Golden in Death (In Death 50)

While the shower woke her the rest of the way, she rolled through her day’s schedule. She’d meet Peabody at the memorial to kick it off. Would the killer make an appearance or resist that moment of satisfaction?

A former student, a parent, a teacher, another administrator.

He or she would be in that pool. Nothing else made sense.

She tossed on a robe, walked back into the bedroom to find Roarke had, as predicted, figured it out faster.

But still.

She frowned at the jacket and slim-cut pants set out on the bed. “What color is that?”

“I believe it’s called fog.”

“But it has, like, a shine.”

“Sheen,” he corrected. “A faint sheen. That’s called power. And for today, a suit rather than separates adds another step of power. The monochromatic shirt and boots give you a sleek, unbroken look. You’ll wince and wear these little sapphire studs—subtle, understated—to polish it off.”

She did wince. “Maybe it’s too fancy.”

“It’s not at all fancy, but again, powerful. And with a simple, elegant cut that will serve as an excellent contrast when you begin kicking asses.”

“Hmm.” She hadn’t thought of that part, and found it appealing.

“Have your breakfast first. I’ve gone for a full Irish, as you’ll have a long day.”

She liked a full Irish, especially with another cup of coffee.

“You know, dealing with this whole school thing, getting a sense of how Grange ran it, how Rufty’s running it, it’s got me thinking about what you’re doing with An Didean.”

“What we’re doing.”

“I haven’t done jack compared—”

“Not at all true,” he interrupted. “You had input, and you gave me very important ideas on what not to do based on your experience. On what should be done.”

“Well, anyway. Other than the scholarship kids, or kids from parents who saved like maniacs, Gold’s a school for the privileged. Maybe more diverse economically since Rufty, but a private academy’s primarily for rich kids whose parents want the status and the potential leg up into Ivy League. Nothing wrong with that, but…”

She thought about it as she ate. “An Didean’s for kids who’ve probably already had some hard knocks, kids who wouldn’t have a chance at the scope of the education and experience. Not just the, you know, math and science and language, all that, but the music, the arts, the nice rooms, the counseling. Scope’s the word. It’s a big scope. It’s not going to take for some of them. That’s not my cynical mind,” she added. “It’s just reality.”

“I know it.”

“But it will for most of them, and for a lot of the mos

t it’s going to change their reality. And I’m going to have that in mind when I talk to some of these spoiled rich kids today.”

“I’ve met some rich kids in my time, some trust-fund babies. Not all of them are gits or greedy bastards. Some do good works, and even if some of the some do it for image or tax breaks, the results are the same.”

She considered as she munched on bacon. “Bella’s going to grow up a rich kid, but with parents like Mavis and Leonardo, she’ll never be a dick about it.”

“She won’t,” Roarke agreed. “Nor will the one they have coming along.”

She polished off the full Irish. “That’s why I’m also going to look at the parents of the rich kids.”

“The apple and the tree?”

“What about them?” she asked as she got up to dress.

“How the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”