Bad Publicity

by Joanne Sydney Lessner

  O’Connor nodded. “We were on our way to bring her in for questioning, so we just diverted here.”

  “I guess I was just one small step ahead of you, wasn’t I?” Isobel said.

  O’Connor regarded her seriously. “You’re lucky that step wasn’t any bigger.”

  There was a bustle in the hall, and Isobel saw Katrina being wheeled past the open doorway on a stretcher.

  James returned a moment later. “The paramedics will pump her stomach just in case, but she’ll be fine.”

  Isobel let out a deep breath. “Oh, thank God.”

  O’Connor turned to James. “You do have a habit of turning up, don’t you?”

  “Isn’t that what you do when someone calls you for help? I’m not so different from the police that way.”

  O’Connor inclined his too-small head. “Touché.”

  Aguilar and a policewoman led Dorothy to her feet. She left the room without a backward glance.

  “What happens now?” Isobel asked.

  “They’ll take her first to the hospital for tests, to make sure she didn’t sustain a concussion, and then proceed accordingly. I need a word with Aguilar, and then I’ll be back to take your statements. I won’t be long.”

  Isobel followed him to the door, as if she were a hostess bidding a guest good night. She stayed staring after him several moments longer than necessary.

  James cleared his throat. “Isobel. I’m so sorry. I should have put it all together.”

  She turned around to face him. He looked drained and vulnerable.

  “How could you have known that Dorothy in healthcare was Nell’s mother?”

  “If I’d known her last name. Or if I’d gotten a good look at her the other day…”

  “But you didn’t.” She walked over and reached for his hand. “You have to let go of that part of your life. You’ve punished yourself enough. And if what you said tonight is true—”

  “Of course it’s true!”

  “You know what I mean. The point is, what you said to Dorothy was right. You were all responsible, each in your own way, but truly your guilt was the least of it. And at the end of the day, it really was an accident. An error of judgment. Dorothy believed it to be murder, so she took a page out of old W.S. Gilbert’s book and made the punishment fit what she thought was the crime. But you’ve already grown beyond those days. You’ve learned not to sit silently by when someone needs help. You said it just now, to Detective O’Connor.”

  James gave her a wry smile. “I really hate it when you’re right.”

  She smiled demurely. “I think it’s one of my more endearing qualities.”

  “You were wrong about one thing, though. In your message, when you said you knew I hated you. You couldn’t be more wrong about anything if you tried.”

  Before she knew it, he had pulled her close, and his mouth, full and bold, was on hers. She didn’t resist, not for a moment, and if the flash of desire that shot through her body surprised her, it quickly melted into acceptance of what suddenly seemed the most natural thing in the world.

  “Isobel!”

  They broke apart, and Isobel whirled around to see Hugh and Sunil standing in the doorway. Sunil’s eyebrows were raised in delight, but Hugh, who had been the one to call her name, looked like he’d been punched in the gut.

  “What—what are you doing here?” Isobel gasped.

  “I heard the whole thing when you answered your phone,” said Sunil.

  She shook her head in confusion. “I didn’t answer my phone.”

  “Well, somebody did. I heard a woman saying she had lured you here alone and something about how you wanted to spend your last hours.”

  “Oh, my God, that was Dorothy! She must have pressed the wrong button.”

  “I called Hugh and we got down here as fast as we could.”

  “Obviously not fast enough,” said Hugh flatly.

  “Hugh, I can explain—” she began.

  “There’s nothing to explain.” James put a protective arm around Isobel. “She’s with me now.”

  “Well, she was with me about three hours ago,” said Hugh.

  James dropped his arm, and Isobel felt her throat go dry.

  “It’s not—I don’t—” She threw a pleading glance at Sunil. “Can you…?”

  He threw up his hands in mock dismay. “To tell you the truth, I’m feeling a little left out.”

  It was Detective O’Connor who unwittingly came to her rescue. He strode into the conference room and addressed Sunil and Hugh.

  “Ah! I see you’ve found your friends. Now that you know they’re all right, would you give us a moment? I need to finish taking their statements. You can wait in the kitchen.” He ushered them out and pulled up a chair. “Right. Isobel, we’ll start with you.”

  She tried to stay focused on her narrative, but she was achingly, painfully aware of James’s eyes boring into her. In the end, she didn’t have to connect too many dots. As soon as the police had discovered Dorothy’s fingerprints on the coffee cup, they had turned up the story of Nell’s death and the single mention of Jason Whiteley, and put most of it together. When they learned her son was a dentist, they realized she had access to professional-strength Demerol, and that sealed it. After Isobel signed her statement, she excused herself to go to the bathroom while James gave his. She hid out for as long as she could, splashing water on her face and trying not to think. When she finally emerged, she found Sunil sitting at her desk.

  “You’re still here?”

  “Of course.”

  “Where’s Hugh?”

  “He left.”

  “Did he say anything?” she asked, dreading the answer.

  “Just to tell you that he’ll see you at rehearsal on Saturday.”

  She shook her head in despair. “What should I do? Now they both hate me.”

  Sunil took her hands. “When you don’t know what to do, do nothing. The answer will reveal itself.”

  “That’s annoyingly Zen,” she sniffed.

  “Listen, I’m starving. Did you ever eat?” Sunil said.

  Isobel shook her head.

  “I’m ordering us some food. We can pick it up on our way out.” Sunil pulled a Post-it with the deli number from her computer monitor, pressed the speaker button on her phone, and dialed.

  “U-Like Deli, please hold.”

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” he cried. “It’s two o’clock in the morning!”

  Isobel left Sunil cursing at the phone and returned to the conference room to retrieve her things. O’Connor had gone, but James was waiting for her.

  Before she could speak, he held up a hand. “I crossed a line, personally and professionally. It won’t happen again.”

  “But what if I want it to?” Isobel said, before she could stop herself.

  “You don’t. Piano Man is more your speed. You don’t really want me, and I…” he paused. “I made a mistake.”

  She took a step toward him, but he skirted around her in a deft move she imagined was a holdover from his days on the football field.

  “You said it earlier. We all have to take responsibility for our actions. I shouldn’t have kissed you. As for whatever happened between you and Hugh,” he practically coughed up a hairball pronouncing his name, “whatever mess you left there is for you to clean up.”

  She felt her face grow hot. “Mess? The mess isn’t there, it’s right here! Are you so uncertain about your feelings for me that you’ll give up that easily? I’ll be honest with you. I like you both! I’m completely confused and torn, and I didn’t expect to have to come to any kind of decision so quickly. But Jesus Christ, James, if you care anything for me at all, fight for me! Or at least give me some sign that you think I might be worth fighting for.”

  James shook his head. “I can’t fight anymore tonight. I just need—”

  “Not a drink,” she broke in, her concern pushing everything else aside.

  “Sleep. I need to sleep.”


  “But you’re not going to drink, are you? I mean, you shouldn’t be alone right now.”

  To her surprise, he came over to her and put his hands on her shoulders. It seemed to her that he was steadying himself, not her.

  “Alone is exactly what I should be.” He dropped his hands and moved to the door. “Are your friends still here?”

  “Sunil is.”

  “Get him to see you home. He seems like a good guy,” he said and left.

  Her eyes flooded with unexpected tears. “So are you, James,” she whispered to his retreating form. “So are you.”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  “I’m not walking down six flights,” Sunil complained.

  “It’s my opening night, so you have to do whatever I say,” Delphi insisted. “Besides, it’s your fault I got stuck in that damn elevator in the first place!”

  “How is it my fault?” he asked indignantly.

  Delphi prodded his chest with her long, filed fingernail. “You brought me bad luck when you uttered the name of the Scottish play. You cursed me!”

  Sunil threw an imploring glance at Isobel, who put her finger over her lips and gave her head the tiniest shake.

  Delphi, taking his silence as an admission of guilt, spun him around and frog-marched him triumphantly down the stairs in front of her. Isobel found Delphi’s sudden possessiveness of Sunil highly amusing. Maybe Delphi knew she only had a few hours before the magic of being seen onstage wore off, but Isobel thought it was more likely a direct result of her own romantic trials of the night before, which she had faithfully recounted to Delphi when she’d finally crawled out of bed at two o’clock that afternoon.

  “Man!” Delphi had exclaimed. “Ever hear of too much of a good thing?”

  “Yeah, well, now I got plenty of nothin’,” Isobel had said, bundling up against the snow. “No, I take that back. I’ve got two wounded male egos. And I refuse to suck up to either of them.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Delphi had said. “See if either of them tries to contact you. That’ll tell you everything you need to know. You know how sometimes you aren’t sure whether or not you want an acting job, and then when you get it, you’re either immediately elated or your heart sinks?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s the same with men.”

  Isobel wasn’t sure she agreed, since she had been some version of elated while kissing both Hugh and James. Still, she had to admit that despite having spent more time tangling with Hugh, her brief encounter with James was somehow more memorable.

  “On the other hand, sometimes you don’t get that feeling of elation or despair until you find out you didn’t get the job. Or the guy,” Isobel had said, meaningfully.

  She’d left Delphi pondering this as she wended her way back to Dove & Flight to clear out her stuff and say good-bye to the few people she cared about. She’d decided that after everything, she didn’t want to stay there long-term. Besides, with Aaron taking over Dorothy’s accounts, there was no real need for a second junior associate beyond Penny. Even so, Isobel found herself a little sorry to leave Dove & Flight. She had felt appreciated there in way she hadn’t at any other temp job, and there was no knowing what James might have in store for her next. The way they’d left things, she wouldn’t be surprised if he sent her to the morgue on an open-ended assignment. From Dove & Flight, it was on to visit Katrina in the hospital to explain, apologize, atone—whatever was necessary to make up for the fact that she had been so quick to assume the worst of her old friend, who had only ever assumed the best of her.

  At the office, she’d thanked Jimmy for being so helpful, and confided her misguided final suspicion of Wilbur.

  Jimmy had brayed with delight at the thought. “American Gothic meets American Psycho! Ladies and gentleman, stick a pitchfork in him, he’s done!”

  Isobel couldn’t help but laugh. “Jimmy, you are an original. There is nobody else out there whose mind works the way yours does.”

  He pulled a face. “Which is why I’m alone.” Then he brightened and took her hand, which he kissed with real tenderness. “I shall miss you, melodious songbird.”

  “And I you.”

  Liz had given her as big a hug as her expanding belly would allow. “You’re out a week ahead of me,” she confided. “I handed in my resignation. I’ll go to Angus’s memorial, and then I’m done with this place.”

  Isobel hesitated. “I have to ask you something.”

  Liz met her gaze for a moment, and then looked away. “About the Brazil emails.”

  Isobel nodded. “Why did you try to pin it on Katrina?”

  For the first time, Liz’s strong, confident voice faltered. “I got fired from my last job for something similar, which also wasn’t my fault, strictly speaking. Aaron never told Barnaby which of us sent the emails. He stressed the fact that they’d been approved by the client. I don’t know why I lied to you. I guess I didn’t want you to think badly of me, and now of course, you think worse.” She gave a sad chuckle.

  “No, I don’t. Getting to know you has been one of my favorite things about working here. I wish I’d known you in college.”

  Liz laughed. “Are you kidding? We’d never have gotten any work done!”

  The metal staircase began to creak and groan, as Barnaby’s bellow echoed, “Is there anyone left in this place to actually do some fucking PR? We could use a little after the shitpile we’ve landed in!”

  Isobel had recognized her cue and bolted, and as she’d left Dove & Flight for the last time, she’d resolved to enjoy Delphi’s opening night and not worry about securing another temp job until after the weekend. Now, as she, Delphi and Sunil emerged onto the snowy sidewalk, Isobel found she was glad to savor Delphi’s triumph without either James or Hugh in tow, let alone both. They started down the street toward the bar where Graham and the rest of the cast were assembling.

  Isobel gave Delphi’s gloved hand a squeeze. “You were really, really good.”

  “Thank you.” Delphi’s eyes shone with pleasure. “That means a lot coming from you.”

  “Because I’m such a knowledgeable Shakespearean?”

  Delphi elbowed her. “No, stupid. Because you’re my best friend.”

  Sunil turned to face them, continuing to walk backward. “And what, pray tell, am I?”

  Delphi gave her head a haughty shake. “‘Not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church-door, but ‘tis enough. ‘Twill serve.’”

  “You just compared me to a deadly wound!” he cried. “‘Have at thee, boy!’”

  He lunged at Delphi, who grabbed him around the waist, and sent him flying back in the other direction. He skidded on a patch of ice and caught himself, laughing and spluttering, on a fire hydrant.

  “That wasn’t very nice,” Isobel admonished her. “But after last night, I will never, ever fault you for quoting Shakespeare again.”

  Sunil righted himself and brushed snow off his jacket. “Hey, you know who else was really good?”

  “Gary Stinson,” Isobel said. “He was terrific.”

  “No. The girl who played Blanche. Hey, Delphi, you think you could get me her number?”

  Sunil grinned mischievously and ran ahead to open the door.

  Delphi’s mouth dropped open.

  “Come on!” Isobel grabbed Delphi’s arm and ushered her into the warmth of the bar. “‘The course of true love never did run smooth.’”

  “You’re telling me,” Delphi said, and she let the door slam shut behind them.

  # # #

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  In the “don’t try this at home” category, I would like to thank my friend and pharmacist Ivan Jourdain, who gamely answered potentially awkward questions about poisons in front of curious customers. Pharmacologist James Jones (via Tom Groves) helped refine my fatal cocktail, while Marzena Jablonska cleared up a few outstanding medical ques
tions. My trusted advisors Helen Lessner, Helen Faye Rosenblum, Cornelia Iredell and Elaine Greenblatt were on hand with insightful counsel as always, and Piper Goodeve, Christianne Tisdale and Alan Gilbert provided valuable perspective as newcomers to Isobel’s adventures.

  I couldn’t have written this one without the enthusiastic support of Caroline Luz, Beth Wiegard, Christiana Marran and Kate Koningisor, who encouraged my reimagined version of our shared history. I am also indebted to my extraordinary agent, Kari Stuart, for her boundless support, Jodie Renner for her editing expertise, Linda Pierro for her captivating cover design, and Ilene Goldman for her eagle-eyed proofreading.

  Of course, none of this would be possible without my steadfast husband, Joshua Rosenblum, whose enduring love provides a ready antidote to his occasional impatience with my Isobel-like locutions.

  Read a sample from the next Isobel Spice mystery, And Justice for Some

  The gun went off with a resounding report, and Isobel Spice staggered backward with a gasp. She tried to scream, but her breath caught in the back of her throat and all that came out was a gurgling, choking sound. Her eyes widened in horror as her hands, clutching her chest, came away red and sticky. She swayed precariously for a moment, but then her eyelids collapsed, her head fell back, and her knees gave way. She sank to the ground, arms and legs splayed at unnatural angles.

  All was silent.

  “Okay, that was way over the top.”

  Isobel sat up in the middle of the dance floor, wiping her hands on her stained shirt. She frowned at her friend, Delphi Kramer, who was still aiming the old-fashioned derringer at her.

  “That’s not your call.” Isobel turned to Peter Catanzaro, the burly, broad-shouldered, perennially stubbled producer and star of Murder à la Carte. “Was it too much?”

  “Are you kidding? The cheesier, the better.” Peter offered a hand and pulled her to her feet. “Shakespeare it ain’t.”

  Isobel snuck a glance at Delphi, whose blue eyes grew stormy. Isobel knew Delphi prided herself on her facility with the Bard’s iambs, and she, more than Isobel, felt they were slumming doing murder mystery dinner theater. Having won her point with Peter, however, Isobel took pity on her friend and, grabbing her arm, whispered a reminder: “A hundred bucks. And dinner.”