Macdeath (An Ivy Meadows Mystery Book 1)

by Cindy Brown

  “Jason,” said Bill through the Cage’s chain link fence, “I’m sorry.”

  Jason strode off in the direction of the stage, ignoring Bill’s apology.

  “Places,” said Linda to the group. We all turned to go, when we heard a snuffling, choking sound from the Cage.

  “I didn’t mean to kill him,” said Bill, tears streaking his stage makeup.

  “Tell that to the police,” I said, trying to sound like a detective. I didn’t. I didn’t sound anything like Poirot.

  CHAPTER 40

  To Win Us to Our Harm

  I didn’t feel like Poirot, either. I expected to feel vindicated, victorious. After all, I’d caught the culprit. But no. My stomach hurt like I’d swallowed a big lump of something indigestible, and my head ached with the idea that someone would actually kill for a role. I felt like I had food poisoning of the soul.

  I passed by Jason, who was waiting in the wings for his entrance. “Hey,” I said softly.

  He wouldn’t look at me. I told myself it was the shock of the revelation, maybe anger at Bill. Yes, I’d spilled the beans about our relationship, but it couldn’t be that big a deal. Could it?

  I tumbled into the cauldron beside Candy and The Real Witch. No chit-chat there either.

  The show felt leaden. Everyone’s acting seemed forced, unreal. It was as if we were all Lady Macbeth, sleepwalking our way through the show. I could hardly wait for it to be over.

  After our last exit, I turned to Candy, who had just crawled out of the cauldron.

  “So...” I began.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.” She made a show of stomping off, though it didn’t work very well with bare feet.

  I passed Genevieve, whose eyes bore into mine, blazing with hate. What did I do to her?

  Still looking over my shoulder at Genevieve, I bumped into Riley, and felt a sort of relief, like when you run into a really stupid Irish Setter who likes everyone. The look he turned on me, though, was anything but Setter-like.

  “What?” I said. This was getting ridiculous.

  “I waited,” he said. “I even bought you a T-shirt.”

  I waited, too, hoping he’d enlighten me as to what he was talking about.

  “No one stands me up,” he said and walked away.

  I stood him up? Huh? Oh shit. NASCAR. Did I say I’d go? I must have. Shit.

  I made my way back to our dressing room. I could wait there for curtain call, maybe phone Pinkstaff. I had to pass through the greenroom on the way there. Tonight it was strangely empty, except for Edward, who paced the length of it, gnawing on a carrot. He stopped when he saw me.

  “Bravo,” he said, clapping slowly. “You’ve ruined the show once again.”

  I opened my mouth to protest.

  “Because of you the police will be called to the theater a second time,” he continued.

  That wasn’t fair. I wanted to shout that it was Bill’s fault, not mine, but Edward’s face stopped me. He looked a little like Hitler with a thinner mustache. And a carrot. I swallowed my indignation.

  He went on. “Twice in one show. Do you understand what that means to this theater?”

  “Publicity?” I said hopefully.

  “Oh.” His face lost the crazed despot look. “Well.”

  He began pacing again, glaring at the tile floor. “Even so,” he said, “that doesn’t let you off the hook.”

  Why was he so mad at me?

  I started back to our dressing room, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He’d have to realize eventually I was the hero in all of this.

  I was nearly to the hall when he said, “Did you plan to audition for my production of Much Ado?”

  “Yes! I’d—”

  “Don’t bother,” he said, with an evil little sideways smile. “And you did know my wife is the artistic director here, yes? And that she exerts a lot of influence in the community?”

  My throat felt tight. It was no fair. I was doing what I needed to do, what anyone should have done. I was the good guy, dammit.

  Edward stood, waiting. I nodded, and slid out of the room, with the understanding that my acting career was over.

  CHAPTER 41

  No Teeth for the Present

  I decided to get into place for bows a bit earlier than usual. Didn’t want to sit alone in my dressing room with only thoughts of my ruined career for company. Riley stood in the wings, close to the stage, waiting to go on for his big fight scene with Macbeth. I walked up to him and touched his shoulder.

  “Riley, I’m so sorry. With everything happening, I forgot. I’m really—”

  “You know, Ivy,” he said, looking me in the eye. “I thought you were cool. You’re pretty and you’re funny and you seem nice. But you know what? You’re not. ’Cause ‘nice’ means thinking about other people’s feelings, and you don’t. You just...don’t.”

  He shook my arm off his shoulder like he was shaking off a bad dream.

  “Riley, I—”

  “That way the noise is!” he shouted as he strode onstage. “Tyrant, show thy face!”

  Cold water dripped down my face into my heart. Or at least it felt that way. I slipped into the shadows backstage to wait for my cue. Riley had struck deep. Why in the world did it hurt so much?

  Because he was right. Even now, as I followed my castmates onstage for curtain call, I was thinking about me, about how hurt I was. I wasn’t thinking about Riley, who had waited for a date who never showed. Or Bill, whose career might be ruined. Or Uncle Bob, who may have been poisoned because of something I asked him to do. For God’s sake, I hadn’t even remembered to get him a medical bed.

  As we witches got into place for bows, I reached for Candy’s hand, but she kept it by her side. Normally we three held hands during curtain call. Not tonight.

  Candy didn’t come back to our dressing room, either. Must have undressed in Genevieve’s. I sat there alone, waiting for the police, like Linda had requested.

  After what seemed like hours, a knock.

  “Olive?”

  A familiar voice. Pinkstaff. Finally someone who wouldn’t be pissed off at me. Maybe, maybe he’d even congratulate me.

  “Can you believe it?” I put on a bright face as I opened the door. “I pulled a Poirot and it worked.”

  I stopped. Pink’s eyebrows were drawn so close together they nearly touched.

  “Come with me.” He jerked his head in the direction of backstage. I followed him dutifully, my heart sinking further with every step, but without knowing why.

  Linda, who had been in the hall with Pink, followed too. Most of the cast fell into line behind us, walking with us to the Cage. Waiting to see what would happen next. I waited, too. Pinkstaff hadn’t said another word to me.

  Bill now sat on the oily floor. When he saw Pinkstaff, recognition flashed in his eyes, and then something else. Fear? He jumped up, tossed off his top hat, tore off his tailcoat, and started rubbing his face with it.

  “What the...?” said Pink.

  “I can’t go to jail like this,” Bill said in a whiny voice. “In costume and makeup?” He stopped wiping the makeup off his face and began taking off his skin-tight black satin pants.

  “Keep your pants on,” said Pinkstaff. “Olive should have kept hers on. Ivy, I mean. Her.” He jerked his thumb at me. I wished I knew what he was talking about. No. Scratch that. I really didn’t want to know.

  “Besides,” said Candy, “isn’t goin’ to jail in your skivvies worse than goin’ in costume?”

  Bill stopped undressing.

  Pink showed Bill his badge. “Detective Pinkstaff, Phoenix PD,” he said. “I’d like to talk to you.”

  “Watch it, Bill,” said Riley, “He might be playing ‘good cop, bad cop’ like they
do on TV.”

  Pink looked at Riley. “You see another cop here?”

  “Maybe you’re playing both parts.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Cutbacks?” asked Bill, who was smoothing his rumpled hair. “Just the other day I reported on city deficits.”

  “Shut up, Bill.” Linda unlocked the Cage with a jangle of keys.

  “No reporters?” Bill stepped out of the Cage. “And you came alone? No other police?”

  Pinkstaff didn’t say a word, just steered Bill down the hall. Linda walked ahead of us, opened the unlocked door to her office, and held it. Pink guided Bill into the room. “Olive, you too,” he said, nodding at me. “Everyone else, take off.”

  Inside Linda’s office, Jason sat up straight in a stained burnt orange chair, staring fixedly at nothing. I decided to stand next to Linda’s desk, hoping that not taking a seat would somehow make whatever was going to happen, happen quicker. Linda closed the door and Pink guided Bill to the middle of the room, where they both stopped and stood.

  The only noise in the room was the ticking of the cat clock with the swinging tail. Pinkstaff looked at Jason. Jason looked at Bill, who looked at the floor. I looked at Jason, who wouldn’t look at me. All this looking must have gotten to Bill.

  “I didn’t mean to kill him,” he blurted.

  “And you didn’t,” said Pink.

  My mouth opened of its own accord. So did Bill’s. I shut mine.

  “Ivy here jumped the gun,” said Pinkstaff.

  “But you said the makeup—” The glare Pink gave me could’ve stopped a train, much less my runaway mouth.

  “The makeup,” Pink said to Bill. “It was mixed with what, poison oak?”

  Bill nodded. “Some of it grows near my cabin in Oak Creek.”

  “Poison oak didn’t kill Simon,” said Pinkstaff.

  I had publicly accused an innocent man of murder. “Bill, I’m so sorry.” It was all I could say.

  “You didn’t kill Simon.” Pink continued, giving Bill a hard look. “But Jason here had a pretty bad reaction.”

  “That was poison oak?” I asked. “His swelling and everything?”

  “Yeah.” Pinkstaff didn’t look at me. “It has an oil that usually causes a rash and blisters, but some people are really allergic. Jason must have licked his lips or something and swallowed some.” He pointed a finger in Bill’s direction, stabbing the air for emphasis. “You could’ve killed him. If he’d died, you might have been charged with involuntary manslaughter. You could still be charged with assault.”

  “I never meant...” Bill’s voice was whispery and high. “I just hoped the makeup would make Simon sick enough to need an understudy. I never even considered it might hurt anyone else.” He squeezed his eyes shut and looked at the floor. “I’m sorry, Jason.” He sank into Linda’s office chair.

  Pinkstaff’s hands were stuck deep in his pockets, like he was afraid of what they might do. “Jason,” he said. “Should we press charges?”

  Jason’s face was still puffy and splotchy from the poison oak, and his makeup barely hid the remnant of the shiner Bill had given him. “No.” Jason shook his head, like he was disgusted. He pushed himself up out of the chair, then turned on his heel and left, slamming the door.

  Bill’s face, which had been gray and pinched, regained its color. A small smile of relief played on his lips. Pinkstaff took his hands out of his pockets with a shrug and nodded at him. “You can go.”

  Bill turned to Linda. “Can I still do the show tomorrow?”

  “Yeah,” she said, shaking her head at him.

  Bill strode toward the door, his smile now all wounded dignity, playing the king already. As he passed by me on the way to the door, he gave me a slight, magnanimous nod. “Pardon me,” he said. His newscaster voice was back.

  CHAPTER 42

  The Harvest Is Your Own

  I went to follow Bill, but Pink stepped in front of the door. “Get your stuff,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”

  I turned to look at Linda. No help there, but a kitten clinging to a branch on a yellowed poster shouted, “Hang in there!” I hoped I could.

  I grabbed my duffle bag from my dressing room and followed Pink out to his car. I climbed in over what looked to be the same pop cans that rolled around the floor on my last ride, when I was still in favor.

  Pink didn’t say anything as we pulled out of the theater parking lot, just smoked a cigarette that smelled a little like Vapo Rub.

  I didn’t say anything, either, until he made a wrong turn.

  “Hey,” I said, craning my head to look behind us. “The police station is the other direction.”

  “Uh-huh.” He continued going north when he should have been going south.

  “You’re not taking me to the station?”

  Pink sighed and tossed his cigarette stub out the window.

  “Taking you somewhere else.”

  “Where?”

  “Someplace where your punishment will fit your crime.”

  I looked to see if he was kidding. He looked serious. Then he turned onto a palm tree-lined street I knew well. I shut my eyes. “Oh no.” I knew what was coming.

  “Oh, yes,” said Pinkstaff, and I heard the gravel crunch as he pulled into Uncle Bob’s drive.

  Imagine a very, very angry Santa Claus. That was my uncle when we walked in the door.

  “Um, hi Uncle Bob,” I said. He was still in his rented medical bed. The room smelled of disinfectant and boiled hotdogs.

  No reply, just a steady gaze. I felt like Christmas had been cancelled permanently.

  Pinkstaff shut the front door behind us. He nodded to my uncle and walked past us up the two stairs and down the hall. I wanted to follow him, go hide in one of the bedrooms. Instead I sat down in the chair next to Uncle Bob’s bed.

  I sat. I waited. Damned if I was going to be the first to break the silence. Everything I had done was well-intended. All I wanted to do was exonerate Simon. And catch the person who had hurt Jason. And Uncle Bob.

  “I did it for you, too, you know.” So much for waiting. And sitting. I was up and pacing the floor before I even knew I was doing it. “I mean, someone had to go after whoever poisoned you and Jason and Simon, who, yes, I’m sure was poisoned. I know I disobeyed you, but I don’t know why everyone’s so pissed at me when all I did was—”

  “Lie,” said my uncle with that unwavering gaze.

  I felt like he’d socked me in the stomach. I sat down again.

  “You know, Olive,” he said. “There’s a little thing and a big thing. Yeah, I’m pissed that you ‘disobeyed’ me. I may not be God. I’m not even your dad. But I am your boss and someone who cares about you. I don’t give orders lightly.”

  “That’s the little thing?” My leg began to jiggle.

  He nodded.

  “The big thing, the really big thing, is that you lied to me. If you had told me what you were doing, even if we disagreed, we coulda talked it through, probably avoided this mess you’ve got yourself into. But instead, you lied to me.”

  “Not out loud.” I already wished I hadn’t said it.

  “Lots of types of lies,” said my uncle. “And they all destroy trust.” He finally took his eyes off mine. “Pink!” he shouted. “We’re through here.”

  Pink shuffled out of the hall and toward the front door. I got up and followed him.

  “Olive,” said my uncle quietly. “I do mean through. I love you, but I can’t work with someone I don’t trust. You’re fired.”

  CHAPTER 43

  The Sin of My Ingratitude

  The next day I sat on the couch in my stifling apartment and watched my favorite telenovela. The villainess had just lied her way into a hospital so she could poiso
n her stepfather.

  I turned it off.

  I hadn’t meant to lie to Uncle Bob. I didn’t even really feel like I had lied, more just ignored him. Denied there was an issue. Wow, like I hadn’t heard that phrase about a million times before. Oh shit. I’d forgotten yet another promise to Uncle Bob. I needed to find the name of a good therapist. One who worked really, really cheap.

  I’d do it later.

  I went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. I did it for the cool air, not because I wanted anything to eat. That was a good thing, too, since a quick check showed butter, milk, some cream cheese in a crusty-looking foil wrapper, and a bottle of champagne Simon had given me when he cleaned out his fridge.

  Simon. Had I really gone through all of this for him? I suspected not. I suspected I was “denying there was an issue.” I suspected this was really about Cody.

  Cody. Crap. I’d never gotten him tickets to the show, never even thought about it again.

  I called him in the afternoon, as soon as he got off work. He was thrilled. He and Matt would be there closing night.

  He was just about to hang up when I said, “Listen, Cody?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Would you like to spend more time together?”

  “Um...yeah?”

  I needed to be more concrete. “I was thinking about...” I stopped. I’d been about to say “Suns games,” but I couldn’t afford the tickets now. And I realized I didn’t know enough about Cody to suggest something. “What would you like to do?”

  “Go to plays?”

  Perfect. I could almost always get into previews for free. “Great. I’ll figure it out and we’ll make a date for next month. Cool?”

  “Cool.” He hung up, but not before I understood that Cody knew what I liked to do.