“Excuse me, have you seen Judge Wilson, my husband?” Isobel asked a tall, patrician man, who was engaged in conversation with an attractive highlighted blonde in her late forties.
The man paused, annoyed at being interrupted. “I don’t know a Judge Wilson.” He scrutinized Isobel. “Aren’t you a little young to be married to a judge?”
Isobel let forth a silvery laugh. “Oh, he’s shot up the ranks very quickly.”
“What circuit is he in?”
Isobel hesitated. She was well-versed in the basic rules of improv—always agree and embellish—but specifics were a problem. She changed tactics.
“I have this terrible feeling he’s not going to show up.” She leaned in confidentially. “I just found out he’s been having an affair. If he does show his face, I may have a little surprise for him!” She patted her purse provocatively.
The man goggled at her. “What in God’s name are you talking about?”
His companion’s face lit up with sudden comprehension. “Oh, I get it! She’s one of those murder mystery actors. Bethany thinks it’s awful, but I think it’s fun.”
“Bethany’s right. Willard has no patience for games,” the man said coldly.
“Gordon, you’re such a stick.” The blonde turned to Isobel. “Honey, I think you’re cute as a button, so if I see this ‘husband’ of yours, I’ll set him straight.” She gave a broad, conspiratorial wink.
Isobel returned a wan smile. “Thanks.”
The woman patted Isobel’s arm. “You’re very good. You really had us fooled.”
Yeah, not so much, Isobel thought, as she took herself off to regroup.
She’d been looking forward to the cocktail hour, but it was proving harder than she’d anticipated. It was one thing to improv with other actors, but something else entirely to play theater games with unwitting civilians. Even though the guests were supposed to catch on eventually so they could appreciate the fun, Isobel couldn’t rate her first encounter as entirely successful.
“Mingle,” Peter murmured as he passed by.
Isobel gave a quick nod and canvassed the room for her next quarry. She recognized Maggie from the back. She was standing next to the bar, talking to a sturdy man with a beaky nose and an impressively leonine mane of white hair.
If Maggie is responsible for hiring us, I’m assured of a welcome there, Isobel reasoned. And a drink in my hand will help me seem like an authentic guest.
She formulated a conversation opener in her mind and bounced over to Maggie’s side.
“You’re not Mitzi, are you?” Isobel chirped. “Because if you are—”
“Son of a…” The man with Maggie had turned at the sound of Isobel’s voice, but he was looking past her. “What the hell is he doing here?” He slammed down his drink and stalked off toward the doorway.
Maggie turned abruptly and plowed right into Isobel, unaware that she’d been standing there or even addressing her.
“Don’t waste your time with me,” said Maggie, flustered. “Entertain the guests, for God’s sake!”
Strike two, Isobel thought.
She wished she could compare notes with Delphi, but, of course, they weren’t supposed to acknowledge each other, given that Isobel was the fictional Judge Wilson’s wife and Delphi his as-yet-unidentified mistress. Tony was supposed to be a lawyer friend of the judge, but he was “out” to any guests he interacted with as a character in the play, so piggybacking on his conversation was impossible without giving herself away. She didn’t see Jemma anywhere, but a conversation with her would be problematic plot-wise, since her character was a victim with a mysterious past. Lucky Andrew had been spared the cocktail hour and was due to make his entrance as Judge Wilson after Isobel was shot. He was probably off in a corner somewhere, conserving his performance energy. No, she was on her own. She took a deep breath and plunged back into the crowd.
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 birdbrained 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.