Chapter 5

James Cooke grabbed the remote from the floor, snapped off the television and began to search for his stash. He was pretty sure there was a small bottle of Jack Daniel's, the kind you get on airplanes, hidden somewhere in the kitchen for emergencies. And this might well turn out to be an emergency.

He rarely turned on the eleven o'clock news, and he couldn't decide if he was glad he had or wished he hadn't. Tonight's story about the murdered secretary at InterBank Switzerland hadn't mentioned Isobel Spice, but he couldn't help wondering if she was involved somehow. He found Isobel both extremely irritating and maddeningly appealing. She reminded him of the girls at Columbia who had turned up their noses at him, though Isobel had hardly snubbed him. In fact, she had almost seemed to be flirting with him. He banished that thought from his mind. Jayla, already fast asleep in his bedroom, was the most irrationally jealous person he had ever dated, and she could smell another woman on his mind as sure as he could smell an unopened bottle of Jack Daniel's.

He finally found the bottle tucked behind some old cookbooks his mother had given him. He set it on the kitchen counter and wiped his sweaty hands on his boxers. InterBank Switzerland was a sizeable operation. Chances were, Isobel hadn't been anywhere near the dead woman; she'd probably never set eyes on her. Still, the fact that she hadn't called him after her shift-although, he reminded himself, he hadn't asked her to-now struck him as ominous.

But was this worth falling off the wagon? He knew he should call Bill, his AA sponsor. He also knew how much relief the Jack would give him. He shuffled back and forth between the phone and the counter, muttering to himself. Through the thin wall, he heard Jayla moan in her sleep. He began to unscrew the bottle. Then he reached for the phone, picked it up and slammed it back down.

"Shit, shit, SHIT!"

He shoved the bottle into the makeshift appliance garage behind the electric mixer and cracked his knuckles loudly. He couldn't tell if the fear he was feeling was for his job or for Isobel's safety. He tried to convince himself it was the latter, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that what was really scaring him was the possibility, however unlikely, that Isobel had somehow, accidentally of course, plunged a pair of scissors into a secretary's chest, just like she'd dropped boiled lobsters on a nun.

He took a manila folder from his messenger bag and let the pages cascade through his fingers until he found Isobel's application. He grabbed the cordless phone off the counter and punched in her number.

Buried at the bottom of Isobel's shoulder bag, her cell phone rang and rang.

Isobel smacked her alarm clock, rolled over and went back to sleep. She was vaguely aware that there was a reason she needed to get up, but it seemed somehow to be connected to her last dream and, therefore, not real. Fortunately, she'd hit the snooze button instead of the off switch, so the alarm blared into her consciousness again nine minutes later. As she squinted at the time, the reason burst through the fog in her head.

InterBank Switzerland. Phones, light typing-and murder.

She hunkered deeper under the thin, scratchy blanket. She did not want to return to the bank for just about every reason she could think of. After the police had released her, she had headed straight for the nearest coffee shop and wolfed down a greasy excuse for a meal. She hadn't realized how exhausted she was from the day's events until she returned to the Evangeline Residence, where she sat down on her bed to take off her shoes and promptly fell asleep.

The one thing she'd resolved before she had nodded off was to get up extra early and sign up for the second day of the auditions she had missed. With any luck, she would either be released early from the bank or be able to take a lunch break this time. She showered, dressed, and ate her breakfast, which was included in the price of her room, then headed uptown.

It was seven thirty when she turned the corner of Forty-eighth Street and Seventh Avenue. The auditions weren't set to begin until ten, so she figured she was plenty early, but her heart sank as she approached the end of a long line of people snaking down the block.

"Excuse me, are you here to audition for Guys and Dolls?" she asked an exotically attractive guy around her age.

He nodded and gestured to the line. "Yeah, but we're too late. They're taking names for the waiting list now."

"What?" Isobel cried in dismay. "But it's only seven thirty!"

The young woman in front of them turned and rolled her eyes at Isobel. "Let me guess-your first audition?"

Isobel took in the woman's luxurious golden curls and porcelain skin, studiously undermined by the silver stud in her nose, parade of rings up her right ear, black jeans, and tight, strategically ripped purple T-shirt.

"Obviously. Are you here for Guys and Dolls?" Isobel returned.

The blond woman snorted. "Obviously."

Isobel was irked at having been spotted so easily. But it was her own fault for not asking Nikki exactly what "first thing" meant.

"What time did the line start?" she asked.

"Who knows?" the woman said with a shrug. "I went to one the other day and there were, like, a hundred people signed up by seven a.m. Some dinky little Bowery theater. I thought nobody would bother."

"What are you going to do?" Isobel asked.

"I'll stay and put my name on the list. Then come back at the end of the day and see what's what."

The man nodded. "Me, too."

"I guess I'll join you, then." Isobel shifted her bag on her shoulder and held out her hand. "I'm Isobel Spice."

"Sunil Kapany," he said, shaking it. "Nice to meet you." He turned to the blond woman, questioningly.

"Delphi Kramer."

They inched a few steps forward, as, groan by groan, more latecomers settled in behind Isobel.

"Delphi...that's an unusual name," remarked Isobel.

"It's short for Delphinium. My mother's family is obsessed with flower names. All the normal ones, like Rose and Lily, have been used ad nauseam, so my mother got creative."

"Do you have sisters?" Sunil asked.

"Ohhhh, yes. There are six of us."

"Are you going to tell us or should we guess?" Isobel asked.

Delphi gave a bored sigh. "Hyacinth is the oldest, then Pansy and Poppy-they're twins. Then me, then Aster, who believe me, can be a pain in the aster, and Zinnia. She's fourteen."

"Well, I think your name is great," Isobel said. "Very unusual and catchy."

"Thanks. I like Isobel. Anyone ever call you Izzy?"

"Let's put it this way. If you call me Izzy, I'll call you Delphinium."

"Deal."

"How long have you been in New York?" Isobel asked.

"Three weeks," said Delphi. "I spent two years singing on cruise ships, saving up money to come here. So I'm pretty much just off the boat myself. Literally."

Without realizing it, they had turtled their way down the street, through the doorway and into a narrow hall. Behind a rickety table sat a middle-aged man in a moth-eaten argyle sweater who already looked utterly exhausted and fed up.

Delphi pulled a yellow legal pad toward her. The top page was covered with names. She jotted hers sideways in the margin next to the number fifty-nine and handed the pen to Sunil.

"Just out of curiosity," Delphi said to the monitor, "what time did the first people start lining up?"

"Six."

"This morning?" asked Isobel, taking the pen from Sunil.

The monitor raised a weary eyebrow. "Would you rather I said last night?"

"Any chance we'll be seen?" Sunil asked.

The monitor shrugged. "I've got a hundred people with appointments and," he glanced down at their names, "sixty-one on the waiting list. But hey, you never know. People sign up and then don't show. Check back around four."

"Ah, for the day we get our union cards. No more waiting in line," Delphi said as they shuffled back outside into the warm fall day.

Sunil shaded his eyes from the sun. "Equity auditions are just as bad, I hear."

"Yeah, but the pay is better if you land a job," Delphi reminded him.

"I've heard that having an agent is key," said Isobel.

Delphi paused in front of a mirrored panel on a building to crayon another layer of deep plum onto her lips. She gave them a satisfied smack and addressed Isobel's reflection. "And I've heard it doesn't make a damn bit of difference, you still wind up doing all the legwork yourself."

"That reminds me-" Isobel looked at her watch and let out a cry. "I had no idea what time it is! Sorry, I've got to run." She took off down the street, calling behind her, "The police will be furious if I'm late!"

It wasn't until she reached the subway that she realized how odd that must have sounded.