Macdeath (An Ivy Meadows Mystery Book 1)

by Cindy Brown

  “Really?” I gazed at my reflection. It’s one of the nice things about theater, you can look at yourself, really look at yourself, without anyone thinking you’re vain or self-absorbed. It’s understood that since the audience will be looking at you for hours, it’s okay, imperative even, to check yourself out pretty thoroughly. Plus we all tend to be vain and self-absorbed.

  “The green matches your eyes.” He smiled at my reflection in the mirror.

  I was costumed as a sexy serpent in a painted leotard with undulating stripes of iridescent, venomous green, and a long matted wig. Simon’s ringmaster costume showed off his still-fine physique, and his hair was swept back from his forehead in a dashing 1930s film star look. He was right not to wear the hat.

  “You’re looking well yourself,” I said.

  “Wonderful what sobriety will do for you.”

  “Yeah. I’ve been meaning to ask...When you stomped on the hat, were you...?”

  Simon met my eyes in the mirror. “I was not drunk. I have...an anger management problem. One of the reasons I drank. Now I act to stay sober. But thank you for checking.” He gave me a slight bow and drifted away to a corner of the room, repeating, “I act to stay sober.”

  “A toast to the cast of Macbeth.” A tuxedoed Bill Boxer stood inside the stage door holding a bottle of champagne aloft. A few actors groaned.

  “Great. Thanks for ruining the show,” Riley said.

  Bill’s smile slipped from his face. His brows knit together. I recognized his “breaking news face” from TV. I’d always thought it signified concern, but now I wondered if it just meant he was confused.

  “The name of the Scottish play is not to be said in a theater.” Genevieve had ice in her voice. “It brings bad luck. You know that.”

  “Oh right. I’m not supposed to say ‘Macbeth.’” Either Bill didn’t believe in the curse, or he was an idiot. Probably both.

  “Right,” Riley said, grabbing the bottle. He forcibly steered Bill toward the door. “Now go outside, turn around three times, and come back in.” That was one of the supposed antidotes to the curse.

  Bill shrugged off Riley’s hands. “If you don’t want me, all you have to do is say so. I was just being nice.” He strode out the door.

  Riley tore the foil off the champagne. “At least he brought something to drink.”

  “I’ll take that.” Pamela entered, her gray silk ensemble flowing. She looked like a thundercloud pushing her way into the room. “I will keep all alcohol in my office until after curtain. We don’t want anyone getting drunk during the show.” She made a show of looking at Simon. “Please bring any and all bottles to my office. Thank you.”

  She started to walk off, then stopped, “And break a leg, all.” She left, gray silk trailing behind.

  Jason smiled at Simon, but it wasn’t a nice smile. His attitude toward Simon had soured even more since a preview article in last Sunday’s paper. It had featured a large color photograph of Simon, and not one mention of the play’s titular character. The article, which had been posted on a bulletin board in the greenroom, somehow disappeared after Monday night.

  I punched Jason on the arm. “Stop it,” I whispered. “It’s not fair. You know he hasn’t been drinking.”

  “You think he was sober when he stomped on his top hat?”

  “Yes. He has an anger management problem.”

  “Ivy.” Jason shook his head. “You’re too sweet for your own good.”

  I started to protest.

  Jason put a finger to my lips. “But not for mine.” He trailed his finger down my neck.

  “Five minutes to places,” Linda’s voice floated over the speaker.

  Jason leaned in, his breath warm in my ear. “Meet me after the murder at the bucket of blood.” He threw me a wicked smile over his shoulder as he strode backstage.

  “Better watch out, Ivy, he’s a married man,” said Kaitlin, who played Lady Macduff.

  “Married?”

  “Yeah, Lady Macbeth might kick your ass,” Riley said. “She’s in my taekwondo class.”

  “Hon.” Candy frowned at me. “Your lipstick is smeared. You better go fix your face.”

  Dang. I ran back to the dressing room I shared with Candy and yanked open the door. An exquisite, voluptuous white orchid stood on the counter near my makeup kit. I stepped closer to read the note tucked under its pot. “Nearly as beautiful as you.”

  “Witch,” said a voice from the hall, “you’d better get into place.” Genevieve wore a low-cut crimson leotard and brief skirt of blood-colored chiffon.

  “I can’t tell who this is from,” I said, motioning to the orchid. “It’s signed ‘your king.’ I mean, Simon is Duncan the king, but Jason is later crowned king...”

  Genevieve stared at me.

  “Right. Sorry. Getting into place and into character.” I left the dressing room, followed Genevieve backstage, tumbled into the cauldron next to Candy and Tyler, and turned into a witch.

  After Duncan’s murder, I waited for Jason near the “bucket of blood,” a tub of water the Macbeths used to wash the stage blood from their hands. Genevieve walked offstage, dipped her hands in the water and scrubbed. Even in the dim light backstage, I could see the water turn red.

  Jason followed her. When he saw me, he held up his gore-covered hands. “Some say blood can be an aphrodisiac.”

  “Yeah, some vampires,” I said. “But then, vampires can be pretty hot.”

  “I’m more into witches,” he said, moving closer.

  I glanced at his fictional wife, but Genevieve had turned her back to us. Probably to keep herself in character.

  Jason traced a finger on my lips. A bloody finger. “Taste.”

  I did, hesitantly, licking the sticky stage blood off my lips. It was surprisingly sweet. A burst of laughter from the audience drew my attention. It was the beginning of the porter scene, the one bit of comic relief in the play.

  “Distracted, are we?” whispered Jason. He pulled me into a big black velvet curtain, one of the legs (that’s what we theater folk call side curtains) just offstage, and wrapped us in the soft darkness. “That was my plan,” he said. And then he kissed me—a deep, longing, let’s-never-come-up-for-air-again kiss. He pulled me close, really close, so close that through our flimsy costumes I could feel...

  “Is thy master stirring?” said Macduff, onstage.

  “How did he guess?” Jason smiled at me, arranged his cloak over the aforementioned stirring bit, and strode onstage.

  I stood there for a moment, eyes closed in a haze of lustful anticipation. I floated to my dressing room, fixed my makeup (again), and headed out to the greenroom in time for intermission.

  The name “greenroom” came from Shakespeare’s time, when all the actors hung out in the nicest room backstage, the room where they stored all the plants. Our greenroom was pink, supposedly painted that color because it was soothing. I suspected it was because it was flattering. We theater folk are all about good lighting.

  All the actors did look fabulous as they swarmed around a long table filled with potluck dishes. “Dibs on the sausage!” said Riley, behind me. He was one of the reasons we had all decided to bring food in lieu of opening night presents. He’d been living off a box of Bisquick for the past week. He squeezed past me and planted himself in front of an enormous antipasto plate full of expensive sausages, cheeses and pâtés, good stuff way beyond the means of most of us actors.

  “Who brought that?” I said.

  “Genevieve.” Riley piled food onto his plate. “Aren’t you glad she didn’t bring sheep stomach?” We’d all been afraid Lady Macbeth might honor us all with haggis, a traditional Scottish dish.

  Simon entered from backstage looking perturbed, but upon seeing the buffet the look of concern slipped from his face. He
might have been a famous Shakespearean actor, but he was still a guy who liked free food.

  “How are you doing?” I asked.

  “I am wonderful. Stupendous. I have been sober for thirty-eight days and have never felt better. Or hungrier.” He began filling a paper plate.

  “Great.”

  “And thank you for inquiring, my secret, black, and midnight hag,” he said, blowing me a kiss.

  I breathed a sigh of relief and looked around.

  “Have you seen Jason?” I asked Simon.

  His face clouded. “Why?”

  “Oh, he and I...” I trailed off as I noticed Genevieve watching us. Fictional wife or not, she made me nervous.

  Simon motioned to me to come closer. “Ivy,” he said, his voice low and serious. “I think we should talk after the show.”

  “Oh. Ah, I hope to have a date.”

  “With the aforementioned gentleman?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “Let’s talk,” said Simon. “Before your date. Come to my dressing room?”

  “Sure.”

  He smiled and turned back to the food. I kept looking for Jason.

  No such luck. Intermission was almost over. I wondered where Jason was, and what Simon wanted to talk about. The tension between the two men was palpable. I had put it down to old-fashioned stage rivalry, but could it be more? It couldn’t be about me, could it?

  Nah.

  I didn’t see Simon. Must have taken his food back to his dressing room. I was about to go there and find out what he had to say when I heard, “Places” over the speaker.

  I hoped I’d run into Jason backstage, but I climbed into the cauldron disappointed. When I finally did see him, we were onstage: not Ivy and Jason, but a witch and a murderer. After the scene ended, there was a quick blackout, just enough time to let us witches scramble out of the cauldron.

  As I stood to get out, I felt strong arms lift me. Jason smiled as he pulled me close and slid me down the length of his body until my feet touched the stage. “Soon,” he breathed into my ear. My worries evaporated. Once offstage, Jason headed for a dark backstage area, probably to prepare for his next entrance. I drifted back to the greenroom, tingling and happy. Soon. I passed Genevieve, who was getting into character for the sleepwalking scene by rocking herself into some sort of hypnotic trance. I smiled as I passed her, feeling that wonderful nasty sort of victory when you get the prize everyone wants.

  I nearly skipped as I headed to Simon’s dressing room. His door was ajar, light spilling into the darkened hallway. “My dear Duncan, your witch is here. Which witch, you ask?” I knocked, just to be polite. “Your witness witch, of course.”

  I knocked again. He had to be there. His scenes were over and he wasn’t in the greenroom.

  “Simon?” I pushed open the unlocked door. It didn’t budge, like something was jammed up against it. I pushed harder, trying to shove whatever it was away from the door. I got it open a crack, just enough that I could see what blocked it.

  A body.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Battle’s Lost

  “Simon?” My voice sounded strangled.

  No answer.

  I pushed, cringing as the door jammed against the body. The smell hit me then—acrid, stomach-churning. Oh God.

  “Simon?!”

  Using all my strength, I opened the door enough to squeeze my shoulders into the brightly lit room. It was Simon who blocked my entrance, an overturned chair behind him. I couldn’t tell if he was breathing. He had to be breathing. He had to.

  I stretched a leg over him and leapt. As I did, I saw several things in a flash: a half-drunk cup of coffee on the counter, the squashed top hat next to it, a spreading pool of vomit on the floor. I touched down too late to catch myself. My foot slipped on the slick floor and I landed hard on my hip, several feet away from Simon. He lay on his side facing the door, an empty bottle a few feet from his outstretched arm. I couldn’t see his face.

  “Help!” I yelled. Someone would hear me. Someone would do something.

  My hip aching from the fall, I inched across the floor on my knees, holding my breath against the smell of puke and alcohol. I fought the rising wave of panic that threatened to capsize me, tried to ignore the pre-digested food I crawled through. I drew near Simon. He must have fallen over, hit the floor, and crawled toward the door for help. I reached for his head and turned it so he faced upward. It was going to be okay. Everything was going to be okay.

  Then I saw his face. Simon’s eyes were open, staring at nothing. Chunks of vomit covered his mouth and nose, stuck to his beard.

  I started to gag, but swallowed my nausea. I needed to do something: CPR, mouth-to-mouth, something. I tried to force my face close to his, but the smell hit again. I jerked back and my hand slipped on the slick floor. I fell, right on top of Simon’s still-warm body. He didn’t move.

  Or breathe.

  CHAPTER 7

  This Filthy Witness

  My teeth chattered. The greenroom was freezing. God.

  I sat on one of the old couches, huddled in its corner, my arms wrapped around my knees for warmth. I concentrated on following the sofa’s worn pattern with my eyes, blocking out everything but its faded orange swirls. Jason sat down next to me and draped someone’s robe across my shaking shoulders.

  “Can I get you something? A drink? Maybe some brandy?”

  I nearly bit his head off. “No.”

  He backed off. Even in my state, I could see a bit of hurt in his eyes.

  “Sorry, it’s just that...Simon...there was brandy.”

  I saw the bottle again in my mind’s eye. Brandy. Empty.

  Just the thought of it brought back the smell of alcohol mixed with vomit. I swallowed hard, trying to keep down the bile that rose in my throat.

  “Oh, God. Sorry, Ivy,” Jason said. “I was trying to think of what people brought in situations like this. It sprang to mind. That and St. Bernards. Can I get you a St. Bernard?”

  I nearly smiled. “You’ve been great. I just want to go home.”

  “Let me check on that.”

  He got up and walked toward the knot of police choking the hall to the dressing rooms.

  I glanced toward them, just for a moment. A flash went off within Simon’s dressing room. I knew what they were photographing. I forced my mind away from the scene, but one image was imprinted on the inside of my eyelids. Simon, on his back on the floor, eyes open. Eyes dead.

  I hadn’t done shit. I didn’t try to help him, or go for help, or anything. I’d failed Simon and now he was dead.

  “Ivy? Ivy.” It was Jason. “Hey, hey, don’t cry.”

  Was I crying? I wiped at my face. Wet.

  “Hey, he did it to himself.”

  “No. No. I was supposed to watch him, I was supposed to help him.”

  I really was crying now, huge gulping sobs. Jason sat next to me and wrapped me in his arms. I was covered in vomit, but he held me tight. “Sometimes you can’t help. Sometimes people do what they will,” he said, rocking me.

  “But I...it’s happened...”

  I nearly told him then. Told him it had happened before, that I was supposed to watch over someone and...something in my brain stopped me from saying it, protected the both of us. Instead I just cried louder.

  Through my tears I saw Linda approach, trailed by a big, rumpled-looking guy and a young guy with red ears—cops, I guessed. “This is her,” said Linda, “the girl who found him.” She stood in between the cops and me, a bulldog guarding a toddler. Jason gently disentangled himself from me and stood nearby.

  I tore my eyes away from him, from the sofa’s swirls, from the safe space I’d created. I saw my fellow actors huddling in groups, heard the buzz of voices from the lobby down the hall,
and felt the hole in the room that Simon had left.

  “Miss?” said the red-eared cop. “We’d like to ask you a few questions, beginning with your name.”

  “My name is Ivy Meadows, and I am an actress.” It just came out.

  “Ivy Meadows?” The big guy gave a slight frown. “That a stage name?”

  “Oh. Yeah. Legally, it’s Olive Ziegwart.”

  “Olive Ziegwart?” Oh no, not now. “Are you Bob Duda’s niece?” The frown on the guy’s face faded.

  It took me a second to process, but I nodded. He sat down next to me.

  “Bob talks about you all the time.” Then to the young cop, “Bob’s a private investigator, one of the best in town.” He turned back to me, raising his voice above the mounting noise from down the hall. “Tell you what. Why don’t you...”

  Bill Boxer rushed into the room, nearly tripping over Genevieve, who sat in the middle of the floor keening.

  “Sorry.” He flashed an insincere and inappropriate smile and bounded down the hall toward the hubbub. Edward’s voice rose above the rest: “The show will be back on its feet day after tomorrow,” he said.

  The older cop raised an eyebrow at Linda. She shrugged. “Probably talking to the press. Critics must have called their newsrooms.”

  “Luckily, we have an understudy who can step into Duncan’s role right away.” Edward’s voice again.

  Linda and I exchanged looks. We didn’t have any understudies.

  “Bill Boxer,” Edward said.

  “The Face of Channel 10,” said the young cop. A sharp look from the older guy turned his ears even redder.

  “Like I was saying,” the cop in charge said to me. “Why don’t you go home, maybe even over to your uncle’s house. We can talk tomorrow morning. You need a ride?”

  “I’ll take her,” said Jason.

  “Alright with you?” the cop asked. I nodded. “I’ll call your uncle. Let him know you guys are on your way.”