The Temporary Detective

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Friday morning revealed October in New York at its meanest: cold, windy and rainy. Isobel dragged herself out of bed with great reluctance. Her sleep had been fitful, and not just because Percival kept kicking her from his pile of blankets on the floor next to her air mattress. She dreamed that she'd found Conchita and James together and stabbed James. Then she and Conchita went to a Cinco de Mayo festival and drank margaritas until Detective Kozinski arrived and arrested Isobel, not for James's murder, but for Doreen's. Percival was waiting for her in a prison cell, holding stalks of purplish flowers and a giant calculator that was running numbers incessantly.

Now, as she passed her sleeping roommate on the way to the bathroom, she realized the flowers must have been delphiniums. Isobel groaned at her reflection and wondered if there was any way to arrange her hair to hide the dark circles under her eyes. The only solution she could come up with required Scotch tape, so she pulled out her makeup box and applied light dots of rose lipstick to counteract the blue, then layered yellow-based cover-up over that. She stuffed a small cosmetics bag with these and other implements of facial wizardry and prayed she'd look better by seven thirty in the evening. When she emerged from the bathroom, Percival was sitting up against the wall, rubbing his eyes.

"You sleep okay?" she whispered, trying not to wake Delphi.

"More or less." She knew that meant he'd been about as comfortable as she was.

"What time is your Columbia interview?"

"Eleven. Then I'm going to hang around and visit some classes. Can we meet up later?"

Isobel checked to make sure Delphi was still sound asleep, then she leaned closer to Percival. "I haven't told Delphi, but if I get this audition tonight, I'll have to stay and rehearse. I'll call you and let you know."

"Listen, good luck!"

"Yeah, you too. Not that you need it against all those other prospective fifteen-year-old freshmen."

Isobel kissed her brother, grabbed her bag and her sorry excuse for an umbrella, and then, on impulse, snatched up her audition materials, just in case she wasn't able to get home first. She staggered into the pelting rain and almost immediately had to abandon her splayed, torn umbrella in a trash can. By the time she got to the subway, she was drenched.

Where were all the street umbrella vendors when you needed one?

She was in a completely foul mood by the time she arrived at InterBank. To make matters worse, Paula was still reveling in her promotion, and her abrasive cheerfulness worked for her about as well as standup comedy from an undertaker. If she continued to punctuate each sentence with an incongruously girlish chuckle, Isobel would be calling Temp Zone for a new assignment sooner rather than later.

Stan, on the other hand, was slouching around the office, his shoulders buckling under some unseen weight, and whatever color was normally present in his pasty complexion had faded to a sallow, depressive gray. Percival must be right about the blackmail log. It made perfect sense. Stan had talked about the sacrifices Doreen made for him, and even though their marriage hadn't been a success, it was easier to take Doreen getting him a job at face value, rather than try to put some kind of evil spin on it. No, despite his failures, Doreen must have loved poor, plodgy Stan. And he wouldn't have killed her if she was giving him money.

That was another idea that she was having difficulty getting her head around: Doreen helping someone. It seemed so out of character—but then again, maybe it wasn't. For a certain kind of personality, dispensing good will was just another form of power. Doreen must have imagined herself as a latter-day Robin Hood, stealing from the careless to give to the ex-husband. But what on earth did Stan need that kind of money for? Isobel remembered Conchita insisting that she could provide Stan with everything Doreen had. But did she even know what that meant?

Frank, who had been unusually industrious all morning, pitched another stack of files and documents onto Isobel's desk, with instructions to file the old stuff and give the rest to Paula.

Isobel set about sorting the papers, wishing more than ever that she could have given her Two by Two audition yesterday, when she and the world were sunnier, not to mention well-rested. The only person who was acting normal was Conchita, who continued to snub Isobel, glower at Paula, ignore Frank, and cross herself every time Stan walked past. As difficult as Conchita could be, at least she was predictable.

Shortly before twelve, Conchita appeared at Isobel's desk.

"I'm going to noontime Mass," she said.

Isobel didn't even bother looking up. "I don't have a working umbrella anymore, so I'm staying in."

"I'll say a prayer for your soul," Conchita said.

Isobel gave a dismissive snort. Noontime Mass. Yeah, right. Conchita's ostentatious piety notwithstanding, Isobel somehow doubted that was really where she was going. She wondered again why Doreen had been blackmailing the sainted Conchita.

Without stopping to think about what she was doing, Isobel suddenly shoved Frank's papers aside and leaped up from her chair. She grabbed her still-soaked raincoat from Nikki's old desk where she had set it to dry and was still struggling to get it on when Frank appeared with another overflowing banker's box.

He set the box on her desk, eyeing her coat. "Didn't Conchita just leave for lunch?"

"I just remembered a super quick errand I have to do," Isobel said hurriedly. "I promise, back in ten!"

Frank wiped his hands together releasing a puff of dust. "Doesn't matter to me. I'm not your boss anymore. Just don't let Paula catch you."

Isobel nodded gratefully and took off down the hall. As she reached the etched glass doors, she saw Conchita disappear into an elevator. Isobel waited until she was gone, then ran out into the hallway and pressed the button repeatedly.

Richie, the IT guy, who was also waiting, shot her a snide glance. "Yeah, that always works for me."

But an elevator did come, almost immediately, and Isobel took it down to the lobby. Conchita was standing just in front of the building, putting up a sturdy-looking, long-handled umbrella, which Isobel immediately coveted. Protected from the deluge, Conchita headed east on Twenty-third Street.

The rain was coming down even harder than before, but Isobel bent her head and plunged into a crowd of slow-moving pedestrians. She was getting soaked, but at least she was able to follow Conchita at a comfortable distance. Isobel trailed her down Park Avenue South and saw her enter a brick building. Isobel drew nearer and read the plaque above the door: Park Avenue Presbyterian Church.

Damn, damn, damn.

So much for her suspicions, and now she was going to get pneumonia.

She sloshed to a deli at the end of the block. "You don't happen to sell umbrellas, do you?" she asked doubtfully.

The man behind the counter pointed to a small pile of black umbrellas on top of the New York Post, and Isobel grabbed one with relief. As she fished out five dollars from her wallet, she was struck by a sudden, incongruous thought.

Presbyterians didn't have noonday Mass. She ought to know—she was one.

She grabbed the umbrella and darted back out into the rain and down the block, wrenching open the door to Park Avenue Presbyterian Church.

In the damp wood-paneled hallway, she saw a small blackboard with the day's events posted in white block pin letters. She scanned it eagerly.

Noon: Alcoholics Anonymous.

Isobel let out a long, slow breath. "Well, what do you know?" she murmured. She took a step backwards and her heel dug into a man's foot behind her.

"Hey! Watch it, will you?"

Isobel spun around. It was hard to say who was more surprised, she or James.