Alma Mater Read online

  Books by Rita Mae Brown

  with Sneaky Pie Brown

  WISH YOU WERE HERE

  REST IN PIECES

  MURDER AT MONTICELLO

  PAY DIRT

  MURDER, SHE MEOWED

  MURDER ON THE PROWL

  CAT ON THE SCENT

  SNEAKY PIE'S COOKBOOK FOR MYSTERY LOVERS

  PAWING THROUGH THE PAST

  CLAWS AND EFFECT

  Books by Rita Mae Brown

  THE HAND THAT CRADLES THE ROCK

  SONGS TO A HANDSOME WOMAN

  THE PLAIN BROWN RAPPER

  RUBYFRUIT JUNGLE

  IN HER DAY

  SIX OF ONE

  SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT

  SUDDEN DEATH

  HUGH HEARTS

  STARTING FROM SCRATCH: A DIFFERENT KIND OF WRITERS' MANUAL

  BINGO

  VENUS ENVY

  DOLLEY: A NOVEL OF DOLLEY MADISON IN LOVE AND WAR

  RIDING SHOTGUN

  RITA WILL: MEMOIR OF A LITERARY RABBLE-ROUSER

  LOOSE LIPS

  OUTFOXED

  ALMA MATER

  RITA MAE BROWN

  BALLANTINE BOOKSNEW YORK

  A Ballantine Book

  The Ballantine Publishing Group

  Copyright © 2001 by American Artists, Inc.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American

  Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by

  The Ballantine Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc.,

  New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House

  of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Ballantine and colophon are registered

  trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2002093141

  ISBN 0-345-45532-0

  Cover design by Dreu Pennington-McNeil

  Cover photo © Claire Hayden/Stone

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Hardcover Edition: November 2001

  First Trade Paperback Edition: November 2002

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

  THIS NOVEL IS DEDICATED TO

  BAD GIRLS,

  BECAUSE

  GOOD GIRLS GO TO HEAVEN, BUT

  BAD GIRLS GO EVERYWHERE.

  I

  f knowledge were acquired by carrying books around, I'd be the sharpest tool in the shed, Vic thought as she carted the last load up three flights of stairs on a hot summer day.

  Sweat rolled between her breasts. Light poured into the rooms, the windows thrown open to catch any hope of a breeze. As she placed the carton on top of the old kitchen table, it swayed ever so slightly from the weight.

  "Dammit!" a voice complained from outside.

  Vic walked to the kitchen window that overlooked a well-maintained yard. A small creek bordered one side of the property, a line of thick pines„obscuririg the view into the neighbor's yard.

  Vic leaned out her window and listened to the sounds of struggle and fury. She trotted down the stairs, jumped the creek, and emerged through the pines. A young woman perhaps five feet five inches tall, blonde, her back turned to Vic, was cussing a blue streak while trying to slide an old dresser from the back of an equally old Mercedes station wagon.

  "Need a hand?" Vic's low alto startled the woman.

  She turned around. "You scared the shit out of me!" Her voice betrayed Pennsylvania origins.

  "Sorry." Vic smiled. "I'm your neighbor. Vic Savedge. Come on, we'll get the dresser out and we can carry it up together."

  "I'm Chris Carter." The woman held out her hand.

  Both women smiled and shook hands.

  Then Vic removed the dresser with one pull.

  "How'd you do that?"

  "Patience. You lost yours," Vic sensibly replied.

  "Guess I did." Then she slyly added, "Anyone ever tell you you're big and strong?"

  "Every day. And it doesn't get them anywhere." Vic laughed. "But in your case, seeing as how I have to live next to you for the year, I'll carry this up."

  Chris struggled to pick up one end. "This thing is awkward." She blinked to keep the sweat out.

  "Put it down," Vic commanded.

  "Why?"

  "Just put it down," Vic repeated. "You go ahead of me and open the doors."

  "You aren't going to carry that up by yourself, are you?"

  "It'll be easier than trying to maneuver you and the dresser." Vic hoisted the bird's-eye maple dresser on her back, bent over, and started up the back stairs of the Olsen house. Chris's apartment was at the top of that house just as Vic's apartment was at the top of the DeReuter house. She gladly put down her burden when she reached the top of the last flight, breathed deeply, then picked it up again and headed toward the bedroom. Chris led the way, apologizing with every step. Vic placed the dresser against the wall.

  "There."

  "Thank you. Really. I can't thank you enough."

  "A Co' Cola would help." Vic wiped her brow, droplets of sweat spraying off her fingertips.

  Chris's kitchen was graced with newer appliances than were in Vic's kitchen. She opened the refrigerator door, pulled out a cold can of Coke, grabbed a glass with dancing polar bears on it, dropped in ice cubes, and poured the soda. Then she repeated the process for herself.

  "They taste better over ice."

  Vic gulped hers down. "True."

  "Here, you need another one." Chris popped open another can and poured its contents into Vic's glass. Her eyes met Vic's for a second. Vic had green eyes, deep electric green. Set against her black hair, her eyes could be almost hypnotic. "You have the most incredible eyes."

  Vic laughed. "It runs in the family. So does the height—my mother's six-one, too." Then she studied Chris. "Well, you've got brown eyes and blonde hair and you're petite. I bet everyone tells you you're pretty, it's a beautiful combination. Do you listen to them?"

  "Never. Do you?"

  "No, I don't want to be known for how I look but for what I do." "If we were both butt-ugly we'd probably feel different."

  They laughed; then Vic said, "What year are you?"

  "Junior. I'm a transfer from the University of Vermont. It's a good school, but I never knew how much I hated cold weather until I wound up in Vermont. Fall starts in August. I think you have to be born to it, you know?"

  "I don't know. I've never been to Vermont. The farthest north I've been was to visit Cornell but it was during summer."

  "Same difference. Fall starts there in August, too." She finished her drink. "Are you moved in?"

  "Yes," Vic said with relief. "I'd just put the last carton of books on the table when I heard you."

  "Was I that loud?" Chris's hand flew to her mouth, an unexpectedly feminine gesture.

  "Uh-huh."

  "It could have been worse. I could have yelled 'fuck.'"

  Vic laughed again. "One of two things would have happened: Every old biddy on the street would have fainted dead or the men would have come running, hoping you meant it."

  Chris wrinkled her nose. "Neither prospect sounds very appetizing." She took the glass from Vic's hand. "What year are you?" "Senior."

  "Lucky dog."

  "I guess. I still have to get through it. Don't count your chickens,

  et cetera." She walked over to the sink as Chris washed out the two glasses. "Do you know anyone at William and Mary?"

  "Not really. I fell in love with the school and figured I'd make friends."

  "You're in luck. I have wonderful friends. If you're really good to me, you can meet them."

  "I'm pretty damn good," Chris replied.

  W

  ell, there she was, your little sister, her midriff bulging nasty white, a pai
r of pedal pushers—yes, pedal pushers—tottering on open-toed wedgies that Carmen Miranda must

  have cast off on her way back to Brazil. I can't take her anywhere." R. J. ...

  Savedge, Vic's mother, lit up her Lucky Strike, unfiltered, and then just as quickly stubbed it out. "I am giving these goddammned things up." 'This was followed by a mournful "But how?" as she instantly lit up another.

  "Mother, it's expensive to stub them out like that."

  R. J. shot back a look, then softened. "Of course, you're quite right. I can't stand that I don't have the willpower. They taste so-o-o good."

  People could not remain immune to the mind-numbing beauty of Vic or her mother, carbon copies-of one another separated by twenty years. The difference was that Vic was still working out her style; R. J.4 had perfected hers.

  Rachel Jolleyn Vance Savedge was R. J.'s full name. Vance, her maiden name, was the middle name she_bequeathed to Vic, Victoria Vance Savedge. The Savedge women could make you forget all about the Ten Commandments or the fact that your wife might be packing a .38.

  "Mother, why don't you buy Mignon some clothes?"

  "Your younger sister remains in the chrysalis. I am not wasting money on a fat caterpillar who I ,devoutly hope—no, I pray—will emerge as a butterfly. God, I hope she doesn't take after the Catlett side of the family." She exhaled a plume of heron-blue smoke. "In that case, she'll stay a fat caterpillar."

  "Mom." Vic laughed.

  "It's true. Look at your aunt Bunny." R. J.'s sister was younger by two years and pudgier by fifteen pounds, although not a bad-looking woman at all.

  "Too many potato chips."

  ''Sublimation."

  "1 thought you didn't believe in psychology."

  "I don't, but I'll use anything to make my point," R. J. said. "She worries too much about what Don is doing."

  Don was Bunny's husband, who possessed a wandering eye. The rest of him wandered right along with it.

  "Maybe if I take her, Mignon will buy some clothes."

  R. J. paused, cigarette glowing orange in midair. "We haven't any money, dear. Your father has lost it all again."

  "Oh, Mom. I'm sorry."

  "Me, too." She smiled tightly. "Thank God you earn your money. And you will marry brilliantly." She leaned across the kitchen table. "Charly Harrison."

  "Mother." Vic hated being pushed, although she expected (as did everyone around her) that Charly Harrison would ask her to marry him before their senior year was over. And it would be a brilliant match. The Harrisons of Charles City, Virginia, had produced one president of the United States, and they luxuriated in pots of money. The Harrison money appealed to R. J. far more than their lineage. Her pedigree was equally impressive—minus the president.

  R. J., a born-and-bred Virginian, knew the value of bloodlines and believed, up to a point, that breeding people was no different from breeding horses. Breed the best to the best and hope for the best. But money mattered far more than the old Virginia families cared to admit.

  If nothing else, Yankees were totally honest in their pursuit of

  wealth. And for this lack of subtlety, of course, no Virginian could ever forwive them.

  "Well, naturally, I long for your happiness, for a full and fulfilled Illy. And for Mignon, too. Marrying well is a step in that direction." "You didn't," Vic put it bluntly to her mother.

  "No. I married for love, and look where it got me." She smiled olowly, "And I still love your father. He gambles. Oh, it's the stock mnrket, so that makes it somehow acceptable, but I don't see that it's any different from the boys out at Goswells betting on cocks. At least cot. kfighting has the prospect of being more exciting than gray little numbers."

  "I have a little money put aside. I could get Mignon some clothes."

  "Vic, you're a love, but no. For one thing, she really must lose this baby fat. I don't care if I have to wrap her in Grandma Catlett's old house dresses until she drops the tonnage. That ought to give her incentive. In the meantime I shall squander what slender resources are at my disposal on cigarettes and roses. I don't think my garden has ever looked so thrilling as it does this year."

  The sound of footsteps on the stair landing interrupted their conversation.

  Vic got up and opened the door before the caller had time to knock. "Come on in."

  "I'm sorry. I didn't know you had company." Chris backed away. "My esteemed mother. Really, come on in. Mother loves an audience. You'll be new ears for all her stories."

  Chris stepped over the threshold, noticing how bare Vic's apart-

  ment was. A kitchen table, four chairs. That was all she could see. "Mother, this is Chris Carter. Chris, my mother, R. J. Savedge, the

  reigning beauty of Virginia's Southside."

  Chris walked over to shake hands with R. J., who, as befitted her station, did not rise but extended her hand.

  "I'm pleased to meet any friend of my daughter's."

  "Sit down. It's my turn to give you a Coke." Vic placed a glass filled with ice cubes in front of Chris. The cold can quickly followed. "Mother, do you want a refill?"

  "No, thank you. But you may clean the ashtray."

  Come on, girls. I know how much you eat at your age. I'm famished, and I've learned better than to expect any food here. Which reminds me, dear, you'd best come home this weekend, if you can."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Bring Chris." R. J. paused, casting her eyes over Vic's jeans and cutoff T-shirt. "You aren't going out like that, are you?"

  "Mother, it's fine. We aren't going to church."

  R. J. airily called over her shoulder as they descended the stairs, "Daughters were born to break their mothers' hearts."

  T

  here's someone just wonderful out there waiting for you. He might even be on this campus," Vic said. "Puh-lease," Jinx Baptista said, wrinkling her nose.

  Vic wrapped her arm around Jinx's waist as they walked through the quad. Charly Harrison flanked Vic's right side, his arm around her waist.

  Being Vic's best friend could be a trial for a girl. Jinx bore it as best she could, having recognized since childhood that all eyes would seize upon Vic first.

  "Someone intelligent. He'd have to be intelligent to keep up with you, Jinx," Charly said.

  "And well hung." Vic giggled.

  Jinx winked at Vic. "Your mother didn't raise you right."

  "I'm not listening. I'm too sensitive." Charly's voice mocked them both.

  They were strolling through campus and into town, where shops festooned in green and yellow welcomed back the students as an influx of gilded locusts each fall.

  Jinx returned to the topic of the absence of men in her life. "Charly, men don't like intelligent women. I've been thinking about what you said."

  "What did I say?"

  "That a man would have to be intelligent to keep up with me."

  "Oh." He stepped between the women to place a hand in the small of each woman's back as he escorted them across the road safely to the other side. "Well, he would."

  "And I'm saying men don't like intelligent women."

  "Jinx, come on." Vic rolled her eyes.

  "It's true."

  "Vic is intelligent." Charly said this with conviction.

  "Oh, bull—you'd love her if she were as dumb as a sack of hammers." "I would not." A tiny, indignant wrinkle crossed his tanned brow. "You'd still be sexually attracted to her."

  He looked at Jinx. "Probably. But I wouldn't love her. If she didn't have a brain, I'd get bored eventually."

  "For some men, 'eventually' lasts years," Vic teased him.

  "You two are scratching for a fight. Come on, women can be just as superficial about looks as men."

  "That's true," Vic agreed with Charly, "but they don't have as much opportunity to exercise it."

  "My mother thinks it's true what they say about women using sex to get love, and men using love to get sex. I think I agree with her."

  "Jinx, since when have you ever agreed with yo
ur mother?" Vic said, punching Jinx on the arm.

  "I am now." Jinx returned her attention to Charly. "Do you remember the first time you saw Victoria?"

  "Sunken garden behind the Wren Building. I spent the whole next week looking for her. I asked everyone I knew if they knew her or had ever seen her."

  "She could have been mentally defective, you wouldn't have cared." Jinx pretended to be horrified at his shallowness.