"You think whoever killed that girl acted alone?" the detective wanted to know. "You think the murderer and his accomplices all snuck in past a guard who is paid to keep people from sneaking in?"

"Some of his accomplices could live in the building," I pointed out. "That could be how they got the key...."

Detective Canavan gave me a sour look. Then he went on to inform me that he and his fellow investigators were already aware of Doug Winer's relationship with the victim, and that I should-in fancy detective-speak-b.u.t.t out, a sentiment that was echoed by a still-steaming Cooper on our way home.

I tried to explain to him about Magda and her request-that Lindsay's character need not be a.s.sa.s.sinated during the investigation into her death-but this only resulted in Cooper's pointing out that beautiful girls who love too much, as Lindsay appeared to have done, often meet unpleasant ends.

Which really only served to ill.u.s.trate Magda's point.

Cooper, however, was of the opinion that if the shoe fit, Lindsay was going to have to wear it. To which I replied, "Sure. If anyone could find her foot."

Our parting, at the front door of Fischer Hall, was not what anyone would reasonably call amicable. Thus the need for steak before I introduced the topic of my father.

"I have to go home and walk my dog," I say to my boss, making one last effort to get out of what I just know is going to be an evening filled with hilarity. Not.

"Fine," Tom says. "But be back here by six. Hey, don't give me that look. You were at the 'Budget Office'"-He makes air quotes with his fingers-"for two hours this morning, and I didn't say anything about it, did I?"

I make a face at him but don't protest further, because he's got a point. He could have busted me for my disappearing act earlier in the day, but he didn't. Possibly he's the coolest boss in the world. Except for the part where he wants to quit and go back to Texas, where girls apparently don't get decapitated in their residence hall cafeteria.

Having to attend this mandatory dinner and game is putting a serious crimp in my groveling plans. But when I get home to let Lucy out, I see that Cooper's not around, anyway. The message light on the machine is blinking, and when I press PLAY, I realize why Coop might be avoiding home. I hear Jordan's voice, saying irritably, "Don't think you can just hang up on me like that, Cooper, and that it's all over. Because it's not. You have a real opportunity here to show the family that you can be a stand-up fellow. Don't blow it."

Wow. Stand-up fellow. No wonder Cooper hung up on him.

Poor Cooper. Having me around has put a real crimp in his resolve never to speak to his family again. I mean, considering that my living with him basically drives Jordan crazy. So instead of ignoring his black sheep brother, as he might have were I not around, Jordan instead focuses inordinate amounts of attention on trying to figure out what's going on between us.

Which, sadly, is nothing.

But I don't have a problem with Jordan thinking otherwise. The only problem, of course, is that it's highly unlikely Cooper is ever going to fall in love with me if he's constantly being harangued about me by his brother. That, and my annoying tendency nearly to get myself killed all the time, has to be extremely off-putting. Not to mention the fact that he's seen me in sweats.

There are no other messages on the machine-not even, weirdly, from my dad, though he'd said he was going to call. A quick scan of New York One shows the meteorologist still talking about this blizzard we're supposed to get-now it's hovering somewhere over Pennsylvania. I lace on my Timberlands, fully expecting that I'll just be taking them off later that night without having encountered a flake of snow. On the plus side, at least my feet will get gross and sweaty from wearing snow boots inside a hot, crowded gymnasium.

Back outside, I'm hurrying around the corner to Fischer Hall when I spy Reggie conducting a transaction with someone in a Subaru. I wait politely for him to finish, then smile as he approaches.

"Business is picking up," I observe.

"Because this storm they predicted is holding off," Reggie agrees. "If we're lucky, it will pa.s.s us by completely."

"From your lips to the weather G.o.d's ears," I say. Then, pushing aside my-only slightly-guilty conscience, since I knew I was about to do something both Cooper and Detective Canavan wouldn't like (but really, if either of them would show just a modic.u.m of respect for the deceased, I wouldn't feel obligated. I mean, how come guys who have a lot of s.e.x are considered players, while girls who have a lot of s.e.x are considered s.l.u.ts?), I continue, "Listen, Reggie. What do you know about a kid named Doug Winer?"

Reggie looks blank. "Never heard of him. Should I have?"

"I don't know," I say. "He appears to be Big Man on Campus. He lives over at one of the fraternities."

"Ah," Reggie says knowingly. "A party kid."

"Is that what they're calling them these days?"

"That's what I call them," Reggie says, looking mildly amused. "Anyway, I haven't heard of him. But then, party kids and me? We travel in vastly different social circles."

"Probably not as different as you might think," I say, thinking about the marijuana haze hanging over the Tau Phi Epsilon pool table. "But will you ask around about him, anyway?"

"For you, Heather?" Reggie gives a courtly bow. "Anything. You think this boy has something to do with the young lady who lost her head?"

"Possibly," I say carefully, conscious of Detective Canavan's threat about the litigiousness of Doug's father.

"I'll see what I can do," Reggie says. Then he knits his brow. "Where are you going? Back to work? They're making you keep very long hours this week."

"Please," I say, rolling my eyes. "Don't even get me started."

"Well," Reggie says, "if you need a little pick-me-up..."

I glare at him. "Reggie."

"Never mind," Reggie says, and drifts away.

Back at Fischer Hall, the excitement about the staff's Dinner and B-Ball Game With the President is palpable. Not. In fact, entirely the opposite is true. Most of the staff are milling around the lobby looking disgruntled. The cafeteria staff-day shift-are being particularly vocal in their protest that, as this is a mandatory function, they should be receiving overtime pay for it. Gerald, their boss, is maintaining that they're getting a free meal out of it, so they should just shut up. Understandably, his employees seem to feel that eating the food they helped prepare in the cafeteria they help maintain and which was, just the day before, the sight of a grisly murder is not as great a treat as he seems to feel it is.

It's odd to see the maintenance staff out of uniform. I barely recognize Carl, the chief engineer, in his leather jacket and jeans (and multiple gold neck chains). Head housekeeper Julio and his nephew Manuel are almost unrecognizable in sports coats and ties. Apparently they went home to change before coming back.

And Pete, out of his security uniform, looks like any other father of five...harried, rumpled, and anxious about what the kids are up to back home. His cell phone is glued to his ear, and he's saying, "No, you have to take them out of the can first. You can't microwave SpaghettiOs still in the can. No, you can't. No, you-See? What did I tell you? Why don't you listen to Daddy?"

"This," I say, coming up to Magda, who is resplendent as usual in tight white jeans and a gold lame sweater (the school colors), "sucks."

But there are bright spots of color in each of Magda's cheeks...and not the painted-on kind, either.

"I'm seeing so many more of my little movie stars, though," she says excitedly, "than come in during the day!"

It's true that the dinner hour is the most highly attended meal of the day at Fischer Hall. And it looks as if the president's decision to set an example, by boldly taking a tray to the hot food line and choosing the turkey with gravy, has had an impact: the residents are trickling in, getting over their skittishness about eating in Death Dorm.

Or maybe they just want to see the president's expression when he takes a bite of the caf's (in) famous potatoes au gratin.

Tom sidles up to me, looking grim-faced. A second later, I notice why. Gillian Kilgore is following him, looking unnaturally perky.

"See, wasn't this a good idea?" she asks, looking at everyone milling around the tray cart, trying to grab forks and knives. "This shows that you all have some real bonding in the workplace. Now the healing can begin."

"Apparently n.o.body told her attendance is mandatory," Tom whispers to me as he slips into line behind me.

"Are you kidding me?" I whisper back. "This had to have been all her idea. You think the president came up with this one on his own?"

Tom glances over his shoulder back at Dr. Kilgore. She's at the salad bar, checking out her lettuce options (iceberg and...iceberg). "Evil," Tom says, with a shudder.

We're joined, a second later, by a panting Sarah. "Thanks for telling me," she says sarcastically to Tom, as she slides her empty tray next to his.

"Sarah," Tom says, "this is just for full-time staff, not students."

"Oh, right," Sarah says. "Because we're second-cla.s.s citizens? We don't get to share in the therapeutic benefits of bonding together over shared pain? Was that Kilgore's idea? Excluding the student workers? G.o.d, that is so typical of a Freudian-"

"Shut up," Tom says, "and eat."

We find a table at what we consider a safe distance from the president's and start to sit down, but President Allington catches us.

"Over here," he says, waving to Tom. "Come sit over here by us, Scott."

"Tom," Tom corrects him nervously. "It's, um, Tom Snelling, sir."

"Right, right," the president says, and beside him, Dr. Jessup-who clearly felt it important to show support for Dr. Allington's plan and was attending both the dinner and game with the Fischer Hall staff-points out, "Tom's the director of Fischer Hall, Phillip."

But it's futile. President Allington isn't listening.

"And you're Mary, right?" he says to me.

"Heather," I say, wishing there was a hole nearby I could crawl into. "Remember me? From that time in the penthouse, when you used to live here in Fischer Hall?"

His eyes glaze over. President Allington doesn't like being reminded of that day, nor does his wife, who rarely, if ever, comes into the city from their summer home in the Hamptons anymore because of it.

"Right, right," President Allington says, as Dr. Kilgore joins us with her tray, apparently not noticing she is being followed by an angry-faced Sarah. "Well, I think we all know each other-"

"Excuse us, President Allington?"

Five cheerleaders are lined up in front of our table, all staring at the president.

"Uh," he says, looking anxiously at Dr. Kilgore, as if for a.s.sistance. Then, remembering he's supposed to have a reputation for being accessible to the students, Dr. Allington attempts a smile and says, "h.e.l.lo, girls. What can I do for you?"

Beside the president, Coach Andrews heaves a sigh and lays down his fork.

"Look, girls," he says to them slowly, clearly continuing a conversation that had started elsewhere, "we already discussed this. And the answer is-"

"We aren't talking to you," Cheryl Haebig says, a slight flush rising on her cheeks. Still, she holds her ground. "We're talking to President Allington."

The president glances from the girls to the coach and back again.

"What's this all about, Steve?" he wants to know.

"They want to retire Lindsay's cheerleading sweater," Coach Andrews says, beneath his breath.

"They want to what?" President Allington looks confused.

"Let me handle this," Coach Andrews says. To the girls in front of the table, he says, "Ladies, I feel as bad as all of you do about Lindsay. Really, I do. But the thing is, I think a formal memorial service, with input from Lindsay's family-"

"Her family's all here tonight," Megan McGarretty-Room 1410-informs him tersely. For such a tiny thing, she looks pretty intimidating, with her arms folded across the big letter P on her chest, and one hip jutting out like a warning. "And they don't want a memorial service. They're expecting somebody to say something tonight at the game."

"Oh." President Allington's eyes widen. "I'm not sure that would be appropriate."

"You can't just pretend like it didn't happen," Hailey Nichols-Room 1714-declares.

"Yeah," Cheryl Haebig says, her luminous brown eyes swimming with tears. "'Cause we won't let Lindsay be forgotten. She was as much a part of your team as any of the boys."

"I believe we all recognize that," Dr. Kilgore says, trying to come to the president's rescue. "But-"

"If any of the boys on the team died," Tiffany Parmenter-Megan's roommate-interrupts, "you'd retire his number. You'd hang his jersey from the rafters, along with the championship banners."

"Er." Dr. Kilgore appears flummoxed by this. "That is certainly true, girls. But basketball players are athletes, and-"

"Are you saying cheerleaders aren't athletes, Dr. Kilgore?" Sarah's voice is icy.

"C-certainly not," Dr. Kilgore stutters. "Only that-"

"So why can't you retire Lindsay's sweater?" Hailey wants to know, her blond ponytail swinging in emphasis of her words. "Why can't you?"

I glance at Kimberly Watkins to see if she's going to chime in, but she remains uncharacteristically silent. All five girls are in their cheerleading uniforms, white sweaters with gold letter P's on the fronts, and very short, pleated gold and white skirts. They have on flesh-colored hose beneath their skirts, and white footies with fuzzy gold b.a.l.l.s on the back of them. Their white sneakers are by Reebok and their hair color almost unanimously by Sun-In. Except Kimberly's, which is dark as midnight.

"Look." Coach Andrews looks tired. There are dark circles under his eyes. "It's not the jerseys themselves we retire when a player dies. It's the player's number. And Lindsay didn't have a number. We can't retire an article of clothing."

"Why not?"

All eyes turn toward Manuel, who, from the table he's sharing with his uncle and various other members of the custodial staff, blinks back.

"Why not?" he asks again, as his uncle Julio, beside him, looks mortified with embarra.s.sment.

I glance around the table and happen to see Magda at the far end of it, watching the cheerleaders with a troubled gaze. I know what she's thinking without even having to ask. Because I'm thinking the same thing.

"I agree with Manuel," I hear myself say.

Of course, everyone turns to look at me. Which must be a relief to Manuel. But which causes me a certain amount of discomfort.

But I hold my ground.

"I think it could be a lovely gesture," I say. "If done tastefully."

"Oh, it will be," Cheryl a.s.sures us. "We already asked if the band can play the school song real slow. And we all chipped in and bought a wreath made out of gold and white roses. And I've got Lindsay's sweater, all nice and pressed."

I notice that everyone-including Dr. Jessup, the head of Housing-is staring at me.

But what's the big deal? It's just a stupid basketball game. Who cares if they-what is it again? Oh, yeah-retire a girl's sweater during it?

"I think it would be a touching tribute to a girl who had more Pansy spirit than just about anybody else in this school," I say to President Allington, who is still looking confused.

"But"-he looks worried-"the game is going to be televised. Live. The entire tri-state area will see Lindsay Combs's cheerleading sweater being retired."

"We'll be the laughingstock of college basketball," Coach Andrews mutters.

"And you're not already," I say, genuinely curious, "with a name like the Pansies?"

Coach Andrews looks sad. "True," he says. I'm sure when he was applying for coaching positions, he never dreamed he'd end up at a Division III school with a flower for a mascot.

He sighs, looking heavenward, and says, "It's all right with me if it's all right with President Allington."

The president looks startled-mostly because he's just taken a big bite of potatoes au gratin, and, from his expression, it's clear the bite included a big clump of flour.