Bad Publicity

by Joanne Sydney Lessner

  Unless the whole Barnaby story was a ruse, and Jimmy was trying to find out for an entirely different reason if Isobel knew about the Demerol in Jason’s system. She tried to imagine Jimmy, for all his winking charm and poetic flourishes, killing Jason. He certainly knew a lot about drugs—he had admitted as much. And he was fiercely loyal to Barnaby. Was there more to that relationship than met the eye? If Jimmy was the person responsible for Jason’s death, he had just incriminated himself. She might not have enough evidence for the police, but she had enough to be a threat to him.

  She saw Aaron enter the kitchen and remembered that she still didn’t know why Kit was fired. On impulse, she followed him.

  “I’m working on an annual report for Dorothy, so I don’t have time for anything else,” she said, reaching for the fridge. “I know I’ve mostly been working for you, so I hope that’s okay.”

  Aaron opened a bottle of water and took a sip. “It doesn’t matter. Everything’s changing around here anyway.”

  She shut the fridge and opened the cabinet over the microwave. “Are you going to quit, too?”

  “What do you mean? Who quit?”

  She hadn’t really planned to have a snack, but the bag of potato chips on the bottom shelf was calling to her.

  “Kit,” she said casually, as she tore open the bag.

  Aaron stiffened. “No, she didn’t. She was fired.”

  Isobel feigned surprise. “Why? I thought she was all that and one of these.” She held up her Ruffles.

  Aaron stared pensively at his water bottle. “People who fly too high don’t judge distances properly. Call it the Icarus syndrome.”

  “How did Kit fly too high?”

  He looked up. “Why do you care? You’re just a temp.”

  Isobel threw her arms wide. “So tell me what happened. I’m not materially involved in any of this.”

  He regarded her for a moment, and when he spoke, there was an edge of resentment in his voice. “She thought Barnaby was going to make her a partner in the firm. But that was before the merger. When he made that remark at the staff meeting about us failing at consumer PR, she realized that Barnaby had been stringing her along. She knew there was no place for her in the new company structure—let alone any kind of partnership.”

  Suddenly Isobel understood. “You told Kit about MacBride’s, and she tipped off the AP reporter.”

  Aaron closed his eyes and began to rock back and forth on his heels. “She broke her promise. She used me!”

  “Then you told Barnaby what Kit had done, and he fired her.”

  “She was a whore!” The words burst from Aaron’s mouth with such ferocity that Isobel practically jumped. “She was too married to look at me, but not too married to look at Jason!”

  Jason?

  Isobel held her breath, hoping Aaron’s vitriol would continue to roll forth. It did.

  “She’s a demon! She tried to seduce her own brother’s wife’s—whatever he was—but he refused, because he was dating someone else. Kit found a sexy picture of the girl on Jason’s phone and sent it to Barnaby. Jason was furious when he found out.”

  Kit sent the photo. Kit tipped off the AP reporter. Had she also poisoned Jason? It occurred to Isobel that with one fatal dose, Kit had been in a position to get revenge on Jason and sabotage the merger. And if Katrina was to be believed, Kit had been at Jason’s house the night before the murder.

  Isobel leaned forward eagerly. “How do you know all this?”

  Aaron made a prayerful, keening sound. “I let her tell me things,” he said, his voice breaking. “I would meet her nearby after work, once, twice a week—never on the Sabbath, of course. And we would talk. I would tell her…things, too.” His expression grew stern. “Working with women is a temptation. The only way is to put them in their place.”

  Which is where—in a bar? wondered Isobel.

  Aaron went on, “And if a relationship exists only in conversation, it’s not a sin. Nothing ever happened between us. Nothing…physical.”

  She felt a brief flash of anger at the man’s hypocrisy, but she squelched it to ask one last question.

  “Do you know who the girl in the photo was?”

  He shook his head furiously. “I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

  But I do, thought Isobel. Why is it that every time I ask anyone a question about Jason Whiteley, the answer is always Katrina?

  THIRTY-FOUR

  James knew that the best way to overcome his pounding head was to work out, but he also knew that the best way to ensure he didn’t slip again immediately was to go to an AA meeting. He decided to hedge his bets and do a meeting first, then exercise, but that meant clearing his day. He called in sick to work and, moving more slowly than usual, headed out into the frosty morning. His path to the community center would take him past the gym. Fighting a weird premonition that he would run into Lily, he took a detour on 125th Street—where he spotted Lily walking toward him.

  He briefly considered ducking into the Korean deli on the corner, but he knew she had seen him, too. In fact, he had the strange feeling that she had somehow engineered the meeting. He stared straight ahead and picked up the pace.

  “James! I have to talk to you.”

  “Can’t. In a hurry.”

  “Wait! It’ll just take a minute.”

  He stopped, too tired to do battle. “What?”

  She was shifting from side to side, her hands in her pockets stretching her coat down toward her knees. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry about last…I shouldn’t have…” She swallowed. “You know.”

  A vague memory stirred in his brain of a small, pale female figure kneeling by his side, gently placing a washcloth on his forehead and holding his hand. He peered closely at her. She returned his gaze steadily.

  He sighed and put his hand on her arm. “No, it’s cool. We’re cool.”

  Her breath caught slightly. “Seriously? Because I was feeling like I’d, you know, gone too far.”

  “Let’s just forget about it, okay?” He shuffled his feet impatiently. “Look, I gotta go.”

  To his surprise, she stepped aside. “Okay. Take care of yourself. You don’t look so good this morning.”

  “Yeah, well, that should come as no surprise.”

  She gave him an odd look, and then shrugged. “See you around.”

  As he continued toward the community center where the AA meeting was, he was struck by the irony that this was the easiest he’d ever gotten rid of her. The more he tried to repel her, the more she stuck, but giving in a little had prompted her to back off. He would think twice before doing it again, but in this case, he figured he owed her one for coming to his aid during his drunken rampage last night.

  As he pulled open the door to the community center, his phone rang. It was Isobel. He knew he should apologize for his behavior on the street the other night. Might as well get it over with.

  “Hey,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to call you."

  “Oh?”

  The hopeful tone of her voice worked like a volume control on his headache, and he was suddenly unable to say what he most wanted to.

  “Just to find out if there was any fallout from Angus’s death,” he said.

  He switched hands and shrugged off his coat. Between his hangover and the cranked-up heat in the community center, he was sweating.

  “Isobel? You there?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “Have you finally given up?”

  “You mean on the murder?”

  “What else?”

  She paused. “No, I haven’t. I don’t know what the cops are doing, but I’ve found out some more stuff. But that isn’t why I called. I just wanted to know…”

  “What?”

  “If you…if you were…um…if you’d like to see Delphi’s play with me. It opens on Thursday.”

  “Yeah? What is it?”

  “Shakespeare. King John.”

  “Don’t know that one. I can’t check my cal
endar while I’m talking, but if there’s a problem, I’ll let you know. It’s, uh, nice of you to ask.”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, gotta run. See you Thursday.”

  As he returned his phone to his pocket, he wondered fleetingly why she had tracked him down on his cell phone just to invite him to a play. Now he wished he had apologized, but she hadn’t seemed too upset with him. Hell, she’d even invited him out. Something indefinable was nagging at him, but he didn’t suppose it mattered. Steeling himself to face his support group, he pushed open the door to the meeting room and went through.

  Isobel stared at the phone. Either it was too painful for James to admit she’d seen him in that condition, or he had no memory at all of her being in his apartment the night before. He was certainly aware of her presence at the time—he had practically begged her to stay. Now she wondered what would have happened if she had. That lame “Oh, I was planning to call you” didn’t fool her for a second. That’s what she said whenever her mother called. He was avoiding her. Why had he even bothered to accept her invitation to Delphi’s play? Maybe because he knew she wouldn’t dare mention last night with other people around—

  Her stomach lurched. What on earth had she been thinking? She was going with Hugh! She had been so desperate to invent a reason for calling James that she’d completely forgotten. She groaned and put her face in her hands. Now what? She supposed she’d have to tough it out and just hope they didn’t get into another dick-swinging competition.

  The spiral staircase creaked and Liz rounded the bend, shaking her head in mock despair. “Another month and I’ll make more noise coming down those steps than Barnaby on a diet.”

  “Distract me. I just did something stupid,” Isobel said.

  “How bad are we talking? I find that the amount of distraction is directly proportional to the degree of stupidity. I want to make sure I can deliver before I promise anything.”

  “Personal stupid. Guy stupid.”

  “Follow me,” said Liz.

  She closed her office door and started to put her feet up on her desk.

  “Nope,” she grunted. “Can’t do that anymore.” She sat back and turned her nameplate upside down like a timer. “The doctor is in. What’s up?”

  “I’m a complete idiot.”

  “We’ve established that. Go on.”

  Isobel bit her lip. “There are these two guys, James and Hugh. I invited Hugh to see a play with me Thursday night. And then I totally forgot I’d done that and invited James, too.”

  “And you like them both?”

  “James is a friend. Actually, he’s my temp agent.” Liz raised an eyebrow, but Isobel went on. “Hugh is a composer and pianist. And he’s English. I’m a sucker for a British accent.”

  “So you’ll make up your mind if and when one of them makes a move on you,” Liz said shrewdly.

  Isobel flushed. “Yeah, I guess. But they already met once and they didn’t exactly take to one another. This could be a disaster.”

  Liz righted her nameplate. “Take it from me, a little testosterone-fest never hurt anyone. But if you want insulation, invite a few more people. I’ll come. What’s the play?”

  “King John.”

  Liz made a face. “On second thought, I think I have to mail a letter that night.”

  “You don’t like Shakespeare?”

  “Only the comedies.” The phone rang. “Hi, Aaron… Yeah, sure, I’ve got the final. Okay.” She hung up and pushed away from the desk. “Hang on. I have to print something.” She hit a few keys on her keyboard and hoisted herself up. “I’ll be right back.”

  Isobel slumped in her chair. Liz was probably right. Sunil would be there, too, and Hugh and James were both grownups. Supposedly. The only other option was to uninvite one of them. She picked up Liz’s snow globe and shook it. Fake white flakes fell on all the Broadway marquees from the previous year, and she imagined a tiny version of herself standing in front of one of them, pointing proudly at her name.

  “Argh!” Liz poked her head in the door. “Printer jammed. Will you cancel out and send it again?”

  Isobel set the snow globe down and went around the desk to cancel Liz’s print request. She sent the document again and closed it, revealing the email it was attached to. A thought occurred to her. Feeling suddenly light-headed, she clicked on “Sent Mail” and typed the word “Brazil” into the search bar.

  A flood of emails filled the column, all with identical subject lines. Isobel clicked on one at random and drew a sharp breath.

  “Planning a South American Outpost? Cal Erskine of Schumann, Crowe & Dyer can explain why Brazil is the next hot emerging market.”

  It was Liz who had sent the emails and jeopardized Jason’s account. Katrina had been telling the truth after all.

  And if Liz had lied about that, what else was she lying about?

  THIRTY-FIVE

  “I suppose you think she’s faking being pregnant?” asked Delphi.

  “Of course not.” Isobel tapped the edge of her coaster on the bar at Vino Rosso. “It’s just that somewhere along the way, I decided I could trust Liz, which, in this case at least, meant distrusting Katrina. What if I’ve had it backwards the whole time?”

  Delphi looked up from counting the bills in her apron pocket. “Look, just because Liz lied to you about the Brazil thing doesn’t necessarily mean she lied about anything else. It certainly doesn’t mean she killed anyone. Most people will lie to save face. You would. I would.”

  Isobel finished her wine and tipped the glass one more time to make sure she’d drained it all. “Lying to save face is one thing, but she pinned it on Katrina. There has to be a reason, and all I can think of is that the emails incriminated her in some way in Jason’s death.”

  “What do you know about Liz?”

  “Not that much,” Isobel admitted. “Just that I like her. She’s funny, and very open, and she’s kind of taken me under her wing—”

  “And fed you information,” Delphi broke in. “Not that you’re not adorable and charming to some people—not me, of course—but it does seem like she’s gone out of her way to make sure you hear her version of events.”

  “And Katrina’s been the opposite. She hasn’t wanted to tell me anything. Which is why it seemed like she was lying.”

  Delphi folded her money carefully and stuffed it into the pocket of her black pants. “Best thing to do is ignore them both. I think it’s time to admit that Jason’s death had nothing to do with the office bullshit.”

  “But what about the personal bullshit? Kit and Jason being related, Kit toying with Aaron, Katrina dating Jason. What about the Demerol in Barnaby’s office? Ten minutes ago, you agreed that was significant.”

  Isobel followed Delphi down a narrow staircase that led past the busy kitchens to a small area with lockers. Delphi hung up her apron in one, removed her coat, and punched her timecard.

  “I admit, the Demerol is questionable,” Delphi conceded. “But Jimmy tossed the bottle, so it would be hard to prove it ever existed, let alone that he found it in Barnaby’s office.”

  “Which in itself is suspicious,” Isobel pointed out.

  Delphi pulled on her coat and slammed the locker shut with her foot. “The real question is, where are the police in all this? Have they been nosing around the firm?”

  “Not since Angus’s death. They think Angus did it.”

  “I don’t believe that for a minute. I’ll bet you anything they’ve shifted their focus to Jason’s personal life,” Delphi said as Isobel followed her back up the stairs. “And if it does turn out to be someone in his personal life who happens to work at Dove & Flight, the clues are elsewhere. Because the one thing we know for sure is that he wasn’t poisoned in the office.” Delphi turned and called out, “Carlo! I’m leaving.”

  “Delphinia bellissima!” crooned a silky, Italian-accented voice. A raven-haired man with a Roman profile emerged from the depths of the restaurant, his hand over his heart. “
I am desolate at your departure!”

  “Oh, Carlo, you’ll live. Remember, I’m not back until Monday. My play opens this weekend. You are coming, aren’t you?”

  “How could I miss a chance to gaze upon my favorite bionda.” He brushed his lips teasingly over the back of Delphi’s hand. Isobel rolled her eyes at the maître d’s ostentatious adulation.

  Delphi rescued her hand. “You would never leave the restaurant for something as frivolous as the theater.”

  Carlo gave an exaggerated shrug. “You underestimate my devotion, carina.”

  Delphi turned to Isobel. “How do you say ‘yeah, right’ in Italian?”

  “Buona sera, Don Giovanni!” Isobel dragged Delphi outside. “I still don’t know why you put up with him.”

  “Because work would be a complete bore otherwise.” Delphi wound an iridescent blue scarf around her neck. “Come to my tech rehearsal. We can chat when I’m not on.”

  Isobel didn’t think she could sit through King John more than once, even if this was a stop-and-start run-through.

  “I’d rather be surprised when I see it on Thursday.”

  “Oh, come on,” Delphi urged. “What else are you doing tonight?”

  Without giving her a chance to protest, Delphi looped her arm through Isobel’s and steered her down the street.

  Graham’s studio wasn’t far from Vino Rosso. When they arrived, the other actors were in various states of dress, not unlike Delphi’s regular attire, with costume pieces over their real clothes. Isobel was surprised at how effective the scenery she and Sunil had helped paint turned out to be.

  “What’s it about, anyway?” Isobel asked.

  “Oh, you know those crazy Plantagenets, it’s always something. King John of Magna Carta fame inherits the throne when his brother, Geoffrey, is murdered. I play Geoffrey’s widow, Constance, who’s pushing her son Arthur to be king. John captures Arthur, who dies trying to escape. Then I die of a broken heart. So, as far as I’m concerned, that’s what the play is about.”