Big Boned

“It is to them,” I say, thinking of Sarah. “And it is to the president’s office. If those guys really do go on strike, the rest of the unions affiliated with the college will be obligated to strike with them. And then there’ll be an unholy mess… right in time for graduation, too.”

“And Veatch was arbitrating?”

“He was head of the arbitration. But come on,” I say, shaking my head. “Isn’t it more likely he was hit by a stray bullet from a random drug shooting in the park? I mean, you know. You have undercover guys out there—”

“Which is exactly why I know that bullet didn’t hit your boss at random,” Detective Canavan says woodenly. “My people were out in force, covering—”

“If you saythe usual suspects, I’m going to squeal with delight,” I warn him.

He gives me a stern look. “Your boss is dead, Wells. Someone walked up to his office window and deliberately shot him assassination style, if not point-blank, then as close as. Someone who knew him, and someone who wanted him dead. It’s my job to figure out who did it. If you’re too busy with this new boyfriend of yours to quote help the investigation unquote this time, that’s music to my ears, to tell you the truth. The last thing I need is to have to worry about plucking your bony ass out of another near-death situation. Now just jot Romeo’s name down here so I can confirm your story with him later, and you can go.”

I blink at him, feeling suddenly misty-eyed.

“You really think my ass is bony?” I ask. “Detective Canavan, that’s—seriously—the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“Wells,” he says tiredly. “Get out.”

Of course I have nowhere to go, since he’s taken over my desk. I can’t go back to the storage room. I honestly don’t think I can stomach any more power-to-the-people preaching from Sarah. The scent of tacos wafting from the grate has gotten pretty overwhelming. Sure, it’s only a little after eleven.

But hey. I ran today. Would it be so wrong to have a little snack?

Magda is sitting at the cash register, perfecting her two-inch robin’s egg blue (in honor of spring) nails with a sequined file that says PRINCESS on one side of it, and looking bored. She brightens when she sees me.

“Heather,” she cries. The cafeteria is mostly empty so early in the day. The only people in it are residents who didn’t wake up in time for breakfast taking advantage of the all-day bagels, and all the members of the NYPD Magda has waved in for free, who’ve headed straight for the taco bar. “Is it true? Someone shot that”—she says a bad word in Spanish—“in the head?”

“Geez, Magda,” I say. “He wasn’t that bad.”

“Oh yes, he was,” Magda assures me. “One time he told me if he caught me giving you free DoveBars, he was going to write me up. I didn’t tell you, you know, because I didn’t want you to get upset. But he did. I’m glad he’s dead.”

“Shhhh.” I look around. Over at a nearby table, some of Detective Canavan’s colleagues are enjoying taco salads with sides of sour cream and guacamole. “Magda, don’t go around saying that too loudly, okay? I think we’re pretty much all guilty until proven i

“So what else is new?” Magda asks, rolling her elaborately made-up eyes. Then those eyes start to twinkle as she asks, “So things are getting cozy with Mr. Math, eh? I saw you two this morning in here, feeding each other bites of whipped cream… ”

I can’t help scowling. “Things were cozy. Cozy enough that… ” I let my voice trail off. So much had happened since that extremely odd interlude in the shower this morning that I’m not even exactly sure whether or not it really took place.

But it had. Hadn’t it?

Magda raises her drawn-on eyebrows. “Yes?”

“He wanted to know if I could take a chunk of time off from work this summer,” I say. “Then he said he has something he wants to ask me. When the timing is right.”

Magda’s mouth drops open. Then she squeals. Then she hops off her stool and runs around the cashier’s desk in her four-inch heels and throws her arms around me. Since she’s about a foot short than I am, this means she is basically hugging my waist with her enormously high hair tickling my nose.

“Heather!” she cries. “I’m so happy for you! You’re going to be such a beautiful bride!”

“I don’t know,” I say, uncomfortably conscious of the curious stares turning in our direction. “I mean, I can’t imagine that’s the question he really wants to ask me. Can you? We’ve only been going out a few months—”

“But when it’s right, it’s right,” Magda says, letting go of my waist to grab my arms instead, and give me a little shake. “Mr. Math is no dummy. Not like Cooper.”

That name again. I feel my cheeks heating up, as they seem to always do these days, whenever my landlord’s name is mentioned.

“So what are you going to say?” Magda wants to know. “You are going to say yes, right? Heather, you ca

I am poleaxed.

“You like Pete?” I stare at her, as dumbstruck as if she’d just admitted she’s a Scientologist with an invitation to join Tom and Katie on the spaceship when it shows up. “Our Pete? Sitting out there at the guard’s desk Pete? Widowed father of four Pete? Insatiable appetite for panadas Pete?”

“Very fu

“He’s still transfixed with grief?” I suggest. Although it’s more likely that Pete, like me, doesn’t have the slightest inkling that Magda has ever looked upon him as anything other than an amusing dining companion.

“Probably,” Magda says, with a shrug of her curvy shoulders. Then, because a resident with an advanced state of bed head has come stumbling into the cafeteria, his meal card extended, she hurries back to her stool, takes the card, swipes it, and with a “Look at my little movie star! Have a nice brunch, honey,” hands it back to the student, then says to me, “Now. Where were we?”

“Wait a minute.” I still ca

Magda shrugs. “Maybe if I had strapped panadas to my chest I’d have had more luck.”

“Magda.” I am still in shock. “Did you ever… I don’t know. Think about asking him out?”

“Oh, I asked him out,” Magda says. “Plenty of times.”

“Wait. Where? Where did you guys go?”

“To ball games,” Magda says, indignantly. “And to the bar—”

“To the Stoned Crow?” I cry. “Magda! Going out for drinks after work doesn’t count as a date. And going to college basketball games—especially with a basketball fanatic like you—doesn’t count, either. You probably spent the entire time screaming at the refs. No wonder he didn’t get the message. I mean, did you ever tell him?”

“Tell him what?”

“That you like him.”

Magda says something in Spanish and makes the sign of the cross. Then she says, “Why would I do that?”

“Because that might be the only way a guy like Pete is ever going to realize that you like him as more than a friend, and, you know”—I shrug—“take it to the next level. Did you ever think of that?”

Magda holds out her hand, palm toward me. “Please. It’s done, all right? I don’t want to talk about it. It didn’t happen. I moved on. Let’s get back to you.”

I glare at her some more. Right. She’s moved on. Like my cellulite has moved on.