Macdeath (An Ivy Meadows Mystery Book 1)

by Cindy Brown

  CHAPTER 44

  Thy Hope Ends Here

  A few minutes after I hung up with Cody, my phone rang. I ran to pick it up. I had called and texted Jason about a billion times since last night.

  I didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?” Maybe Jason was calling from somewhere else.

  “¿Oye hermano, que pasa?”

  I didn’t think he was calling from that far away.

  “I think you may have the wrong number.”

  “No esta Pablo?”

  “No,” I said. “Lo siento.” I’m sorry. It was one of the few Spanish phrases I knew.

  I hung up and walked over to the thermostat. Ninety degrees. I turned the air conditioning down to seventy-two. A clunk, and then cool air poured out of a vent near the bedroom. I went and stood in front of it for a minute, the sweat cooling and then drying on my skin. Lovely. Then I went back and turned the thermostat back to ninety. The theater would pay me tomorrow for the run, but after that I had no source of income. No day job, no acting work. Nothing. I guess Macbeth’s curse didn’t just stop at death and poisoning.

  I ate a quick dinner of Top Ramen and drove to the theater. I’d be early, but I could cool down and maybe even catch Jason during his prep time.

  At 5:30 I climbed the stairs to the loading dock. I didn’t want to go through the greenroom. Never know who else might decide to show up early, and my courage, though fortified with carbohydrates, was shaky.

  I swung open the heavy door and stepped into the chilled darkness. I closed it quietly so I wouldn’t interrupt Jason’s preparations, but the latch’s soft click seemed to reverberate throughout the cavernous backstage.

  No need to worry. Jason’s voice boomed out. “We will proceed no further in this business.”

  He was here. I walked toward the sound, toward the stage, my heart beating a tattoo. “A drum, a drum, Ivy doth come!” sounded over and over in my head. Great, a Shakespearean earworm.

  I was walking out from behind the black velvet curtains when the earworm turned itself off. Something wasn’t right. I stopped and listened to Jason. Huh. This wasn’t one of Macbeth’s monologues.

  “Was the hope drunk Wherein you dress’d yourself? hath it slept since?” said Genevieve. Yes. This was a scene with the Macbeths. I ducked back behind the curtain.

  “And wakes it now, to look so green and pale At what it did so freely?” Genevieve continued. Though her voice was tinged with anger, her overall message was seduction. I felt a stab of envy. How did she do that? Maybe I should look into a Method acting class.

  Except that, of course, my acting career was dead. But I couldn’t worry about that. I had other important business to take care of. I was here to try to revive my comatose romance.

  “Prithee, peace,” Jason said to Genevieve in a dangerously soft whisper. “I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none.”

  I would wait until the end of the scene. Jason and I would still have plenty of time to talk.

  “What beast was’t, then, That made you break this enterprise to me?” Genevieve said.

  I would quietly announce myself and ask to speak to Jason privately.

  “When you durst do it, then you were a man.” Genevieve’s voice was smoky and smooth, like good liquor. “And, to be more than what you were, you would Be so much more the man.”

  Silence.

  Genevieve never took a pause here. I peeked out from behind my curtain. Genevieve was trailing her hand down Jason’s chest. “You would be so much more the man,” she repeated, reaching lower. Jason shut his eyes as her hand moved slowly down. He grabbed her by the hair. She arched her neck in pleasure and he fell upon it with a vampire-like hunger.

  I drew back into the folds of the curtain. I didn’t want to see this. Maybe if I didn’t see it, it wasn’t really happening.

  Soft footsteps came toward me. I inched deeper into the curtain. They passed by, Genevieve leading Jason by the hand. I shut my eyes and tried to think of ways to leave without being seen.

  The footsteps stopped suddenly.

  “No,” I heard Jason say. “Not here.”

  “Is it because of the little witch?” Genevieve asked.

  Had she seen me? I opened my eyes. No, they weren’t looking my way. Instead, the Macbeths stood in front of the hiding place where Jason and I had made love, just yesterday. Genevieve knew?

  Jason didn’t reply. While they were intent on each other, I hotfooted it for the exit to the greenroom as quietly as possible. I was pretty dang focused on making it out of there, but I thought I heard Genevieve say, “Or because of what happened here opening night?”

  CHAPTER 45

  Foul Is Fair

  I got out of the backstage area without being seen and stumbled into the greenroom. The show passed without incident, and without anyone saying a word to me.

  After the show, I was slinging my duffle bag over my shoulder when there was a knock on the dressing room door. My heart leapt, just a little, more of a hop, really. It had to be...

  Bill? I opened the door to The Face of Channel 10. He usually knocked as he came in, but tonight he stood awkwardly outside the door.

  “Come in,” I said, dropping my bag on the counter. Bill looked around before entering, as if to make sure no one was lurking in the corner.

  “I wanted to tell you there are no hard feelings,” he said.

  “Wow. Thanks.” I meant it. “Seems like you’re the only one.”

  A mirthless chuckle. “We are not well-liked.”

  Ouch.

  Bill sat in Candy’s empty chair. “And I think I know why.” He looked into the mirror, wet a finger and ran it over an unruly eyebrow hair.

  I thought I knew why, too, but waited anyway.

  “It’s all about Simon.”

  I bit my lip in an attempt to be patient. Bill was the only person speaking to me right now. Maybe soon he’d actually say something.

  He met my eyes in the mirror. “I am an investigative reporter, you know. And you are a detective.”

  “I’m really not—”

  “And we’ve turned over a few stones that have snakes underneath them.”

  Jason had said that Bill questioned him about his whereabouts on opening night. “I knew you’d talked to a few people,” I said, “but I assumed you were making sure no one saw you messing with Simon’s makeup.”

  “Yes. Well, yes.” Bill now smoothed both eyebrows, pressing down hard. “But my investigation turned up some very interesting information.” He swiveled in his chair to look at me. “Several people have no alibi,” he said in his broadcaster’s voice.

  Uh oh. Was he acting? Goddammit, was everybody acting? I spun away from Bill.

  I was suddenly mad at the entire theater world. How could you have relationships with people if you never knew when they were being real?

  “Ivy.” Bill’s real voice. And my name, right for the first time.

  “Who?” I turned back to him. “Who has no alibi?”

  “Well, most people, actually, except for Riley and some of the soldiers. They were shooting off fireworks on the loading dock.”

  “Okay, thanks.” I picked up my duffle bag.

  Bill stood. “I have it on good authority that Edward was nowhere to be seen during intermission.”

  I put the bag back down. Edward should have been with Pamela in the theater lobby, schmoozing with the audience or at least the board members. I tried to remember if I’d seen him at all that night. I didn’t think so.

  “Was he giving notes?” I asked. After each rehearsal, a director gave actors feedback on their performances. It was bad form to continue this after a show was on its feet, but every so often a director couldn’t let go.

  “No.” Bill gave a smug li
ttle smile, the kind that always made me want to slap him.

  I bit my lip again, trying to remember he was my only ally. “Still, that doesn’t mean—”

  “And someone saw him sneaking into the house from backstage.”

  “He could have been checking on a set issue.”

  “Sneaking. Looking around to make sure no one saw him.”

  “Who said this? Who saw him?”

  “Genevieve.”

  CHAPTER 46

  All Is Over

  There was no way I was going to talk to Genevieve, not after I’d seen her with Jason. Besides, it wasn’t enough. I knew Simon wasn’t killed by poisoned makeup. Bill’s makeup/poison oak concoction caused swelling. Jason’s face and throat were classic examples. Pink said only certain substances—narcotics, sedatives, and tranquilizers—could have created the illusion of alcohol poisoning and that Simon most likely drank himself to death.

  Bill was wrong, at least where it concerned me. This wasn’t all about Simon. It was about the denial of long-buried guilt. I wasn’t going to deny that any longer.

  I thanked Bill and walked out into the night.

  “Want another Diet Coke?” It was Homeless Hank.

  “I’m good,” I said, and gave him the dollar bill I had in my shorts pocket. I had more Ramen at home.

  That was another thing. Even if Uncle Bob’s Diet Coke had been tampered with, it was probably one of Riley’s jokes taken a little too far.

  I had made the facts fit the scenario I wanted. I had even misinterpreted Simon’s sobriety tally (the paper taped to the mirror). Simon had crossed off all the numbers representing the days he’d been sober. Except for the last one. No X through number 38, Simon’s last day on earth.

  I slept through most of the next day, drove to the theater, and sat sweating in the parking lot. It was closing night. Maybe my last closing night. I couldn’t believe I’d screwed up so badly. No theater in the Valley would hire me after this. Maybe I could move, start over. No. It had taken me quite awhile to get to this level. In a new town, I’d probably have to work a few years before I could get the professional gigs. I didn’t have a few years. Women get cast when they’re young and when they’re old. I needed to get established while I could still play the ingénue (and the occasional tumbling witch) so I would have a chance for the few roles offered to women between thirty-five and sixty. I’d blown it.

  Maybe I should throw in the towel now, not even go in tonight. Edward could fill in for me. I felt the edges of my mouth tug up as I imagined Edward in my iridescent leotard. It’d serve him right. But I couldn’t do it. Cody was coming to the show tonight with Matt. I got out of the car, but not before noticing the clock: 7:15. Yikes! I was already late—call was 7:00. I threw my keys into my duffel bag, jumped out and ran to the front of the theater.

  I skidded to a stop in front of the glassed-in booth that served as the box office. I’d left a message about tickets for tonight but needed to pay for them. There was only one window open—maybe because it was closing night?—and a line six people deep. I got in line behind all six of them.

  “Are these the best seats you have?”

  The woman at the front of the line leaned in close to the box office’s glass window, wobbling on pointy-toed leopard-skin heels that brought her height up to a full five feet. Her hair was a freshly dyed bright orange, except for an overlooked section in the back where her part showed a streak of white. She peered at the young woman in the fluorescently lit box office. Her hair was dyed flat black, to contrast her kabuki-white makeup and blood red lips.

  “Because I’ve been supporting this theater for years,” said Orange.

  Black started to chew on a thumbnail (also colored black), then thought better of it. “These are the best seats in the mezzanine level.”

  “Do you have any in the front couple of rows?”

  “Yes. But your season tickets are for the mezzanine. The front rows are orchestra level tickets, which are an additional $15.” Black picked at the chipped polish on her thumbnail.

  Orange’s voice got louder, “But I’ve been coming to this theater since 1967.”

  I checked my watch. 7:18. My leg started to jiggle of its own accord.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I can’t upgrade you without an additional fifteen dollars per seat.” Black stared at her thumbnail, as if it might magically whisk her away from the box office.

  “Do you know how much money that is to someone like me? I’m on a fixed income, you know, and I’ve been coming to this theater since—”

  I couldn’t stand it any longer.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I said to everyone in line as I pushed ahead of them. “I’m in the show and need to get in costume.”

  The line broke up to let me through. Orange glared at me as I stepped in front of her, and Black gave me a stony stare through the box office window.

  “I need to pay for some tickets you have set aside for Ivy—” I began.

  “I know who you are,” said Black, flipping through her neatly organized box of tickets, thumbnail forgotten.

  She knew me. I smiled at her.

  She smiled back at me, showing small vampire-like teeth. “You’re Poison Ivy,” she said. “We were taking bets on whether you’d show up tonight. Guess I lost.”

  Poison Ivy.

  “Are we in line for the wrong show?” said a voice in line behind me. “There’s no Poison Ivy in Macbeth, is there?”

  I wished there weren’t. I would have left right then if it weren’t for Cody. I shoved my cash at Black and spun around to go.

  Orange must have been right on my heels. When I turned I was nearly on top of her. “About my seats...” she continued, shoving me aside.

  “Ouch!” I yelped. A leopard-skin heel had come down on top of my shoe.

  “Oops,” said Orange, releasing my foot. “Sorry.”

  I thought I saw Orange and Black smile.

  I ran to the backstage door and through the greenroom to our dressing room. Candy wasn’t there. She must have already dressed. I sat down in the chair in my place in front of the mirror and took off my shoes, rubbing the foot Orange had stepped on.

  Candy’s counter space was filled with flowers and goodies, typical closing night presents from other cast members. My space was bare, except for a headshot: “To Ivy, from The Face of Channel 10.” At least he got my name right.

  I didn’t have time to dwell on my lack of friends. I needed to get dressed and to prepare for what was likely my last performance. Stop it, Ivy. No time to dwell on that, either. I pulled my T-shirt over my head, but it snagged on an earring. I heard the door open.

  “Candy,” I said, head still stuck in my T-shirt. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you about the makeup and my suspicions, but you were acting suspicious, too, whispering with Genevieve and...”

  I heard the door shut. I disentangled my earring and yanked my T-shirt all the way off. The dressing room was empty, but not for long. Candy burst in, brown liquid dripping off her. “Dang. That Riley makes me mad as a wet hen.”

  She looked like a mad wet hen too, but I didn’t want to go there. At least she was speaking to me. I pulled off my shorts and my underwear.

  “You’d think he’d have gotten over the whole Mentos-Diet Coke thing, but no.” Candy stripped down and threw her leotard in the sink.

  I knew it was her one and only leotard. “Do you really want to wash that right now?” I asked, pulling on my tights.

  “I’m gonna be wet one way or the other. I’d rather be wet and clean than wet and sticky.” She turned on the faucet. The diamondback pattern on her leotard undulated in the water.

  “Listen, I meant what I said a minute ago.”

  “Huh?” said Candy, more interested in wringing out her costume than in me. I step
ped into my camel toe leotard for the last time.

  “About being sorry,” I said. “It was just that you started keeping secrets from me, and it made me—”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Just what I said earlier, about you and Genevieve.” I slathered foundation over my face and neck.

  “Hon, you do realize this is the first time we’ve talked today?”

  I had a bad feeling.

  “Did you see someone come out of our dressing room a minute ago?”

  “I was too busy taking my Diet Coke shower. Why? Someone come in and poison your makeup?”

  Shit. I dropped my makeup sponge like it was a hot biscuit. I sniffed my makeup bottle. It smelled like chemicals and the scents they use to cover up the smell of chemicals. Like makeup.

  Candy sighed loudly. “Ivy. Darlin’. You gotta give this up.”

  In the mirror I could see her struggle into her wet, clinging leotard. I started to work on my eye makeup.

  “Everyone knows there hasn’t been any murder.”

  She was right. I knew she was right. I had misplaced my guilt over Cody’s accident and made everything a bigger deal than it was. Right?

  Candy met my eyes in the mirror. “Simon died. He just died. It wasn’t murder and it wasn’t your fault.”

  She put a light, damp hand on my shoulder. “Hon, I know about your brother. Jason told us.”

  Jason. Told. Us. My hands felt icy. I didn’t trust myself to speak.

  Candy hugged me from behind. “You can’t keep blaming yourself for what happened with your brother, or with Simon. They were accidents. You gotta get over it.”

  She patted me, the way people do when they’re done with you.

  “And you gotta get over it now, ’cause—”

  “Places.” Linda’s voice came over the dressing room’s loudspeaker.