Ivy Get Your Gun

by Cindy Brown

  “He knows about the gunfight. He’s been out there almost every day the past two weeks. He’s an investor.”

  This was not good news. Arnie fancied himself an impresario, but he’d left a string of bad business decisions in his wake. He finally had a winner with Desert Magic Dinner Theater, where I’d met him and Marge. The theater’s success was really due to Marge, who headlined about half of the shows. People whispered that it was Marge’s money that kept the theater afloat, since Arnie didn’t have much of his own.

  Oh no.

  “You’re the investor,” I said. “But why? Doesn’t seem like your kind of entertainment.”

  “You’re right there, kiddo. My idea of the outdoors is the walk from the taxi to the theater. But Arnie was really hot to go with this one. Mostly because his son is the mastermind behind it.” She looked at me, arching an eyebrow.

  I bit. “His son?”

  “Yeah. Nathan showed up on our doorstep three months ago. Literally. The bell rang, Arnie went to open the door, and I hear ‘Papa!’ I guess the kid, Nathan—he’s not really a kid anymore—was the result of some brief fling Arnie had with a dancer back in the day. Arnie never had a clue he was a father. Nathan’s mom told him about his dad when he got older. Guess he tried to look for Arnie for a while, but this was pre-internet, and he gave up after a year or two. Then, coincidentally, Nathan buys this ghost town he wants to turn into a tourist trap, not a half hour from our place.”

  “Coincidentally?” I asked. My uncle had taught me there were very few coincidences in this world.

  “That’s what I thought too, but Nathan swears he had this all planned out. And he did have the place nearly up and running when he found Arnie.”

  “Which he did how?”

  “Said he was reading the paper—”

  “How old is this guy?” Most newspaper subscribers were over forty-five.

  “Maybe forty? He said he was checking on an article about Gold Bug Gulch and happened to see a preview article for Desert Magic Dinner Theater right under it, with a quote by Arnie.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I checked the paper. The articles were on the same page, so he could have been telling the truth.”

  “But you don’t believe him?”

  “I don’t know what to believe. This guy shows up out of nowhere, claims to be Arnie’s son, and by the way, he’s looking for investors in his newest venture.”

  “It does sound suspicious, but then again, the guy also sounds a little like Arnie.”

  “I know.” Margie’s voice grew warm. “You should see Arnie, grinning from ear to ear when he introduces people to ‘his boy.’”

  A blue sign ahead said, “Highway adopted by Gold Bug Gulch—where the Old West lives on!”

  “It’s another quarter mile or so on the left,” Marge said. “So anyway, when Arnie asked, I said sure, we could invest a little money. Can’t take it with you, you know.” Marge tried to smile, but couldn’t manage it. “God, Ivy, if anything happened to him…”

  “I’m sure everything is just fine,” I said, right as we turned a bend and saw Gold Bug Gulch. Couldn’t have missed it. Not with all those flashing blue lights.

  Chapter 3

  I bumped the truck into the rutted dirt lot, steering around the knots of people who stood talking. Some were crying. I grabbed Marge’s hand across the seat. “Don’t worry. We’ll find out what all this is about. I’m sure it has nothing to do with Arnie.”

  I parked as close as I could to the town’s entrance, where “Gold Bug Gulch” was burned into a wooden sign that swung between two twenty-foot posts. I jumped out of the cab and ran around to help Marge. Those high heels of hers were going be a liability out here. I took her by the arm, and we headed toward the town

  “Sorry, ladies.” A uniformed state patrolman held up a hand. “Gold Bug Gulch is closed this evening.”

  “We’re family,” I said. “We got a call.”

  The cop shook his head. “How would I know—”

  “I’m one of the owners.” Marge somehow made herself look bigger, like she was facing a bear. “And I’m happy to take down your name and badge number.”

  “Yeah, all right.” The cop waved us through. As I passed him, I said in a low voice, “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Guy got shot,” he said, loud enough for the vultures circling above to hear us—wait, were those really vultures? “Killed.”

  At that, Marge dropped my arm and picked up her pace. Heels or no heels, she was headed like a shot to the clutch of people standing in the dirt road and milling around on the wooden sidewalks of the buildings on either side. I caught up with her.

  I’d read a little about Gold Bug Gulch. Some entrepreneur from back East (Arnie’s son, I guessed) bought the remains of an old mining town, planning to turn it into a “true Old West Experience.” At one time, the original Gulch’s population numbered a couple thousand, but once the gold mine was played out, the town dwindled to just a few desert rats. Arizona’s dry weather must have preserved a lot of the buildings, which were strung out along the main dirt road. Wooden buildings with false fronts, like the ones in movies, lined the north side of the road. The south side sloped down a hill, bordered at the bottom by a stand of shivering cottonwoods. A couple of squat adobe-looking buildings—one with bars on the windows—crouched on the top of the southern side where the hill flattened out. The adobe structures and first couple of wooden buildings were all cleaned up and sturdy, obviously the backbone of the theme park. Farther down the road another dozen or so buildings awaited repair. And in the distance beyond the creek, an industrial, jumbled-looking platform—something to do with the mine?—stood black against the darkening sky.

  “Arnie!” Marge shouted. “Arnie!”

  No answer. The people in the street formed a ring around something. “Arnie,” Marge called again. Nothing but the buzz of flies and worried people.

  “It can’t be Arnie. Remember? He said ‘Oh my God’ after the gunshot.” Of course, they could have been his last words after he’d been hit, but I wasn’t about to admit that.

  Marge aimed for the clot of people in the road. I followed, elbowing my way through a mishmash of state patrolmen, paramedics, and people in old-fashioned Western garb. “Got him in the heart,” I heard someone say. “The other guy was some shot.”

  “Ma’am.” A uniformed officer grabbed my elbow.

  “People,” another state trooper said in a loud voice. “As I said just, oh, two minutes ago, everyone who is not law enforcement or medical personnel needs to wait inside in the saloon. The sooner we can get this sorted out, the sooner everyone can go home.”

  People began moving toward the saloon. Marge took advantage of the crowd’s cover to creep closer to the body.

  “You can’t be here,” the officer who held my arm said to me.

  “I know. I’m trying to stop—” I pointed at Marge, who had somehow managed to get within a few feet of the shrouded body.

  “Ma’am! You! Stop!” The officer waved his arms at Marge, releasing his grip on me.

  I sprinted toward Marge—at the exact same time another guy did. We connected headfirst and pow—as Uncle Bob liked to say—right in the kisser. We both fell down in the dirt.

  “Ow ow ow.” I pressed my hand against my face and it came away bloody. “Ow.”

  The officer who’d held me back glared at all of us, then planted himself in front of the corpse with his arms crossed, as if to say “serves you right.” Marge stretched out a hand to help me up. At least my split lip had kept her from reaching the body.

  The guy I’d head-banged scowled at me as he picked himself up. “Dammit, woman, why didn’t you look where you were going?”

  “Me?” I asked my unintentional assailant. “I was just trying to keep Marge from—”

  “Me too. God, t
his is just what we need, two hysterical women—”

  “Hey. There is no hysteria here. Even though there could be, with somebody dead and Marge’s husband missing and blood running down my chin.” I got to my feet and dusted myself off.

  The guy reluctantly agreed with a grunt. I glanced at him. He wasn’t a cop or a medic or a cowboy actor. Maybe he was…

  “Nathan, meet Ivy.” Marge proffered a Kleenex from her pocket. Nathan took it and dabbed at a tiny bit of blood under his nose. “Now, Nathan, for God’s sake,” she said, “tell me who’s under the blanket.”

  “One of the cowboy actors, Mongo.”

  Marge closed her eyes. “Thank God.” She opened them and looked at the blanket. “Sorry, Mongo.” She looked at me as a drip of my blood plopped onto the dusty ground. “And sorry, Ivy, that Kleenex was for you. My last one.”

  “Here.” Nathan thrust the used Kleenex at me.

  Another drop of my blood trickled down my chin. Well…the Kleenex was mostly clean, only a little bit of Nathan’s blood on one side. Better than nothing. I took it and held the clean edge against my still-bleeding lip. “His name was Mongo?” I said. That was one of Uncle Bob’s favorite characters from Blazing Saddles.

  “Real name was Michael Carver.” Nathan bent down to rub the dust off his shoes made of some soft leather, which were way too nice for this kind of place. “God, I don’t believe this.” He wiped the sides of his face with both hands, maybe out of frustration since there wasn’t anything on it except maybe moisturizer. Between his smooth face, fancy shoes, and the ton of product in his thinning hair, the guy couldn’t have looked more out of place in this cowboy environment if he’d tried. “Just when we were starting get to a leg up, he dies.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it was his fault. Now take me to my husband.” Marge was her old take-charge self again.

  Nathan shook his head and put his hands on his waist, or where his waist would have been. He was built square. Like Arnie.

  “People.” The trooper who’d spoken earlier stood behind us. “Am I not talking loud enough for you?” He pointed to one of the wooden buildings. “In the saloon. Now.”

  “I’m the owner.” Nathan puffed out his chest.

  I saw Marge open her mouth, then shut it again. She was an owner too, but maybe she anticipated the cop’s next words. “I don’t care if you’re the ghost of Elvis.” Well, she probably didn’t anticipate those exact words. “Get inside, now.”

  The three of us walked toward the two-story building, under the saloon sign, and into a madhouse. The place was full of people and adrenaline and the booze was flowing. The combination made me nervous.

  Marge grabbed Nathan’s arm. “Is Arnie in here?”

  Nathan jerked his chin toward a nearby table full of cowboys, then he headed to the bar where a woman sat alone, dressed in a shiny red-and-black-striped saloon girl’s outfit. He put an arm around her and whispered something in her ear. Her shoulders began to shake.

  We approached the table. Burly cowboys nearly hid Arnie, whose bald head was bowed. Uh-oh. He may have been alive, but he didn’t look good. The cowboys vacated their seats with a nod to us. “Ladies,” one said in acknowledgment.

  “Babe.” Marge hugged the gray-faced Arnie around the neck then swatted him on the shoulder. “You scared me half to death. Especially after Lass—” Arnie looked up at us without moving his head, sorrow in his eyes. Marge switched subjects. “Where’s your phone?”

  Arnie patted his pocket.

  “Why didn’t you pick up?”

  “It’s broken. I dropped it, then someone stepped on it.” Arnie still didn’t lift his head.

  “Did you see what happened?” I asked, as gently as I could.

  He nodded. “Mongo and Chance were performing their gunfight. It’s always the same—they insult each other, then draw and shoot. Blanks, of course.”

  “And?”

  “Mongo always dies in these gunfights, so when he went down we all applauded. Then he started to bleed. We were still clapping. We were clapping when he died. And it’s all my fault.”

  Chapter 4

  “What do you mean it’s your fault?”

  I was glad Marge asked. I hoped Arnie meant the clapping, not the killing.

  “It’s the curse—the family curse. Everything I do—everything my father did, maybe everything Nathan does—it’s all ferkakta.”

  “All crap,” Marge translated (or maybe replied). “Chickie, you know that’s not true.”

  “What about Leroy?” Arnie said. Leroy was the departed alligator-wrestling star of Arnie’s failed Swamps are Fun! theme park, who really should have remembered to feed the gator.

  “C’mon, babe, you know there’s no curse.” Marge stroked Arnie’s bald head. “What happened here was an accident.”

  Arnie shook his head and looked toward the corner of the saloon, where several uniformed officers stood talking to a young man in 1890s cowboy gear, rusty with dried blood.

  “What exactly did happen?” I watched the cowboy talk to the cops. He’d swiped at his eyes, leaving streaks of blood mingled with the dust and tears on his face. “You said they used blanks?”

  “Until today they did. Chance”—Arnie nodded toward the cowboy—“said he checked his gun, like always, a few minutes before the show. But when he fired…”

  “Live ammunition,” I finished. Chance slowly followed a policeman out of the saloon, another cop tailing him. He was young, maybe late twenties, but he moved like an old man. “But how could that happen?”

  “Chance wore his gun most of the time, like a lot of guys around here.” Arizona was an open-carry state. “So when he’s not acting, he’s got real bullets in it. They have a staging area here where they load the guns with blanks before the show. He thought he’d switched all the bullets for blanks, but he must’ve missed one. From the audience it looked like a regular show until…” Arnie hung his head again. “It’s all my fault.”

  “Tell Ivy how the show usually worked.” Marge gave me a look that said “keep Arnie talking about the facts so he doesn’t go to a bad place.”

  “Right,” I said. “How was the fight supposed to go before the…ending? Was anything different?”

  Marge slid me a grateful look as Arnie raised his head. “The show starts off with each of them telling the other to step down. They’re supposed to be fighting over a woman.” Arnie’s gaze drifted to the saloon girl at the bar. A broken black feather hung from her hair, snapped in two but still holding together—like a broken spine. “At the beginning it’s almost silly. There’s a bit where Mongo shoots a hole in a barrel—it’s rigged to spurt water out of it—then Chance shoots the hat off Mongo’s head. Then it gets more serious. Mongo shoots Chance, who pretends to take a bullet in the arm. Chance shoots back, and Mongo dies. Except he wasn’t supposed to.”

  “So nothing was different this time.”

  “Nothing. Chance was the first one to realize something wasn’t right. Said he could tell by the kick of the gun and by the shocked look on Mongo’s face when he went down.”

  “But wouldn’t he look that way anyway? As an actor who was supposed to die?”

  “Mongo wasn’t really an actor. He was a cowboy. The real deal. Grew up on a ranch not far from here. He did act in our gunfight, but mostly he was responsible for…Oh no.”

  “Yeah. I just thought of that too.” Nathan had appeared behind his dad. “We’re going have to find someone else to lead the horseback rides. Shit, and take care of the horses too. Yeah, the glories of ownership.” He put a hand on Arnie’s shoulder. “You want something to eat, Papa? Looks like we might be here a while. The police want to talk to us.”

  You couldn’t miss the solicitousness in Nathan’s voice. Also the fact that he didn’t include Marge in the conversation.

  “I’m not hungry,” Arnie said. “You
want something, babe?” Marge shook her head.

  “Suit yourself,” Nathan said. “Hard to believe, but I’m hungry enough to eat a horse.” He laughed. “Guess I better not say that too loud around here, huh?” He patted Arnie on the shoulder and headed toward a door that said “employees only.”

  Marge looked after Nathan. “He’s laughing? And he’s gonna eat?”

  “Shock?” I said.

  Arnie put his head down on the table. “I can’t believe this happened again. And Lassie…” His shoulders heaved and he snuffled into his hands.

  “Listen.” Marge gently took Arnie’s head in her hands and made him look at her. “We’re going to find Lassie. Right, Ivy?”

  I nodded, not because I was sure, but because I needed to look sure, for Arnie’s sake.

  “And Leroy got eaten by the alligator because he forgot to feed him. Also he was dumb enough to wrestle alligators. This thing has an explanation too. I’m sure it was all an accident.”

  “But—”

  “And I’m sure the police will check things out. But just to ease your mind, we could have somebody look into it. We do have a private investigator sitting right here.”

  I felt a little glow of pride, completely inappropriate given the situation. I gave my ego a mental kick and it retreated.

  “I don’t know about that. I wouldn’t want Nathan to know.”

  “She could go undercover. You know, hush-hush.” Marge knew that my uncle and I had recently finished an undercover gig on a cruise ship.

  Arnie didn’t look convinced.

  “Listen,” said Marge. “I’m not sure a few notes in a police report are going to make you feel any better about your supposed family curse. But Ivy could really look into things, let you know what’s going on with everything at Gold Bug Gulch.” She slid me a look. I was pretty sure she meant Nathan.

  Arnie raised his head and regarded me. “It might work. You do make a pretty good detective. You even look like a private eye right now.”