Bad Publicity

by Joanne Sydney Lessner

  “Yes! But no schnitzel.”

  They repaired to a nearby coffee shop, where they tiptoed around potentially radioactive topics by chattering about the whereabouts of various college friends. Isobel was dying to ask Katrina about her relationship with Jason, and she realized this was probably her best opportunity to get the truth. They weren’t in the office where they could be overheard, and Katrina had made the overture, so presumably she was trying to move beyond their recent disagreements. Isobel was determined not to let their lunch end without gleaning some new bit of information, although she wasn’t sure how to proceed.

  “Tyler Schmidt!”

  “What?” Isobel was jolted from her reverie by Katrina’s exclamation.

  “That was his name, the guy who shared all his Astronomy 101 homework with me and got me through the science requirement. He didn’t go through puberty until sophomore year.”

  “He must have started college young, like Percival.”

  “Oh, yeah. Mini-genius. How old is your brother now?”

  “He’s about to turn sixteen.”

  “And he’s starting Columbia this fall?”

  “Yup. He got all the brains, and I got all the…”

  Isobel paused, not out of modesty, but because a thought had just occurred to her. When her brother, Percival, had visited Columbia in October and stayed with her, he had helped her pinpoint an important clue in the murder of the bank secretary, simply by rearranging information on a page. It struck her now that rather than having too little information about Jason Whiteley, she had too much. Maybe a little rearranging was in order. But before she could parse this idea any further, Katrina saved Isobel from the awkwardness of introducing the subject she most wanted to discuss by bringing it up herself.

  “Look, I haven’t been totally honest with you. I have this feeling you’re going to find out anyway, and I’d rather you hear it from me than anyone else.”

  Too late, thought Isobel, but go on.

  Katrina took a deep breath. “Jason and I were dating.”

  It was at times like this that Isobel was glad she was an actress.

  “Wow! I had no idea. Was it serious?”

  “Not really, no.” Katrina looked down at her hands. “But here’s the thing. I was at his apartment the night before he died.”

  This was news. Isobel worked hard to keep her voice steady in response. “What happened?”

  “I went over there to end it.”

  “Why?”

  Katrina hesitated. “It’s not really important. But I wasn’t the only one there that night. Kit Blanchard showed up. You probably don’t know this, but Kit is married to Jason’s brother’s wife’s brother. I think I have that right.”

  You have that right, thought Isobel. And I do know.

  “Is it just coincidence that Jason became a client?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure. But I’ll tell you one thing, I was more surprised to see Kit than she was to see me. I thought we were pretty discreet, but I guess she knew about us.”

  “And Jason?”

  “He was pretty pissed. For that matter, so was she. It seemed to me like they were in the middle of a fight. I had just gotten there, but as soon as Kit arrived, Jason asked me to leave.”

  “So you never actually ended it?”

  Katrina shook her head.

  “And you left them alone together…what time was this?”

  “Around ten. Strange time of night for her to show up, don’t you think? I mean, she’s got kids to put to bed. Why didn’t she just call?” Katrina wondered.

  “Did you catch any hint of what the argument was about?”

  Katrina shook her head. “It could have been about whatever’s going on between Kit and Aaron, but if she had something to do with Jason hiring us, it might have been work-related.”

  Isobel frowned. “Somebody barges into your house spitting mad, then thrusts a glass of I don’t know what in your hand, and says ‘Drink this’? I can believe they were at odds, especially if Jason knew about Aaron, but how do they get from a screaming slugfest to drinking each other’s health?”

  Katrina sat back, a strange look on her face. “I wasn’t suggesting Kit was the one who killed him. I just thought it was weird that she was there. But, now that you mention it, she could have put the poison in something he would eat or drink later.”

  “That’s awfully risky,” Isobel observed. “I mean, what if you or someone else had been the one to eat or drink it? It’s not a very efficient way of making sure you’re killing the right person.”

  “Well, anyway, I mostly wanted you to know about Jason and me. I felt funny about not telling you.”

  Recalling Delphi’s words, Isobel said, “It really isn’t any of my business.”

  “I know, but still. And I know you’ve been curious about Jason, asking questions. I didn’t want you to find out some other way.”

  “So why were you ending it?”

  Katrina’s face reddened to match the color of her hair. “You are dogged, aren’t you?” She swallowed and looked away.

  Isobel’s pulse quickened. As she watched her friend struggle, she knew that whatever Katrina said next would be the truth.

  “It’s one of the most embarrassing things that has ever happened to me,” Katrina said in a small voice. “You have to swear to keep it to yourself.”

  Isobel nodded solemnly, and Katrina continued, avoiding her eye.

  “I did something phenomenally stupid. I texted Jason a picture of me…you know…naked. And then a few days later, we had this big fight, and he—he threatened to forward the text to my father.” She looked at Isobel, abashed. “Can you imagine? I’m trying to so hard to get him to take me seriously. That would have been the end of it. The end!” A tiny tear rolled down Katrina’s cheek.

  Isobel felt her breath catch. She would never have imagined Katrina doing something like that. “Did Jason send it? To your dad?”

  Katrina covered her face in her hands, and Isobel had to strain to hear her words.

  “Worse. He sent it to Barnaby.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Hugh closed the three-ring binder of music on the piano rack. “You seem preoccupied.”

  Isobel flopped onto the small sofa in his studio, and a pile of opera scores spilled into her lap. “Sorry. Just some stuff at work,” she said, restacking them neatly at the other end.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about what Katrina had told her. Isobel wondered if she would be more embarrassed if someone sent a naked photo of her to her father or her boss. She didn’t really consider Barnaby her boss, nor was she particularly invested in what he thought of her. A director would probably consider it a plus. People were always shedding their clothes in the theater. The only person who corresponded in any way was James, and she had to admit, the thought wasn’t entirely upsetting.

  “Isobel?”

  Or Hugh. That wasn’t so upsetting either.

  “Right, sorry. Do you want to run the song again?”

  Hugh glanced at his watch. “I think we have time before Sunil gets here.”

  The prospect of Sunil’s arrival energized her as she wrapped her mouth around the witty patter lyrics to Hugh’s song, “Don’t Go Away Mad.” Over dinner the other night, Hugh had lamented the lack of talented tenors, and Isobel had immediately proposed Sunil. Hugh had auditioned him over the weekend, and hired him on the spot.

  As soon as she finished singing, the buzzer rang.

  “Nicely done. You make me sound like a better composer than I am,” Hugh said. He let in Sunil, who greeted Isobel with a hug.

  “You know, I’ve only ever heard you sing through a door,” Sunil said, releasing her.

  “Let’s remedy that right now,” said Hugh.

  Isobel and Sunil sang through a snappy little song called “You’re Mine ’til Something Better Comes Along,” which featured cleverly crafted interlocking parts.

  “Practically perfect on the first go,” Hugh enthused.
“Do you know what that kind of song is called, when two parts are sung separately and then miraculously, they fit together?”

  “Is there a name for it?” Isobel asked. “I always called them two-part songs.”

  “It’s called a quodlibet,” said Hugh.

  “My brother Percival is a Latin scholar, but I bet even he doesn’t know that,” Isobel said, pleased.

  Hugh gestured to Sunil. “All right, your turn. Isobel, you can relax for a few minutes.”

  Sunil ran through one of his solos, while Isobel settled back on the sofa and picked up her dropped train of thought. She was beginning to understand why Katrina was more upset about Jason sending the photo to Barnaby. It was hardly an either/or proposition. Barnaby could just as easily forward the photo to Katrina’s father, and that would be more damaging to her in every way. It was ultimately worse than Jason having a hold over her. The photo gave Barnaby leverage over Katrina to get her to convince her father not to drop the merger, and Isobel had no doubt that he would use it. Probably he already had. And that would put Katrina in the galling position of having to advocate for something she didn’t want.

  Sunil finished his solo, and they ran through several more duets. Then Isobel sang through a torchy ballad that allowed her to dip into her sultry, lower register, which she rarely used. Hugh gave her a misty smile when she finished.

  “Gorgeous!” He pulled out his iPhone and tapped the screen. “All right, then. When shall we three meet again?”

  Isobel and Sunil gasped, and then laughed. Hugh clucked at them. “Don’t tell me you believe all that silly Macbeth nonsense!”

  “Not us, but a friend of ours sure does,” Sunil said.

  “How is Thursday evening, same time?” asked Hugh.

  “Can’t. That’s our superstitious friend’s opening night,” Isobel said. “There will definitely be murder most foul if we don’t show.”

  “What’s the play?” asked Hugh.

  “King John.”

  “Really? You know, I’ve never seen that one,” Hugh remarked.

  “Come with us!” Isobel said on impulse. “I’d love for you to meet Delphi. She’s very good, even if she is a bit over the top where the Bard is concerned. We could all go out for a drink afterwards.”

  Isobel saw Hugh steal an inquiring glance at Sunil, who nodded in enthusiastic agreement.

  “Thanks! That would be lovely. Now, when shall we three, er, rehearse again?”

  They settled on Wednesday, and Isobel and Sunil left together. It had grown unseasonably warm, and a light rain was falling. Sunil repositioned his large umbrella over them, and Isobel unwound her scarf.

  “I’m always dressing for yesterday’s weather,” she said with a sigh.

  “What do you think of Hugh?” Sunil asked, as they headed for the subway.

  “I like his songs.”

  “I think he likes you.”

  Isobel gave him a sideways look. “What makes you say that?”

  “You saw him check in with me before he agreed to come to King John. He’s trying to figure us out.”

  “Let him try,” Isobel said, secretly pleased. “In fact, if you really want to help things along, you could step it up and flirt with me a bit.”

  “What about James?”

  Isobel’s eyes darted right, left, and then behind her. She met Sunil’s questioning eyes and said, “The first time I went to Hugh’s, I ran into him right around here. And there was this annoying girl with him.”

  “And you were jealous,” said Sunil.

  “I was not! Although I think James was.”

  “And Hugh?”

  “It was awkward, but I don’t think it occurred to him to be jealous.”

  They arrived at the stairs leading up to the elevated train stop. “But enough about me. When are you going to make your move on Delphi?” she teased.

  “As soon as I get the slightest inkling that it might be welcome.” Sunil folded his umbrella, shook it out and vaulted up the stairs. Isobel took two steps up and stopped.

  “You know what?” she called. “I think I left my phone at Hugh’s. Don’t wait for me. I might be a minute.”

  Sunil gave a knowing laugh. “A minute? More like an hour!”

  She responded with an innocent shrug. “See you Wednesday!”

  He waved to her and continued up to the platform. As soon as he was out of sight, Isobel took a few steps toward Hugh’s apartment, and then, pulling her phone from her pocket, headed off in the opposite direction.

  THIRTY

  James took another photo from the envelope and another swig from the bottle. There he was with his coach right after he scored his first goal freshman year, grinning like an idiot. And he was an idiot back then. He remembered what he did right after that game: got shit-faced and locked himself out of his dorm. He’d had to spend the night on a bench in Morningside Park.

  He ripped the photo in half and then in quarters, tossing the shreds onto his growing pile. He was almost finished destroying these unpleasant reminders of his past, but if memory served, the last photo was the one he was dreading.

  He fortified himself with another gulp of the Johnnie Walker Black he had picked up on his way home after finding the envelope in the inside pocket of his old raincoat. He had searched everywhere for his raincoat that morning until it dawned on him that he’d last seen it at Jayla’s. Michael had probably claimed it by now. So he’d dug out an old one that he hadn’t worn in years. It hung on him without shape or style, but the weird, cold mugginess of the weather made it the only comfortable choice. If he had felt the pictures in his pocket that morning, he might never have gone into work at all. As it was, he’d only realized they were there on the subway home and had made the mistake of pulling out the top one: a picture of him standing in front of the giant gates of Columbia, his mother proudly at his side, her arm around him. It was the look on his face that had sent him reeling: a combination of eagerness, hope and smug self-confidence. If only he could go back and do it all over again. But of course he couldn’t.

  He’d gotten off the subway one stop before his own, unable to stand the closeness of the car a moment longer, and ducked into a bar. He’d almost forgotten how good vodka tasted. He hadn’t remembered it being quite so delicious, but maybe that was the flavorings. His first drink had been Absolut Citron. The second had been raspberry and then, just for kicks, he’d ordered a chocolate martini. By the time he left the bar, he was in the happy buzz phase, feeling more magnanimous toward his freshman self. A tiny voice in his head urged him to stop, but a second voice answered, You’ve still got a few drinks left before it gets ugly. Why stop now?

  But he did stop. Into City Liquors on 125th Street.

  “Haven’t seen you in a while,” commented the proprietor, a slightly-built Nigerian with a big gold hoop earring.

  James set a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black on the counter.

  The Nigerian looked from the bottle to James. “I thought you…”

  “What?”

  The Nigerian peered closely at James, pulling back just before James could lash out. “Never mind. That’ll be thirty-two dollars and seventy-three cents.”

  James was short on cash, having spent what he had on top-shelf brands at the bar, so he slid his MasterCard forward on the counter.

  Leave now, said the first voice. Prove you can stop. If you can do it, then maybe you’ll be able to drink again.

  “I am drinking again,” James said aloud.

  “Yeah, that’s what I meant,” muttered the Nigerian.

  James ignored him, signed the credit card receipt, and left with his purchase. As he trudged home, he congratulated himself for not ripping the Nigerian’s head off. Surely that must mean he had learned to control himself under the influence.

  Inside his apartment, he kicked off his shoes and stripped down to his undershirt and boxers. Then he poured himself a large glass of scotch and drank a toast.

  “You’re all wrong!” he shouted. “I�
��m drinking like a normal person. So fuck that shit!”

  He turned his stereo on, but not too loud. More evidence that he was just fine, thank you. Then he settled on the couch, stretched his legs, and gazed up at the cheap chandelier that had been there when he moved in.

  In the relative quiet, however, unpleasant images floated across the movie screen in his mind. He flashed back to Isobel’s obvious discomfort when they’d met on the street. He couldn’t blame her. He’d acted like a complete asshole. Then again, she was full of shit. After all that talk about believing in him, she doubted his story about her friend and Jason. He refilled his glass and tried to think of something else. An image of Lily recoiling when he threatened to bar her from the gym made him squirm, so he turned up the music. That was better.

  It was an old song, one he hadn’t heard for years. It had been a big party tune in his fraternity, and it occurred to him with a jolt that it was playing the night Nell drank the tequila and died. He had to stop thinking about that. He tried to steer his thoughts elsewhere, but Jason Whiteley’s face, with its careless flop of ash blond hair and the superior smile he always wore, swam in front of James’s eyes. Shutting them only brought the image more strongly into focus, so he cranked the music higher and poured himself another drink. He was way past the point of experiencing the pleasant shock of warmth as the alcohol slid down his throat. It may as well have been water.

  The phone rang, but he ignored it. When it rang a second time, he picked it up and slammed it down again immediately. That struck him as particularly clever, and he started to laugh. He was still laughing when a loud knocking broke through his consciousness.

  “Heeeeere we go,” he muttered, as he hauled himself off the couch to answer the door.

  A tall, buxom woman with a round, corn-fed face and blond hair pulled into pigtails stood in the hall holding an infant in her arms. She looked completely unlike anyone he’d ever seen in his building. Harlem might be changing, but this chick still didn’t look like she belonged there. Or anywhere in New York City, for that matter. She looked like she was from Idaho or somewhere.