“Tania Trace Rock Camp,” Stephanie says. She blinks at me. “Oh my God, you haven’t heard of it?”
I exchange a glance with Cooper after taking a sip from my water bottle. “We don’t really keep up with Jordan’s and Tania’s professional activities,” I say diplomatically.
“Tania Trace Rock Camp is an initiative started by Tania Trace,” Stephanie says, like she’s reading from a brochure, “to help empower young girls through music education. By providing them with opportunities to express themselves creatively through singing, songwriting, and performing, she’s building up the self-esteem and musical awareness of a whole new generation of young women who might otherwise, because of the way women are portrayed through the media, as sexual objects for men’s desire, develop negative self-images.”
“Wow,” I say, pleasantly surprised. This actually sounds really cool. I can’t believe Tania thought it up.
Then I realize Tania probably didn’t. A publicity team likely came up with the idea and approached her with it, or maybe it was commissioned by Cartwright Records, giving in to pressure from parents’ groups upset with Tania’s music videos, in which she’s usually scantily clothed and on top of a pool table.
Even so, it’s a great idea. Why didn’t I think of doing something like this back when I had the money for it and people would actually have shown up?
“Where is the camp?” I ask.
“At the beautiful Fairview Resort in the Catskills,” Stephanie says, still quoting from the brochure that appears to exist in her head. “We had over 200,000 applicants, but with Tania being pregnant, and the shooting schedule, not to mention the new record she’s working on, Tania has only so much time and energy to give, so we could really only accept fifty.”
Fifty? Out of 200,000? Well, I guess it’s something.
“And we could only accept girls whose families were willing to sign the waivers allowing them to be on the show,” Stephanie goes on.
Suddenly attending Tania Trace Rock Camp doesn’t sound so great after all.
My cell phone vibrates. I check it and see that Sarah is finally calling back. Relieved to have an excuse not to listen to Stephanie Brewer go on about her difficulties as a TV producer anymore, I beg everyone’s pardon, then get up from my chair to walk to the far side of the terrace so I can talk to Sarah in private.
“Hey, are you all right?” I ask her. “I was worried. I left like three messages.”
“No, I’m not all right,” she says crankily. “That’s why I didn’t pick up. What do you want?”
Whoa. I’m used to Sarah’s moods, but this is snippy, even for her.
“Are you crying?” I ask. “Because your voice sounds—”
“Yes,” Sarah says. “As a matter of fact, I am crying. Are you aware that someone called Protection to report an unconscious student and unauthorized party in the building?”
“Yes,” I say. “I am aware of that, actually, and I have it covered. Why are you crying?”
“I don’t see how you could have it covered when you aren’t here,” Sarah says, ignoring my question. “I understand you were here, but Simon says you left.”
“Oh,” I say. “You spoke with Simon?” I’m confused. “Is that why you’re crying? He didn’t try to blame you for the paintball war thing, did he? Because believe me, that was entirely—”
“I know Gavin and those stupid ballplayers cooked that up,” Sarah says sourly. “We rounded up all the paint guns, and I’ll make sure they get returned to the sports complex tomorrow. We couldn’t locate anyone unconscious, though. Everyone seems to be accounted for. Simon left after giving each of the Pansies his card and telling them they can call him any time with their personal problems.” A dry note has crept into Sarah’s voice.
“Oh God,” I say.
“Yes,” Sarah says. “You know Simon’s applied for the job of director of this building, right?”
“What?” I’ve already been hit with a paintball, found my staff drinking, and run into my ex-boyfriend and his new wife filming a reality show in the building where I work. I didn’t think things could get worse. But guess what? “No way. He’s got Wasser Hall, the crown jewel of residence halls. Why would he want to work here?”
“Uh,” Sarah says, in a cynical tone, “because he thinks it’ll look really good on his résumé to be the guy who pulled the dorm with the most deaths in it ever out from the depths of its misery. And it wouldn’t hurt to be here to help the president and the basketball team through Pansygate either. He’s an idiot, but he’s no fool.”
I say a word that I’m sure would be too dirty to air on Cartwright Records Television.
“Pretty much,” Sarah says. “Dr. Jessup’s reviewing his CV. Simon thinks he’s a shoo-in because he’s in-house. Anyway, do you have any idea why there’s an ambulance parked outside but the attendants are nowhere to be found? Could they have gone into a neighboring building? The guard at the desk insists they came in here with some guy, but the guard’s a temp and I don’t think he knows what he’s—”
“Sarah,” I interrupt. “I don’t want this to get around. You know how gossipy this department is. But I’m with the EMTs. They’re in the president’s apartment.”
“Oh.” Sarah’s tone changes. “Is everyone all right?”
“So far,” I say. “It’s no one related to New York College.”
“Really?” Sarah sounds less tearful. “It’s not—?”
I know what she’s about to ask—if it’s Mrs. Allington.
“No,” I say firmly. “Not even close. It has to do with Junior.” That’s our code name for Christopher.
“Oh God,” Sarah says, sounding disgusted. “I don’t want to know, do I?”
I look behind me. Through the French doors, I can see the EMTs putting away their equipment. Tania is looking a bit less forlorn. She’s even managing to smile a bit. Jordan is on his feet and shaking the female attendant’s hand.
“No,” I say to Sarah, turning around again. “You don’t want to know. So why were you crying?”