Macdeath (An Ivy Meadows Mystery Book 1)

by Cindy Brown

  I ran into our dressing room and flipped on the lights, grateful no one had seen (or heard) me. Candy hadn’t arrived yet. I saw a piece of paper folded with my name on the front, propped up against my makeup kit on the dressing room counter. I shut the door and grabbed the note, humming again. Jason was so sweet. Yeah, it was annoying we needed to pretend we were just flirting, but the sneaking around was exciting and it led to romantic things like little notes in my dressing room. I felt all warm and gooey as I unfolded the paper and read:

  “I am in blood

  Stepp’d in so far, that, should I wade no more,

  Returning were as tedious as go o’er.”

  I dropped the note. It felt hot, like it was burning me. I wondered for a moment if it was poisoned, if someone could poison a note.

  Candy opened the door. “Naked as a jay bird!” she sang out. I looked down and realized I’d dropped my towel along with the note. I picked up both, keeping the note out of sight from Candy, who began stripping out of the blue scrubs she wore at the nursing home.

  In the play, Macbeth delivers the line about being stepp’d in blood after he’s killed Duncan and Banquo. He realizes he is too covered in blood to stop killing.

  Duncan and Banquo. Simon and Uncle Bob. Did the person who wrote the note kill my friend and poison my uncle? Or was I reading too much into the one line? One thing I was sure of: the note was a warning. Macbeth doesn’t stop killing. He goes on to murder innocent people, Macduff’s wife and children. Did that mean I was next? Or someone else? I’d been playing at this “investigation” like it was another play, with me in the role of detective. I felt foolish, guilty, and sick to my stomach. I put my head between my knees.

  Candy came over and rubbed my back. “You okay, darling?”

  “Just a little queasy,” I said, bringing my head up. I wished I could trust her enough to show her the note. “Probably something I ate.”

  “Better hope so,” she said with a wink.

  I started to roll my eyes, then realized that Jason and I hadn’t used protection this last time. My stomach felt even worse.

  “Still and all, better get ready,” Candy said, tossing her panties on a chair.

  When her head was turned, I shoved the note deep into my duffel bag. I caught a glimpse of my cell phone, which displayed a new message from the City of Phoenix. Huh. I picked up my phone and listened.

  “Ivy, er...Olive, it’s Detective Pinkstaff.”

  I sat up straight in my chair.

  “First of all, Bob says you better not be at that god...Sorry...that GD theater, since you said you’d quit.”

  I hadn’t actually said I would quit, not out loud. I’d kinda hoped Uncle Bob had forgotten about wanting me to quit or that it was his pain medication talking. Still, I hadn’t been completely honest with my uncle and I felt guilty about it.

  “And secondly,” Pinkstaff cleared his throat, “you were right about the makeup. It was tampered with. Give me a call.”

  I was right. I wasn’t poor deluded Olive, I was right. Then the sobering truth hit me. I was right. Someone had deliberately poisoned Simon’s makeup. Someone had killed Simon. I suddenly realized all this time I had hoped it wasn’t true. Now I knew it was true, and if this note was any indication, the killer was on to me.

  I wished I hadn’t deceived Uncle Bob. I couldn’t show him the note. He’d have Pinkstaff haul my ass out of this theater ASAP. Not only would I not catch the bastard who murdered Simon and drugged Uncle Bob, but that would be the end of my career. Quitting during closing week was unforgivable. No, I was going to have to handle this on my own. But what did that mean?

  Candy must have been watching me, because she said, in a serious voice, “Ivy, hon, you okay?”

  I decided to go with the “not feeling well” idea. “It was the clinic,” I said. “They want me to call.” I left it at that. It was a lie, but one I could get out of later by saying I had something innocuous.

  I sat still for a moment. My brain squealed with the effort of thinking so hard. Okay, so I was right, someone did kill Simon. With relief, I ruled out Jason, since he was also poisoned. Plus I wanted to rule him out. I didn’t believe he could kill anyone, especially after seeing his true self this evening. No, not a suspect.

  “Darlin’,” Candy said, “you best get your head out of the clouds and onto the moors, or into the circus, in this case.” She was already in costume and wig cap, and was putting on makeup.

  I stepped into my footless tights. Uncle Bob had said that everyone had opportunity, but who had motive? Linda. She seemed to have a darn good motive, what with Simon stealing the love of her life. And she was hiding the makeup afterwards. Pretty suspicious.

  “You did hear we’re giving Edward his present tonight, right?” said Candy, pulling on her wig. Like many casts, we had all chipped in to buy our director a thank you gift. “We’re all meeting at intermission on the loading dock.”

  Edward. He certainly hated Simon, thought he was ruining his play. And of course there was the Simon-Pamela thing.

  I pulled on my leotard.

  But could Edward kill someone? I remembered the secretive phone conversation, the sound of his voice during our “little talk,” the hard glint in his eyes when he told me about Jason’s dead girlfriend. I added him to the list. Edward and Linda.

  “See ya in the circus,” Candy said as she left the dressing room, ready for the show. She left the door open, probably to hurry me along. I saw Genevieve catch up with her and whisper something into her ear. Genevieve. Could she have done it? No motive I could see, but she was certainly a bit unhinged. I decided to keep an eye on her, just in case.

  Better start doing my makeup, or I’d be late. I reached for my foundation, then stopped. Could the killer have poisoned it, too? I decided to skip it and just use powder, eye makeup, and lipstick. Those seemed like they’d be harder to tamper with. I hoped so.

  Bill stuck his head in the dressing room. “Better hurry up,” he said, smiling with his bleached teeth. “Or I’ll get you, my pretty.” He trotted off toward backstage.

  Arghh. Bill was always quoting The Wizard of Oz to me, trying to make some witchy connection, I guess. Nearly every day when he came in from the heat, he’d catch sight of me and say, “I’m melting!” He was probably quoting The Wizard of Oz because he couldn’t quote Macbeth. I wasn’t sure he’d even read the whole thing.

  He was so clueless that several times someone had to clap a hand over his mouth to keep him from saying “Macbeth” out loud in the theater. He said it on opening night when he wasn’t even in the show.

  Omigod. Bill. I hadn’t even considered him before. He was an idiot, but an ambitious, vain one. Having to tell everyone he hadn’t been cast—on TV yet—must have stung. Oh, he was definitely a suspect. I added Riley to the list, too. The Big Gulp incident was most likely innocent, but I couldn’t ignore it.

  I pulled on my wig cap and bobby-pinned my wig atop my head.

  What to do now? The makeup proved foul play, but how could I prove who had tampered with it? The play closed Saturday night. After that we’d all be scattered. Theater people took out-of-town and traveling gigs all the time. It’d be easy for a killer to slip out of town without looking suspicious.

  I couldn’t let that happen. Not just for Simon, but for poor poisoned Jason. For Uncle Bob and his smashed-up car. For me, too, when I thought about it. That note had made it clear I was in trouble. The sooner this murderer was caught, the less likely I’d wind up dead or poisoned. But I wasn’t a cop, not even a PI. What could I do?

  I could act.

  I’d seen tons of cop shows, watched hours of BBC mysteries. I knew those characters.

  “Places in five.” Linda’s voice crackled over the speaker in the corner of the room.

  I got down to business. I painte
d my eyes a sparkly gold, drew on dark eyebrows, and decided to pull a Poirot.

  CHAPTER 38

  Ripe for Shaking

  I loved Agatha Christie’s little Belgian detective. I loved his confidence, his neat mustache, and his tidy bowler hat. I even dressed up as Poirot one Halloween. Everyone thought I was Charlie Chaplin. No matter. Tonight I would emulate my fictional hero with a classic Agatha Christie tactic. I’d assemble all the guilty suspects in one room, tell them everything I’d discovered, and the murderer would show his—or her—hand. The intermission get-together to give Edward his present was the perfect Poirot-type set-up—as long as I could act the part.

  At intermission, a stream of actors and techies flowed out the door to the loading dock. Everyone wanted to be there. My amped-up pulse beat a warning. I ignored it. I could do this. Of course I could. I am Ivy Meadows and I am an actress!

  I got in line behind Edward and stepped out the door. A blast of too-warm air and a rumble of conversation greeted us. The entire cast and crew lined the sides of the loading dock. A few smoked while they had the chance. All the loading dock lights were on, and the ramp was bare of trucks or equipment.

  Edward nudged me. “I’m hoping for a bottle of Rémy Martin. I’ve been hinting.”

  I stared at him. He had been unusually friendly to me, ever since...when, exactly? After the phone call I’d overheard. Yeah, that was definitely the turning point. I didn’t get it.

  Edward was hoping for Rémy Martin. That’s what he said. A bitter taste crept into my mouth.

  “Everybody!” shouted Riley, who had jumped down to the driveway. He had been appointed to buy the present. “Edward told me what he wanted for a present...”

  El Director gave me a sideways smile. My mind’s eye flashed back to that horrible night, and I saw an empty bottle next to Simon’s body. A bottle of Rémy Martin.

  “But I couldn’t find ‘eye of newt and toe of frog,’ or ‘wool of bat and tongue of dog.’ So instead I bought him three other things that might make a tastier gruel for his cauldron. I was pretty sure he’d like carrot juice...” Groans and laughter as Riley presented Edward with a plastic bottle full of orange liquid. “Rémy Martin...” Applause accompanied this gift. “And...” Riley fiddled with something behind his back. “Diet Coke!”

  The plastic liter bottle he held out toward Edward erupted in a fountain, showering several of us with warm, sticky liquid.

  “Cool, huh?” Riley jumped back up to the edge of the loading dock. “If you drop Mentos—you know, those mint candy things?—into Diet Coke, whoosh! Geysers of Coke, man!”

  “Arrrhhh.” The strangled noise came from Edward, whose once-white shirt was plastered to his chest.

  Riley burst out laughing. “Oh man. You really got it.” Then, as he realized his folly, “Oh, hey. Sorry, Edward. Really. I didn’t mean to get you all wet.”

  “Riley,” said Edward. “I am going to kill you.”

  I screwed my courage to the sticking point. “Speaking of murder,” I said in my loudest voice.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” said Edward. “Don’t you know an exaggeration when you hear one?”

  I persevered. “As some of you know, I’ve been investigating Simon’s death.”

  A few groans from the crowd, but several cast members kept their eyes on me, Edward included.

  “And I am convinced that it was...”

  I tried hard not to slip into a Belgian accent.

  “Murder.”

  Any chattering had stopped and all eyes were now on me.

  CHAPTER 39

  Desire Is Got without Content

  I looked around at the sea of expectant faces, all waiting for me to tell them what happened next. Poirot-like, I examined each one, looking for signs of guilt. This was going to be harder than I thought, and I only had a few minutes before intermission was over.

  Shit. Intermission. What would happen to the second half of the show if I did catch a murderer? Not smart, Ivy, not smart. But it was now or never. I couldn’t wait. I said a little prayer to the gods of theater and St. Agatha Christie, and played my next card.

  “It was the same makeup that sent Jason to the hospital.”

  I snuck a look at Jason, and was surprised to see his eyes grow wide. He must have suspected, especially since he knew it wasn’t peanuts that caused his allergic reaction. Anyway, the important thing was that he couldn’t be guilty.

  “So, he can’t be the guilty party,” I said.

  “Sure, he could,” said The Real Witch. “He could have faked the whole thing and made himself sick. He could have lied.”

  Before I could point out that I’d seen Jason in the hospital, Bill spoke up. “Yeah,” he said. “He’s that way. Everyone knows he stuffs his dance belt.”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  It just came out. I nearly clapped my hand over my mouth, but stopped so I wouldn’t draw too much attention to myself. Too late. Candy hooted, Genevieve scowled, Edward self-consciously cleared his throat, and Jason glared daggers at me (Macbeth pun intended). I knew why Jason was pissed—I’d blown our secret—but what was the deal with everyone else? People seemed more interested in me and Jason than Simon’s murder. It didn’t seem right.

  Sweat, or maybe Diet Coke, trickled down my face. I wiped it away and pushed onward.

  “But Edward,” I began, addressing the buzzing crowd on the loading dock, “Had motive and opportunity.” I kept the Rémy Martin card up my sleeve, in case I needed it later.

  “Please,” he said. “I would have never poisoned Jason.”

  Was that a slip? Should I ask him about Simon, or stay on the Jason track?

  “Why not?” I asked, sticking with the Jason angle.

  “Because he’s my lead, for God’s sake. It would have killed the show. Who else could have stepped in?”

  I saw Riley open his mouth to nominate himself as a potential Macbeth stand-in and then shut it. Was that suspicious?

  “Speaking of the show,” said Linda. “Places in five.”

  “Or it could have been Linda,” I said. “She had motive, she had opportunity, and she kept the poisoned makeup in a drawer in her desk.” A hush fell over the cast.

  Linda’s face was implacable, as always. “Hated Simon,” she said, crossing her arms. “Didn’t kill him.”

  “What motive did she have?” asked Kaitlin/Lady Macduff.

  “We loved the same woman,” Linda said, her face still stony. “And this is all a lot of fun,” she looked at her watch, “but you now have places in four.” She yanked open the door to backstage and stood there like a doorman, silently commanding the actors to get into places. The cast shuffled toward the door.

  This wasn’t working. Damn. I should have known better. These were all theater people, they could act innocent. I knew someone was “in blood, Stepp’d in so far.” Someone was guilty, and whoever it was, was after me. But what to do? What would Poirot do?

  Bill pushed his way toward the door, ahead of everyone. Wait. “Duncan is already dead,” I said. “Bill doesn’t have to go on. Stop him.”

  Two burly techies stepped in front of Bill. He didn’t turn around, but stayed facing the door. I was onto something.

  “Bill definitely had motive,” I said. “Out of everyone, he gained the most by Simon’s death.”

  “What about opportunity?” Linda stood at the open door, her face serious.

  “He was here opening night,” I said. “Don’t you remember?”

  “Yeah, he brought champagne,” Jason said.

  “And he said ‘Macbeth,’” added Riley.

  Bill turned around and thrust out his chest. “I always attend opening night at this theater.”

  “Not true,” said Edward. “And not only were you in attendance that night,
you were on hand to make an appearance at the press conference, directly after Simon’s death.”

  “And I saw you at intermission,” said Riley.

  “All right!” shouted Bill. “I did it. I poisoned Simon’s makeup.”

  Wow. My Agatha Christie scheme had worked. I was stunned into silence.

  Linda shut the door to the theater and took a cell phone out of a pocket on her cargo pants.

  “Please,” said Bill, appealing to Linda. “Wait until the end of the show. It’ll be public soon enough.” His face crumpled. “Please.”

  Linda looked to Edward, who nodded.

  “All right,” she said.

  Bill’s body sagged. I was afraid he might faint.

  “Jason, Riley, and...” she thrust her chin at a few of the soldier actors. “Adam and Kevin. Would you please escort Bill to the Cage?”

  The men surrounded Bill, whose face was turning gray. Linda opened the stage door and held it. I pushed my way through the cast so I could follow right behind the guys escorting Bill. The rest of the cast and crew trailed behind.

  Our little group proceeded to the Cage. It’s not as bad as it sounds, just a large, fenced-in area backstage where expensive equipment—lights, fog machines, stuff like that—is kept. It’s also locked. Linda selected a key from among the dozen on her carabineer key ring and unlocked it. We all looked at Bill, standing there in his ridiculous ringmaster’s costume. He didn’t move.

  “Bill,” said Linda, “You gotta get in.”

  Still nothing. Like his shoes were Superglued to the floor.

  Linda pulled out her phone again. “You want me to call the police right now?”

  Bill shook his head and unstuck his feet. We were all silent as he stepped into the Cage. He stumbled over some equipment, then headed toward a three-foot square space that wasn’t filled with equipment. He looked like a dog that had been banished to the basement.