“Where have you been?” asked Anna Brackett, Ginger Wainwright’s second-in-command at Temp Zone. She caught him trying to sneak into his cubbyhole of an office after surreptitiously managing to rinse and towel off his face and underarms in the hall bathroom.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” James said. He liked Anna, and if he were inclined to share the morning’s events with anyone, it would be her.
“Try me,” she said, gently lobbing a steaming mug of coffee from one hand to the other.
“Isobel Spice,” he began.
Anna smiled broadly. “Our very own temporary detective.”
“Yeah, well, she’s at it again. Some guy died of a heart attack at Dove & Flight this morning.”
Anna gasped. “You’ve got to be kidding!”
“She called me at the gym, so I raced over there. I mean, after the last time, I sort of expected the worst.”
“Who was it?”
“Some client of theirs. It doesn’t seem to be suspicious in any way, but Isobel was freaked out, so I went down there.”
Anna sniffed cautiously. “And skipped the shower?”
“Either I stay and stink, or you let me go home.”
“I can give you a guest pass for my gym. New York Sports, around the corner,” Anna said. “You want to zip over there now?”
“You sure you don’t mind?”
“I’d mind more if you didn’t.”
“That would be great,” James said, relieved.
“I was expecting it to be a madhouse today. You know, Monday mornings. But it’s been pretty quiet.” Anna sighed into her coffee cup and took a sip. “Poor Isobel. First that horrible secretary impaled with scissors, now some geezer keels over.”
“He wasn’t old,” James said, and immediately wished he hadn’t.
Anna’s eyes narrowed behind her red cat-eye frames. “He wasn’t? That’s a bit weird, don’t you think?”
“Not you, too,” James groaned. “Why do you women think a young guy having a heart attack is fishy?”
“Because it is. Call it intuition.”
“Well, I’m ignoring it.”
“Of course you are. Why should you be any different from the rest of your species?” Anna retorted and returned to her office.
No, no, no, James reassured himself. It was not homicide. It was a heart attack, pure and simple. Just like the medical examiner said.
Except that Jason Whiteley had always had a talent for attracting enemies. There was no reason to think anything had changed.
FIVE
Before Isobel could turn her key in the lock, her apartment door was flung open by Delphi Kramer, whose stunning masses of blond curls cascaded around her bare shoulders and into the plunging décolletage of a powder-blue brocaded bustier.
“‘Now, what news on the Rialto?’” Delphi demanded.
Isobel took in her roommate’s getup with a critical eye. “What happened to the pink one? I liked the pink one better.” She indicated the ruffles adorning the dainty three-quarter sleeve. “This is too much froufrou for you.” She walked through the open door into the L-shaped studio they shared.
“The pink was nice,” Delphi conceded, shutting the door behind Isobel, “but you have to agree, I’m not really a pink person. Something about the blue makes me feel like Helena in Midsummer. And it matches my eyes.”
Isobel threw off her coat and flopped down on the air mattress that was her haven, tucked under the window across the cramped room from Delphi’s perpetually rumpled daybed.
“I never thought I’d say this, but I miss the nose ring and the bangles,” said Isobel. “And your singing.”
“‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’”
“I mean it. You’ve become a real pain in the ass.”
“‘You hard-hearted adamant!’”
Isobel groaned. “What have you done, memorized the entire collected works?”
Delphi gave a devilish smile. “Just pithy sentences I can bandy about in everyday conversation.”
Isobel sighed in resignation. At times like this, she really did find herself longing for the Goth Delphi who had been ill-advisedly pursuing a career in musical theater when they’d first met. Delphi, realizing that Isobel’s classically-trained, full-bodied soprano was only one of many such competitive voices, had refocused her attentions on Shakespeare. Having rebelled for years against her natural Botticellian beauty, she had jettisoned the leather and silver jewelry, and immersed herself body, soul, language and wardrobe in the Bard.
“Besides, if you’re going to do the thing properly,” Isobel said, gesturing at Delphi’s lower half, “you should be wearing the bodice with a skirt, not Gap jeans.”
“But that would attract attention!”
Isobel snorted. “And this doesn’t?”
Delphi set her hands on her hips. “This is a synthesis of Elizabethan and modern styles, reflecting my identity as a contemporary Shakespearean actress.”
“Who doesn’t want to call attention to herself,” Isobel said drily.
“‘Mend my company. Take away thyself,’” retorted Delphi.
Isobel scowled. “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to kick you right in the Coriolanus.”
Delphi shook her curls imperiously. “It was Timon of Athens.”
“No, it was Cole Porter, but never mind,” said Isobel. “Can you please just be you again? I’ve been waiting all day to tell you what happened at work.”
Delphi checked her distinctly modern Swatch, whose orange plaid wristband argued angrily with the blue bodice. “Talk quickly. We lost three actors for King John, and I’m monitoring the replacement auditions, so I can’t be late.”
Fine, thought Isobel. You asked for it.
“A client was murdered.”
Delphi gasped. “‘Hell is empty, and all the devils are here!’”
“Delphi!”
“Sorry, sorry! It was too perfect.”
Isobel pulled at a loose string on her pillowcase. “The thing is, it doesn’t look like murder, but my gut tells me it is.”
Delphi held up a hand. “Just tell me that even though you’re the common element here, you don’t make people die wherever you go. Because, I swear, if you are, I’m moving out.”
“It only happens at work.” Isobel reconsidered. “No, that isn’t even true. This is my one, two, three, four, five—sixth temp job. Everyone survived in offices two through five.”
Delphi peered at her reflection in the diamond-shaped mirror that hung in what passed for a foyer. “Come to the auditions. You can sit behind the desk with me and tell me the rest.”
“Under one condition,” Isobel said firmly. “That I get to talk to Delphi, not Lady Macbeth, Helena, Beatrice or Viola.”
“Deal.” Delphi swathed her swan-like neck in a thick woolen scarf and stuffed her puffy sleeves into her coat. “We’ll pick up sandwiches along the way, so we can munch rudely while the actors audition. Just like real producers.”
“Right.” Isobel hauled herself up off her air mattress. “‘Lead on, Macduff.’”
“It’s ‘Lay on, Macduff.’” Delphi gave Isobel a reproachful look over her shoulder. “Everybody always gets that one wrong.”
“I have to say, I agree with James. There isn’t any reason to think it was murder,” Delphi said, as she took a stapled picture and résumé from a gentleman with a gray beard who wore a white ruffled shirt over jeans. Delphi added his résumé to the pile in front of her, while Isobel silently noted that he and Delphi appeared to share the same tailor. The man retreated to a folding chair down the hall to fill out his audition form.
Delphi continued, “I mean, if we find out the coffee was laced with strychnine, that’s a whole different ballgame. But
what do you know about this guy that makes you think someone wanted to kill him?”
Isobel had to admit she knew almost nothing about Jason Whiteley. But that didn’t mean there was nothing to know. In fact, she did
know at least one person who had harbored an intense dislike for him: James.
“There must be something,” Isobel said finally.
“Hmmmm.” Delphi munched her sandwich thoughtfully. “Was he a popular client?”
“No, he wasn’t. That much I do know. But most businesses would go bust if they killed all the clients they didn’t like.”
“Clearly,” Delphi said, somewhat unclearly, as her mouth was full of smoked turkey. “But if you’re really convinced someone snuffed him, that’s the place to start looking.”
“I know that.” Isobel was starting to get annoyed. First, Delphi didn’t think there was anything suspicious, and now she was stating the obvious. “But what I mean is that there would have to be more to it than the fact that he was difficult.”
“If you’re determined to nose around—and I know you are, so don’t bother denying it—you should start with the people who worked directly with him.”
“Thanks, Sherlock. I’d already figured that part out myself.”
“Excuse me?”
They paused in their conversation to take in a thin, nervous-looking young man who clutched his picture and résumé to his chest, wrinkling his photo just above the mouth so that it gave him the appearance of a thirteen-year-old with a moustache.
“Are you here to audition?”
“Um, yes. I’m, um, Gary Stinson?” he said, sounding unsure whether or not he actually was.
Delphi consulted her sign-in sheet. “You’re at 8:50. Fill out this form and have a seat.”
He took the form, his hand trembling. “Um…will they be wanting tights today?”
Isobel looked at the ceiling to keep from laughing. Delphi had taught her that trick to keep from cracking up onstage, but Isobel had found it just as useful in real life. Unfortunately, Delphi had chosen to employ the same tactic, and their eyes met as their glances traveled upwards, forcing them into stifled giggles. Delphi recovered faster, but not by much.
“No,” she hiccupped. “Not today.”
Gary gave a sigh of relief and shuffled away toward the folding chairs.
“Wait!” Delphi called after him.
He gasped as if he’d been discovered with a hole in his pants and spun around. “What?”
“I need your picture,” Delphi said, pointing to his chest.
He crept back to the table and set it in front of her with a reverential pat, and then retreated to the folding chairs, where he took a seat next to the graybeard.
Isobel and Delphi immediately flipped over the picture to examine the list of credits stapled to the back. Contrary to what Isobel expected, Gary’s résumé was jam-packed with impressive, if incongruous roles, mostly in college productions.
Delphi pointed to a listing for Hamlet and rolled her eyes.
At that moment, an angular, unattractive young woman emerged from the audition room, shaking her head and muttering to herself, and Delphi gestured to another woman, who appeared to be trying to disguise her advancing age with a girly flowered dress that looked to be Laura Ashley, circa 1992. Delphi disappeared momentarily to lead her into the audition room, and Isobel stared absently across the room at Gary, reviewing what she knew about Jason Whiteley.
He was a demanding client.
He was a heavy social drinker, at least in college.
He worked with James’s ex-girlfriend.
James didn’t like him.
James had lied to the police.
“Stop!” she said aloud, forgetting herself. Gary looked up, startled, but she ignored him. All her thoughts were leading back to James. He couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with this. He wasn’t even there! He said he’d been at the gym, and from the way he’d smelled when he burst into Dove & Flight, there was no doubt he was telling the truth.
Delphi returned after a moment and glanced at her watch. She indicated the two men, young and old, who were left in the hallway.
“These are the last two. We can go inside and watch their auditions, if you want. It’s really fascinating to sit on the other side. You learn a lot. Mostly what not to do,” Delphi added under her breath.
“Okay,” Isobel said, grateful for the distraction.
While they waited for the not-so-young woman to finish her audition, Delphi folded the chairs, and Isobel turned her thoughts toward the three people responsible for the Schumann, Crowe & Dyer account.
Aaron Grossman was an Orthodox Jew with five kids and another on the way, although he was only twenty-eight. He left work every Friday at three o’clock (two o’clock in winter) in anticipation of the Sabbath, which prompted barely concealed disapproval on particularly hectic days, although nobody dared lodge an official complaint. He had only recently been made a senior associate, and it was generally known that he didn’t like working with women—young women in particular.
Liz Stewart, pregnant with her first child, was an athletic blonde with a wry sense of humor and what she liked to describe as a completely useless philosophy degree from Yale. It was Liz who had proclaimed public relations the burial ground for liberal arts majors. She had also confided to Isobel that she planned to allow her maternity leave to lapse into permanent at-home motherhood, but made Isobel promise not to let on to any of her colleagues. Isobel liked Liz for her straightforwardness and her random references to obscure Gregorian chants.
And then there was Katrina. She and Isobel had been English majors together at the University of Wisconsin, frequently vying for control of seminar discussions. That sense of competition had carried over into their friendship, mostly on Katrina’s side, so that Isobel was never entirely sure where she stood with her friend. She was surprised that Katrina had embraced her arrival at Dove & Flight—had even shown her off. It was Katrina who kept finding more work for Isobel to do, which was why she was still there, two weeks after her initial three-day assignment had ended. But the occasional snide comment, like the one about her being a drama queen, seemed designed to keep her off balance. Isobel sensed it was insurance against the possibility, however remote, that she might somehow show Katrina up. Isobel knew that Katrina had briefly considered a modeling career, but she was determined to prove to the world that she had more to offer than long legs and a pretty face. She was an incredibly hard worker, a trait she had inherited from her father, who had hustled his way up from the mailroom to become CEO of a major international communications company. Katrina had told Isobel more than once that she intended to stake her professional claim in the world without help from him or anyone else.
On the face of it, none of them seemed murderous by nature. But rather than let go of the idea of homicide, Isobel resolved to widen her net and take a closer look at the other employees at Dove & Flight when she returned to work the next day.
Laura Ashley emerged triumphantly from the audition room, a wide grin on her face. Delphi turned to gesture to the graybeard, but he had disappeared.
“I think he’s in the…um…” stammered Gary.
“Bathroom?” supplied Delphi helpfully. Gary nodded. “Okay, you’re on.” Delphi tapped Isobel on the shoulder. “Come on. This should be good.”
They followed Gary into the large, black-walled studio theater where Graham Davies, the director, was sitting. Isobel fully expected him to be sporting an anachronistic ensemble similar to Delphi’s and was disappointed to see that he was clad mundanely in a button-down Oxford shirt and chinos. He did, however, have an impressively long mane of chestnut brown hair that Isobel suspected accounted for a significant portion of his authority. Delphi handed Gary’s résumé to Graham, and they took seats behind him. Gary tiptoed to the front of the room, his head receding into his neck as if he were shrinking from a nonexistent spotlight.
“Welcome, Gary,” Graham said expansively. “Did you bring two pieces? One contemporary, one classical?”
Gary gave a terrified nod. “I’d like to do Willy Loman from Death of a Salesman.”
Isobel nudged Delphi. “Isn’t he about forty years to
o young?”
Gary went on, “And for my classical piece, I’d like to do something I wrote myself.”
Isobel caught Delphi’s eye and their heads immediately inclined toward the ceiling.
“How intriguing,” Graham said simply. “Let’s start with Willy Loman.”
And then a strange thing happened. Gary dropped his voice and let his shoulders sink, and suddenly he appeared, if not forty years older, at least ten. His natural timidity highlighted the salesman’s pathetic desperation, and although it wasn’t wholly convincing, he was far better than he had any right to be.
“Very nice,” Graham said, when Gary finished. “May we hear your, er, classical piece?”
Gary immediately pumped out his concave chest, took an aggressive stance, and began to speak.
“‘Thou hast pained me much, but my pain is as nothing to thine,’” he began.
Isobel watched the back of Graham’s head for signs of mirth, but he seemed to be concentrating hard on Gary’s performance. The self-penned classical piece was riddled with “thees” and “thous,” but otherwise made little sense. It did, however, provide Gary with the opportunity to be loud and forceful, quite the opposite of Willy Loman. Still, Isobel found it hard to believe there was nothing in all of Shakespeare’s works that would have served the same purpose.
As the last words died in his throat, Gary’s quivering mien returned, and Delphi shepherded him back out into the hallway, leaving Isobel alone with Graham. He turned around and smiled warmly at her.
“Educational, isn’t it?”
“Definitely! But why do you have them do a contemporary monologue if you’re casting a Shakespeare play?”
“It always illuminates some aspect of the actor that doesn’t come through in their classical piece. Willy Loman here was a perfect example, wouldn’t you agree?”
Isobel nodded. “I’m glad I saw him do that.”
Graham gestured to the stage. “Would you like to hop up there and do a piece?”
“No, thanks. Shakespeare is Delphi’s thing. I do musicals.”
“I always find that singers do well with Shakespeare.”
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