says.

  “Are you serious?” I ask. “Does Kaileigh even want to move out? Or is her mother still trying to make her move out?”


  “Who knows? Apparently, Mr. Harris is going to be contacting their attorney to get Kaileigh out of her housing contract because we’re so incompetent we allowed someone to die down the hall from Kaileigh’s room, so we can expect to be hearing from him soon.”

  “Oh God,” I say, and lay my head on my desk. “I wish it had been me who died, and not Jasmine.”

  “Well, that’s a psychologically unhealthy statement to make,” Sarah says primly. I can hear her licking ketchup off her fingers. “Especially from someone who’s about to get married. Isn’t this supposed to be the happiest time of your life?”

  “That’s what people tell me,” I say.

  My head still on my desk, I lift one of the many messages from the pile. It was taken by Gavin, from my mother. Please call, it says. Urgent.

  Oh God.

  “Anyway,” Sarah goes on, “the Harrises aren’t wrong about Ameera. I saw her going in to see Dr. Flynn this morning. She was crying about as much as she was yesterday. It’s hard to believe such a skinny little body could hold that many tears. Maybe that’s why the prince sent her flowers too.”

  I lift my head from the desk to stare at her. “What do you mean?”

  “What do you mean, what do I mean? I mean Prince Rashid sent Ameera flowers too. I saw them at the front desk when I had the florist drop Lisa’s off there.” Sarah looks a little uncomfortable. “I have to admit I was being a little nosy checking who they were for. I thought they might be for me because, after all, I’m the one who discovered the body. If anyone should get flowers, it should be me. But no, no one ever thinks to send the graduate assistant flowers, only the pretty girl and the hall director and her—”

  “Why would Rashid send Ameera flowers?” I interrupt, asking the question of myself more than of Sarah.