SIXTEEN
Isobel knew that James’s ex-girlfriend, Jayla, had worked with Jason Whiteley at Schumann, Crowe & Dyer, but she never expected to meet her in person. From Jayla’s reaction, Isobel was ready to bet it was a surprise to her, too. Upon hearing Isobel’s name, Jayla had withdrawn her hand as if she’d been scalded, and Isobel entertained a fleeting regret that she hadn’t poisoned today’s coffee. Observing her now across the conference table, Isobel realized that it must have taken Jayla every ounce of self-control not to rake her long crimson nails across Isobel’s cheek. Every once in a while, Jayla would shoot a murderous look in Isobel’s direction, and Isobel couldn’t begin to fathom why James’s ex-girlfriend should loathe her so much.
“The bottom line,” Jayla said, after another digressive glance at Isobel, “is that we’re getting pressure from ICG to keep you on. The partners aren’t happy about it, but they have no choice. So you’re officially on probation.”
Isobel could sense her colleagues’ relief. Katrina seemed to be sitting up taller, Liz had audibly begun breathing again, and Aaron was almost grinning.
“Don’t get too excited,” Jayla continued. “We have a big announcement in the offing and it’s a potential minefield. What I’m about to tell you requires complete confidentiality. Everyone in this room will be held accountable.” She turned a meaningful eye toward Isobel.
Isobel stood up. “That’s all right. I have other things to do.”
Liz pulled her back down. “Whatever it is, Isobel will probably be working on it.”
It was clear that Jayla didn’t relish the idea any more than Isobel, who knew full well that if she were privy to the ensuing conversation, any future disasters would be attributable immediately and exclusively to her.
Jayla set her mouth in a thin line. “We’re about to announce a deal with a big publicly traded company, but we’re at odds with them about the level of press exposure. They want to keep it under the radar, but it’s a big win for us and we want to get some play from it. How would you advise us to proceed?”
Aaron rolled his pen between his fingers thoughtfully. “We should determine which reporters follow this company regularly. If we confine our outreach to that group, it will be hard to argue that we overreached.”
Jayla nodded. “I’m fine with that, but you’ll have to put together your own list. I don’t want to ask the target for theirs.”
Aaron eyed her steadily. “You’ll have to tell us the name of the company.”
Jayla looked around the room and then sighed. “MacBride’s.”
The name meant nothing to Isobel, but the others immediately perked up. Katrina must have sensed her indifference, because she leaned over and whispered, “Huge investment bank. Right up there with Morgan Stanley and Goldman Sachs.”
Jayla stood up. “Timing is ASAP. If you botch this one, that’s it, no matter what ICG says.” Aaron remained seated while Jayla turned one final malevolent gaze on Isobel and let Liz escort her out.
When they were gone, Aaron rose as well. “Katrina, this one’s on you. Pull together a smart list, and then call to confirm that they still cover MacBride’s. Nothing in email, no names, use caller ID block. Nothing to trace the query back to us.”
He strode out briskly, leaving Isobel and Katrina alone. Katrina leaned back in her chair and folded her arms.
“What on earth is up with you and Jayla Cummings? I had no idea you knew each other, let alone hated each other.”
“I don’t hate her. I’d never even met her before today.” Isobel ripped a sheet of paper from the pad in front of her and started shredding it absent-mindedly. “She used to date my temp agent, though. They had a nasty breakup, and from her attitude this morning, all I can think is that she blames me, though God knows why. It’s not like there’s anything going on between James and me.”
“Do you want there to be?”
Isobel arranged her yellow paper shreds into a small neat pile. “No. Yes. I don’t know. He’s not my type, and I’m not his. No. What about you?”
“What about me…what?”
Isobel swept the paper shreds into her palm and crunched them. “Aren’t you surprised that Aaron put you in charge of this highly sensitive confidential press list?”
“Why wouldn’t he? I’m the most junior person on the account. It’s the sort of thing I usually do, plus I’m sure they want to keep our billing down right now, and I’m the cheapest, next to you.” Katrina brightened. “You can make the calls after I pull the names.”
Isobel frowned. “But what about the Brazil pitch?”
Katrina froze. “What about it?”
Isobel struggled to find the least accusatory words. “You didn’t notice that the reporter was sniffing around?”
Katrina inhaled sharply. “What? That wasn’t me! Liz sent that pitch out. She was the one who didn’t pick up on the significance of that email!”
Isobel backtracked immediately. “Sorry! I didn’t…I don’t know why I thought it was you.”
Katrina’s blue eyes blazed. “Who needs my dad when I’ve got you to assume that if somebody did something stupid, it had to be me?”
She stormed out, and Isobel berated herself for shooting off her mouth without thinking. Even if Katrina had sent those emails, she wouldn’t have wanted to admit it. But her anger struck Isobel as genuine. Was Liz lying? It’s never fun to take the blame, and in a case like this, it might have gotten Liz fired. But she wasn’t fired—nobody was. In the end, they didn’t even lose the account. So was there some other reason Liz didn’t want Isobel to know she was responsible? Or was Katrina putting on a show?
Isobel finished tidying up the conference room and returned to her desk, where Aaron was waiting for her, a stack of stapled glossy sheets in hand.
“I need you to run these up to Barnaby’s office. It’s slides for a new business presentation and he has to sign off.”
Happy to have another reason to put off making follow-up calls, but a little apprehensive about what might await her in Harm’s Way, Isobel made her way down the hall. She passed the kitchen and the conference room of death, and chugged up the spiral staircase. She had just reached the top, when somber old Wilbur Freed materialized, seemingly out of nowhere.
“Watch it!”
As they collided, magazines and news clippings flew from his hands and tumbled through the slats to the floor below.
“I’m so sorry!” Isobel clambered back down and knelt on the floor, setting Aaron’s slides next to her. She gathered Wilbur’s scattered papers, fully expecting him to come down and help her. When he didn’t, she piled his papers on top of hers and clumped back up the steps.
His beagle jowls sagged with displeasure. “Who are you, anyway?”
“Isobel Spice. I’m temping.”
He accepted his magazines with a dismissive grunt. She waited for him to move aside to let her pass, but he loomed over her like a hovering hawk. She gave up and pressed her body against the railing, and he stomped past her down the stairs.
“Chivalry is clearly on life support,” she muttered.
Harm’s Way was on the far end of the top floor, and Isobel found it hard to believe it had been furnished by the same people who’d appointed the bland, blond offices below. Original art and sleek chrome coffee tables adorned the upholstered conversation areas, while the hush created by the absorbent plush carpeting hinted at minds too busy publicizing to be disturbed. The partners’ assistants, seated behind matching wide mahogany desks, couldn’t have been more different. Angus Dove was guarded by Sophie Barker, a quiet middle-aged woman of mousy demeanor and mousier wardrobe. Barnaby, still inexplicably to Isobel, entrusted his secrets and his schedule to Jimmy Rocket, who greeted her effusively.
“Melodious songbird! Come at last to entertain us with a mid-morning tweet?”
“Nothing that distracting. A new business proposal—” Isobel looked down at her empty hands. “Damn! I must have given it to Wilbur. I’ll be right ba
ck.”
“Good luck finding him. Sandburg’s cat-footed fog’s got nothing on him!” Jimmy called after her.
She scampered back down the stairs, but Wilbur was nowhere in sight. She followed the corridor, glancing into offices as she passed, but he wasn’t in any of them. Finally, she rounded the bend to the far corner and found herself facing Kit Blanchard, who sat at her desk polishing her Prada sunglasses.
“Oh! Sorry to bother you. I was looking for Wilbur.”
Mindful of Liz’s warning, Isobel took a step backwards, as if she were in danger of forfeiting a husband, despite the fact that she didn’t even have a boyfriend.
Kit swept the glasses onto her head, her blond hair shimmering as new highlights were revealed.
“You’re the temp.”
“Isobel.”
“Right. Wilbur was here a minute ago. He dropped off a whole pile of stuff for me.” She gestured to a stack of magazines on her desk.
“He picked up something of mine by mistake. Do you mind if I take a look?”
“Be my guest.”
Isobel easily located Aaron’s slides sandwiched in between Chain Store Age and Fortune. “I bumped into him, and this got mixed up with his papers.” Isobel rattled the presentation. “He seemed a bit disgruntled.”
Kit waved her arm and her gold bangles jingled. “That’s just Wilbur. He’s one of those old-timers who hate change. You know the type. He loves to reminisce about the good old days, when press releases were hand-delivered by messenger.”
“Surely he’s gotten used to it by now.”
Kit rolled her eyes. “He even waxes nostalgic for the days when you had to fax breaking news to Dow Jones and Reuters simultaneously, so one wire service wouldn’t get the edge over the other. And don’t get him started on the internet. He believes that information is too readily available, and collating it is a lost art.”
Isobel fanned the pages of the presentation to make sure they were intact. “So, how necessary is what he does here?”
“Not. He doesn’t do anything we couldn’t all do for ourselves.”
“Well, sorry to bother you.”
Jimmy was waiting for her when she returned, shifting back and forth on the balls of his feet like an outfielder awaiting a fly ball. “Did you manage to locate the elusive Mr. Freed?”
“No, but I got what I needed.” Isobel held out the presentation. “Would you do the honors?”
“I shall waft my way in there now, before the songbird takes flight again before Flight.”
He bounced off to a dark wooden door, knocked, and entered. At the next desk, Sophie Barker shook her head in bewilderment. Isobel returned a conspiratorial smile and looked around. Angus and Barnaby had the two large corner offices, and she knew from the day she was hired that Mike Hardy, the Human Resources director, had his office nearby. There were several other upper management caves to which Isobel couldn’t ascribe ownership. Through Flight’s open door, she could hear him ranting on the phone. A watch alarm went off, and Sophie stood up.
“Have to remind Angus to take his heart medication,” she explained. She took a pill bottle from her desk and disappeared into his office.
Barnaby’s second line rang, and Isobel glanced down at the caller ID.
It was the NYPD.
She snatched it up. “Barnaby Flight’s office.”
“This is Detective Aguilar for Mr. Flight.”
“I’m sorry, he isn’t in today,” Isobel said, her heart racing. “But he asked me to be sure and take a message if you called.”
There was a pause, and then Aguilar continued. “This is regarding the death at your office.”
“Yes?” Isobel held her breath.
“You can let him know we tested the coffee in the carafe and there was no trace of any foreign substance.”
Isobel braced herself against Jimmy’s desk. “Really?”
“That’s correct.”
She didn’t need to probe further. She knew Whiteley had been poisoned—she even knew with what. But now she knew she hadn’t done it.
“I’ll make sure to give Mr. Flight the message right away.”
She hung up, both relieved and confused, just as Sophie returned.
“Thanks for grabbing that,” Sophie said. “Who was it?”
“One of the detectives from the other day. They tested the coffee in the pot, and it hadn’t been tampered with.”
Sophie exhaled deeply. “Well, that’s a relief! The partners will be very glad to hear that.”
Some demon prodded Isobel to improvise. “But he did say Jason Whiteley was poisoned, even if it wasn’t in our coffee. With Demerol and digoxin.”
Sophie paused, her hand hovering over the back of her chair. Her face grew a shade paler, which made her look suddenly younger and more vulnerable.
“What is it?” Isobel asked.
Sophie shook her head and sat down. “Nothing.” She quickly tossed the pill bottle back in her drawer and started hammering away on her keyboard. “Sorry, I have to get back to this report.”
At that moment, Jimmy reappeared and thrust Aaron’s new business proposal into Isobel’s hand. “Approved with the understanding that you will incorporate the edits noted on pages seven and thirteen.” He saluted. “Go forth and pitch!”
But Isobel was barely listening. Sophie hadn’t done a particularly good job of concealing her surprise at the mention of the two substances. And Isobel had a pretty fair guess which one had caused her discomfort.
SEVENTEEN
Isobel arrived home to find Delphi kneeling on the floor wearing a long, ruffled rehearsal skirt with her Nine Inch Nails T-shirt. It made a nice change from the jeans and bustier look, although it wasn’t, strictly speaking, an improvement. Isobel tried to tiptoe around her, but Delphi, sensing her presence, swung around, clenched her fists and intoned:
Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form;
Then, have I reason to be fond of grief?
Fare you well: had you such a loss as I,
I could give better comfort than you do.
Delphi melted to the floor in a heap, and Isobel, recognizing her cue, applauded enthusiastically.
“That was great! What was it?”
Delphi sat up and pushed a nest of blond ringlets out of her eyes. “Constance from King John. What else? We open next week.”
Isobel threw her bag and phone onto the kitchen counter. “Will you think I’m a philistine if I say they all sound the same?”
“The same might be said of your precious Gilbert and Sullivan,” Delphi grumbled. “You are coming opening night, right?”
“Of course! Wouldn’t miss it.”
In truth, Delphi’s monologue was far better than Isobel expected. She really did have a knack for Shakespeare. Delphi’s musical instincts stood her in good stead when she didn’t have to match pitch.
Isobel opened the fridge and pulled out a can of Diet Coke, which she popped open. She leaned on the counter.
“I’d never even heard of King John until you were cast in it.”
Delphi hitched up her voluminous skirts to perch with modern abandon on the kitchen stool. “It’s not done very often, which is why Graham chose it. We’ll have a better chance of getting agents and casting directors in to see it than if we do Richard III or something.”
“Why not do a comedy? Or at least one of the tragedies?”
“They’re overdone.” Delphi jumped down from the stool and yanked off her skirt. “This thing is starting to bug me.”
“You, too?”
Delphi gave her a dirty look and threw the skirt across the room where it landed on her bed. “Besides, the histories offer dramatic opportunities you can really sink your teeth into, plus the language is more oblique. If
we can pull it off, we look that much better.”
“Who is Willy Loman playing?” asked Isobel.
“The title role, of course.”
“Of course.”
“So what’s new at the spin shop?”
Isobel filled her in on the highlights of her day, minus the confidential business portion.
“Do you really think Angus poisoned Jason Whiteley with his own heart medication?” Delphi asked, unpiling her hair from its messy topknot.
“Not Angus, necessarily.” Isobel, in sympathy, undid her ponytail and wound the rubber band around her wrist. “But if he keeps a supply of digoxin in his office, anyone could know about it. Anyone could have taken it and—”
“And what? Gone to Jason’s house that morning and fixed him a digoxin omelet? And what about the Demerol? Where did that come from?”
“So you think it’s a coincidence?”
Delphi pulled a pile of takeout menus from behind the cutting board and rifled through them.
“Maybe he had a heart condition that nobody knew about. And maybe he also had a bad back. He was taking both drugs and overdosed accidentally.” She held up a menu. “Chinese?”
Isobel nodded and tapped her soda can on the counter. “I suppose that’s possible, but stay with me for a moment. Barnaby was pushing for the merger to go through, and he knew Jason was going to give them the old heave-ho. He saw Jason as a threat, so he helped himself to Angus’s medication and…”
“You’re back where you started. The coffee in the office was clean. Nobody from Dove & Flight killed him.”
“Just because the coffee was clean doesn’t mean it wasn’t somebody from Dove & Flight.” Isobel grabbed the menu from Delphi. “Maybe somebody there had a relationship with Jason outside work. Kung pao chicken.”
“Okay, but you’re still faced with the question of where and when.” Delphi shook her phone. “Shit. I’m out of charge.”
Bad Publicity Page 9
