And Justice for Some, Page 2

  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.

  Isobel glanced at the judge, who looked utterly horrified. Bethany had put her face in her hands, and even Candy looked appalled. A smattering of applause accompanied Peter’s exit, which signaled the start of the salad course. The jazz combo, to Isobel’s intense amusement, struck up “How High the Moon.”

  She stifled a giggle. “Oh, my goodness. I wonder who that poor woman was.”

  “Some unfortunate out-of-work actress, I imagine,” Bethany jeered. She turned her back to Isobel and engaged the judge in fervently hushed tones.

  Candy had rearranged her face into a sympathetic expression. “So tell me, what do you do when you’re not doing stuff like this?”

  “Oh, you know, I’m just a judge’s wife.” Isobel gestured airily with her water glass. “I’m sure you can imagine what that’s like.”

  Candy laid her index finger aside her nose with a knowing nod. “I get it. You’re not allowed to break character.” She shot a glance across the table at Judge Harrison, who was gazing across the room, his brows knitted in an expression of severe displeasure. “I don’t have to imagine. I spent twelve years married to that one.”

  “Judge Harrison? And you’re here at his lifetime achievement dinner?”

  Candy flicked her napkin onto her lap and tucked into her mesclun greens. “It’s a big night for him. And we parted on amicable terms, as far as these things go.”

  “I thought you were here with him.” Isobel indicated the patrician man seated on Candy’s other side.

  “Gordon? Oh, God, no. I hate lawyers.”

  “As Shakespeare said: ‘The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.’”

  Candy let loose a hearty belly laugh, and for once Isobel was grateful that Delphi was forever quoting the Bard.

  They continued to make small talk, and when the waiters cleared the salad plates, Peter strode into the center of the room.

  “Thought you all would like to know the identity of our victim. Her name is Delia Miller.”

  Tony Callahan shot up from his seat and waved energetically, revealing sweat-stained armpits.

  “I know her! She goes by the name of Dolly Mama. Works the corner of 48th and Eleventh.”

  Peter turned on him with mock disgust. “Are you saying she’s a woman of ill repute?”

  Tony snickered. “Nah, I’d say her repute is pretty good.”

  The drummer interjected a rim shot. Peter, taken by surprise, turned to glare at him before picking up his cue. Isobel caught the drummer’s eye, and he winked in response.

  “I have to ask,” Peter continued to Tony, “do you come by this knowledge firsthand?”

  “Let’s just say I judge this to be true.”

  Peter took in the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, a clue, if I’m not mistaken! Something to chew over. And let’s hope it’s not as tough as your steak.”

  Candy rolled her eyes. “Please tell me this is going to get better.”

  “Not much,” Isobel said. She jumped guiltily, and Candy gave her a “gotcha” smile.

  “When is my speech?” Judge Harrison’s voice echoed off the stemware. Isobel imagined he was pretty intimidating on the bench. Hell, he was pretty intimidating at the dinner table.

  “After the entrée,” Bethany said.

  “Right after? Or are there more shenanigans first?”

  Bethany winced. “I understand there’s one more shenanigan, but then the whole thing wraps up.”

  The judge plunged his fork into his steak. “Maggie, where did you get this birdbrai
ned idea?”

  Maggie flushed and bit her lip.

  “From me,” Candy answered for her.

  The judge paused, his knife poised at an angle that Isobel found vaguely threatening.

  “You, of all people, should have known better,” he said in steely tones.

  Candy turned abruptly and beckoned over a waiter, indicating her wineglass. “It was just a suggestion. Don’t you remember that holiday bash of Angie’s several years ago?”

  The judge’s eyes flicked, inexplicably, to Isobel, and Candy’s mouth arched upward as if she had just scored a point. Isobel wasn’t entirely sure what was going on, but she had a feeling there was more to this exchange than met the ear.

  Next to Candy, Gordon chomped on his meal with enthusiasm. “Steak isn’t half bad, despite what that phony detective said. Don’t you think?” He gestured to the right with his elbow.

  For the first time, Isobel noticed the man sitting on Gordon’s other side. He was thin and pale, with a wispy comb-over, and Isobel realized he hadn’t spoken a word. Even now, he just eyed Gordon warily and bit the head off a piece of broccoli.

  The jazz combo finished “Sophisticated Lady” and set down their instruments, which Isobel recognized as her cue. She was struck with sudden jitters, the kind she often felt the moment before she stepped onstage. Across the room, Delphi caught her eye and gave a discreet nod. Isobel took the blood pellet from her bag and, after a brief hesitation, slipped the Brioschi into her other hand. Forget what Peter had said; she wanted her death to be memorable.

  “Excuse me, I have to go to the restroom,” she said to Candy, who was checking her phone and didn’t seem to hear. Isobel coughed daintily, depositing the tablet in her mouth, and took two steps away from the table. Delphi leaped to her feet, brandishing the derringer. Isobel inhaled so forcefully she teetered backward, just managing to catch the Brioschi before she accidentally swallowed it. She could feel every eye in the room on Delphi’s gun. Even she was mesmerized by it.

  “Hey! Emily Wilson? You’re fired!”

  Practically before the last word was out of Delphi’s mouth, the crack of the gunshot ricocheted off the walls. Isobel smacked her hand to her chest and felt the blood packet burst against her blouse. Someone shrieked behind her as she staggered forward onto the dance floor. The Brioschi burbled up from her throat, foaming out the corners of her mouth and down her face. She spun around, arms flailing, eyes closed. More shrieks erupted around her.

  Yup, she thought with satisfaction, definitely memorable.

  She finally collapsed on the floor, limbs splayed, and after a few full-body spasms, settled into a position she could hold until Peter lifted her into the fireman’s carry.

  She strained to hear Andrew’s line, “You just shot my wife,” but she was distracted by the sound of glass shattering somewhere to her left. Somebody kicked her leg, but she held still, determined to be a convincing corpse. A pungent tang of gunpowder tickled her nose. Funny, it seemed stronger than when they were rehearsing. And…was someone crying?

  Suddenly, she felt Peter’s stubble scrape her cheek as he hissed in her ear, “Get up. Get up!”

  He tried to yank her into a sitting position, but the sharp movement made her choke on the still-fizzing Brioschi. She knelt on all fours, hacking and heaving until her eyes finally stopped tearing.

  “You see?” she wheezed. “That’s why I wanted to practice…”

  Her words died in her throat as she got to her feet. Two Hostelry security guards gripped Delphi’s shoulders, pinning her arms behind her back. Delphi’s mouth was frozen open in horror. Slowly, Isobel turned and looked behind her.

  Judge Harrison lay slumped against the table, fingers of crimson reddening the white tablecloth under him. And, unlike the fake stuff covering her hands, Isobel could tell immediately that this blood was real.

  THREE

  Isobel lunged toward Delphi, but Peter caught her around the waist.

  “Stay put. Don’t say anything,” he warned.

  “We have to help her!” Isobel struggled against him. “You know she didn’t do it—they were blanks!”

  Peter’s voice shook. “Just stay out of the way until things settle down and someone real is in charge.”

  With a ferocious burst of energy, Isobel wrenched free and dashed across the dance floor.

  “Let her go,” she cried, her voice breaking. “She didn’t do it!”

  One of the guards flanking Delphi thrust an arm out, barring Isobel’s way. “Sit down, miss. The police are on their way.”

  Isobel clenched her fists, wild with frustration. “You idiots! You’re standing here holding an actress with a prop gun, while whoever shot him is probably in Queens by now!”

  The two guards glanced nervously at each other. One gave a sharp nod to the other, who let go of Delphi and started barking orders into his walkie-talkie as he ran toward the main exit.

  “Secure the doors! Nobody leave!” he shouted, his orders barely audible over the guests’ shrieks and cries.

  Delphi’s face was shining with sweat, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

  “She’s hyperventilating,” Isobel said. “She needs to sit.”

  The remaining guard kicked a chair under Delphi and pushed her down roughly.

  “Put your head between your knees,” Isobel instructed.

  But as she started to rub Delphi’s shoulders, a flash of billowing black fabric caught her eye. Andrew was running through the small dining pavilion adjacent to the main room. Without thinking, Isobel abandoned Delphi and took off after him. She shoved her way through the buzzing knots of frightened guests and ducked into the pavilion and out a door to the right. She strained to catch a glimpse of Andrew ahead in the mirrors that lined the hall, but instead she saw the reflection of blue uniforms rounding the bend. She darted around a corner and made a sharp left down another mirrored hallway, which led to a smaller dining room decorated in pastels. A glass door was propped open at the far end. She ran out into the park and down a short path that led away from the building, but Andrew was nowhere to be seen through the thick foliage. She hurried back inside and was met by a voice echoing over the loudspeaker.

  “Everyone stay where you are!”

  Isobel ignored the command and inched along the wall, passing into a Tudor-style room, which was set up for another event but otherwise empty. A sliding door was ajar at the far end. She edged it open and found herself back in the pavilion adjacent to the Jewel Room. Three detectives stood in the middle of the dance floor, with uniformed officers stationed around the perimeter. Her tablemates had made room for a team of paramedics. They huddled around Judge Harrison, although Isobel was certain he was past help.

  One of the detectives held up his hands for quiet. “My name is Detective Vitelli, and I need the complete cooperation of every single person in this room. I know this is distressing, but please quiet down. The next few hours are going to be difficult, but they are critically important if we’re going to get to the bottom of this. For now, please stay in your seats.”

  Isobel moved toward the dance floor, but one of the policemen stepped forward. “Miss, please take your seat.”

  “I’m trying to,” she said, pointing to Delphi’s table.

  She felt the eyes of the room on her as she crossed the floor, but nobody contradicted her. Isobel took an empty seat behind Delphi and leaned forward.

  “You okay?” she whispered. Delphi shook her head. Isobel squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t worry. I know you didn’t shoot him.”

  Delphi turned, her face ashen. “What if I did?”

  “How could you have?”

  “What if there was a real bullet in there accidentally? What if somebody replaced Peter’s prop gun with a real one?”

  Isobel looked at the derringer, which lay on the table, a napkin folded around it. “But you weren’t aiming at him. You were aiming at me.”

  A croak escaped from Delphi’s throat. “Are you fucking kidding me?
I wasn’t aiming. I wasn’t planning to actually shoot anyone!”

  The paramedics wheeled the judge out on a gurney, his head and body covered with a sheet. Fresh spasms of horror erupted all around, and Delphi gave a low, anguished moan. If she had somehow killed the judge by accident, what would happen to her? Isobel tried to stem a rising sense of panic, but all she could do was stare helplessly at her friend.

  Peter and the maître d’ stood in the center of the room, engaged in intense conversation with Bethany and Detective Vitelli.

  Bethany’s voice rose above the others as she pointed an accusatory finger at Delphi. “That’s obviously what happened!”

  “Nothing is obvious,” Detective Vitelli said, his voice topping Bethany’s. Isobel leaned forward, listening as Vitelli addressed his officers. “I want a statement from every single person, down to every last waiter and busboy.” He turned to Peter. “You. Collect your people.”

  Peter waved across the room, where Tony was quivering against the wall and Jemma was pacing in a tight circle. Isobel grabbed Peter’s arm as he came toward her.

  “Andrew’s gone,” she whispered.

  He pulled away, a strange expression on his face. “What do you mean…gone?”

  “He just took off. I chased him down the hall, but I think he ran out into the park.”

  Before Peter could respond, Detective Vitelli and two policemen loomed behind him. One picked up the derringer from the table with a gloved hand and sealed it in an evidence bag. The other addressed Peter.

  “I’m Officer Gonzalez. If you’ll all come with me, please.”

  Delphi rose on shaky legs, but Vitelli shook his head, a grim expression on his face.

  “Not you. We need to have a private chat.”