Bad Publicity

by Joanne Sydney Lessner

  “He was three years older.” She snatched up the empty Maxwell House box and hurried out.

  Interesting. Jason would have been a senior when Penny was a freshman, which meant they were there at the same time, albeit briefly. Was there some connection there?

  Before Isobel could pursue this line of thought any further, Katrina strode into the kitchen, with Liz shuffling behind her.

  “See what Isobel thinks,” Katrina said, waving in her direction.

  “See what I think about what?”

  “Katrina’s decided that Barnaby killed Angus,” Liz said.

  Isobel looked up in surprise. “What makes you say that?”

  “Angus was getting in his way,” Katrina said.

  Liz passed Katrina and started opening cabinets. “I don’t know. I mean, we all know Barnaby’s a clod, but that doesn’t make him a murderer. Where’s the coffee?”

  “Penny went down to get more.” Isobel angled her chair to make room for Katrina. “Is this officially another spa day?”

  “Definitely.” Katrina joined her at the table. “Don’t you agree that Barnaby could have had a hand in Angus’s death?”

  “But it was a heart attack,” Isobel reminded her. “And what about Angus’s note?”

  “Maybe Barnaby stood over him, dangling his heart medicine just out of reach, saying, ‘I’m not giving this to you unless you take down my words.’” Katrina suggested.

  “More likely Angus felt himself going and decided as his last act to use it to his advantage,” said Liz, ripping open a package of saltines.

  “A PR man until the end?” Isobel asked.

  “Exactly,” said Liz. “And it worked. The press is eating it up.”

  “Well, if Angus weren’t already dead, Barnaby would certainly have killed him by now,” Katrina said. “The ICG merger is officially off, and Barnaby’s fit to be tied.”

  Liz frowned. “Really? The press hasn’t gotten wind of that yet.”

  Katrina’s expression was unreadable. “They will. My dad felt it was just a bit too much bad publicity for his taste.”

  “At least now you can stay,” said Isobel.

  Liz looked at Katrina, surprised. “You were planning to leave?”

  Isobel bit her lip. “Oops! Sorry. I guess I shouldn’t have said that.”

  Katrina gave a dismissive shrug. “It doesn’t matter. We’re all history one way or another. Dove & Flight is on the way out.”

  “I got more coffee,” Penny announced, returning to the kitchen. “Should I make a full pot?”

  “Might as well,” Liz said. “Looks like it’s going to be that kind of day.”

  “What did you mean ‘on the way out’?” Isobel asked Katrina.

  “Don’t you remember what Barnaby said when he screamed at us yesterday about MacBride’s? ‘We can’t afford to stay in business.’ When people are angry, they tend to tell the truth—even seasoned PR pros.”

  “And without Angus, half the brand is gone,” Liz pointed out.

  Katrina pulled at the nubby wool of her pants. “I don’t think Angus fully appreciated how bad their financial situation had gotten or he would have been in favor of the merger.”

  Liz shook her head. “No, I think Angus considered himself too much of an elder statesman to listen to a bunch of corporate bean counters telling him what to do. For Barnaby it was an ego boost, but for Angus it was probably an insult.”

  They sat silently for a moment, listening to the coffee drip into the pot. It was Penny who spoke up. Isobel had almost forgotten she was there.

  “The police are closing the Jason Whiteley case, you know.”

  Isobel, Liz and Katrina turned to look at her.

  “How do you know?” Isobel asked.

  “They talked to Dorothy last night. She saw Angus in Starbucks with Jason Whiteley the morning he died. She said Angus bought tea for himself and coffee for Jason. Then he took the cups over to the counter, where he put milk and sugar in both.”

  “Did Dorothy see him put anything else in?” Isobel asked.

  Penny shook her head. “I don’t know, but she was very clear that Angus doctored both drinks. I don’t suppose there’s any way of tracing it now, but it all makes sense. At least, that’s what the police think.”

  Liz threw up her hands. “So Angus killed Jason, himself, the deal and our jobs. I call that a home run.”

  Katrina was frowning.

  “What is it?” Isobel asked.

  “I was just thinking…” She shook her head. “No, forget it.”

  Isobel wanted to press her further, but she knew better. Katrina had also been in Starbucks that morning. Had she been near Jason? More to the point, had she been near Jason’s coffee? Was Katrina now wondering whether Dorothy had seen her do something and chosen to keep quiet? Isobel had just been starting to feel she could trust Katrina again, but now she felt that invisible protective wall going up again.

  “You were there, too,” Katrina said suddenly to Penny.

  Penny nodded. “Yes, but I didn’t stay. I ran into Dorothy on the street and we went in together, but then she reminded me that I had a press release to get out first thing. I don’t even remember seeing Angus and Jason.” She wagged a finger at Katrina. “But I do remember seeing you.”

  Liz looked around the table. “Why do I feel like someone is about to shout j’accuse?”

  Isobel knew what she meant. Something was not adding up about any of this, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

  “We still don’t know who tipped off the press about MacBride’s,” Isobel said, as her mind continued to churn.

  “I told you all along it had to be Angus,” Katrina said, an impatient edge creeping into her voice. “Obviously, he was willing to do whatever it took to sink the deal, and Barnaby found out.”

  “Yes, but…”

  Isobel suddenly grasped the thought that was eluding her. If Angus’s goal was to sabotage the merger with ICG, and Jason Whiteley was about to fire Dove & Flight for the Brazil screwup, why would Angus have wanted to kill Jason? Angus had every reason to want him alive. If a major client was about to derail the merger, why would Angus want to stop him? No, it seemed more likely that they were somehow in cahoots, trying to figure out a way to bring down the ICG deal in a way that would benefit both companies. They both wanted the same thing, and Jason was perfectly positioned to do Angus’s dirty work for him. So even though Angus had the opportunity to slip something into his coffee, he had absolutely no motive.

  Which meant that Jason Whiteley must have been poisoned somewhere else—and by someone else—entirely.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “How am I going to find out where Jason Whiteley was earlier that morning or the night before?” Isobel asked Delphi.

  “I hate to break it to you, but that isn’t your job,” Delphi said, striding ahead of her. “Hurry up! I don’t want to be late.”

  Isobel jogged to keep up, trying to avoid the patches on the sidewalk that had iced over from the sleet the night before. “But the police have dropped the case, and it doesn’t make any sense that it was Angus.”

  By the time she caught up, Delphi was ringing the buzzer for Graham’s studio. Isobel was beginning to wish she hadn’t committed her Saturday to helping paint set pieces for King John, but Delphi had roped in Sunil, too. She and Delphi squeezed into the tiny, old elevator, which creaked upwards with a disconcerting rattle as it passed each floor.

  “And the more I think about it, the more I think Jason was acting not just tired, but downright woozy when he showed up at the office,” Isobel continued.

  “I hate this friggin’ thing,” muttered Delphi, her eyes closed.

  “You okay?”

  “Just a little claustrophobic.”

  They emerged onto the sixth floor, and Delphi relaxed visibly. With renewed energy, she led the way to Graham’s studio. It was freezing, despite the space heaters arranged optimistically around the outer edges. There were flats in vari
ous stages of decoration, and a few hardy souls were trying to hold onto their needles as they basted hems on skirts that would have paired nicely with Delphi’s blouse du jour. Sunil was there already, on his knees, painting an arch. He sat back and dipped his brush in turpentine as they came in.

  “‘When shall we three meet again?’” Sunil quoted in welcome.

  Delphi blanched, and Sunil’s fellow painters gasped and stared at him in horror.

  “What?” He looked around, bewildered. “It’s Macbeth.”

  Gary Stinson shrieked and clutched his chest.

  “Out!” hollered Delphi, pointing an accusatory finger at Sunil.

  He jumped to his feet. “Oh, come on! And I got here before you!”

  Delphi put her hands on Sunil’s shoulders and steered him out of the room. Isobel followed, while the others murmured frantically behind them.

  When they reached the hall, Sunil folded his arms, and gave his annoyance full rein. “You better have a good reason for this.”

  “How can you not know?” Delphi fairly wheezed. “It’s bad luck to quote from the Scottish play unless you’re in rehearsal for it. And you’re not supposed to say the actual name in a theater. It’s terrible luck!”

  “Last I checked we were in a studio.”

  “It doesn’t matter! We’re performing here, so for all practical purposes it’s a theater. Don’t you see? You’ve cursed our play, and we open on Thursday!”

  Sunil threw a pleading glance at Isobel. “This is crazy. Tell her this is crazy!”

  Isobel shrugged helplessly. “A lot of actors take this stuff seriously.”

  “You have to turn around three times, spit, curse, and then knock on the door and ask to be allowed back in,” Delphi said.

  Sunil snorted. “That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Do it!” Delphi demanded.

  She pulled Isobel back into the studio and slammed the door in Sunil’s face.

  Everyone in the room, including Graham, stared expectantly at the closed door. After a moment, there was a knock.

  “What do you want?” asked Delphi.

  Sunil’s answer was muffled through the thick metal, so Delphi opened the door a crack.

  “May I come back in now?”

  “Did you do what I asked?”

  “Yes.”

  Delphi looked at the others for approval. Heads nodded solemnly, and she let Sunil back in.

  “I thought you’d be impressed,” Sunil said dolefully, as they returned to their paints.

  “Not with that quote,” Delphi said.

  Sunil gave an exaggerated sigh. “There’s no pleasing some people.”

  Before the conversation could devolve further, Isobel reintroduced the question of Jason Whiteley’s whereabouts the night before his death, filling in Sunil, who grasped the new topic gratefully.

  “There’s no reason to think Jason was spending time with anyone from Dove & Flight after hours,” he said. “Especially if he was going to see them all the next day.”

  “We already know he was at Starbucks with Angus. The idea in and of itself isn’t farfetched,” Isobel pointed out.

  “Big difference between a cup of coffee before work and a slumber party,” Delphi said, reaching across Sunil to add a dash of gold to his arch. “There, that’s much better.”

  “I get what you’re saying,” Isobel said, “but there are at least two other people I can think of that he had reason to see outside of work. Kit Blanchard was related to Jason by marriage.” She swallowed. “And then there’s Katrina.”

  “Kit and Kat. There’s a recipe for confusion,” Sunil said. “Maybe you’ll find a recording of Jason gasping a name while choking on a cocktail, and you’ll get the wrong one arrested.”

  “Isn’t Katrina your friend from college?” Delphi asked.

  “Fair weather, but yes.” Isobel cleared her throat. “James says she and Jason were dating, but I don’t know if I believe him.”

  Sunil gave her a shrewd look. “I thought you trusted James absolutely. I believe those were your exact words. Or is that only when you like what he has to say?”

  Isobel’s face grew hot. “I’m just saying maybe his information is bad.”

  “Why would you think that?” Delphi asked.

  Isobel dipped her brush in a can of red paint and swirled it around. “Partly because it came from Jayla, but mostly because Katrina never mentioned it to me.”

  “Why should she? Especially since you’re obviously so hot to make a connection to the murder,” said Delphi. “If she didn’t kill him, it’s none of your business. And if she did? Well, then it’s really none of your business!”

  “I still don’t understand why you’re so determined to tie Jason’s murder back to Dove & Flight,” Sunil said.

  “Instinct. Detective O’Connor said it’s rule number two of police work. Follow your instincts.”

  “What’s rule number one?” Sunil asked.

  “I forget.”

  Delphi shoved her with her booted foot. “You do not.”

  “It’s not relevant,” Isobel said curtly. “There’s something about the way it all happened, the timing, that makes it seem like whoever did it wanted him to be found in the office for some reason.”

  “The most likely reason is to mess up the takeover, right?” asked Sunil.

  “And the only person who really had a stake in that died of natural causes,” Delphi said. “So there’s a dead end, pardon the pun.”

  “But is it?” Isobel raised her brush and let the excess drip back into the can. “What if James is telling the truth about Katrina and Jason? It wouldn’t be her first lie. I’m pretty sure she lied to me about some emails she sent about a client in Brazil.”

  Delphi stood and stretched her legs. “Lying doesn’t make a person capable of murder.” She rattled her empty paint can. “Be right back.”

  “She’s right,” Sunil whispered. “I lied before about cursing outside the door and all that stuff, and I’m no murderer.”

  Isobel gasped. “If Delphi ever finds out, she’ll become one!”

  “Come on, you don’t really believe that crap, do you?” He gave a sharp laugh, then his dark features grew pensive. “Do you?”

  “It’s foolish to tempt fate.”

  “Is that rule number one of police work?”

  “No. Rule number one is ‘Don’t assume.’”

  They regarded each other thoughtfully for a moment. Delphi plopped down next to them with a fresh can of gold paint.

  “You know,” she said, “Katrina does have a couple of good motives packed in there. And she and Jason could have seen each other the night before. Or that morning if they spent the night together.”

  “There’s something else, too,” Isobel said, chewing her lip. “I kind of brushed it off at the time, but it’s something Liz said. About Barnaby having a ‘thing’ for Katrina.”

  “What do you think that means?” Delphi asked.

  “I don’t know, but I’m betting it’s more professional than romantic. Maybe Barnaby sees Katrina as his key to future success. If he thinks she’s on his side, and he finds out she’s actively opposing him…” Isobel looked up. “I don’t think Barnaby’s the kind of person who deals well with betrayal.”

  Delphi sat back on her heels. “Wait. Now I’m confused. Are you concerned about Katrina or for her?”

  “Until I find out what she’s hiding from me—both.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  When Isobel returned to work on Monday morning, she found a pink Post-it from Dorothy stuck to her computer screen. Following the directive to “Come see me,” Isobel hung up her coat and gave a perfunctory rap on Dorothy’s door.

  “You were looking for me?”

  “Yes, thanks.” Dorothy made a welcoming gesture. “Come on in.”

  Isobel took a seat in the visitor’s chair and leaned forward expectantly.

  Dorothy continued, “You did such a good job on the plasti
cs pitch the other day. You seem like a natural.”

  “Oh! I thought you might be disappointed that I only got two hits.”

  “No, no.” Dorothy dismissed her concern. “That’s about as far as the client can stretch, and it looks like they can meet both deadlines. You did very well.”

  Isobel chalked up a mental point against Penny.

  Dorothy continued, “This is crunch time for the Schüssler annual report, and I need all the help I can get this week. Can you work on it? It might involve a late night or two.”

  Isobel hesitated, thinking of her rehearsals with Hugh and Delphi’s opening. “I have some other things going on this week after hours.”

  “I’ll take what I can get. If you really can’t stay, I do have Penny,” Dorothy said. “You can bill overtime, you know.”

  Isobel perked up at the thought of time and a half. “I can make it work.”

  Dorothy handed her two thick stacks of papers. “Great. You can start by proofing the galleys against the Word document.”

  Isobel glanced down at the top sheet. Schüssler Medizinprodukte. “I don’t speak German. I mean, I know a little from singing, but nothing that would apply to…medical products.”

  Dorothy smiled. “Neither do I, but it doesn’t matter. The client signed off on the content already, so we can assume it’s correct. Just make sure nothing got garbled when our graphics guy converted it. He can be a little sloppy sometimes.”

  Isobel returned to her desk and settled down to compare the two documents. It was a tedious business, since many of the words were technical terms created by stringing other words together. She was reminded of Mark Twain’s famous observation that some German words are so long they have a perspective. After a particularly daunting onslaught of vowel-free clusters, she tossed the papers aside and rubbed her eyes. The only thing opera German had prepared her for was conversations about the fickleness of men and the flirting capabilities of women. There was nothing in Der Freischütz or Die Fledermaus about pacemakers or cochlear implants.

  Katrina loomed over her. “You look like you need some lunch.”