Ivy Get Your Gun

by Cindy Brown

  “I do?” I looked down at my paint-spattered jeans and yellow t-shirt.

  “Yeah. Like you’ve been roughed up by the bad guys.”

  “Oh, kiddo.” Marge patted my face. “Let’s get some ice on that lip.”

  Chapter 5

  A flashlight bobbed toward me in the dark. I stood up, brushing the grass from my jeans. The light came closer, carried by a lean figure silhouetted against the evening sky. Moonlight flashed off his glasses.

  I walked a few paces toward him, and we met near a little flag that trembled in the faint breeze. “Thanks for coming.” I felt a great relief, like a warm shower after a dusty day.

  Matt smiled. “Why are we at a golf course?”

  “Because it’s romantic?” It wasn’t the real reason, but now that he was here, it was true. The full moon shone in the water hazards, crickets serenaded us, and damp grass perfumed the air. The only thing that smelled better was Matt, the sweetness of his skin mingled with soap. He bent to kiss me, and the stars above him filled the sky and…

  “Ow!” I jerked away. “Ow, ow, ow.”

  “What?”

  “I forgot about my lip.” I touched it gingerly and my finger came away wet. “Is it bleeding again?”

  “Oh god, sorry. Couldn’t see it in the dark.” Matt came so near that I wanted to kiss him again, split lip and all. “It is bleeding, just a little.” He looked closer. “Don’t think you need stitches or anything though. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I can’t see it, so I kind of forgot about it.” I was a visual person. “If it’d been a cut on my hand, I would have remembered it.”

  “What happened?”

  “Had a run-in with Arnie’s son.”

  “Arnie’s son did that to you?” I saw Matt’s jaw clench.

  “Not on purpose. We butted heads. I have the feeling he might do that a lot.”

  “I didn’t know Arnie had a son.”

  “Neither did he.” I filled Matt in on the newfound son, Gold Bug Gulch, and the gunfight incident. “I really hope it was an accident. Arnie and Marge aren’t so sure. They want me go out there, see what I can learn.”

  “Do you need to play golf while you’re there?”

  “What? No.”

  “So we’re on a golf course in Sunnydale at ten o’clock at night because…”

  “Oh. Because Lassie ran off with a pack of Chihuahuas.”

  “That sounds serious,” said Matt. “Did I ever tell you about the time I was attacked by Chihuahuas?”

  “No.” Matt and I had known each other a little over a year but had only been dating a couple of months. “When?”

  “When I was just a kid. Our neighbors had a bunch. One day I was over at their house, and they rushed in from outside, running and yipping and…it was terrible. They licked my toes.”

  I smacked him, and he laughed, a big deep rolling laugh at odds with his slim frame. I loved that laugh.

  “Seriously. I hate having my toes licked.”

  “Duly noted.”

  “Hey, you kids!” A man stood outside one of the houses that ringed the golf course, his face blue from the reflection of his lit swimming pool. “What do you think you’re doing out there?”

  “Making love in the green grass…” Matt sang softly.

  I smacked him again. “I am not your brown-eyed girl.” My eyes were green. “And I don’t think making love in the green grass will go over well with the neighbors.”

  “Come on. These folks probably had Van Morrison’s albums when they first came out.”

  “I could call the cops, you know,” shouted the homeowner.

  “Just looking for a dog,” I shouted back. “Have you seen a black pug? Or a pack of Chihuahuas?”

  “I’ve seen the Chihuahuas,” he said. “Just yesterday they stole a couple of hotdogs off my hibachi. Little buggers.”

  “Thanks.” I waved at him. “If you do see the pug, grab him. He won’t bite. He’s not wearing a collar, but you can call Marge Weiss—she lives here in Sunnydale. We’re going to keep looking.”

  “Good luck.” The guy raised a hand in farewell and went inside.

  Matt and I spent another hour on the golf course. We saw a few tracks in the soft dirt around one of the water hazards and a gleam of eyes from beneath an oleander that turned out to be a cat. No dogs, but no coyotes either.

  “Let’s pack it in for the night,” I said.

  “Come back to my place?”

  “I’m too tired.”

  Matt lived in Scottsdale, in an older condo off Camelback Road. My apartment was in central Phoenix, about a half hour closer to where we were right then in Sunnydale.

  “Okay.” He took me in his arms and kissed my head, then my forehead. I shut my eyes and he kissed them too.

  “Mmm…maybe I’m not so tired, but…no, I have to be at Uncle Bob’s for breakfast, then do some stuff for Arnie and Marge tomorrow—which might involve a trip to Gold Bug, and prep for that callback for Annie Get Your Gun.”

  “See you in a few days?” Matt released me, and I realized how cool the night had grown.

  “I think so.”

  “You think so?”

  “Not sure about this Gold Bug Gulch gig.”

  Matt was quiet.

  “But it seems like they’d want me daytimes, so I should have some nights free.”

  “Unless you get cast in Annie Get Your Gun.”

  “Nah, rehearsals don’t start for a month. Why don’t you come over for a quick dinner before my callback Monday night? I should have an hour. Forty-five minutes at least.”

  Matt sighed. “You know, Ivy, between your schedule and keeping us—”

  I kissed him before he could say any more, split lip and all. “It’ll be okay. Better than okay. It’ll be good. Everything will be good.”

  Chapter 6

  Uncle Bob whistled as I walked into his kitchen the next morning. “What’s the other guy look like?” He poured me a cup of the elixir of the gods and handed it to me.

  “Yeah, yeah.” I squinted at the neon green of his newest Hawaiian shirt and tried to figure out what the printed monkeys were tossing back and forth across my uncle’s considerable mid-section. I sat down at the fifties-era Formica table and sipped at my coffee gingerly, trying to drink it without the hot liquid touching my fat lip. “I ran into someone face first. I’ll tell you all about it after…” Another blessed smell wafted toward me. “Bacon? Is there bacon?”

  “Yep. Staying warm in the oven, since someone is a little late.”

  “Where is Bette?” Bette was my uncle’s girlfriend and the brains behind the investigative journalism site “All Bets Are Off.” They’d met a few months earlier when we were all on a cruise ship (business, not pleasure). She lived in Colorado, but she was supposed to be here this weekend, hence this Sunday brunch.

  “She had to extend her trip to Haiti through next week. Gonna interview some whistleblower for a supposed aid organization.”

  “So she’s not late…”

  “Sheesh, remind me never to send you out on anything important in the morning.” Uncle Bob opened his refrigerator and leaned in. “Especially since you’re usually late.”

  “Not always. And I’ll be fine after my second cup of coffee. And some bacon. And…coconuts!”

  Uncle Bob turned to me and raised an eyebrow. It had little gray hairs sticking out of it.

  “On your shirt, I mean. Although I would eat some coconut if you had it. I’m starving.”

  “Then help with breakfast.” He scrounged around in the fridge. “Put down your coffee, Olive.” Uncle Bob always called me by my real name, which was Olive Ziegwart. Ivy Meadows was my stage name, my preferred name (wouldn’t it be yours?), and the name of a subdivision off the 51 that lured people in with its promise of greenery, but
was just another stucco-and-tile-roof development in the mostly brown desert. I had heard they had wrought-iron gates that looked like ivy. “And think fast.” He tossed a can to me.

  I caught it. “Cinnamon rolls! Aww, you know I love—”

  “Popping the can open,” we said together.

  Best uncle in the world.

  Over big plates of bacon and eggs and cinnamon rolls, I told Uncle Bob about the gunfight.

  “That’s a bad business.”

  “And bad for business, I bet. I think it’s one reason Arnie and Marge want me to investigate.” I got up and padded toward the Mr. Coffeemaker.

  Uncle Bob shook his head. “Probably the opposite. Bet there are lots of people wanting to see where it happened.”

  “Oh.” I stopped where I stood.

  “What?” Uncle Bob must have known I just had a lightbulb moment, since I couldn’t walk and think at the same time.

  “Maybe Nathan could be involved. He sure didn’t seem too upset about one of his employee’s deaths.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but don’t go there. If you’re gonna investigate this—if you’re gonna investigate anything—you can’t go in with a preconceived idea based on a guy’s reaction to sudden death. People react to tragedy in all sorts of ways. You of all people should know that.”

  I did know that.

  I was eleven when my life changed on a frozen pond in Spokane, Washington. On a pond we thought was frozen. I was ice-skating with my girlfriends and annoyed that my mom made me take my little brother Cody with us. So I ignored him. Dissed by us, he skated away to the other side of the pond. I didn’t even know he wasn’t near until I heard the crack of the ice, the shouts that froze in the air, and the beating of my heart in my ears as I raced to the jagged hole where my brother had been.

  Cody survived. Our family didn’t. My parents blamed me for Cody’s accident, for the brain injury he would have his whole life. I escaped into theater, where I could live in another world and create my own family of actors and stagehands and wardrobe mistresses. Outside the theater, Uncle Bob and Cody formed the nucleus of my family. And now, Matt too. Maybe.

  “Who is Nathan anyway?” Uncle Bob’s voice brought me back to the here and now.

  I poured myself another cup of coffee and explained about Nathan and Arnie.

  “And why not just leave this to the police?”

  “Arnie and Marge think there may be more to the Gold Bug story than just this shooting.”

  “Ah. You said they’re investors?”

  “Right.”

  “Given the relationships involved, undercover seems the way to go.”

  “That’s what Marge said. I need to call Arnie to figure out the details. Can I put him on speakerphone?” I was still really green with this detective stuff. Uncle Bob may have been a laid-back trivia buff who looked a bit like a beardless Santa Claus, but he was a crack PI.

  He nodded. I grabbed my cell phone, a pen, and a notebook from the purse I’d slung across the back of the kitchen chair. I dialed Arnie’s number and told him Uncle Bob was with us. Then I took a deep breath. “Lassie?”

  “No sign.” Just two words, but I could hear Arnie’s voice begin to break.

  “I’ll email you the posters I made last night. Print out a bunch and post them everywhere. Did Marge call the pound this morning?” She’d promised to do that every morning and evening.

  “Yes. No word.” Arnie’s voice still sounded strangled.

  “We’ll find him.” I switched subjects. Maybe it’d make Arnie feel better. “You still want to go forward with this undercover gig?”

  “I don’t know…” If the catch in Arnie’s voice was any indication, this subject was no better than the last one. “If Nathan found out and thought I didn’t trust him…”

  “You’re doing this for Nathan.” Marge’s voice rang out in the background. “To make sure he’s not getting himself into any trouble. Remember, chickie, this is a good thing you’re doing.”

  Arnie snuffled into the phone.

  “Right, Ivy?” shouted Marge.

  “Right. Arnie, what’s Mongo’s real name again?” I remembered Nathan mentioning it the night of the shooting.

  “Michael Carver.” I made a note of it. “I think you mighta heard: besides doing the gunfight, he owned the horse ride concessions.”

  “You said he wasn’t an actor. How’d they find him?” I slid a look at Uncle Bob, and he nodded in approval. I was getting better at asking the right questions.

  “He’s from the area, some big ranching family. His family owns most of the land around there, apart from the Bureau of Land Management. A good worker, but he had the reputation of disappearing for days at a time on a pretty regular basis. Nathan was trying him out but wasn’t sure about keeping him on.”

  “How about the guy who shot Mongo?” I remembered the young cowboy at the saloon, blood and dust mingled with his tears. “What do you know about him?”

  “Name’s Chance Keeler. Nathan said he was a real find—an honest-to-God cowboy and an actor.”

  I wrote Chance’s name down under Mongo’s. “There was a saloon girl—woman—too, who looked awfully upset.”

  “Mongo’s girlfriend, Billie Davenport. Theater background, bartender, et cetera, et cetera. She’s worked at The Thirsty Vulture in Wickenburg for years. Hell of a gal.”

  “I think that’s enough to get me started. So…” What else did I need to ask? I looked at Uncle Bob.

  “How do you want to do this undercover gig?” he asked.

  Yeah, that.

  “I got an idea about a show,” Arnie said. “Let me see if I can set it up.”

  “Okay,” said Uncle Bob. “Anything else Ivy should know before starting the investigation?”

  The burble of the coffeemaker was the only sound for a moment. Then Arnie said, “Nathan’s my son, but…” The coffeemaker sighed. “I’m not sure he’s on the up-and-up about the town’s finances. I know he’s got other investors besides me, but I’ve only met one of them, Josh Tate. He sold most of the town, kept his family house and the blacksmith’s forge, and has a share in Gold Bug Gulch. He still lives on the property and works as a blacksmith. His family used to own the whole place, the mine and everything.”

  “Wait, I thought the big landowner there was Mongo’s family.” I flipped back through my notebook. “The Carver family. Are they and the Tates related?”

  “Don’t think so. Probably a bunch of families own property there.”

  “And the other investors?”

  “That’s part of my, uh, concern. The rest of the investors, the people who had to pony up the dough to buy the property from Josh…I’ve never talked to them, not even sure of their names. There’s some group operating under an acronym listed in the incorporation docs, but Nathan gets real vague when I ask about them. And there’s one more thing I should tell you. I’ve got a bad feeling about this. And I never get a bad feeling.”

  Chapter 7

  I used Uncle Bob’s computer (and his database access) to check Mongo’s (Michael Carver’s) background. From the articles I read in The Wickenburg Sun, the Carvers were movers and shakers in the area. They owned a big ranch, lots of cattle, and several big chunks of property throughout the state. Mongo had worked for his family’s ranch outfit his entire life. Never been married, no kids, and no criminal record. His last address was listed as Wickenburg. I checked it against Billie Davenport’s address. Yep, same one. I looked it up on Google Earth: a nice doublewide off a desert road, not too far from Gold Bug, not too close to anything or anyone else.

  I went into the kitchen for more coffee and maybe some inspiration. “Pooh,” I said to my uncle, who was whipping up his weekly batch of chili. “Just enough info to tell me Mongo existed. Not enough to figure out why someone might kill him.”
<
br />   “Darn,” he said. I deduced he was being sarcastic, since Uncle Bob was not a man who said darn. “Guess you’ll have to rely on outdated, old-fashioned investigative techniques, like questioning people who knew him.”

  Yep, sarcastic. But also right. “I’ll drive out to Wickenburg this afternoon.”

  I headed west out of downtown around two o’clock. I knew what questions I wanted to ask about Mongo but had one problem: why would I—an actress working at Gold Bug Gulch—be questioning people about Mongo? Hmmm…an actress.

  Ah. Yep. That would work. I got off at Bell Road and called Arnie. “Sure,” he said. “Meet you there.”

  About fifteen minutes later I pulled into the empty parking lot for Desert Magic Dinner Theater. While I waited, I did a Google search on my phone to make sure my backstory worked. By the time Arnie got there, I had it all figured out.

  I met him at the stage door. “Pretty smart, disguising yourself while you’re in Wickenburg,” he said. “Costume department’s all yours.” I walked the familiar hallway to the room, scrounged through the costumes hanging on portable racks, and found what I wanted. I changed into a nondescript blouse and skirt, tucked the rest of my disguise under my arm, and left, kissing Arnie on the cheek as he locked the theater door behind us.

  Sunday traffic was light, so it was just forty-five minutes before I pulled off the highway and onto Wickenburg Way. I felt inexplicably happy. Wickenburg always did that to me. I loved its Old West-looking buildings with their false fronts, its neon-signed moviehouse with the plaster Saguaro on top, even the life-size fake bulls that decorated the shop roofs. Wickenburg felt a little like a Roy Rogers movie—not exactly the real Old West, but what you’d like it to be.

  I parked on a street behind The Thirsty Vulture, looked around to make sure no one was looking, and slipped on the final pieces of my disguise. Then I got out of the truck, limping slightly (part of my new persona), and walked down a wide covered sidewalk, attracting a few curious glances from passersby. Oops, I still wore my cat-eye sunglasses. I quickly traded them for thick glasses from the costume department, pushed open the door to The Thirsty Vulture, and stepped inside.