by Cindy Brown
“Okay then, drinks after my show,” I said. “We can talk then.”
“I don’t think so. Who knows how late these auditions are going to run and—”
“Candy.” I cringed at the tone of my voice. I sounded like my mom. I took a deep breath and began again. “These are kids auditioning to be munchkins, right? It’s a school night. How late can the auditions go?”
No answer.
“Candy? Are you trying to avoid me?”
“No. I’m just…busy. Some new stuff, maybe some new work. It’s good. Everything’s good.” Hardly. The longer I spoke with her the more I knew everything was not good. “What time’s your show over?” she asked.
“I can get down to Seamus McCaffrey’s by eleven.”
“All right. See you then.” Candy hung up. She didn’t sound happy that she was going to see me. Tough titties. She’d be even unhappier if she knew what I was going to do.
I was going to investigate my best friend.
Chapter 7
Very Curious Business!
My fellow Twelfth Night actresses were all atwitter.
“Did you see the ghost?”
“Did you meet Babette?”
“Do you think the Lady in White was really after Babette?”
“How about, ‘Hey, Ivy, I’m so glad you weren’t killed yesterday?’ Sheesh,” I said as I applied the finishing touches to my makeup in the tiny dressing room. Twelfth Night was being produced by New Vintage Theater, a small company with loads of talent but a limited budget. We were performing in a black box theater that had only two dressing rooms, one for women and one for men. We were lucky. This being Shakespeare, there were just three of us women. The men’s dressing room was so crowded the actors had to take turns using the mirror.
“We’re all happy you’re alive,” said Victoria, who was playing Olivia. “But we can see that. Now we want the juicy details.”
“Okay.” I drew in an eyebrow. Mine were too blonde to be seen onstage. “I did see the ghost. It was right after the chandelier flickered. I saw something misty-looking. At first I thought it was the stage lights in my eyes. But it seemed to have a form, and it was bending over Babette.”
“Ooh, really?” the women said as one.
“No, not really. Sheesh.” I wasn’t being entirely truthful. I did see that smoky figure. I was pretty sure it was a trick of the light, prompted by all the ghost talk. “Do you believe in ghosts?” I asked them.
“Sure,” said Victoria. “Don’t you?”
Every so often, my actor and detective personas bumped up against each other. This was one of those times. As an actor, I was properly superstitious. I said, “Break a leg” instead of “Good luck,” didn’t whistle backstage, and never ever said “Macbeth” in a theater. As a detective, I knew intellectually that superstition had no place in the world of logic and deduction. Still...
“I’ve noticed that you check to make sure the ghost light is on every night,” said Jessica, our Twelfth Night’s Maria.
“That’s just for safety,” I said. The ghost light is an old theater tradition, a light that’s left burning through the night to keep people from falling over the set and/or the theater ghosts from causing too much mischief. The one at our theater, like many others, was a bare bulb on a stand we placed in the middle of the stage before we left for the night.
“I was once pushed down the stairs by the ghost at Phoenix Theater,” said Victoria. “Sprained my ankle right before an audition.”
I suspected it was less the ghost and more the four-inch heels that Victoria always wore but kept my mouth shut. After all, if there were any ghosts around, I didn’t want to tick them off.
“I think I saw the Lady in White once,” said Jessica.
“Really?” Now this was interesting. “When?”
“I was walking down one of those backstage passages in the Grand Phoenician after a show when this producer approached me. He was from out of town—don’t think you’d know him. Anyway, he’d been a pain in the butt for a while—always making rude comments, pinching my ass, that sort of thing, but I didn’t think he was serious trouble. This time though, he said something slimy like, ‘You know you want it,’ and grabbed my wrists and pressed me up against the wall. He was a big guy and I thought I was really in trouble until...” She stopped, a faraway, wondering look on her face. “A chain hung down from one of the light bulbs in the passage. It started moving, swinging around in circles and slapping the guy in the back of the head. He backed off from me to see what was happening, then his eyes got really big. He pointed down the hallway toward the basement and ran off fast in the opposite direction. I swear I saw the edge of a white gown disappear around the corner. I ran toward it, but when I rounded the corner, there was no one there.” The remembering look faded from her eyes, and she spoke with authority. “I’m sure it was the Lady in White. She saved me.”
I wanted Jessica’s ghost story out of my head. Not just because it made me wonder about ghosts and the spiritual realm and what I might’ve seen, but because I had a show to do. I walked backstage to wait for places, pushing the here and now out of my head, thinking instead about love and shipwrecks and lost brothers. In a weird way, Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night paralleled my own life. Like Viola, I’d thought my brother drowned; not in the sea, but in an icy pond in Spokane, Washington. My mom had insisted I take Cody ice-skating with me and my girlfriends. I didn’t want him hanging around with us big kids (I was all of eleven), so I paid him no attention at all—until he wasn’t there, swallowed by a black hole in the ice. And like Viola’s shipwrecked brother, Cody survived, though he had a brain injury he’d live with forever. I blamed myself. My parents blamed me too. Only Uncle Bob acted like family, doing things like actually asking if I was okay after a big scary chandelier accident at the theater.
Argh. There I was, in my own head again, when I needed to be in Viola’s. No matter what anyone said, this acting thing was not easy.
I had a good show in spite of myself. When it ended a few minutes after ten o’clock, I said a hasty goodbye to my castmates and rushed out the door. I had a little spying to do.
A few minutes later, I pulled into a street parking space near the Berger Performing Arts Center. I ran the few blocks and signed in at the stage door. They knew me, so it wasn’t a big deal. “What’s your business tonight, Miss Ivy?” asked the security guard.
“I’m meeting Candy MoonPie.”
“Candy?”
“Oh, she’s probably signed in as Candace Moon. New stage name. She’s helping with the munchkin auditions.”
“Yeah, I saw her earlier. Doesn’t look like LA has been kind to her, if you know what I mean.”
I did.
“They’ve all been gone for hours,” he said. “They were only scheduled from six to eight.”
So Candy had lied. I had too, I guessed, about not being able to get to Seamus McCaffrey’s before eleven, since I’d made it to the Berger by ten thirty. “So she left?”
The guard consulted his clipboard. “She signed out at...8:05. And you’ll never guess who was with her. Caused quite a stir around here, let me tell you.”
“Arrestadt Giry?”
“Yeah, he was here too, but he wasn’t the big deal tonight. It was that reality star, Babette the...you know what.”
Babette was also known as Babette the Bitch because, well, she was.
“Yep, Candy left with her. Looked real buddy-buddy too, the two of them.”
Chapter 8
Undergone a Disagreeable Change
I walked the few blocks to the pub. Something bugged me. Sure, I was jealous that Candy was spending time with Babette instead of me, but it wasn’t really surprising. I was pretty sure I would have done the same thing if Babette had asked me. After all, how often do famous talent scouts come to Phoenix?
Huh. I
stopped walking and sat down on a bench under a streetlight so I could think properly. Why was Babette here for auditions? Sure, we were close to LA, but it wasn’t as if Phoenix was known as a hotbed of young talent. Or wait, maybe we were. There were a couple of great children’s theaters here, one of which had produced the young actress Emma Stone. Still, it seemed weird. Something to ask Candy about. Or Babette, if she was still with Candy.
I walked the rest of the way to Seamus McCaffrey’s, opened the door, and was greeted by the smell of fried food, whiskey, and beer. I grabbed a booth near the back for Candy and me and ordered a Guinness. Plus some french fries. I was always starving after a show.
It being pretty late on a weeknight, the pub was quiet. I leaned back against the booth and reveled in a few minutes of calm (plus beer and french fries). Though I’d never been to Ireland, Seamus McCaffrey’s seemed like what a neighborhood Irish pub should be: cozy dark wood booths scuffed from regular use; a long bar, its stools filled with regulars; and rows of whiskey bottles behind the counter, backlit so they glowed like golden treasures.
Eleven o’clock came and went. So did my french fries. I wandered up to the bar, ordered another beer, and took it with me to the jukebox. Five songs for a dollar. I flipped through the titles and put some quarters in the slot. Johnny Cash’s version of “The Long Black Veil” began to play, and I took my beer back to the booth. After the song ended, “Pretty Woman” by Roy Orbison started up. Candy walked in the door as if on cue. She didn’t see me at first, so I was able to take another good look at her. Yeah, way too skinny, dressed in a tight low-cut top, a short skirt, and booties with five-inch heels. Hobbled by the too-high heels, she took tiny steps and her walk looked studied, like she thought people might be watching her. They were. They always had. Candy used to exude a sort of friendly sexuality: she was the kind of girl guys wanted to roll in the hay with and then take home to Mother. That was gone, replaced by a more traditional sexpot look. The way people watched her was different too. I saw censure in the eyes of women: Candy was too much—too much makeup, too much cleavage, too much Hollywood to fit in at a pub on a weeknight. And the men who watched her didn’t smile and nudge each other, like I was used to with Candy. No, they appraised her, like a car they might buy.
A peculiar tightness wound itself around my chest. It took me a minute to identify it. Fear. I was afraid for my friend.
Candy saw me and smiled. It was an actor’s smile. “Hey, girlfriend.”
I stood up as she reached the booth. She hugged me. I could feel all the bones in her back, each vertebra.
“Sorry I’m late. Damn munchkins.”
So she was going to keep lying. This was so weird. If I were treating her like my best friend, I would ask her why she lied. But I had decided Candy was a case, someone I was investigating, so I decided to play by PI rules instead. Uncle Bob had taught me that calling out people on their secrets often clammed them up for good.
Candy slid into the seat opposite me in the booth.
I gave her another chance. “So the munchkins ran late?”
“Yeah. How’d your show go?”
I tried not to show my disappointment with her. Good thing I was an actor. “Good—hey, you want to come tomorrow night?”
“Sorry, can’t.”
No explanation. I once read that men don’t expect people to offer excuses when they say no, but women need to hear the reason behind the rejection. It might not be true for everyone, but it was for me. “Why not?”
“Got a meeting. With a producer.”
When I first started working at my uncle’s detective agency, he taught me to watch people’s eyes when questioning them. “First ask them a question you know the answer to,” he said, “and see what direction they look.” I’d asked Candy about the munchkins to give her a chance to come clean, and to employ this tactic. When she lied, she looked up and to the right. Those were her lying eyes, to quote an old Eagles’ song. But when she said she had to meet a producer, she looked to the left. So she was telling the truth. Huh. “That’s crazy. You move to LA for a film career but land a meeting with a producer here in Phoenix.”
Candy shrugged. “Crazy. But hey, maybe you can come by rehearsal tomorrow afternoon? We can catch up in between my scenes.”
“Sure.” I was supposed to be at the office, but I would make it work. I’d take whatever time with Candy I could get.
She flagged down a passing waitress. “Could I get an order of fish and chips and a white wine?”
The fish and chips seemed like a good sign. At least she was eating. “Um,” I leaned into her, “you may not remember, but this is not exactly a wine bar.”
“But beer makes me bloated.” Candy made a face, a strange babyish pout. “Oh. Hey.” She brightened. “Miss,” she called to the waitress, “could you make that a Jameson? A double, please.” She leaned back again and smiled at a place just beyond my ear. “Phew. Long day. First I had to get my hair done. Made an appointment with Ricky when I knew I was coming into town.”
Ricky was a mutual friend, a theater hairdresser and an amazing stylist, but even he hadn’t been able to help Candy’s hair, which hung like dingy sheets on either side of her face. “I miss the curls, but I had to go straight—straight hair, I mean.” Candy giggled, a high flirtatious sound, the polar opposite of her typical throaty laugh.
“Really?” I took a sip of my beer. “I would’ve thought curly hair would set you apart from—”
But Candy’s mouth was off and running. “Then I had lunch with an old friend.” I would’ve been jealous that she ditched me for another old friend if her eyes hadn’t trailed to her lying place again. “Then rehearsal, a quick dinner break, and the auditions.” Candy finally stopped to take a breath, mostly because the waitress had dropped off her whiskey.
“Hard to believe they’re going to allow you all in the theater tomorrow. Aren’t they worried?”
“About what? Chandelier already came down, darlin’. And it was the Lady in White, ya know. Nothin’ to do with the theater being old as God.” She winked at me and I relaxed a little. The Candy I knew was still in there after all.
“Anyone say what caused the chandelier to fall?”
“Besides the ghost?” She shrugged. “Nah. Just an accident, I guess. One of the bolts that held it to the ceiling came loose.” She sipped her whiskey. In big gulps.
“So tell me about touring life.”
“Not much to tell. We perform, we get on a bus, we pull into a hotel—though lots of the time it’s more like a motel.” She made a face. “Omigod, you should’ve seen the place we stayed in in Albuquerque. I don’t mind someone else’s hair when it’s on their head, but when it’s in my shower, no thank you, and—” Candy was fast-talking again.
“Where are you staying here?”
“Just a few streets down, at the Courtyard Marriott. One of the best places we’ve stayed so far.”
Good. First piece of information acquired. “Do you have a roommate?”
“Of course. Everyone does, except Dorothy and the Wicked Witch of the West. They have the same agent—negotiated private rooms for both of them. Mine didn’t negotiate squat.” The waitress dropped off Candy’s fish and chips. It smelled glorious.
“Who are you rooming with?”
“I was rooming with Normina, who plays Auntie Em and the Wicked Witch of the East. But she’s in the hospital for a while, bless her heart.” I had my second piece of info, but I wasn’t happy. Mostly because Candy looked positively gleeful. After someone had a horrible accident. Maybe it was just the fish and chips that made her happy. She was eating like a starving woman.
I tried to give her a break. “Normina did seem...” I search for a kind word to describe the witch I’d met.
“She’s a bitch. But it might be because of Arrestadt…Well, speak of the devil.” She beamed at someone over my shoulder,
then whispered to me, “I figured you wouldn’t mind meeting a famous Hollywood director.”
I pasted a smile on my face. Normally I would have been thrilled to meet Arrestadt, not just because he was famous, but because I thought his work was genius. Tonight, though, Arrestadt’s presence felt like one more way for Candy to avoid talking to me.
The director slid into the booth next to Candy. “Hi Ivy.” He extended a hand to me. “Great to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.” He had? And yet Candy hadn’t told me she knew him at all. Hadn’t even told me she had this touring gig until a few days ago.
“Speak of the devil, you said.” Arrestadt leaned into Candy. “You were talking about me?”
“Sort of. About Normina. I know it’s awful for me to say, but I’m so glad to be rid of her for a while.” She drained the last of her drink.
Arrestadt’s brow furrowed, but it didn’t make him any less good-looking. He was fortyish with graying temples and blue-black hair swept off his face, tousled like it had dried in a sea breeze. This being the desert, I knew it was achieved by a blow dryer, but still, the effect was there. “I wish we could come up with a different roommate for you,” he said. “But there’s just Eden, and I don’t think—”
“Yeah.” Candy pouted again. Part of her new look, I guessed.
Dorothy and the Wicked Witch of the West had private rooms, the Wicked Witch of the East was Candy’s roommate, and Candy played Glinda. There was only one other female character I could think of. “Does Eden play Auntie Em?” I asked.
“Now she does,” said Arrestadt.
“She does?” said Candy.
“Eden is the tour’s wardrobe mistress, but she used to act,” Arrestadt said to me. “She’s agreed to fill in as Auntie Em and the Wicked Witch of the East. Normina played both roles. We’ll work Eden in at rehearsal tomorrow.”
“But…Eden. She’ll probably put a spell on me.” Pout number three from Candy. Where, oh where was the sunny girl I knew?
