“He didn’t, um, say anything about me on the phone?” she asked cautiously.
“No. Look, I’m flattered that you’ll miss me, but I’m sure you and Paula will be fine.”
Paula?
“Frank…I’m a bit confused. Are you going somewhere?”
“You said you knew.”
“I misunderstood. I thought…never mind.”
“I’ve been promoted to Senior VP of Procurement. Paula is stepping into my role here.”
Isobel’s mouth flapped open, fishlike. She shut it, then nodded, as if she somehow knew this was coming. “Congratulations!”
Frank gave a dry laugh. “I have to admit, that’s closer to the reaction I expected. Stan will be Assistant VP.” He shrugged his shoulders apologetically. “I don’t know what’s going to happen with your position. I’m still waiting to hear back from accounting about who’ll cover Nikki, so can you hang on with us a bit longer?”
“Sure,” said Isobel. Until it looked like she might lose her job, she hadn’t realized how little she relished the idea of adapting to a new office situation. The devil you know versus the devil you don’t. Although in a way, Paula was both.
“Tomorrow’s my last day here. I have to wrap up some loose ends. They’ll move Paula into my office over the weekend, and starting Monday I’ll be downstairs in Procurement.” He gave a self-satisfied smile.
“It sounds like a good move,” Isobel said, although she still hadn’t grasped the finer points of differentiation between Procurement and Procurement Support. “And, um, nice for Paula, I suppose.”
“She’s been waiting a long time for this. Far be it from me to tell her it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”
“I imagine Stan will be disappointed.”
Frank shifted his gaze out the window. “He hasn’t been here as long as Paula. Doreen was really pushing for him, though.”
“Oh?”
“She had…issues with Paula. She went so far as to bring them to Felice Edwards. Paula found out, and they had a big blow-up.”
“When was this?”
“Shortly before Doreen was killed.”
“Did you ever wonder if…if Paula could have been the one to…?” Isobel purposely didn’t finish her thought.
Frank glanced beyond her to make sure nobody was lurking in the half-open doorway. He lowered his voice.
“I’ll admit, the thought did cross my mind. But now that Nikki’s been arrested, we know Paula didn’t have anything to do with it. In any case, I’d rather work with her than Stan. That’s why I called Mr. Jeffards yesterday and told him I was recommending her.” Frank gave a wry laugh. “It took some convincing. He’s very conservative in his views about women.”
“Prehistoric, you mean?”
“Look, it’s probably best not to let on that you know about any of this, if you know what I mean. Tell Stan to come in, will you? I’d better give him the news.”
Isobel passed the word to Conchita, who passed it to Stan, then lurked by the supply closet until Stan disappeared into Frank’s office, shutting the door behind him. Conchita was watching her with a steely eye, so she rooted around in the closet, picking up an extra phone message pad that she didn’t need and some ballpoint pens that she did.
Isobel suddenly understood why Detective Kozinski had charged Nikki with suspicion of murder, even after Isobel had taken pains to explain Nikki’s alibi in her phone message. There was a distinct advantage to letting people think the perpetrator had been caught. With a cat in the bag, people were more inclined to let down their guard, as Frank had just done.
So Doreen had actively tried to keep Paula from being promoted. She must really have hated Paula, to go to such lengths. Was it simply because Paula looked down on secretaries, or was there more to it? Paula’s name was conspicuously absent from the log. Maybe Doreen knew something about Paula and had tried, unsuccessfully, to blackmail her. To show her she meant business, Doreen had tried to sabotage her promotion, but Paula got wind of it and killed her.
Paula had known about the fire drill in advance, and she’d stayed on the floor after everyone else left. Isobel didn’t recall seeing Stan, and he was the other fire marshal. Even he was gone by the time Paula came back into the women’s bathroom. So what was she still doing on the seventeenth floor?
Isobel had ruled out Paula’s complicity largely on the evidence of her throwing up when she saw Doreen’s body, but now she reconsidered. It was one thing to commit murder in the throes of emotion, and another to return and see your handiwork after the fact. And without question, it had been a disgusting sight.
Isobel turned the corner and found Paula standing by the filing cabinet. Some of Frank’s papers were still on the stepstool where Isobel had left them. Paula let the rest tumble to the floor from her hands.
“I wasn’t finished yet,” Isobel said.
“I noticed.”
“Congratulations on your promotion,” Isobel said, making an effort to sound sincere.
“Yes. Lovely, isn’t it?” Paula slammed the file drawer shut with her foot and pointed to the papers on the floor. Isobel knelt down to pick them up.
When she stood up, she saw Paula at her desk, holding up her copy of Backstage. She waved the newspaper at Isobel, gave a phony, saccharine smile, then tore it in half down the middle and dropped it into the wastebasket.
“Now that I’m in charge, things are going to be different around here. You’d best get used to it.”
THIRTY-FIVE
The rhythm of the subway usually lulled Isobel into a trance, even when she was being crushed by her fellow riders. But as she rode home from work Thursday night, she found herself replaying her conversation with Frank instead of zoning out.
They’d all been up for promotion: Frank, Paula, Stan and, if Frank was successful, Doreen. So clearly Doreen had a stake in it, although she couldn’t have had much influence if her pleas on Stan’s behalf ultimately fell flat. But the really interesting question was why Doreen had been pushing for Stan in the first place.
Why, all these years after the annulment of their marriage, would she get him a job at the bank and push for his promotion, while at the same time, she was blackmailing him—and for more money than anyone else? What was he paying her for? Was he trying to keep her quiet, or had she promised Stan something else—something that was worth $5,000 a month to him?
She was still lost in thought as she ambled down Fiftieth Street toward her apartment, although she had strayed from office politics to her audition for Two by Two. She was imagining herself saying nothing more than the title of her song, when she practically bumped into the wiry, bespectacled, backpacked frame standing on her stoop.
“You should be more aware walking down the streets of New York!”
As always, Percival was right. Isobel clutched her brother in a fierce hug, which he submitted to patiently. She pulled away and glanced guiltily at her watch. “Am I late? You haven’t been waiting here long, have you? I should have left you a key.”
“I just got here. My plane was a little early, if you can believe it.” He looked up and down the shady, tree-lined street. “Nice block.”
“Believe me, it gets more colorful after dark. Come on in.”
He followed her up the three flights of stairs. “I wasn’t kidding, Iz. You should be more careful walking around. You can’t zone out on the street like that.”
“I wasn’t zoning, I was thinking.”
“Same thing.” Percival shrugged off his backpack and looked around the apartment. Isobel had stayed up the night before trying to straighten up, but there was only so much one could do with two women’s assorted belongings and limited storage space.
“Are you sure this is okay?” Percival asked doubtfully. “I think our bathroom at home is bigger than this.”
“Midwest small isn’t the same as New York small. That’s something I know about New York that you don’t,” she said playfully. “Delphi’s got five sisters. She can deal. And you k
now I don’t mind.” She hugged him again. “I really missed you.”
Percival squeezed back. “I missed you too. You seem well, though.”
“I am,” said Isobel, almost surprised at how true it was. “I have a callback tomorrow night from that audition I botched the first time around.”
Percival threw back his head and laughed. “Right! Remind me what you did…lectured them about the differences between auditioning and performing, was it?”
“Shut up!” She gave him a good-natured punch on the arm. “At least they’re seeing me again.”
The key turned in the lock and Delphi shoved open the door, struggling with a heavy bag of groceries. Percival jumped up to help her.
“I got ‘em,” he said, deftly taking the bag from her. “I’m Percival,” he said over his shoulder. “Nice to meet you.”
Delphi pushed her curls out of her eyes. “I know. And you don’t need to curry favor, I already said you could stay.” She turned to Isobel and stage-whispered, “Oh my God, he really does look like Harry Potter.”
Percival set the bag down on the counter and cast an approving eye over Delphi. “And you look like Aphrodite.”
Delphi laughed. “Ha! What a charmer!”
“Doesn’t she, Iz? She has that Greek goddess thing going.”
“Yeah, if that’s the case, I’ll be the first Jewish Greek goddess in history. I’m a real pagan.”
“Are you Wiccan?”
“Am I what-an?”
“Wiccan. When people say pagan these days, that’s usually what they mean. Contemporary witchcraft. The black arts.”
Delphi shrugged off her coat and handed it to Isobel. “Did your brother just call me a witch?”
“I’m sure he meant it in the nicest possible way,” Isobel assured her.
Percival began unpacking the groceries. “I really appreciate your making room for me.”
“We aren’t making any room for you. What you see is what you get, and you’re bunking with your sister,” said Delphi.
“Ah, pomegranate juice,” Percival said, as he pulled a bottle from the bag. “The sacred fruit of the underworld. Excellent antioxidant properties.”
“Tell me, do they offer grocery analysis at Columbia?” Delphi asked.
Isobel watched their instinctive sparring with amusement. She could tell that they liked each other already.
“Whole wheat bread, white rice—I sense internal conflict here—eggs, bacon, obviously you’re a non-kosher pagan, frozen pizza with everything on it and…diet Coke. Definitely conflicted.” He crumpled up the paper bag. “Do you recycle?”
“No, I’m conflicted about that, too,” Delphi retorted.
“Yes, we do. Under the sink,” Isobel said, laughing.
Percival stowed the bag and turned back to them. “So, Mom and Dad gave me money to take you guys out to a nice dinner tonight. And, being the goody two-shoes that I am, I didn’t go and blow it all on illegal drugs on the corner. Only some of it, and I’m not sharing.”
“Kidding,” Isobel mouthed to Delphi.
“How about Greek food, in honor of the curls on the oracle of Delphi?” he suggested.
“There’s a place on Tenth Avenue that looks nice,” said Isobel.
Percival waved a hand toward the door. “Lay on, Macduff!”
“He opens doors, unpacks groceries, cites mythological references, and quotes Shakespeare correctly. How old is this kid?” Delphi said as Isobel passed her.
“Too old for you,” Isobel said snidely.
Delphi made a face and shut the door behind them.
They chatted amiably on the way to the restaurant and were soon ensconced in a booth in the cozy blue and white interior. After placing their orders, Isobel and Delphi raised their wineglasses, while Percival held up his ginger ale.
“Here’s to New York and new friends,” said Isobel.
“And smart siblings,” Delphi added. “Maybe Percival Popp here can help you solve your office murder.”
“What?”
“Percival Popp, 1940s comic strip hero. Percival Popp, the Super Cop? Aha!” Delphi pointed triumphantly at him. “I think I’ve got you there, whizbang.”
But Percival was looking at Isobel, his head cocked questioningly, and she knew she was cornered.
“I know who Percival Popp is,” said Percival dismissively, as Delphi wilted. “What office murder?”
Isobel laughed weakly. “Oh. I guess I forgot to tell you about that.”
He frowned. “I guess you did.”
Isobel sighed. “I knew you’d worry. And I didn’t want you to tell Mom and Dad. Anyway, it’s not as bad as it sounds. I mean, it is, but it isn’t.”
Over lemon soup and moussaka, Isobel told Percival the whole story, or as much of it as now made sense to her.
Percival stirred his soup, brooding. “I don’t like this, Iz.” He looked up. “But you knew I wouldn’t.”
“Delphi’s right. Maybe you can help,” she said. “It’s all swirling in my brain. I need logical, objective eyes.”
“Why?” He gave her a wary look. “Isobel, you’re not trying to solve it yourself, are you?”
“I didn’t set out to, but I’ve been learning things about the office and the people, just to get along with everyone and do my job, and it’s hard to ignore some of the things I found out.”
“Have you gone to the police?”
“Of course. Everything I know, they know.” But as Isobel spoke, she realized there were some discoveries she hadn’t bothered to share: Frank’s sexuality, Paula’s hatred of Doreen, Conchita’s religious passion for Stan. “Well, maybe not everything,” she said. “But I’m not about to do their job for them. I’m sure they’re making inquiries.”
Percival looked at her with a mixture of hurt and concern. “I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this.”
Delphi threw up her hands in mock annoyance. “Great, now he’ll never leave.”
“I know. I’m sorry, I should have. Don’t be mad at me. Help me,” said Isobel. She knew that her brother could no more resist a puzzle than she could, and it wasn’t long before he relented.
“Is the entrance to the ladies’ room visible from all the desks and cubicles?” he asked.
“It’s down the hall beyond Frank, Paula, Stan and Conchita. It’s not central, but a person ducking in there would still risk being seen.”
Percival pondered this. “Seems likely the killer was a woman. A man would attract attention going into the ladies’ room.”
“That leaves Paula and Conchita. Paula hated Doreen, and Doreen was doing her damndest to keep Paula from being promoted. Not only does Paula have a motive, she was one of only three people who knew about the fire drill in advance.”
“Was Doreen blackmailing Paula?”
“Seems likely, but I don’t have evidence.”
“What about Conchita?”
“Opposite problem. Doreen was blackmailing her, only I don’t know why. Also, she’s fiercely protective of Stan, who married Doreen right out of high school. The marriage was annulled, but I don’t know the reason for that, either.”
“Do you know why Doreen was blackmailing Stan?” Percival asked.
“Nope. That one really has me stumped.”
“Where’s this blackmail log? You said you kept a copy.”
Isobel opened her wallet, unfolded the paper and handed it to Percival. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and peered at the figures scrawled in Doreen’s handwriting. After a moment, he was grinning like the Cheshire cat.
“Well, she wasn’t,” he said.
“Who wasn’t what?”
“Doreen wasn’t blackmailing Stan.” Percival handed the paper back to Isobel, who stared at it blankly. It revealed nothing new.
“Look at the amounts and how they’re laid out on the page. $200, $475, $750, $1,275, $2,300, and then, a little farther down, $5,000. Don’t you see it?”
“No, I don’t,” said Iso
bel. Now she was getting annoyed. Really, sometimes Percival could be too much, even for her.
Percival leaned over and pointed with his fork. “Do the math, Iz. The first five amounts add up to $5,000. Doreen wasn’t blackmailing Stan. She was paying him. With the money she got from the others.”
THIRTY-SIX
James spent the entire subway ride home psyching himself up for a confrontation with Jayla. It was time to put an end to this frustrating limbo, once and for all. But when he exited the subway, he found he wasn’t quite ready to face her. Not yet. He set off instead toward his buddy Gerald’s house. He pressed the buzzer several times, but there was no answer, so he hiked a few blocks north to his friend Michael’s house. There was nobody home there, either. James paused on the corner, just outside a deli.
He hadn’t seen Michael, Gerald or any of his old buddies in several months. It was too hard to chill with them and not drink. These were the guys he’d played football with in college, but unlike him, they had graduated, and they could hang out in bars without it being a threat to their health and sanity. Since James had started AA, he’d avoided them entirely. Now he was seeking them out again…why? He was forced to ask himself that question, and he didn’t like the answer.
He was too much of a coward to face Jayla.
What he really needed was moral support. He wanted desperately for them to tell him that it was time to dump her, that he didn’t owe her anything. He was even, he realized, prepared to admit he was in AA, although he wasn’t sure what their reaction would be. But even if he ran down the list of all his buddies, he’d still have to have it out with Jayla eventually. There was no point in putting it off any longer.
He ducked into the deli and bought a Coke. He downed it in several strong gulps, crushed the can against his forehead just because he could, and ditched it in a nearby trash can. Then he turned the corner and headed downtown to Jayla’s apartment, ten blocks away. Just as she had a key to his apartment, he had a key to hers, although it had been a long time since he’d used it. That should have told her something. He took a deep breath, sucked in his stomach, walked up the two flights of stairs and let himself in.
The Temporary Detective Page 19
