Macdeath (An Ivy Meadows Mystery Book 1)

by Cindy Brown

  “Park over there, at the far end,” I said as we pulled into the theater parking lot. “We’re supposed to leave the good spots for the audience.”

  My leg jiggled as Uncle Bob maneuvered through the lot. I was excited he had agreed to look into Simon’s death, but nervous about what he might find. I mean, I knew all of the suspects. Someone I knew was a murderer. I shivered.

  But only for a moment. The Phoenix heat invaded the car as soon as Uncle Bob turned off the engine and the AC. Didn’t matter that it was early October. Too hot to shiver, even at the thought of a real murderer in Macbeth.

  “Thank God for the sixty-four-ounce Big Gulp.” Uncle Bob took a swig from his Diet Coke. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and opened the car door. “Let’s walk and talk.”

  We crossed the sizzling asphalt toward the theater. “Here’s the deal,” he said. “If anyone asks, your car wouldn’t start, so I drove you here.”

  “They’ll certainly believe that.”

  “I know. Always make up believable shit. We’ll say I didn’t want to watch the show ’cause Shakespeare makes me fall asleep.”

  “More believable shit.’’

  “Right. So that’s why I’m hanging out in the break room.”

  “Greenroom,” I said.

  “This is the room where I met you after rehearsal that one time, right? The one painted pink?”

  I nodded.

  “Anyway, that’s why I’m hanging out in the greenroom.” We were almost at the theater now, so he spoke softly. “Because I don’t want to fall asleep and make an ass of myself.”

  “Got it,” I said as we went through the stage door. Then, “Oh.” Uncle Bob had just punched the right code into my brain. “That photo of Simon with the donkey ears—he must’ve been playing Bottom. In A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

  “Yeah, he looked like a real ass.” My uncle chuckled. “Bottom, ass—get it?”

  “Yeah, Shakespeare loved those double entendres,” I said. I’d actually never made the connection before. Duh.

  We walked into the greenroom, which was full of actors warming up, swinging their arms, humming to themselves, walking and talking in various stages of undress. Not my uncle’s typical world. I snuck a look at him. His jaw looked a little tight, but he caught my eye and winked at me before sinking down onto one of the ratty sofas. He started to set his Big Gulp down on a table next to it, but stopped mid-air. He stared at the table.

  “It’s an old prop from Sweeney Todd,” I explained. “Mrs. Lovett made her meat pies there.”

  My uncle just shook his head—“theater folk”—as he set his drink on the fake-blood-stained table. He looked up at me and I caught my breath. I’d never noticed how much his eyes looked like my brother’s.

  “Olive, it wasn’t your fault,” he said quietly. “Either time.”

  “How could you know what I was thinking?” I whispered.

  “I’m pretty sure you think about Cody a lot.”

  “Hey, Bob.” Jason sat down on the couch next to my uncle, giving me a brief smile but nothing more.

  I hadn’t seen him alone since the time in my dressing room after Simon’s service. He hadn’t called either. I couldn’t figure it out. I looked around the greenroom for Mrs. Macbeth. Nope, just a bunch of guy actors and Edward, who was talking to Bill but looking our way.

  “Jason.” Uncle Bob nodded in greeting, while obviously giving him the once over. Jason was in his lion tamer’s costume, a tight black unitard with dark red sequins splashed across it like splatters of blood. Uncle Bob kept nodding, a “well, well, well, what have we here?” sort of nod.

  Jason nodded too. “I know. I’m playing Shakespeare’s most manly man, and I’m dressed like Siegfried or Roy or somebody. At least it doesn’t chafe like armor.”

  “Done a lot of Shakespeare?” my uncle asked.

  “It’s my forte. That and pirates. I’m quite the swashbuckler.”

  “That you are, my dear,” said Edward, walking past.

  Jason reddened. Uncle Bob persisted. “I hear Simon was a swashbuckler, too.”

  Jason’s eyes followed Edward as he made the rounds, checking in with the actors. “Was he? I didn’t know him very well,” he said. “Just by reputation.”

  “This was your first time acting with him?”

  Uncle Bob knew Jason hadn’t worked with Simon before. He must be asking in order to get more information. I was catching on to this detective stuff.

  “First and last.” Jason stood as Genevieve entered the room. “Sorry, maybe that was rude. It’s just that I need to get into character.”

  “Yeah, sure. Hey, you got a script I could look at?” asked Uncle Bob. “Maybe if I read Shakespeare I’d get it better.”

  Jason looked at him, amused. “That’s not the way it usually works, but sure, let me get mine.”

  I waited for Jason to say something to me. He didn’t, just walked off toward the dressing rooms.

  Genevieve came over and perched on the edge of the couch. “He means that most people understand Shakespeare better when they see it performed,” she said. “That’s why Shakespearean actors are so revered. We help the audience understand the language.”

  Genevieve didn’t speak to me either, but then she usually ignored me. I didn’t take it personally. She usually ignored everyone except for “her husband.” We all put it down to her adherence to the Method. She even stayed in character the one time she joined us for drinks after rehearsal. We’d ordered her Bloody Brains (a nasty concoction of grenadine, Irish cream, and peach schnapps) hoping she’d launch into Lady M’s “Dashed the baby’s brains out” speech. She didn’t disappoint.

  But my uncle seemed to be an exception to her rule. She leaned closer to him, putting her breasts right in his line of vision. I was pretty sure she put them there on purpose.

  “Nice to meet you,” Uncle Bob said, sticking out his hand. “You must be...”

  “Lady M,” she said. “I heard you asking about Simon, our Duncan. He was a master, a legend among Shakespearean actors. He could make the language sing.”

  “Then what was he doing here?” he said. “No offense, but this isn’t Broadway or anything.”

  “He was a drunk. Highly unstable.” Her eyes filled with tears. “And it killed him in the end. Excuse me.” She rose dramatically and walked off toward backstage, dabbing her eyes. Uncle Bob rolled his eyes at me. He was no fan of drama queens.

  “Ivy.” Riley, who had obviously been eavesdropping, bounded over like a birddog. “Did I tell you I know why Simon died?”

  I shook my head and glanced at my uncle, who looked more amused than intrigued.

  “It’s Bill’s fault,” said Riley. “’Cause he said ‘Macbeth’ in the theater.”

  I should have known better.

  “So did you,” said my uncle. “Right now.”

  “What? Oh. I’ll fix it.” Riley ran outside.

  “I’d better get in costume,” I told Uncle Bob. I turned to go. Jason walked toward us. I decided to stay. I took Genevieve’s spot on the arm of the sofa.

  “Heads up.” Jason tossed a well-used script to Uncle Bob. “Read it and weep.” He grinned at my uncle. “It is a tragedy.”

  Through the glass stage door, I could see Riley turning around, working off the curse.

  Uncle Bob thumbed through the script. “Kinda long, huh?”

  “Not for Shakespeare,” said Jason.

  “What’s it clock in at?”

  “Haven’t you seen it?”

  He hadn’t. I knew he would—he always saw my shows—but he hadn’t got around to it yet.

  “Yeah,” my uncle lied. “But I fell asleep.” He put on a sheepish look. I tried not to smile.

  My uncle is, in fact, a pretty
good actor. Not on the stage, not his style. But he’s got the innocent friendly thing down. I call it his Santa Claus act, ’cause he seems like a jolly fat guy who’ll buy you beer for presents. Don’t get me wrong: he is a jolly fat guy, but a shrewd one, too. People tend to miss that.

  Riley ran back in, panting a little. “We should be good now.”

  Jason looked at him.

  “The curse, I mean,” Riley said. “You weren’t here, but I said ‘Mac—’”

  Jason jumped in. “Don’t say it.”

  “Olive told me about the curse,” said Uncle Bob. “So you guys believe in it?”

  Riley nodded, his lips shut tight.

  “I don’t know,” Jason said. “Better safe than sorry, I guess.”

  “I read about it. Pretty weird stuff. Did you know during its very first run, the boy playing Lady...” Uncle Bob stopped.

  “Lady M,” said Jason quickly.

  “She...he...died?” my uncle said.

  “Dude,” Riley said.

  Jason shook his head. I didn’t know that little fact either. Uncle Bob must have looked it up. Oh, the trivia trick. I was learning.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Shakespeare had to play her instead. And then there was this opera version where an audience member killed himself by jumping off the balcony at the Met during the show.”

  “God.” Jason’s eyes widened.

  “But the really creepy one was where Mac...Okay to call him Mac?”

  Jason and Riley both nodded.

  “Substituted a real knife for the prop and killed Duncan in front of the entire audience, who still thought it was all acting.”

  Jason stared at Uncle Bob. “That is creepy.”

  “Fifteen minutes ’til places,” Linda’s voice announced via a speaker mounted in the corner of the greenroom.

  Riley sprinted toward the dressing rooms. “Gotta get dressed.”

  I jumped up and gave my uncle a quick kiss on the cheek. “Me, too.” Uncle Bob didn’t take his pseudo-friendly eyes off Jason, but he gave me a little wave.

  Jason gave me nothing.

  CHAPTER 21

  The Night Has Been Unruly

  Bummed about what wasn’t happening with Jason, I threw myself into my role and had a pretty good first act. I was about the only actor who did. It was easily the worst show so far. Jason was stiff, Bill Boxer kept losing his ringmaster hat, and Genevieve actually said “Unfix me now” instead of “Unsex me here.” Sunday matinees could be a little off, but not this off.

  I trotted back to the greenroom at intermission. The atmosphere here was weird, too. Fewer actors than usual hung out, and the ones who did kept glancing at the couch where Uncle Bob sat talking to Bill. Only Riley seemed relaxed, standing nearby and scratching himself when he thought no one was looking. I felt a thrill of excitement. Uncle Bob must really be onto something. I walked over and perused the vending machines, close enough so I could hear the conversation on the couch.

  “Champagne, huh?” said Uncle Bob “That was pretty nice of you, seeing as how you didn’t get the part.”

  Bill’s surgery-enhanced face looked tighter than usual. “I’m just that kind of guy.”

  I punched the coffee with cream button. Cocoa poured into the cardboard cup.

  “Did you bring something else for Simon?” my uncle asked.

  Bill’s eyebrows shot up nearly to his hairline. I was afraid they might stay there. “No.”

  “I thought you mighta brought some of that sparkling cider crap, since he was a recovering alkie and all that.”

  I grabbed my cocoa and punched the hot chocolate button to get coffee.

  “I...I didn’t think of it,” Bill said.

  “Yeah, neither would I,” said Uncle Bob, doing the buddy-buddy thing. “Gonna drink that stuff, you might as well have soda pop.” He gave Bill a friendly nudge. “Know what else?” He leaned in. “Shakespeare puts me to sleep. Need to take a breather to stay awake. You?”

  “No. I sat through the play.” I couldn’t tell if Bill sounded offended at the suggestion or proud that he had stayed awake. I poured my cups of steaming liquid back and forth to make mochas.

  “Except for intermission,” said Riley, who was now rearranging his unitard.

  “Of course,” said Bill. “I left my seat during intermission, to mingle and—”

  “And come down here,” said Riley, oblivious to the color that crept up Bill’s neck. “I saw you at intermission, remember?”

  “That’s right. I’d forgotten.” The flush reached Bill’s face.

  Linda strode across the greenroom. “Sir?” It wasn’t really a question, more the beginning of a command. I hung back and sipped one of my mochas, watching.

  Bill grabbed onto the interruption like it was a lifeline. “Oh,” he said to Linda. “Have you met…”

  “Bob.” My uncle rose and extended a hand. “Olive...Ivy’s uncle.”

  “And this is our stage manager,” said Bill. “Um...”

  “Linda,” she said, shaking Bob’s hand as Bill scuttled off. “The cop mentioned you. You’re a PI, right?” Her words seemed cordial enough, but something in her stance made me think of a sheepdog checking her perimeter. “It’s nice to meet you, but I’m afraid you’ll have to leave. Only actors in the greenroom.”

  Yep, sheepdog.

  “Really?” said Uncle Bob, keeping his eyes on Linda’s. “Lotta these folks don’t seem like actors.”

  Linda’s eyes did a quick sweep of the room. Like always, there were a bunch of non-actors—roommates, girls keeping an eye on their actor boyfriends, boys keeping an eye on their actor boyfriends. “Guess I need to put my foot down. Starting now. With you.”

  “Harsh,” said Riley. Linda ignored him. Bob nodded slowly at Linda.

  “Oh, hey,” I said. “Don’t you want to finish this mocha I just made you?” Weak, but what else did I have?

  “Nah, I’m good,” said Uncle Bob, waving at his soda sitting on the table.

  “I’ll take it,” said Riley, grabbing the cup out of my hands before I could respond.

  “See ya,” Uncle Bob said to Linda as he ambled down the hall toward the dressing rooms. I trailed behind.

  “The door is this way.” Linda pointed to the stage door.

  “Yeah.” He grinned at her. “Just need to take a leak. Got a Big Gulp habit.”

  Linda started to follow him, but checked her watch. “Five minutes ’til places!” she called out. She headed toward the lighting booth, with a glance over her shoulder at Uncle Bob.

  “Doesn’t she stay down here for the show?” he asked me, loudly enough that Linda could hear. She stopped.

  “No,” I said. “She has to call the cues for the show from the lighting booth.”

  “So why is she down here now?”

  It was a good question. I didn’t have an answer.

  Linda turned slowly to face him, like a cowboy in a standoff, but Uncle Bob just smiled and walked into the men’s room.

  CHAPTER 22

  O, Treachery

  I was on autopilot as I made my way backstage for the top of Act Two. I wasn’t thinking about my lines or my character. I was thinking about what Uncle Bob had told me right before he left.

  “I started to read the play to see if I could figure out when people were onstage,” he said to me after he came out of the bathroom. “Thought I could figure out who mighta had time to kill Simon. But I’d forgotten about that break.”

  “Intermission?”

  “Yeah. After seeing that, I realized if Simon was murdered, everyone had opportunity.”

  He chucked me on the shoulder as we walked to the greenroom.

  “And you heard, I’m being kicked out. So if you want to go ahead with this,
you’re going to have to figure out who had a motive. I’ll help you take it from there.”

  He grabbed his Big Gulp off Mrs. Lovett’s blood-stained table. “Not that I think there’s any ‘there’ there.” He waved to me over his shoulder and left by the stage door.

  My autopilot clicked off as out-of-tune organ grinder music began to play, signaling the top of the act. Tyler, who had become so obnoxious we’d christened him “The Real Witch,” was already in place. Candy sat on the lip of the cauldron, flirting with a buff stagehand. “You best be real nice to me,” she said, “or I’ll cast a spell on you.” He didn’t look like he’d mind.

  I scrambled into the cauldron. Candy followed me, waving an imaginary wand at the stagehand, whose biceps pumped with the effort of working the ropes and pulleys that hauled us into the air. “Mmhmm,” she said to me under her breath. “That boy is finer than a frog hair split four ways.”

  I wondered if frogs had hair, but a more important thought began to swim its way to the top of my murky mind. I helped it along by thinking out loud. “Wasn’t it weird that Linda came down at break?”

  “Um...yeah?” answered Candy, not knowing it was a rhetorical question.

  “Shhh!” That was The Real Witch, of course.

  “Has she ever come down at intermission before?” I didn’t know if I was asking myself or Candy. I was just hoping for an answer.

  “Darlin’, I’m always so busy repairing my witchy makeup, I can’t say I’ve noticed.”

  “Shhhhh!”

  That elusive thought finally broke the surface. “Wait,” I said. “She always gives us five minutes over the PA system, which means she’s using the mike in the booth, which means she doesn’t come down.”

  “SHHHHH!”

  God, Tyler was annoying.

  “Thrice the brinded cat had mew’d,” I recited in my sultry witch voice, catching Candy’s eye.

  “Stop it,” The Real Witch said through gritted teeth.

  “Thrice and once the hedge-pig whined,” said Candy.