And Justice for Some

by Joanne Sydney Lessner

  James thrust his glass out to the bartender for another refill. “Don’t you all have anything better to gossip about? I don’t have a thing for Isobel.”

  “But you knew who I was talking about.”

  “Shut up, Gerald.”

  The rest of the night was downhill from there. Alice, having taken Lily’s pronouncement to heart, became her instant best friend, which got under Nina’s skin and prompted her to new heights of bitchiness. Moreover, this newfound alliance left Gerald free to needle James about his drinking. Seeking to prove his friend wrong, James drank more than he intended. By the time dinner was cleared and Dewayne rose to make his toast as best man, James was reeling.

  He leaned over to Lily. “Gotta get outta here…”

  She put a restraining arm on his. “The toasts are starting. After what happened before, you can’t leave now.”

  Some small part of his brain recognized the wisdom of this advice. Survival depended on his ability to stay in his seat and keep his mouth shut until the band struck up again and he could leave safely. He was dimly aware of both Lily and Gerald keeping him in check, and as soon as the toasts were over he heard Gerald say, “You better get him home.”

  “I don’t know where he lives. I really don’t know him all that well,” Lily admitted. “Besides, he’s three times my size. Can’t you help?”

  Dewayne returned to the table, and James heard a brief but urgent exchange.

  “You are not leaving me here alone,” Nina declared indignantly.

  “You won’t be alone,” Gerald said. “Alice is here, and we’re coming right back.”

  “I’ll stay, too,” Lily piped up.

  “They don’ wan you. Stupid bitch…” James’s voice sounded far away even to him.

  Lily’s face swam double in front of James’s eyes. The faces crumpled in tandem, then bravely reordered themselves into a rigid smile. “I had a very good time,” she said stoically. “It was nice to meet you all.”

  “Come on, big guy.” Dewayne hauled James to his feet, and Gerald caught him under the other arm as the ballroom swayed.

  James’s feet were not working the way he wanted them to, but somehow he found himself on the other side of the room. He was almost home free, and then—

  Jayla was suddenly in front of him, her hands on her hips, her almond eyes blazing. He reached out to touch her cheek, but she slapped his hand away.

  “Look at you. You’re a complete mess.” Her expression softened into something ineffably sad. “For a minute in the church I thought I’d made a mistake. But you’ll never change. So I have to thank you. This was a sign from the Lord that I picked the right man. Good-bye, James.”

  And that was all he remembered until he woke up in his bed the next day at noon, with a headache the size of Manhattan and a strange, empty feeling in his heart.

  TWENTY-THREE

  “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do for you,” said Anna Brackett, Isobel’s agent at Temp Zone.

  Isobel groaned into the phone and rolled over on her bed. “That’s exactly what James said when I first applied. Don’t tell me I’m back to square one!”

  “Sarah Hollister was extremely unhappy with the way things worked out. She complained before I could step in and spin it. You’re just lucky you’re a minor celebrity around here, or you’d be out entirely. As it is, I think you’ll be okay, but I’ve got to bench you for a bit until tempers die down and memories fade.”

  “But how am I supposed to make money in the meantime?” Isobel heard the whine creep into her voice and tried to drop the sound into her chest. “Isn’t there anything you can give me? I don’t care how remedial it is.”

  Anna sighed. “There really isn’t anything today, but if I get something basic and short-term, I’ll let you know. Best thing is for you to build up your credibility again on small jobs without getting too involved. Also, don’t call in. I promise I’ll let you know if there’s anything I can sneak you into.”

  “Thanks. I really appreciate it.” Isobel hung up.

  Delphi looked up from her laptop. “Well?”

  Isobel put on a brave smile. “I’m officially on hiatus.”

  “That sucks.”

  “For you, if I can’t pay my half of the rent.”

  “I could talk to Carlo for you,” Delphi offered. “Are you really that crappy a waitress?”

  Isobel cringed. “I once dropped five boiled lobsters on a nun.”

  Delphi hesitated. “But that was a long time ago, right?”

  “Not that long ago. Besides, Carlo doesn’t like me.”

  “Only because he thinks you don’t like him. He needs help up front. Caroline is leaving to do a play at Delaware Theatre Company.”

  “Caroline…the cute hostess with the pageboy cut?”

  “Yeah. She works a lot, so it wouldn’t hurt for you to get on the list as a sub. Carlo might take you on if he knew you had an expiration date.”

  Isobel inhaled and then slowly let the air out through puffed cheeks. “Better than nothing, I guess.”

  “I’ll ask him tonight. But don’t drop in, because you won’t approve of my methods.” Delphi glanced down at her laptop, dejected. “There’s not a single audition that’s calling my name. I’m going to the gym. What are you doing today?”

  Isobel stretched her arms over her head. “Lying in bed, exercising my little gray cells, and eating bonbons.”

  Delphi stuffed workout clothes into her gym bag. “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.”

  “Why don’t you call Hugh?” Delphi suggested, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

  Isobel frowned. “What for?”

  Delphi wagged a finger at her. “See, the fact that you have to ask that really makes me wonder.”

  Isobel felt her neck grow warm. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant why now particularly?”

  “Actually, I’m not sure.” Delphi leaned forward knowingly. “It just seems like losing your job is the kind of thing you’d share with your boyfriend.”

  Isobel chucked a red throw pillow at Delphi, who dodged it neatly. It flew over the kitchen counter and landed in the sink as the front door shut behind her.

  Isobel lay back and wondered why she was resisting calling Hugh. Delphi was right—it was normal to seek comfort from your significant other after a disappointment. But it was just so embarrassing.

  “On the other hand, maybe he knows of an audition or a job or something,” she said aloud. She jumped up from her mattress and immediately plopped down again. “No, that’s awful,” she admonished herself. “You can’t think of him only in terms of what he can do for you professionally.” She clutched at her ponytail and let out an anguished yelp. “This is ridiculous!”

  She reached for her phone to call Hugh, but it vibrated in her hand before she could dial. Surprised to see Percival’s number come up, she answered.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

  “Are you near a computer?” he asked, ignoring her.

  “Yes, why?”

  “Search Angelina Rivington under News.”

  Delphi’s laptop was in sleep mode on the counter. Isobel flipped it open and did as Percival instructed.

  “Holy shit,” she breathed.

  Body of New Jersey Woman Pulled from Hudson River

  The body of a 57-year-old woman was recovered from the Hudson River yesterday, after officials pulled her onto one of the Hoboken piers. The woman, whom police identified as Hoboken resident Angelina Rivington, was declared dead at the scene. Rivington, who had not been seen or heard from since Sept. 14, presides over a commercial real estate empire that includes diverse projects in the tristate area. The medical examiner’s office is investigating Rivington’s cause of death.

  “Now we know why she missed dinner,” Percival said.

  “What?” Isobel asked, still processing the details.

  “She disappeared the day before the judge’s dinner.”

 
; Isobel scanned the article again. “It says she hadn’t been seen or heard from. She could have been lying low and then come to the dinner incognito to kill the judge.”

  “And then gotten herself killed? By whom? And why?”

  “For all we know, some guest did see her shoot the judge. Maybe he or she tried to blackmail her, they argued, and he killed her and dumped her in the river. Or maybe she was so consumed by guilt after killing Harrison that she threw herself in. A murder-suicide!”

  Percival was silent for a moment. “But doesn’t it make more sense that the same person killed both of them?”

  “More sense, no. Some sense, yes. I think either of these scenarios is possible,” Isobel said stubbornly.

  “I wonder if Rivington received any threatening letters,” said Percival.

  “Maybe Mason Crawford knows,” Isobel suggested.

  “Maybe Mason Crawford sent them.”

  “Maybe it has nothing to do with the youth camp,” Isobel said. “Don’t forget, Rivington was a one-third beneficiary of Harrison’s estate. Maybe somebody wants the whole kitty.”

  “Who benefits from the judge’s will if they’re both dead?”

  “The sons if they qualify, Candy if they don’t, and Gordon Lang no matter what. But we can’t very well wait and see who else bites the dust and then move in on the last man standing.”

  “You’ve got police in two different states handling two different cases,” Percival pointed out. “It may take awhile before they make a connection between the two deaths.”

  “Unless they’ve been scrutinizing the guest list and paying particular attention to people who were supposed to be there but never picked up their place cards.”

  “I still want to see the judge’s conviction records, and you—”

  “No.”

  “You don’t even know what I was going to say,” Percival protested.

  “Yes, I do. You were going to suggest I call James again and apologize and ask for his help. Right?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Forget it,” Isobel said firmly. “We’re on to plan B. Come on, you’re the computer whiz. There’s got to be another database you can hack for those names.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Percival said. “I did a little poking around, and juvenile court records are sealed. We need someone with inside access.”

  “Not James,” she insisted.

  “Fine. Then come up with something else,” Percival said. “I’ve gotta run. I’m late for Data Structures.”

  Isobel hung up and scowled at the phone. There was no way she was going to beg James now. She would have to find another way. She paced her well-trodden route around the oval rag rug in the center of the living room and thought about Angelina Rivington.

  Her death couldn’t possibly be coincidental, although Isobel privately admitted that her suggestion that Rivington could somehow still have killed Harrison was a stretch. No, Percival was right, as he so often was. It was far more likely that the same person killed them both.

  She paused in the middle of the room, startled by a creak in the floor. The cozy little studio suddenly felt sinister, as if an assassin might pop out from their overstuffed hall closet. Isobel scooped up her keys, wallet and phone, and headed outside. It was a gorgeous day. A walk in the park was just the thing to clear her head.

  She bought a bottle of water from a cart and turned up Ninth Avenue, but paused after a few blocks. She still hadn’t been to the High Line. Built on an old elevated freight rail line, it had been reconstituted as a public park. It ran from West 30th Street to Gansevoort between Tenth and Eleventh Avenues, lined on either side by a hodgepodge of apartment buildings and giant construction sites.

  She changed course, walking south and west, and soon reached the entrance at 30th and Tenth. There wasn’t much shade, and even with her jacket off, she was soon boiling from the sunlight reflecting off the surrounding windows. But there was something inviting and mysterious about the expanse of walkway that stretched into the distance, so she ignored her discomfort and walked on. Some of the buildings she passed were old and decrepit, but others were sleek and modern. Occasionally one was so close that Isobel wondered if it would be possible to jump out the window and land on the path. She glanced into apartments whenever she could, indulging the singular New York curiosity about other people’s homes and wondering whether their proximity to the High Line added to their property value. Maybe only for exhibitionists.

  She reached an open section lined with benches and took a seat near a guy with frizzy hair and round glasses who was sketching the view. She drank deeply from her water bottle and returned to the question of Angelina Rivington. Mason Crawford and Gordon Lang had business dealings with Rivington as well as Harrison. Lang stood to benefit financially from both deaths, and it was hard to argue with a motive that strong. He could have masterminded Harrison’s murder and carried out Rivington’s himself. Crawford was intriguing primarily because Isobel still couldn’t swear he’d been at the table when the shot was fired. He had seemed ill at ease and disinclined to interact with anyone. Perhaps because he’d thrown his business partner in the river the night before and was planning to duck out before dessert for a little target practice. He was so nondescript, he could easily have watched their rehearsal without anyone noticing and known when to take the shot.

  Of course, Bethany and Maggie were both present for the rehearsal and aware of the timing of the shot, which they could then have communicated to an accomplice. And unlike the others, they both knew in advance about the planned entertainment. Maybe Bethany’s displeasure was feigned, and she was secretly thrilled to have a cover for the deed. Maybe it had given her the idea in the first place. But was she jealous enough to kill her boss/lover? Candy had been out of the picture for five years. Surely Bethany had seen the incriminating photo of Harrison and Jemma like everyone else. But if Jemma was the obstacle, wouldn’t Bethany have killed her instead of the judge? And why kill Rivington? Unless Bethany was somehow involved in the youth camp. Or wasn’t involved, but wanted to be and had been cut out.

  Then there was Maggie. She’d been the one to hire Murder à la Carte, and it must have taken some secrecy on her part to line them up, considering the animosity Bethany and the judge shared toward such distractions. Maggie must have signed on the dotted line before the other two got wind of it, or they’d have put the kibosh on the murder mystery. If Maggie had a motive, it was well hidden, since nothing had come to light about a relationship with Harrison that went beyond the professional, and there was no obvious connection to Rivington.

  Frustrated at the lack of an appealing solution, Isobel pulled out her phone to check her email. A tingle of excitement ran up the back of her neck when she saw a note from the casting director of the Sousa Project (working title), offering her an audition time the following week. With an actual appointment, she would be able to bring Hugh along to play. Spirits lifted, she scrolled down farther and saw Jack’s email with Andrew’s address. Between interviewing Candy and getting fired, she had forgotten all about it, and the message had been pushed down by newer correspondence. She opened the email again and shot to her feet, startling the sketch artist. Muttering an apology, she ran to the railing and peered over.

  “Excuse me,” she called out to him. “Do you know what street we’re on right now?”

  He scratched his nose with his pencil. “I think part of the idea is you’re supposed to wander along without knowing—”

  “How do I get out of here?”

  “Um, you could try those stairs,” he said, pointing.

  Andrew lived on West 19th Street. No matter how far down the High Line her stroll had taken her, she couldn’t be more than twenty blocks from his apartment. Chances were good she’d ring Andrew’s doorbell and he wouldn’t answer, but it was worth a shot. As she charged down the stairs, she wondered if her impulse to visit the High Line instead of spending the day in Central Park had been influenced subconsciously by Jack
’s neglected email. She decided to take it as an omen: today was a day to follow her gut.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  When Isobel reached street level, she found herself on Tenth Avenue and 26th Street. As she headed south and east toward Andrew’s apartment, she reconsidered her fellow thespians in light of Angelina Rivington’s death.

  Jemma had been working as an escort, so surely she knew the rules of the game, but what if she’d fallen in love with Harrison and their affair had continued, even after Candy was out of the picture? Maybe, like Candy, Jemma hadn’t felt threatened by Bethany. But if Harrison had also been having an affair with Angelina Rivington, maybe Jemma was the one pushed over the edge. In the same way that elegant Candy had felt threatened by Jemma’s sultry appeal, maybe Jemma felt she couldn’t hold her own against the striking, sophisticated Rivington. Isobel shook the thought from her head. Even to her, it seemed flimsy. Would that really be enough to drive Jemma to kill the judge? And besides, where would she have gotten a gun?

  Unless she’d gotten it from Peter. What if, in addition to the two derringers, there had been a third gun, a different make with real bullets, and Jemma had taken it? If that were the case, Peter would have had to discover its absence before Vitelli asked him to inventory his weapons in order to lie about it. He’d already proven he had no compunction about withholding information by failing to mention Andrew’s disappearing act. It wasn’t difficult to imagine him concealing the fact of a missing gun. But why would he have brought along a third, loaded gun in the first place, unless he intended to use it himself? Could he and Jemma have been in cahoots? There were too many evasions, too many unanswered questions to believe that Peter wasn’t involved, but perhaps it was simply that he knew more than he was letting on.

  Isobel passed a building where she’d once had a disastrous audition for a musical adaptation of Great Expectations. She’d accidentally packed two lace-up boots with different heel heights and tried to make a joke out of it by limping in, saying she wanted to be considered for Magwitch, the convict. She shivered at the memory and crossed the street in the middle of the block.