by Cindy Brown
Praise for the Ivy Meadows Mystery Series
“This gut-splitting mystery is a hilarious riff on an avant-garde production of ‘the Scottish play’…Combining humor and pathos can be risky in a whodunit, but gifted author Brown makes it work.”
– Mystery Scene Magazine
“Vivid characters, a wacky circus production of Macbeth, and a plot full of surprises make this a perfect read for a quiet evening. Pour a glass of wine, put your feet up, and enjoy! Bonus: it’s really funny.”
– Ann Littlewood,
Award-Winning Author of the Iris Oakley “Zoo-dunnit” Mysteries
“This gripping mystery is both satisfyingly clever and rich with unerring comedic timing. Without a doubt, Macdeath is one of the most entertaining debuts I’ve read in a very long time.”
– Bill Cameron,
Spotted Owl Award-Winning Author of County Line
“Funny and unexpectedly poignant, Macdeath is that rarest of creatures: a mystery that will make you laugh out loud. I loved it!”
– April Henry,
New York Times Bestselling Author
“Brown mixes laugh out loud observations about the acting life with a witty and intriguing mystery. Consider yourself warned. Oliver Twisted is a fast-paced addictive read impossible to put down until Ivy has caught the killer.”
– D.E. Ireland,
Agatha Award-Nominated Author of Move Your Blooming Corpse
“A definite delight…sit back, wait for the curtain to rise on this one, and then have a whole lot of fun figuring out whodunit.”
– Suspense Magazine
“The setting is irresistible, the mystery is twisty, and Ivy is as beguiling as ever, but what I really loved was the depth and complexity of painful human relationships right there in the middle of a sparkly caper. Roll on Ivy #3!”
– Catriona McPherson,
Agatha Award-Winning Author of The Day She Died
“It is not easy to combine humor and murder, but Cindy Brown does it effortlessly. Who else would think of combining The Sound of Music with Cabaret with a serial killer? The result is such fun.”
– Rhys Bowen,
New York Times Bestselling Author of Malice at the Palace
“A fun and rollicking mystery at sea with a delightfully twisty plot and a heartfelt heroine who is as entertaining as she is soulful. I highly recommend this series. More please!”
– John Clement,
Author of the Dixie Hemingway Mysteries
“This novel excels at operating at several different levels. While it is endlessly entertaining and full of humor, the author is not afraid to tackle serious topics and confront contemporary issues...One of the greatest joys of reading this series is watching Ivy grow up before our eyes…a masterful blend of mystery and the entertaining fun of the theater world.”
– Kings River Life Magazine
“The mystery kept me glued to the pages…had me roaring with laughter…A delightful read and I can’t wait to see what happens next in this amusingly entertaining series.”
– Dru’s Book Musings
“For true Dickens fans, theatre lovers, and mystery buffs everywhere, it is indeed the best of times. Please sir, I want some more!”
– Broadwayworld.com
The Ivy Meadows Mystery Series
by Cindy Brown
MACDEATH (#1)
THE SOUND OF MURDER (#2)
OLIVER TWISTED (#3)
IVY GET YOUR GUN (#4)
THE PHANTOM OF OZ (#5)
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Copyright
THE PHANTOM OF OZ
An Ivy Meadows Mystery
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition | January 2018
Henery Press
www.henerypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2018 by Cindy Brown
Cover art by Stephanie Chontos
Author Photograph by AJC Photography
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-292-4
Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-293-1
Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-294-8
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-295-5
Printed in the United States of America
For the Browns (all of them)
Best in-laws ever
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The Grand Phoenician Theatre was inspired by Phoenix’s gorgeous Orpheum Theatre (it’s open for tours—you really should take one). I also borrowed the secret passageway that leads from the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall to the The Heathman Hotel (Portland, Oregon) and some of the ghost stories from the Hotel San Carlos (Phoenix, Arizona), which really does have a Lady in White.
My books always owe a lot to a great number of people. Big thanks to:
Delia Booth, who has always given me spot-on feedback, and this time also served as my technical theatre expert. Thanks also to Chris Wyllie of Theatre Effects, who helped me figure out some of the accidents.
Barbara, Fred and Dale Fiedler, who gave me the gift of a calm space in which to research and write.
John Hopper of JB National Private Investigation Services. I hope you readers never need a PI, but if you do, he’s your man.
The Crime Scene Listserv for their generous advice and great ideas.
The team at Henery Press, the most professional and likable folks around. Special thanks to Erin George, Kendel Lynn, Rachel Jackson, Stephanie Chontos, Maria Edwards, Art Molinares, and all the Hens.
My reading and writing friends, who always make my books better: Lisa Alber, Mary Sue Evers, Holly Franko, Doug Levin, Evan Lewis, Ann Littlewood, Janice Maxson, Marilyn McFarlane, Lindsay Nyre, Martha Ragland, and Angela M. Sanders.
Hal—best editor, best friend, best everything.
Chapter 1
A Series of Incidents so Curious and So Inexplicable
“I do believe in spooks, I do believe in spooks, I do, I do, I do,” said the Scarecrow.
“Shouldn’t that be the Cowardly Lion’s line?” I whispered to the Wicked Witch of the East, who sat beside me in the darkened dressing room.
“He couldn’t make it,” she said. “Hot date with the Tin Man.”
“But...The Phantom of the Opera is here,” sang the man with the skull for a face, loudly enough that the candles on the counter flickered.
“This is not an opera house,” said the munchkin. “It’s a theater. The ghost’s proper name should be The Phantom of the Grand Phoenician Theatre.”
“Or maybe she’s The Phantom of Oprah,” said the Scarecrow. “After all, we have been dealing with reality TV.”
“You all know the ghost has a name,” said the Witch. “She’s the Lady in White. Now, are we having a séance or not?”
We all assented.
Silence. Then the munchkin’s hands trembled on the Ouija board’s planchette. “Hey, I felt something!”
“Me too,” I said.
We all kept our fingers on the planchette as it traveled across the wooden board to “hello.”
“She’s here,” whispered the Scarecrow.
“Thank you for joining us,” the Witch said to the air. “We suspect all the accidents we’ve had lately are your way of trying to tell us something. So please, what do you want?”
The planchette moved.
“H...” We all breathed. “A...M.”
“Ham?” said the skull-faced man. “She wants a sandwich?”
The planchette continued to skim the board. “I...L…T...O...N.”
“Hamilton. The ghost wants to see Hamilton!” the Scarecrow said.
The Witch whacked him on the arm. “Stop it. That was obviously you.” The Scarecrow played the musical’s soundtrack every night in his dressing room before the show. “We need to be serious here,” said the Witch. “If we’re not, the ghost will never appear to—”
Suddenly Toto barked loudly. A cold wind that smelled like violets swept through the windowless dressing room and blew out the candles. And from the darkness came the tinkling of a music box.
A freeze spread through me from my feet up. It glued me to my chair, like in those dreams when you need to run away but can’t move. Everyone in the room must have felt it too. No one stirred. Even Toto was still.
The music continued, the only sound in the room except for my castmates’ breathing. I scanned the now pitch-black room in my memory but didn’t remember a music box. Besides, the tune being played was not the traditional “Edelweiss” or “You Are My Sunshine.”
“Does anyone recognize that music?” I asked.
“I think it’s an eighties song,” said the skull-faced man.
“An eighties song from a 1920s-era ghost?” I said.
“It’s not an eighties song,” said the munchkin. “It was recorded in 1990.”
“How do you know that?” asked the Scarecrow. “You’re, like, eleven.”
“I’m an Iggy Pop fan,” she said.
“You are a strange little girl,” said the Scarecrow.
“It’s called ‘Candy,’” she said. “It’s a duet with that singer from the B-52s.”
“Wait,” I said. “I think I remember it. Doesn’t he say something about not letting her go?”
“That’s the one,” she said.
The ghostly music box stopped abruptly. The Lady had given us our clue.
And it didn’t bode well for my best friend.
I suppose I should explain.
Though séances in theaters are unusual, spooky occurrences are not. Any theater worth its salt has a ghost. There are famous ghosts, like “The Man in Gray,” who’s made his home in London’s Theatre Royal since the eighteenth century; “The Most Beautiful Girl in New York City,” a Ziegfield Follies showgirl who haunts NYCs New Amsterdam Theatre; and even Judy Garland, who’s said to appear at the Palace Theatre on Broadway. But in general, the ghosts are known only to those of us who work in the theater, who are there when the lights are off and the stage is dark and the dressing room doors creak open by themselves.
You’d think that Phoenix, being a comparatively young city, would be relatively ghost-free. After all, most of our theaters had only been around a few decades. But no. Every theater I’d worked in had at least one ghost story. And the Grand Phoenician, the Art Deco Grande Dame of Valley theaters, had the most famous ghost in town: the Lady in White.
But on the February morning when this story began—just over a week before that crazy séance—I wasn’t thinking of ghosts. I wasn’t thinking of theaters, either, even though I was wrapping up a successful run as Viola in Twelfth Night. And even though I was driving to work, I wasn’t thinking about my job at Duda Detectives or what my uncle/boss would say when I got in, this being the third time this month I’d been late. No, I was just trying to figure out who was calling me.
I didn’t recognize the number, which gave me pause. I was in a fix, phone-wise. As an actor, I needed to give out my number to pretty much anyone who wanted it. You never knew whose cousin might be filming in Phoenix and needed a twenty-something blonde. On the other hand, as a part-time almost private investigator (I was this close to getting to my license), I needed to be circumspect about giving out contact info, since PIs didn’t usually work on cases involving nice people. I typically erred on the side of optimism, which meant I needed to be careful with unknown numbers. I picked up on speakerphone. “Hello?” I shouted. My Nissan pickup was great for back roads, but boy, it was noisy on the highway.
“Whuifgfai Ivy?”
Dang. The caller must be using speakerphone too. But it must be about acting work. Ivy Meadows was my stage name. I used my real name, Olive Ziegwart, at the detective agency.
“Sorry, I can’t hear you,” I shouted. “Who’s calling?
“Gadjkfsah Andi,” crackled a female voice. “Andi Oo tie.”
“Andi Uti?” Maybe a Native American woman named Andi? Cool. Maybe I’d get to film something on the res.
“Annie oo pie, or fest friend? I ear in town.”
“Candy!” Candy MoonPie was my best friend. She moved out to LA almost two years ago, hoping for film or TV work. But I had her number. Or at least I thought I did. I suddenly realized she hadn’t returned any of my calls for a month or so. “You’re in town? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
“Codpkaated.”
Cod-caked? “What?” I grabbed my phone and took it off speaker.
Hooooonk!
“What was that?” Candy said into my ear.
“Just an unexpected lane change.” I waved an apology at the semi driver I’d cut off. “So you’re in town? For how long? And where have you been?”
“Like I said before, it’s complicated.”
Ah, “complicated,” not “cod-caked.” Much better. Maybe. “When can I see you?”
“That’s what I’m calling about. Can you come to rehearsal tonight? We’re at the Grand Phoenician.”
“Omigod, did you get a touring gig?” The aforementioned theater hosted only touring shows and celebrities. Though Candy hadn’t been in contact for a while, I was pretty sure she hadn’t become famous overnight.
“Yeah. Can you come?”
“Sure. No show tonight.” Twelfth Night didn’t run on Wednesdays.
“Thanks. I’d really like to see you.” Now that I could hear Candy better, I also heard something in her voice, or rather a lack of something. Candy always sounded like she was having fun, or just about to go have fun, or maybe a little tired from having fun. But now, the soft Southern lilt in her voice was gone, replaced by something hard and fast, like her Louisiana accent had up and moved to Brooklyn.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Fine and dandy.” Well, that sounded more like her. “Come by the stage door tonight and give them my name, and they’ll let you in. Just remember my name’s Candace Moon now.”
“Since when?”
“Since I needed to register with the unions.” As actors, we had to register our names with the unions, sort of like businesses had to do with corporation commissions. “I couldn’t use my real one. It sounds like a stripper.”
Candy was known in Phoenix as Candy MoonPie partly because she loved the marshmallow-y treats, and partly because she never liked to use her real name: Candy Treat. Her parents had some sense of humor.
“So I’ll see you tonight?” she said.
“Of course.” I pulled into a parking spot just a block away from my uncle’s office building. “Hey, I forgot to ask. What show are you—”
But Candy had already hung up.
I got out
of my truck, slower than I should have for someone who was late to work. My stomach felt funny, and I didn’t think it was the discounted sausage I’d had for breakfast. It was Candy. She wasn’t herself, and that wasn’t good.
Chapter 2
Into That Infernal Underground Maze
Around seven that evening, I stood in front of the security booth just inside the Grand Phoenician Theatre’s stage door. “And what do we have here?” said the big-bellied security guy from his seat in the glassed-in enclosure. “Aren’t you a little big for a munchkin?”
“Um, yeah.” I was a foot taller than everyone else in the unexpected line, and I shouted to be heard over the din of excited children’s voices. “I’m here to see Candy—Candace Moon.”
“Sign your name here.” The guard handed me a clipboard. “You can go right on in,” he added. “It’s just the little critters who need to sign up for a time slot. Auditions, you know.”
I didn’t know. The only way I knew that Candy’s show was The Wizard: A Space OZpera was because it was written on the marquee in big letters. I’d read about the show in Backstage. Sure, The Wizard of Oz in space sounded like a crazy idea, but the critics thought it worked, mostly due to the director. Arrestadt Giry was a genius, well known for making his unbelievably offbeat ideas work (like his musical version of The Godfather, complete with dancing horse head). He usually worked his magic behind the camera in La-La land, but he liked to go back to the theater to keep himself grounded, according to the Backstage piece.
“This tour isn’t starting here, is it?” I asked while signing my name. “Why are they auditioning munchkins?”
