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Overview
Investigating a murder was never in her job description, but with her soon-to-be-college-bound boy Nate a prime suspect, Rannie has little choice. Besides, who better to dot all the "i"s and cross all the "t"s than a self-proclaimed "language cop"? Her diligence might even lead her to a brand-new love. Or to a killer. Or to another corpse—hopefully not her own.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780061240867 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | HarperCollins |
| Publication date: | 07/31/2007 |
| Series: | Closet Sleuth , #1 |
| Edition description: | Reissue |
| Pages: | 368 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.30(w) x 7.90(h) x 1.00(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Dangerous Admissions
Secrets of a Closet Sleuth
Chapter One
Mid-October, Tuesday morning
S.W.A.K. Killer Strikes Again: Perv Murderer Stalks Upper West Side blared the headline of the Post lying on the front seat of the Jag.
Olivia Werner shuddered and fired up a Parliament. What a complete sicko, leaving lipstick kiss marks on his victims after slitting their throats. The only reason her parents had James chauffeuring her to school was because all the bodies had been found near Chaps. Olivia wasn't complaining: She got an extra half hour to sleep, and more importantly she could smoke. You could hardly do that anywhere in this city anymore.
Accelerating through a yellow light, the car shot across Fifth Avenue and into the transverse at 85th Street. She'd make it to school in time to catch Mr. Tut before some other senior having a panic attack got to him.
Last night her mother had barged into her room while Olivia was sewing. As soon as Olivia said, "No, Mom, I don't want to 'brainstorm' essay ideas now," her mother dropped her eager, helpful smile and went on a rant about the Princeton application being due in two weeks.
"Mom, please. Face it. I'm not going to get in."
Being a double legacy didn't mean squat, not with her SAT scores and not when four brainiacs in the class were applying early. One of them—William Van Voorhees III—was claiming to be African-American because his grandfather came from Capetown. But that was Chaps kids for you, working every angle.
Olivia wanted to go to the Fashion Institute of Technology. Mr. Tutwiler understood. In fact, he"applauded her sense of direction." Those were his exact words. "Fashion does matter," he agreed. "The way we dress is the face we present to the world. With the exception of clothes, so little about our appearance is of our own choosing."
If a man over eighty got it, how come her parents didn't? At Werner family conferences, her mom's standard reply was: "We didn't send Olivia to Chaps for thirteen years so she'd end up in the Garment District."
The car pulled to the curb at 103rd Street and Riverside Drive. Shouldering her backpack, Olivia hurried through the gates of Chapel School—Chaps—a glowering, turreted hulk the color of chewed gum. She banged on the front doors until the guard let her in.
It was eerily silent in the Great Hall, a massive space that soared thirty feet to a barrel-vaulted ceiling. But in another fifteen minutes black Town Cars would be lined up outside, two and three deep, and seven hundred Chapel School students would come swarming through the doors, Lower and Middle School kids in Chaps uniforms, Upper School kids in anything that marginally passed Dress Code.
Her dad had gone to Chaps, class of '76, and complained about how the school had "changed," which Olivia understood wasn't about Chaps being coed or the way kids dressed. It was some sort of nasty code word for the fact that now the high school was twenty-five percent minority kids on scholarship. It killed her parents that practically all of them were guaranteed a spot at the Ivy of their choice.
From the Great Hall she crossed over to a neighboring brownstone known as the Annex. No need to check the wall directory; Olivia knew exactly where to find A. Lawrence Tutwiler, Director of College Admissions.
He was a Chapel School institution, the college advisor since way before either Chaps or any of the Ivies had gone coed. In a cover story last spring, New York Magazine had crowned him King Tut because he carried so much weight with college admissions offices. A lot of kids hated him. He didn't care who your parents were or how much money they promised your first-choice college. He could spot an application essay written by a high-priced tutor from the opening sentence. Some shrink suddenly claimed you were ADD and needed to take the SATs untimed? Uh uh. Didn't fly with Tut. It was one of the reasons Olivia liked him so much: Tut cut through the bullshit, judged you fair and square for what you'd accomplished at Chaps, and he let colleges know it.
In the Annex reception area, the new headmaster was talking to a couple whose little girl was sitting on the sofa, a half-naked Barbie on her lap. Obviously here to tour the school. Kindergarten had been so great; it was senior year that sucked. Olivia had loved school when she was little, everything about it—the school bus, lunch in the cafeteria, class trips, even the heinous maroon uniform. Her teachers had loved every single one of her art projects. Some were still displayed in the Lower School hallways.
As Olivia took the stairs to Tut's office, she worked at a hangnail on her thumb until it started bleeding. The Princeton application was in her backpack, the only part still blank was the space for the personal essay. Tell us about something meaningful to you, it asked. Surprise us. Pick a topic that only you can write about.
"Your brother's in rehab," Lily G. had said. "Just say how you want to devote your life to crack babies or something."
"She's right," Lily B. agreed. "Calm down."
What the Lilys didn't know (and never would) was that lately the only way she could calm down and get to sleep was by masturbating. Coming always left her feeling peaceful, almost with a sense of well-being—it worked way better than the Ambien her mother was quick to offer. So how about "Teenage Girls Jerk Off, Too!" for her Princeton essay? Couldn't get more personal than that.
The door to Tut's office was shut, which probably meant he wasn't in. A floor below, she could hear the chirpy voice of the little girl, but on the other side of the office door, total silence like during an exam.
Sucking her bleeding cuticle, Olivia peeked through the little window in the door. Tut was there; she could make out the bulk of his head and shoulders through the wavy glass.
Dangerous AdmissionsSecrets of a Closet Sleuth. Copyright © by Jane O'Connor. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.