Chapter 2

"Excuse me, have you seen Judge Wilson, my husband?" Isobel asked a tall, patrician man, who was engaged in conversation with an attractive highlighted blonde in her late forties.

The man paused, annoyed at being interrupted. "I don't know a Judge Wilson." He scrutinized Isobel. "Aren't you a little young to be married to a judge?"

Isobel let forth a silvery laugh. "Oh, he's shot up the ranks very quickly."

"What circuit is he in?"

Isobel hesitated. She was well-versed in the basic rules of improv - always agree and embellish - but specifics were a problem. She changed tactics.

"I have this terrible feeling he's not going to show up." She leaned in confidentially. "I just found out he's been having an affair. If he does show his face, I may have a little surprise for him!" She patted her purse provocatively.

The man goggled at her. "What in God's name are you talking about?"

His companion's face lit up with sudden comprehension. "Oh, I get it! She's one of those murder mystery actors. Bethany thinks it's awful, but I think it's fun."

"Bethany's right. Willard has no patience for games," the man said coldly.

"Gordon, you're such a stick." The blonde turned to Isobel. "Honey, I think you're cute as a button, so if I see this 'husband' of yours, I'll set him straight." She gave a broad, conspiratorial wink.

Isobel returned a wan smile. "Thanks."

The woman patted Isobel's arm. "You're very good. You really had us fooled."

Yeah, not so much, Isobel thought, as she took herself off to regroup.

She'd been looking forward to the cocktail hour, but it was proving harder than she'd anticipated. It was one thing to improv with other actors, but something else entirely to play theater games with unwitting civilians. Even though the guests were supposed to catch on eventually so they could appreciate the fun, Isobel couldn't rate her first encounter as entirely successful.

"Mingle," Peter murmured as he passed by.

Isobel gave a quick nod and canvassed the room for her next quarry. She recognized Maggie from the back. She was standing next to the bar, talking to a sturdy man with a beaky nose and an impressively leonine mane of white hair.

If Maggie is responsible for hiring us, I'm assured of a welcome there, Isobel reasoned. And a drink in my hand will help me seem like an authentic guest.

She formulated a conversation opener in her mind and bounced over to Maggie's side.

"You're not Mitzi, are you?" Isobel chirped. "Because if you are - "

"Son of a..." The man with Maggie had turned at the sound of Isobel's voice, but he was looking past her. "What the hell is he doing here?" He slammed down his drink and stalked off toward the doorway.

Maggie turned abruptly and plowed right into Isobel, unaware that she'd been standing there or even addressing her.

"Don't waste your time with me," said Maggie, flustered. "Entertain the guests, for God's sake!"

Strike two, Isobel thought.

She wished she could compare notes with Delphi, but, of course, they weren't supposed to acknowledge each other, given that Isobel was the fictional Judge Wilson's wife and Delphi his as-yet-unidentified mistress. Tony was supposed to be a lawyer friend of the judge, but he was "out" to any guests he interacted with as a character in the play, so piggybacking on his conversation was impossible without giving herself away. She didn't see Jemma anywhere, but a conversation with her would be problematic plot-wise, since her character was a victim with a mysterious past. Lucky Andrew had been spared the cocktail hour and was due to make his entrance as Judge Wilson after Isobel was shot. He was probably off in a corner somewhere, conserving his performance energy. No, she was on her own. She took a deep breath and plunged back into the crowd.

After a few more abortive conversation attempts with puzzled guests, one of whom kept insisting that Isobel was Zooey Deschanel (as if Zooey needed a gig like this), the cocktail hour finally drew to a close. Isobel made a show of collecting her table card, even though nobody was paying attention to her, and made her way across the crowded room. She already knew she would be seated at the judge's table, but her heart sank when she saw her tablemates: Bethany, the surly gray-haired woman; the beaky-nosed white-haired man, who Isobel realized must be the guest of honor; the snobby patrician man and his date, the patronizing blonde; and Maggie. Isobel looked longingly at Delphi's table across the dance floor. She was seated with a boisterous lot that included several young professionals who looked determined to enjoy themselves.

There was nothing to do but dive in.

"I'm Emily Wilson. Wife of Judge Wilson?" She let her voice go up, prompting recognition she knew would never come.

She was met with stony stares, except from the blonde, who pulled Isobel down into the empty seat next to her. "You sit right next to me, Emily, and tell me all about this affair you think your judge is having. I'm Candy."

Isobel pointed to the empty chair next to Judge Harrison, whose mouth was set in a mirthless line. "My place card is over there. I should probably sit in my spot."

"No, stay here," Candy insisted. "I'm the only one here with a sense of humor."

"You don't understand, I - "

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Peter was standing at his table, gently rapping a water glass with his knife. "Ladies and gentlemen!" Conversation died down, and the only sounds in the room were the occasional clinks of bottle against glass as the waiters poured a choice of cabernet sauvignon or chardonnay. "I'm Detective Gino Cannoli. Now, don't panic, but I've had word that there's going to be a murder here tonight." He quickly raised his hand as the guests began to whisper excitedly, some catching on quicker than others.

"I've got a pretty good idea who we're looking for, and if I'm right, I'll be able to stop the crime before it happens. If I'm wrong, well...good old New York seltzer works wonders on blood stains." This was met with scattered, nervous chuckles. "Now, this is very important. If you see anyone brandishing a gun, do not - I repeat, do not - attempt to tackle or disarm them. We have undercover men of the law placed discreetly around the room, and they are trained to intervene."

Peter turned toward Isobel's table and frowned slightly at her shifted seat. She gave a helpless shrug.

He recovered and went on. "Judge Harrison, I'm sorry we've had to interrupt your celebration."

"Somebody is going to be very, very sorry," Harrison grumbled to Bethany, whose face flattened into an unreadable mask.

Peter made a grand flourish in the judge's direction. "But I hope you will allow me to be the first to offer my congratulations at this celebration of your illustrious career. And now - "

Suddenly, there was a commotion as Jemma rose from her table at the edge of the room and staggered onto the dance floor. She jerked her voluptuous body in every direction so all could see the knife protruding from her back. Then, she teetered toward a table and collapsed at the feet of a portly, bespectacled man, burying her head between his legs. Everyone around him gasped, and the man's face grew pink with embarrassment. Peter wove his way through the tables.

"It's all right. I've got this," he called. He bent down to Jemma and stood up, waving a crumpled piece of paper. "She was holding this! It says: 'Revenge is a dish best served cold.'" He clucked in Jemma's direction. "Some dish!"

Isobel heard snickers from the table behind her.

"But who is she? And why was she killed?" Peter placed his hand over his heart. "Nobody this beautiful should die. I promise, I will get to the bottom of this. But first, I better get to the bottom of her!"

He knelt down again and maneuvered Jemma's face out of the man's crotch. "Such a shame she's dead. She'd have enjoyed that," he stage-whispered. He hefted her over his shoulder with surprising ease and retreated across the dance floor. "I've gotta get her out of here before the rigor mortis sets in."

Right on cue, Jemma stuck out her arms and legs stiffly. A few people groaned, but slowly a titter of laughter began, giving way to muted catcalls. As Peter turned to exit, Isobel saw that Jemma's skirt was tangled around her waist, exposing her thong-clad derrière.