The Temporary Detective

by Joanne Sydney Lessner

  Delphi shook her head. “I don’t buy it. If she knew, she was blackmailing him. I bet she has another page of names hidden somewhere.”

  “It does seem impossible that she didn’t know,” Isobel conceded. “Assistants are, by definition, keepers of the secrets.”

  “And it seems impossible to me that she knew and wasn’t using the information to her advantage,” Delphi concluded.

  Isobel sipped again thoughtfully. “Maybe it suited her better not to. Maybe she enjoyed being in the driver’s seat of that relationship. Doreen would have gotten off on that. Maybe she even helped him arrange trysts or whatever, and he rewarded her with little perks.”

  “What about the wife?” Delphi asked.

  “Sì, sì! What about the wife? Will you be mine?” Carlo had come up behind Delphi and was nuzzling her neck.

  She pulled away. “You already have a wife, Carlo.”

  “Seven years it takes to get a divorce in Italy. Who can wait?”

  “You can. I can. Especially because I’m not interested.”

  Carlo staggered and placed his hand over his heart. “You wound me! That dark boyfriend of yours, where is he?”

  “Oh, we, uh, broke up.” She shot a look at Isobel, who was intently arranging pretzel twists on a coaster.

  “Grazie a Dio—there is hope for me!” Carlo gestured melodramatically at the ceiling and left them to greet more diners at the door.

  Isobel looked up from her pretzel collage. “He is too much.”

  “Don’t you think he’s attractive?”

  “We’ve been through this. No.”

  “Speaking of attractive, are you sure it was Justin?”

  “Positive. He was wearing the same self-satisfied smirk he had after Terence’s class. And nothing else.”

  Delphi sighed. “Well, that’s a shame.”

  But Isobel didn’t want to talk about Justin. He was no longer remotely interesting. “Back to Frank,” she said. “It explains why Audrey is a shopaholic. She’s lonely.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean she knows,” Delphi said shrewdly. “Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt.”

  “There’s some mystery around them having, or wanting, a baby,” Isobel said. “Frank said it was a sore subject.”

  “If he’s not sleeping with her and she wants kids, I’m sure it is.”

  “I overheard them discussing in vitro. I assumed it was because of infertility, but maybe there’s more to it.”

  “Why doesn’t she just divorce him? Is he that great a prize?

  “He’s good-looking in an empty suit sort of way. Sort of moody, though.”

  “There are a lot of cute guys out there. Why hang onto him?”

  “I have no idea,” Isobel said. “But I don’t think she knows. She barged her way into Frank’s office, and he rushed to hide the photo on his computer. He didn’t even take the time to quit the program, he just hid the window on the desktop.”

  “Then don’t you think Doreen was threatening to tell her? There’s got to be another blackmail record somewhere. It’s the only explanation,” Delphi said decisively, cascading a handful of pretzels into her mouth. “My order for table sixteen is probably up by now. We can talk about this more later if you want.”

  Delphi headed off to the kitchen, and Isobel finished her wine, thinking more about Doreen and Frank. Something didn’t add up, and she felt certain that even one more hour in Doreen’s presence would have given her additional insight into that relationship. It was hard to believe that Doreen hadn’t caught wind of her boss’s closet homosexuality, and, as Delphi said, it was even harder to believe that she would let something as juicy as that go unblackmailed.

  Knowledge was power, and Isobel was sure that if Doreen had the knowledge, she wouldn’t have thought twice about wielding the power.

  James fastened another ten pounds to his barbell and heaved it over his head, grunting with the exertion. He was pushed almost to his limit, but he wasn’t quite ready to shower and head off to work. After catching him online, Ginger had spent the rest of the previous afternoon lurking around corners, stealing horrified glances at him. He knew he owed her an explanation, but what credible reason could he possibly have for surfing sex-change websites? As he rested between reps, it occurred to him that he could offer up the truth. But then he’d have to explain why he was spending his time delving into the murder at InterBank Switzerland instead of doing his job.

  Maybe if Ginger thought he was a candidate for gender reassignment surgery, she’d be afraid to fire him for fear of a bias suit. It couldn’t hurt to have a safety net, in case he fell off the wagon again. He hoisted his barbell. But was it worth having Ginger think that about him? As he bench-pressed his weights, he told himself for the hundredth time that he should call Isobel. She needed to know what he’d found out about Stan and Conchita. It was bordering on irresponsible not to tell her. But then he’d have to apologize for Jayla’s outburst on the phone and explain why he’d been in no condition to answer it himself. He set down the barbell and crossed his arms to massage his throbbing biceps. How come he had so much trouble explaining himself? Why did the truth always sound so outrageous coming from his mouth?

  After their impromptu double date with Bill and Nancy, Jayla had accused him of avoiding being alone with her, which, of course, was true. She’d insisted that he had a problem with intimacy and that the best way to overcome that deficiency was to spend more time with her, not less. She even went so far as to suggest moving in together.

  He hoisted the barbell for one last set of lifts, but after three reps, he let it come crashing to the floor. This had to stop. Jayla was running his life. She was using his weaknesses like a crowbar in a crevice to get what she wanted from him. And if he was sure of anything, it was that he did not want Jayla, although she was right about one thing: he was afraid to go it alone. But he wasn’t alone, he reminded himself, he had Bill and AA. Maybe that’s what he needed—to express his fears to the group and get support for the insecurities that went beyond drinking. The failures that had dogged him his whole life: his failed football career, his failed college career, his failed relationships.

  He showered and called Bill on his way to work.

  “Are you going to the lunch meeting at that church tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Hadn’t planned on it.”

  “I was thinking I might go. I’d like to speak. You said there’s usually time.”

  “Sorry, I have a conference call at noon tomorrow that I can’t miss. I could ask Conchita. I’m sure she’d go with you.”

  James wasn’t sure he wanted to mix business with self-improvement. “I can go by myself.”

  Bill paused. “You can, but if you’re planning to share, it’s good to have someone there with you.”

  Even if that person might be a murderer? James thought.

  Bill continued, “You never know how you’re going to feel afterwards. In my experience, it’s usually pretty vulnerable. I’m happy to call her, if you want.”

  On the other hand, it would be a good opportunity to get to know Conchita better. Maybe he could even get some information out of her.

  “If you think she wouldn’t mind,” James said.

  “She almost always goes if she can get away. I know she’s had some problem with a new secretary or something, but I’m sure if she can, she will.”

  James tensed at the veiled reference to Isobel. “Thanks. Yeah, sure, check with her. See you Sunday.”

  He descended the stairs to the subway. There was something unsettling about Bill’s confidence in Conchita. Maybe it was because she seemed to be cut from the same cloth as Jayla. When one person wants to save another, there’s usually an ulterior motive. Was Conchita trying to save Stan because she feared damnation for his soul or because she wanted him for herself? In the end, it probably made no difference, but along the way, it possibly did. Only one of those motives suggested itself for murder. He had a sudden, wild vision of Jayla going afte
r Isobel with a pair of scissors.

  The train screeched into the station and he shook the image from his head. There was no way he was going to let things progress to that point. Not with Jayla, and certainly not with Isobel.

  THIRTY-THREE

  If Frank realized what Isobel had seen on his computer the day before, he gave no indication. Isobel tried her best not to scrutinize him more closely when he handed her a sheaf of papers to file and told her he didn’t want to be disturbed under any circumstances. She returned to her little nook and surveyed the three desks.

  And then there was one, she thought.

  She was about to start Frank’s filing when she heard her cell phone ring in her bag. She rooted around for it, grabbing the call just before it went to voice mail. It was Sunil.

  “I’m glad I caught you,” he said. “The girl they cast as Rachel in Two by Two got a non-Equity tour of Fiddler.”

  “How nice for her,” Isobel said, unable to keep the envy from coloring her words a middling green.

  “The point is, she has to drop out and we open next week. We need to find someone to replace her ASAP.”

  “Oh!” Isobel sat up in her chair, as her jealousy turned to excitement. “Me?”

  “I said you were a friend of mine. They remembered your audition, but they, um, have some questions.”

  “About my sanity?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. But they want to hear you sing more and read from the script. We’re having an emergency rehearsal tomorrow night and they want you to come by early and basically audition again.”

  “Is there anyone else?”

  “There’s another woman who they called back last time. They’ll hear you both and then decide. But you have to be prepared to stay and rehearse if they hire you. What do you think?”

  It was a fifty-fifty chance, better than anything she’d had so far.

  “I think I owe you!” She wrote down the address of the rehearsal studio. “Thank you so, so much!”

  “I really hope you get it. Although you’d be playing my daughter-in-law!”

  Isobel hung up the phone and leaped from her chair, taking advantage of the solitude of her little corner to indulge in a spontaneous happy dance. She wished she could do the audition right away. What a different sensation from the jitters that overtook her when she even so much as read an ad in Backstage. Knowing that the director wanted to see her, was expecting to see her, and was actively hoping she would be the solution to his problem gave her a feeling of optimism that was missing when she wandered into an audition anonymously.

  Isobel hoped she could hang onto this confidence until tomorrow night. She was being given a chance to redeem herself, and she was determined not to let herself or Sunil down. She would blow the other girl out of the water and nab the part. She’d make her New York debut with Sunil in Two by Two and get every agent in town to see it. She began to hum quietly to herself, as if the need to warm up her voice was imminent and not thirty-six hours away.

  Frank’s line rang, and she picked it up.

  “Edmund Jeffards for Frank Lusardi.”

  “I’m sorry, can I take a message?”

  “Edmund Jeffards.”

  “And the message?” Isobel asked. It’s love, her mind sang.

  “EDMUND JEFFARDS.”

  “Yes, I got that part. Can I take a message?”

  There was a pause. “Who the hell is this?”

  A warning bell went off in Isobel’s brain, and she shut off her internal music player.

  Then she remembered. The head of IBS North America. Frank had said to put him through right away if he called.

  “Nobody. A temp,” she spluttered. “Hang on.”

  She put Jeffards on hold before he could explode at her and buzzed Frank.

  “I told you I don’t—” he began.

  “You do—it’s Mr. Jeffards!” She put the call through, slammed down the phone, and glared at it. Phones were not to be trusted. They could bring happy news, like an audition, but they could also catch you off guard and screw up everything when you least expected it.

  She pushed all thoughts of Two by Two aside and concentrated on Frank’s documents. Maybe someday she’d have a job that paid her to do what she was good at, but until then, she’d better concentrate on keeping this one.

  Ginger’s behavior had reversed itself one hundred and eighty degrees from the day before. Instead of tiptoeing around James, she was more attentive and forthcoming than he had ever seen her. By noon, she had “passed by” three times, just to see how he was “feeling.”

  When she came by for the fourth time, he felt he had to say something.

  “Ginger, I know what you’re thinking—”

  She cut him off with a dramatic gesture. “James! James. I’ve decided that you’re very brave. I’m sure this would be difficult for anyone, but for someone like you…someone who looks like you…it’s not that I don’t think you’ll make a lovely um, woman, it’s just that…”

  “It’ll be a lot of work for somebody?” he finished.

  She swallowed self-consciously. “Well, yes.”

  “You can cross that off your list of things to worry about. I’m not having a sex change operation.”

  “It’s all right. Really! I can be very open-minded when I have to be.”

  James stood up, and Ginger, in spite of herself, took a step backwards, tripping over her heel.

  James held out his hands as if to steady her and said gently, “I know this is going to sound like I’m lying or covering up, because if I really were having a sex change operation, I’m sure I wouldn’t want anyone to know about it. But you have to believe me when I tell you that I’m not. I have a girlfriend!”

  Ginger’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What’s her name?”

  “Jay—lice.”

  Damn.

  “That’s an interesting name.”

  “It is. Jaylice…” He figured he may as well combine their last names too. “Jaylice Cumwards.”

  Shit. He couldn’t have said Eddings?

  “And, uh, is your girlfriend…”

  “Jaylice,” said James firmly.

  “Jaylice. Is she, um, he…”

  “She’s in the consulting business.”

  Ginger backed up a step further. “It really is best if you keep your personal life personal.” She held a carefully manicured finger to her lips. “I won’t tell a soul.”

  It was too much. He slammed his fist on the desk. “I am not a transsexual!”

  His booming baritone resounded in the small room, and Ginger gave a little shriek. It struck James suddenly that she was more afraid of him because he was a big black man than because he might be sexually confused. He tried to dial his temper down to simmer.

  “Look,” he said, as slowly and evenly as he could, “I have a good reason for being on that website. It’s work-related.”

  That caught Ginger’s attention. “What do you mean…work-related?”

  “It has to do with the murder at InterBank Switzerland.” There was nothing left but the truth.

  She gave a dismissive wave. “InterBank? Don’t worry about them. I told you, we’re phasing them out.”

  “We still have one temp there. Isobel Spice. She’s working in the department where that secretary was killed.”

  Ginger frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “I found out from…somebody…that one of the men in that department is a cross-dresser. He wants to have the operation. I just wanted to make sure that Isobel was safe.”

  Ginger wagged a finger at James. “Transsexuals are not inherently dangerous. You should try to be more open-minded.”

  It was no use pointing out that there were reasons that had nothing to do with the characteristics of cross-dressers that might make Stan, or anyone else in that office, a danger to Isobel. Ginger had her own peculiar way of parsing information.

  “I was curious, that’s all,” he said.

  “Well, you don�
��t need to waste any more time researching transsexuals, if that’s really what you were doing. They arrested someone for the murder.”

  James looked up sharply. “What?”

  “Very embarrassing. She used to work for me. A woman named Annika Franklin. I had a call from the police, asking for my records.” She dropped her voice and added, “As you can imagine, I have no desire to trumpet it around.”

  James steadied himself against his desk.

  Ginger let out a deep breath. “To be honest, I’m glad you’re not a transsexual. You’re way too tall and not nearly pretty enough.” She walked toward the door, and then turned back to him. “And I hate to tell you, but you’re not much of a detective, either. The killer was in my files under your nose the whole time, and you didn’t find her. You’d better get back to work placing temps. You seem to do all right there.”

  And with that, Ginger returned to her rounds, leaving James too stunned to try to correct her for the second time in one day.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “Isobel!”

  She flinched at the command and set Frank’s papers on the stepstool next to the filing cabinet. “Coming!”

  Frank was standing by the window in his office. Innocuous palm trees and ocean vistas faded into one another on his computer screen.

  “I know, and I’m sorry,” she said immediately.

  He looked startled. “I didn’t realize you’d grown so attached to me.”

  It was worse than she thought. She was being fired.

  “I like working here, I actually do. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “No, no. Under the circumstances, I didn’t mind at all.”

  Isobel shook her head. “No, not to you, to Mr. Jeffards. If I’d remembered his name, I would have put him right through. Was he really angry?”

  Frank gave her a strange look. “What are you talking about?”

  Percival’s voice teased in her head: “It’s not always about you, Iz.”