Macdeath (An Ivy Meadows Mystery Book 1)

by Cindy Brown

  “No socks. In your dancebelt.”

  I couldn’t believe I’d said it, wished I could put a sock in my mouth. I was sure I’d blown it. But Jason just laughed and said, “Nope. It’s the real thing. Here, let me show you.” And, boy, did he.

  Later, he asked if he could sleep over. I couldn’t believe my luck. He wanted to stay.

  I opened my eyes to the morning light, stretched, and turned over to look at Jason. He was still sleeping soundly, snoring actually, his back toward me, a pillow pulled over his head. I closed my eyes again, luxuriating in the morning. That’s one of the great things about being an actor, you never have to be anywhere before noon.

  Except when you’re supposed to pick up your uncle from the hospital.

  My eyes flew open and searched for the clock, which wasn’t in its typical spot on the bedside table. I spied it on its side on the floor. Must have knocked it off last night. I hung my head over the side of the bed to read it. Only eight-fifteen. Phew. I didn’t have to be at the hospital until after ten.

  I put the clock back where it belonged, then slipped out of bed, figuring I’d start some coffee and surprise Jason with a cup in bed. I grabbed a robe off the hook on the back of the bedroom door, padded into my kitchen, poured some beans into the coffee grinder, and stopped. The grinder would certainly wake Jason up. Did I have any ground coffee? I looked in my freezer and searched through a few cupboards. Nothing. I stood a moment and thought, my gears grinding slowly, as they always did in the mornings. I looked around my kitchen. The cupboards were painted a sunny yellow, to complement the yellow and baby blue 1940s-style tiled counters. I’d gone with the whole girly cottage-style look—lace curtains and embroidered thrift shop tea towels. Towels. Ha. I grabbed one with daffodils on it and wrapped it, swaddling-clothes-style, over the grinder. I pressed the button. Much less noise. Pretty smart. Maybe I was turning into a morning person. I yawned. Nah.

  A few moments later, my ancient coffeemaker was huffing and wheezing along, when I heard a bigger wheeze. The refrigerator? It made odd noises on a regular basis. I cocked my head, listening. Not the fridge. The noise came from the bedroom. Oh. Jason. Snoring. I wasn’t used to having anyone else in my apartment in the morning.

  I tiptoed in to check on him, hoping he wouldn’t wake before I could bring him coffee. He was making an awful racket. Was that a choking noise? I hurried around to his side of the bed. Shit! Jason’s face was swollen three times as much as last night. Worse yet, it was turning blue.

  “Jason.” I shook him. “Jason! Wake up!”

  He didn’t.

  CHAPTER 28

  Death’s Counterfeit

  The light was yellow and I wasn’t even near the intersection. I pushed the pedal to the floor and prayed as my Aspire whizzed through the obviously red light. One more for Phoenix’s record.

  I could see the ambulance, Jason’s ambulance, a few cars in front of me. I followed it, maneuvering around execs in Beamers and moms in SUVs, until I skidded into St. Joe’s ER loading zone.

  I jumped out of my car and ran into the emergency room, on the heels of the EMTs pushing Jason’s stretcher. I was relieved to see his face had gone from blue to purple, but still worried. He seemed to be pretty out of it, and the part of his face I could see under the oxygen mask was swollen beyond recognition.

  Once inside, the EMTs propelled Jason through swinging double doors. I tried to follow, but a woman with gray hair and an official bearing stopped me. “Best if you stay here,” she said.

  “But—”

  “You’ll be in the way. And I need your help,” she said. “Answering my questions is the best thing you can do for him.”

  I stamped my feet like an impatient horse, but did my best to answer her. What had Jason eaten? (martini olives), what had he drunk? (the martini), and what had he been doing last night? (having incredibly athletic sex with me). I left out the adjectives. I didn’t want to appear smug.

  After she realized I didn’t know much and wasn’t family, she directed me toward the ER waiting room. I told myself that the lady was right, I’d just be in the way. I made myself sit for a moment, but couldn’t take it for very long. Too much misery in the room. The people with their broken arms I could handle; it was the morning TV news show that blared from each corner of the room that did me in. “Your drinking water could kill your dog,” said Bill Boxer solemnly from behind his Channel 10 desk. “But first, is your neighborhood playground safe? Stay tuned, your child’s life may depend on it.”

  I asked the lady again if I could see Jason. She shook her head. I asked if she could tell me anything about him. She shook her head. I asked her if she knew you could make tuberculosis medicine out of peanuts (trivia and distraction in one fell swoop). She shook her head and left the desk.

  I paced under the fluorescent lights of the waiting room, in between crying kids and weary relatives. Most looked bleary-eyed, but one teenage boy slept soundly curled up on one of the couches. I rang Uncle Bob’s hospital room on my cell phone, just to let him know what was going on.

  “I’m sure he’ll be all right, hon,” said Uncle Bob, after I’d told him the whole story. “Oh, hey. Pinkstaff just walked in. Talk to you later.” He hung up.

  Turning my attention back to the waiting room, I noticed the gray-haired lady had been replaced by a new intake person. I sidled over to the desk, hoping to convince the new guy to let me see Jason.

  “Hi,” I said to the balding man behind the desk. I looked at the sun pouring through the windows. “Nice day, huh?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “It’s nice.”

  I smiled.

  “Nice here in the ER. Broken bones, ODs, gunshot wounds.” Someone moaned as if on cue. “Yep,” he said, “Sure is nice.”

  I turned away. I never was one to fight a losing battle. I decided to go see my uncle.

  Twenty minutes later, after several wrong turns and dead ends, I walked into Uncle Bob’s hospital room. “You workin’ for St. Joe’s now?” asked Pink.

  I sat down next to the bed in one of those wipe-clean vinyl chairs so ubiquitous to hospitals, and shook my head, confused.

  “’Cause when you take one away,” he said, “you bring one in. Keepin’ the beds full.”

  Uncle Bob chuckled. I didn’t think it was funny. I guess it showed. Pink shrugged and headed toward the door. “See ya, Bob, Olive.”

  Uncle Bob waved goodbye to Pinkstaff and poured milk onto a bowl of gloppy oatmeal. He looked at me with uncle-y concern.

  “C’mon, Olive,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’m sure Jason’s gonna be fine. You said he wasn’t blue anymore. That’s a good sign.”

  My uncle, who was supposed to be released at ten, didn’t look like he was ready to go anywhere. It was now nine-thirty, and they’d just served him a tray full of hospital food: oatmeal, O.J., limp toast, and what Uncle Bob said was surprisingly good coffee.

  “Isn’t it late for breakfast?” I said. My mind wandered back to the breakfast in bed I’d planned with Jason. I told myself again that he was going to be fine.

  “The aide likes me,” said Uncle Bob. “I convinced her that nine-thirty was a much more civilized time for breakfast. Guess I still have my good looks.”

  He looked awful, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. I looked at his leg, still encased in its medical casing. How was he going to fit in my little Aspire? “Can you bend that? So you can get into the car, I mean?”

  “I thought I told you. They’re taking me home in some sort of medical transport. Once I get there, they’ll set me up. You got the hospital bed and wheelchair waiting for me at home, right?”

  I nodded, then rose out of my chair, stretching. “Back in a sec. Have to pee.” I started to walk out of the room.

  “You can use the bathroom in here,” said Uncle Bob, looking at me sideways. D
ang. He knew.

  “No, thanks. I’d prefer a little more privacy.” I nearly ran out of the room. Did he tell me? How could I have forgotten?

  I called Candy, who worked part-time as a nursing assistant at a care center. She was there when I called.

  “Whoo. You are up shit creek without a paddle,” she said.

  I paced in the hospital hall, my shoes squeaking on the linoleum. “I know, I know. Just help.”

  “Let me think a sec, okay? It’s not like I can just wheel them outta here...Oh, I know.” I could almost hear her smiling over the phone. “I’ll call Ray at Western Medical Supply. That’s two birds with one stone.”

  “Two birds?”

  “He’s cute, and I am ready for cute. I’ll handle this. Just get to your uncle’s house PDQ, and have a check ready for Ray.”

  “Great. Thanks.” I gave her Uncle Bob’s address. “I really appreciate this. I know I’ve been a little pissy these last few days.”

  “Water under the bridge.”

  “And I was hoping your audition went well. The film audition. Did you get it?”

  There was an uncharacteristic silence on the other end of the line, then, “Oops, got a call on the other line. See you at the show.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I forgot to tell you—” She hung up. “Jason’s in the hospital,” I said to the dial tone. Oh well, she’d find out soon enough.

  I ambled, maybe a bit too nonchalantly, back into Uncle Bob’s room.

  “Feel better now? Seems like you were gone awhile.” He grinned at me, a bit of oatmeal stuck to the side of his lip. I nodded and decided not to tell him about the oatmeal. That’s what he got for being a smart ass.

  His grin faded suddenly, and he motioned me near. “Olive? I’m beginning to think you’re right.”

  “About?”

  I had an idea what he was going to say, but wanted the satisfaction of hearing him say it. I was also distracted by the glob of oatmeal waggling near his lip.

  “Simon,” he said. “Maybe there was some foul play.” The few sticky oats wobbled, but hung on, stuck on a few stubble hairs. “Olive? Did you hear me?”

  I grabbed a napkin, dunked it in his glass of water, and wiped his surprised face. “Better,” I mumbled, then sat down in the orange vinyl chair. Now I could concentrate. “So now you believe me,” I said. “Why?”

  He looked at me seriously. “We can’t prove anything yet.”

  “We?”

  “Pink’s looking into this, too, as a favor to me.” He checked to make sure I was with him. I was. “We both think I was drugged, probably at the theater.”

  “How? By who? I mean, by whom?”

  “Just hold your horses.” He took a deep breath. “Makes us wonder whether Jason was poisoned, too.”

  “Poisoned?” I launched myself out of my chair. “What do you know that I don’t?”

  “Sit down, Olive. I told Pink about your boyfriend. He talked to the doc. Jason’s going to be okay. Right now they don’t know what caused him to—”

  “Is it serious? Is he okay? He’s not going to die, is he?”

  “Sit, Olive.”

  It was a command. I sat.

  “If you’d been listening, you would have heard me say he’s going to be okay. Got that part?”

  I nodded, but felt my face flush. I hated letting my emotions get the best of me. Uncle Bob must have noticed, because he softened his tone. “If Jason had been alone this morning when his throat started swelling, yeah, he mighta died. But he didn’t.”

  Did that mean I saved his life?

  “Listen, Olive.”

  I sat up straight, cleared my head, and looked him in the eye.

  “I want you to quit—”

  I jumped in. “Quit what? Quit looking into Simon’s death? Simon’s murder?” I liked emphasizing that I’d been right.

  “Yes. And I want you to quit the show.”

  He took advantage of the fact that my mouth was open to keep talking.

  “There’s something going on there, and I don’t want you to be a part of it. You can tell them you have to stay home and take care of me. There’s your out.”

  He clearly didn’t know what he was asking me. My career, my happiness, my promise to watch over Simon.

  “But...”

  “Pink and I’ll take care of the investigation, all right?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “All right, Olive?” Uncle Bob sounded sterner than I’d ever heard him.

  I nodded. I didn’t say it out loud, so it wasn’t really a lie.

  CHAPTER 29

  Can the Devil Speak True?

  “Did you know that Louis the fourteenth used to hold court in bed?” said Uncle Bob. Thanks to Candy MoonPie, he was holding court from a rented medical bed. He wanted it in the living room so he could see out the front window and watch TV at the same time. I wouldn’t be surprised if he kept it there.

  “Did you know that Shakespeare, in his will, left his wife his second-best bed?” I replied.

  “Ha!” said Uncle Bob, who was now playing with the bed’s electronic adjustment. They must have doped him up pretty good for the ride home.

  My cell rang. Uncle Bob lay back, grinning, as the head of his bed slowly dipped.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Ivy Meadows?” The woman sounded like she was afraid someone was playing a joke on her.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m a volunteer at St. Joseph’s, calling for Jason Birnam.”

  “Yes?” I said. “Jason,” I mouthed to Uncle Bob. He brought his bed upright.

  “He asked if I could call you, to let you know he’s all right.”

  “Oh.” I hadn’t realized how tense I was until all my muscles relaxed at the time. I sank into the kitchen chair I’d placed next to my uncle’s bed. “Can I speak to him?”

  “He’s sleeping now, but he can receive visitors. Room 304.”

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I said.

  “You’re welcome, dear. Goodbye.”

  “Bye.” I hung up.

  “He doin’ okay?” asked Uncle Bob.

  “Yeah. He can have visitors now.”

  My uncle looked me in the eye, his goofiness gone. “I wish you’d stop seeing him. I’m afraid he might be involved in whatever’s going on.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “But, hey, who am I to mess with a budding romance?”

  I hugged the old poop around his neck, careful to avoid his splinted nose.

  “But,” he said. “I want you to be careful. Something smells fishy and I want you to stay clear of it. Any funny business, you pull back, right?”

  “Right. No fishy funny business.”

  He tried to hide a smile. “And I did mean it about the investigation. Pink and I’ll take care of it. Not you. Got that?”

  “Got it.”

  I didn’t wait for him to mention quitting the play. “When’s your aide coming?” I said.

  Uncle Bob looked at the clock mounted on the wall above the TV. “In about an hour,” he said.

  This distraction thing did work.

  “So...” I began.

  “So go see your boyfriend,” said my uncle. “Just bring me my phone first.”

  I grabbed his phone from its charger in the kitchen. “You sure you’ll be alright?”

  The bathroom and bedrooms in my uncle’s 1940s house were situated off a hall two steps above the rest of the house, rendering them inaccessible for the six weeks he’d be using a wheelchair.

  Uncle Bob took stock of the situation. The TV tray next to his bed held several bottles of pills, a water bottle, a package of Oreos, and the TV remote. A urinal was tucked in al
ong his side, and a portable commode near his bed. “The key’s in the mailbox?” he asked.

  I nodded. The aide needed a key to get in. Per his instructions, I’d hidden it between a few folded pieces of paper, stuffed the whole thing into an envelope, and addressed it to Robert Duda. It was now in the mailbox by the front door, along with a few old pieces of mail I added for cover.

  “I think I’m set,” Uncle Bob said. I headed toward the door. “Except for one thing.”

  “Yeah?” I turned.

  He pushed a button and the bed rose like a magic carpet. “Can I keep this?”

  I drove back to the hospital. I made several wrong turns in St. Joe’s maze of corridors before finding Jason’s room. He was asleep. I was so relieved to see him breathing normally that I sat there and watched him sleep for awhile. When he finally awoke, he smiled groggily at me. I kissed him lightly on his swollen lips.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Like someone hot-glued marshmallows to my face.” He touched his face gingerly, swallowed and grimaced. “And to the inside of my throat.”

  I poured him a glass of water from the blue plastic pitcher that sat on his bedside table. He took it gratefully, though from the face he made, it didn’t help that hot marshmallow feeling.

  Jason squinted, looking around the room. I’d discovered last night that his beautiful blue-green eyes were the result of contacts. Without them, his eyes were mud-gray and myopic.

  “You’re in the hospital,” I said helpfully.

  “Yeah, I can see that,” he snapped, then sighed. “Sorry, I’m just pissed off. It was stupid.”

  “What was?” Being an egocentric ninny, all I could think about was us.

  “I forgot to check with the bar about peanuts. I’m allergic.”

  Peanuts? I searched my memory for peanuts. I remembered eating some sort of snack mix, but...

  “I usually make sure to ask, but, well,” he smiled at me as best he could, “I had other things on my mind.”