“I UNDERSTAND YOU WERE Arden’s understudy,” Detective Dillon said.
“That’s right.”
“And you’ve been eagerly learning her role.”
Isobel leaned back too heavily in the padded chair in the small conference room next to Felicity’s office and tipped backward. She steadied herself against the table, although she realized immediately the chair would never have gone off-balance. She, on the other hand, had, just a bit.
“How did you hear that? I thought I was the first person you were interviewing,” she said.
“Please answer the question.”
“I think diligently is a more accurate word. I was learning the role because that’s what I was contracted to do. I can’t help how it was perceived. And,” she added, “it’s a good thing I did, since I’ve had to take over.”
Dillon turned his hawk-like eyes on her. “That’s the problem, you see. In the strictest terms, you’re the person who most obviously benefits from Arden’s death.”
Isobel folded her arms. “Have you seen the show?”
“Not yet,” he admitted.
“Come tomorrow and see if you think this role is worth killing for.”
Dillon cleared his throat. “Taking over the role enabled you to join the actors’ union, which I understand can be hard to manage so early in one’s career.”
“Yes, and it was a difficult decision. I almost turned it down. Ask Felicity.”
“She mentioned something of the sort. But let’s be honest here.” He leaned forward and his tie caught on a jag in the Formica, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Wasn’t that for show? You never had any intention of passing up an opportunity like that.”
“I thought long and hard about it. I have exactly one other professional role on my resume, and it’s an operetta in summer stock. Other than that, it’s all college stuff. Now that I’ve shut myself out of non-union work, I’ll probably languish in a stultifying array of offices slowly temping myself to death, while others of my type and talent level are cleaning up in non-Equity productions and preparing their resumes for the moment when lightning strikes and God bursts through the heavens to smite them with their union cards.”
Dillon’s eyes hardened. “Don’t mock me, Ms. Spice.”
“I’m not. I’m absolutely serious. Time will tell whether or not I made the right decision. The point I’m trying to make is that I very nearly made a different one.”
He held her gaze a moment, then glanced down at his notebook. “You didn’t get sick from the coffee the other night?”
“I poured a cup and then—” She blushed at the memory. “Hugh and I got distracted and I never drank it.”
“Hugh Fremont. The musical director?”
“Yes. We’re dating.”
“Why would you sabotage the orchestra parts if it made more work for your boyfriend?” Dillon asked smoothly.
“Points for the segue,” she conceded. “But I didn’t. In fact, I helped fix them.”
“A classic cover-up,” Dillon said offhandedly. “And you also brought down the backstage curtain on Arden.”
“It’s called masking, and that was an accident, pure and simple,” Isobel said, making a conscious effort to control her temper. She didn’t want him to see that he was getting to her. It was one thing for her fellow actors to suspect her, but another thing when it was a cop. “Besides, I thought Arden didn’t smoke.”
“She didn’t.” Dillon leaned back.
His chair creaked comfortably without threatening to tip, which annoyed Isobel further. She felt better when she heard his tie rip a little as the movement tore it free from the jag in the Formica.
“It would be difficult to get a fatal dose of nicotine from smoking,” Dillon continued. “We’re talking about pure nicotine in concentrated form. Most likely administered in something she ate or drank. Did you happen to notice if she ingested anything right before she went onstage?”
Isobel was tempted to ask if he was finished accusing her and she was officially only a witness, but she refrained.
“Not that I observed.”
“And you’d have been watching her closely, right?”
Nope, still being accused, she thought.
“Not backstage. I was only interested in what Arden was doing onstage. That’s the job for which I was hired.”
“Once it hits the stomach or the bloodstream, concentrated nicotine acts quickly on the nervous system.” Dillon took the opportunity to examine the damage to his tie. “We’re looking at the twenty minutes before she collapsed, tops. Did she drink from a bottle of water? Suck on a cough drop?”
“We all keep water in the wings,” Isobel said. “I’m sure she drank some at some point.”
“Do you label your bottles?”
“Sometimes, but not always.”
“So, if most of the bottles are unlabeled, it’s hard to tell whose is whose?”
“Right. You keep track of your own. Nobody’s paying attention to anyone else’s.” She gave a dismissive wave. “But those bottles are long gone anyway. Either recycled or taken home, rinsed, and refilled, and nobody else has dropped dead. I don’t think you’ll find much joy there.”
“Can you think of someone other than yourself who might have wanted to kill Arden?”
Isobel flashed Dillon her sweetest smile. “Let’s be very clear about something. I did not want to kill Arden. And let me go one step further. I will probably figure out who did before you do.”
“Excuse me?”
“Obviously, you’re not much of a detective if you don’t know who I am.” Isobel was vaguely aware of an out-of-body iteration of herself hovering somewhere over her shoulder urging her to shut up, but she sped on. “I’ve worked with the New York City Police Department on three separate occasions, investigating murders that took place in my presence. In all three cases, I led them to the killer, having figured it out before they did. Don’t be surprised if the same thing happens here.”
Dillon took a moment to frame his response. “If you have any information about who killed Arden, you are obliged to turn it over to the police. Otherwise, you are withholding evidence, which makes you an accessory after the fact.”
“Oh, I understand that. It’s just that in the past, the police weren’t particularly interested in what I had to say. But I’m happy to work with you, if you’re willing to work with me.” She saw him hesitate. “See? You haven’t made up your mind yet whether or not you can trust me, since you’ve already predetermined—based on hearsay from an artistic director who got it from a bunch of jealous actors—that I killed Arden.”
Dillon thrummed his fingers on the conference table. “You’ve been involved in three other murder investigations? Seems to me you’re the common thread.”
“I’d say you’re right, except that they all led to convictions of people who weren’t me.” She leaned forward. “Considering all the sabotage that’s gone on of late, here’s the question you should be asking: who wants to keep the show from succeeding? By your own reasoning, it’s not me, since as you pointed out, I’ve now got my Equity card. Goal achieved, level complete. I submit to you that Arden’s death was a means, not an end.”
“There are no plans to shut down the production at the moment, so not a very successful means, if you’re right,” Dillon said.
“Agreed.” Isobel took the bold step of standing up, even though she had not been dismissed. “Look, as a show of good faith, I’ll give you a few hints to get you started in the right direction. Talk to Geoff Brown, who wrote an original score that Jethro Hamilton chucked last summer and who was supposed to be the musical director. He wasn’t in the house tonight, and I’m guessing he’s not even on Sergeant Pemberthy’s list, since he’s not officially involved in this production. Look to the several women connected to the show that he dated, and don’t forget Oliver, his brother, who stayed on as assistant musical director. Then there’s the animosity between Ezra and Jethro, who have starkly different visions for the show. And finally, you might ask yourself who tipped off the New York Post’s theater columnist that the show was going to be a disaster, and what have they told him that prompted him to reserve seats through the weekend? Also, who invited New York producers, and why didn’t they show? There. That should keep you busy for a while.”
Dillon’s jaw hung open in astonishment. Trying to conceal her satisfaction, Isobel continued, “This isn’t going to end until you or Felicity shut down the show. And here’s how I know. Even though Arden is dead, somebody took the trouble to hide the stage manager’s book tonight, which almost caused the performance to be canceled. So let me put it to you this way: you got ninety-nine suspects, but this bitch ain’t one. Can I go now?”