Chapter 8

Peter feigned forgetfulness when Isobel called to inquire about their paychecks, but he didn't fool her for a minute. She knew he'd been hoping his actors were too traumatized to remember they weren't masquerading as obnoxious dinner guests just for fun. Of course, Isobel thought as she waited for the light at Madison and 42nd on her lunch hour, if he really thought his actors wouldn't track down their paychecks like bloodhounds on the scent, he didn't know much about the breed.

Peter was waiting for her on the opposite corner, wearing aviator sunglasses and the same tan trench coat he'd worn for the show. She crossed to him.

"Are you a detective in real life?" she asked by way of greeting.

"Nah. Limited wardrobe." He reached into his pocket and removed a small stack of envelopes bound with a rubber band. He flipped through them, withdrew two, and handed them to her. "Here's yours and Delphi's."

"Thanks." Isobel took the envelopes and tapped them against her palm. "I don't mind taking the checks for the others. That way you don't have to spend your week making street-corner assignations." He hesitated, and she plunged ahead. "We all run into each other practically every day at auditions," she lied.

"You sure?"

"Absolutely. It's no problem."

He lifted his sunglasses and squinted down his nose at her, then shrugged and handed over the remaining envelopes.

"Thanks." Isobel tucked them into her bag. "By the way, why didn't you tell the police about Andrew running off?"

Peter shifted his gaze over her head toward the downtown skyline. "Because I didn't see him run off. You did. Why didn't you tell them?"

"I figured I'd handed off the information to you. You were the one who hired him. You should have at least mentioned to the police that there was another actor in the group." Isobel took a step closer. "Why are you protecting him?"

Peter snorted impatiently. "I'm not protecting him. I forgot about him."

"What do you know about Andrew? How did you happen to hire him?"

"What is this? An interrogation? He auditioned. Just like you. I don't know him from a hole in the wall." A businessman in a designer suit knocked into Peter as he hurried past. "Excuse you!" Peter shouted after him.

"What do you do when you're not directing murder mysteries?" Isobel asked. "I can't imagine this pays the bills."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a temp. I'm working for a lawyer right now, just over there." She gestured vaguely behind her.

"What a coinkydink. I'm a lawyer, too."

"You?"

He raised an eyebrow in displeasure. "Don't look so surprised."

"I'm sorry, I just thought you'd say...I don't know what I thought you'd say. What kind of law do you practice?"

"Criminal. Less surprised?"

"Yes and no," she said. "Did you know Judge Harrison?"

A car horn argument blared nearby. Peter waited for the cacophony to die down before he answered. "Never heard of him. Any other questions, officer?"

"Not at the moment," she said. "But I know where to find you if I do. Thanks for the checks."

Peter pulled the belt on his coat tighter and knotted it. "Yeah. Don't go forging them for yourself."

Isobel smiled sweetly. "Well, that was my plan, but now that I know you're a criminal attorney, I've changed my mind."

"Something smells amazing," Isobel said as she pushed open the door to her apartment. A tall, wiry boy with unruly brown hair turned from the stove, where he was stirring sauce. His glasses were fogged with steam.

"Mom's puttanesca, only I make it better." He put a finger to his lips and stage-whispered, "But you can't ever tell her. It might kill her!"

Isobel turned to Delphi in mock indignation. "Who let him in?"

Delphi held up her hands in surrender. "He showed up an hour ago with a bag of groceries. What's a culinary-challenged girl to do?"

Isobel laughed and gave her brother a hug. "Don't tell me you've given up on dining hall food already?"

"The food at Columbia is surprisingly good, as it happens." Percival Spice waved his wooden spoon at the pot. "But every once in a while, I have a hankering to know what exactly I'm eating."

Isobel scanned the drips of sauce, bits of chopped vegetables, and scattered utensils on the counter. "You're welcome to turn our kitchen into 'Top Chef' anytime, as long as we get to divide the spoils."

Percival raised a glass of red wine in affirmation. "Deal."

"You know, you could get arrested for serving a minor," Isobel cautioned Delphi, half-serious.

"According to genius boy here, you can drink in your own home with a parent once you're sixteen," Delphi said.

Isobel took Percival's glass and held it away from him. "You may be sixteen, but you're not in your own home, and you're not with a parent."

"Sixteen," Delphi marveled. "You must be the youngest freshman Columbia has ever seen."

"Vishal Singh is a sophomore, and he just turned fifteen last week," Percival said.

"Jeez, how many grades did he skip?" Delphi asked.

"Well, I skipped two, so he must have skipped three. Come on, Iz. Are you seriously not going to let me have a glass of wine?"

"I don't know..." She attempted a stern expression. "Do we think there's a sisterial exception to the rule?"

"Sororal. You really should have taken Latin."

Isobel smiled and handed the glass back to him. "Here. I'm just giving you a hard time."

Percival took a grateful sip and returned to his sauce. "Speaking of people who drink - or don't - I ran into James Cooke. He was on his way to an AA meeting near campus."

Isobel was unprepared for the jolt her stomach gave at the name. James and Percival had met only once, on a memorable evening when they, along with Isobel and Delphi, had followed Isobel's instincts and a murderer into a trendy downtown club. Although that had been a year ago, she wasn't surprised that Percival had recognized James. At six feet and 250 pounds, with broad shoulders, a square jaw, and handsome features in a rich, ebony complexion, James did stand out in a crowd.

"What did he have to say?" Isobel asked, trying to keep her voice casual.

"Not much. Sounds like he's enjoying school."

"Glad to hear it."

"Who's Hugh?" Percival asked.

"It's a big book that lists all kinds of famous people," Isobel answered, kicking off her shoes with more force than was strictly necessary.

"Very funny. He asked if you were still dating Hugh. I said I had no idea, because you've never mentioned anyone by that name."

"You haven't told Percival about Hugh?" Delphi asked, surprised. "I thought you two told each other everything."

"It's nothing serious." Isobel was starting to feel distinctly ganged up on. "That's all he wanted to know about me? Whether I was going out with Hugh?"

Percival turned the burner off and drained the pasta in a colander. "I told James I hoped to see him again soon, and he said it wasn't likely, because he wasn't working with you anymore. And besides, you were dating 'some twit named Hugh' I think was how he put it." Percival returned the pasta to the saucepan and stirred in the sauce. "So how come you didn't tell me about him?"

Isobel took three bowls from the cabinet and set them out on the counter. "I thought I did," she mumbled.

"You're so full of it." Percival leaned across her and parceled out the pasta. "So who is he?"

"He's a composer and pianist, and he's British."

"Oh, that guy," Percival said, light dawning. "The one who wrote the revue you sang in."

"Yeah, him."

"So what's the deal?"

"He's very sweet, very attentive. Nerdy-cute, which you know I like. We really get along." Isobel glanced sideways at Delphi before she continued. "But I don't feel like I can completely be myself with him. Maybe it's because we met at an audition, but I have this sense that I'm always trying out for him. And it's nothing he's saying or doing - this is totally coming from me. I don't feel like that with...with other people."

Percival and Delphi exchanged a knowing look, and Isobel felt compelled to break up their collusion. "Anyway, Hugh's been out of town for the last two months, so..."

"So I shouldn't be hurt that you didn't mention him?" Percival asked.

Delphi gave an exaggerated groan and elbowed Isobel out of the way to get to the fridge. She set a plastic container of shredded Parmesan cheese on the counter. "You can make up for it by telling him what happened Saturday night."

Percival darted a look at Isobel. "What happened Saturday night?"

"Let's eat, and I'll fill you in."

As they munched on Percival's spaghetti puttanesca, Isobel regaled him with the story of Judge Harrison's murder and Delphi's close call.

Percival let out a long whistle and shook his head at Delphi. "You were one trigger finger away from a temporary stint in a six-by-eight cell."

"Tell me about it." Delphi took a healthy sip of her wine.

"And now for the coincidence of the day." Isobel paused for effect. "Sarah Hollister represented Candy Harrison in the divorce."

"Really?"

"No way!"

Isobel flushed. "Um...I can't say any more than that. I signed a confidentiality agreement."

"Come on! It's just us," Delphi insisted. "Who are we going to tell?"

Isobel bit her lip. "I really shouldn't."

"By that logic, you shouldn't have told us that Sarah is her lawyer," Percival pointed out.

Isobel hesitated. "You guys have to promise."

Percival dipped his index finger in his puttanesca and gestured to Delphi to do the same. Then he pressed their fingers together.

"Never underestimate a pact signed in tomato sauce," he said solemnly.

Isobel sighed. "Okay, but this can't go beyond us. He was cheating, and she found out. She walked away with half of his sixteen million dollars, a beach house, and a five-year annuity that just ended."

Delphi's eyes widened. "What kind of judge is worth sixteen million dollars?"

"A judge with a lucrative sideline." Percival wound some spaghetti around his fork. "Either that or a judge with a good broker. But considering someone just killed him, I'm going with sideline."

"Like what?" Isobel asked.

Percival chewed thoughtfully. "Selective acceptance of claims, denial of evidence, general misapplication of the law, bribery from law enforcement. Then, of course, there's the usual stuff: drugs, kiddie porn, that sort of thing."

"Always helpful to have a teenager on hand when you need insight into breaking the law," Delphi remarked.

Percival wiped his mouth with his napkin and pushed his bowl away. "What kind of judge was he?"

Isobel drummed her fingers on the table. "I don't know."

"Start there. Find out what kind of folks he put behind bars. That'll tell you a lot." He picked up his wineglass and swirled what was left. "Because I know you're not going to let this drop."

"Of course she is," Delphi said firmly.

"Oh, I doubt it. She's going to investigate this thing until she hits an official roadblock." Percival downed the rest of his wine in one gulp and set the glass on the table. He flashed an indulgent smile at his sister. "That's one thing I know for certain, whether she chooses to tell me or not."