by Cindy Brown
The dressing rooms were right ahead of me. The door to Candy’s was ajar. Arrestadt sat in a chair facing the mirror. His reflected mouth was slack and drooping, his eyes focused on the counter. I sat down in on a chair next to him, and he met my eyes in the mirror.
“She never called,” he said. “Last night or this morning.”
“She usually does?”
“Yeah.” He almost smiled. “We talk to each other every night, a good night call.” I almost smiled too, thinking of my nightly calls with Matt. “And if one of us misses it—we’re at a party or something—we always call in the morning. But she didn’t. So I went to her hotel room—she always gets me an extra key—but she wasn’t there, and it didn’t look like her bed had been slept in. I came down here to her dressing room next.” He stood up. “Didn’t you say you’d seen her things here yesterday?”
“Yeah.” I looked around the empty room. “They’re not here now. Or at least not in the same place.” The dressing room’s counter had a few drawers built underneath. I opened each one.
“Already did that.” Arrestadt pushed his hair off his face. “Her things aren’t here. Hey, what’s up with your voice? You feeling okay?”
“Just allergies,” I lied. Didn’t want Arrestadt keeping me away from the theater or the cast while I was looking for Candy. I pulled out my phone and called her number. It rang into my ear, but not anywhere in the room. Her cell phone was definitely gone. “Did you talk to security?”
“Yeah. Candace never signed out last night. And the only people who have signed in since then have been technical theater personnel.”
“She could’ve walked out the front doors after the reception last night.” I said it to reassure myself as much as Arrestadt. “And one of the theater personnel could have grabbed her things for her.” Maybe Candy and Logan made up? “Plus there were a ton of people here last night for the reception. Maybe one of them came back here with a cast member.”
Arrestadt brightened. “That’s possible. We can check with the rest of the cast this afternoon.”
“We can check? Does this mean you want to, um, hire me to find Candy?”
“Yes.” Arrestadt turned to me. “I’d also like to hire you to understudy all the female roles in the show.”
“You want me to go undercover?” I shook my head. “I don’t think—”
“No. Undercover won’t work. Candace told too many of the cast that you’re a PI.” Good, we were on the same page. “But if you’re here all of the time, you’ll have a better excuse to talk to the cast and really check out the theater. You can begin at this afternoon’s rehearsal.”
“Another rehearsal?”
“Probably a couple.” Unusual for a show already on tour. Guess Arrestadt was a perfectionist. “With everything happening last week, we only managed one rehearsal on set,” he said. “We still need to rehearse the two new munchkins we hired, plus Eden and the new Scarecrow could use some stage time. It works out well: you can talk to the cast, maybe find out a little bit more about the theater too.”
“The building, you mean?”
Arrestadt nodded. “I’m also concerned about the accidents. We’ve had a few in other venues.”
Hmm. Had Desirée downplayed them? “I’ve been meaning to ask about the old Scarecrow.”
“That was different.”
“Different how?”
Arrestadt waved the question away. “Doesn’t matter. What does matter is that the accidents have ramped up since we’ve been in this theater. It’s a miracle that chandelier didn’t kill anyone. Or that no one was hurt during that runaway incident. I don’t know if any of it could be connected to Candace’s disappearance, but...” His face blanched. “Hey. Do you hear that?”
I held my breath and listened. Nothing. “I can’t hear anything. My ears are stopped up because of my allergies—”
“Shhh.” Arrestadt leaned forward, neck outstretched like he was trying to get close to something. Then he shook his head and sat back.
“What was it?”
“Singing. I heard a woman singing. Behind the mirror.”
I didn’t say anything. After all, people sang in theaters all the time.
“It sounded like…Do you know if the Lady in White sang?”
“Uh...not sure. Do you want me to check?”
“No, no.” He gave me a tremulous smile. “I think I’m a little spooked, what with Candace disappearing and all these accidents.”
“I’ll do my best to find out what’s going on.”
“Good.” Arrestadt rose. “So we’ll see you at rehearsal—from one to nine with a dinner break. Okay?”
“Sure, but...” We were forgetting something. I just knew it.
“Oh.” Arrestadt took something out of his briefcase. A script. Yeah, that was it.
“Thanks, Ivy. Hope you like the script, and the cast. Oh, and...” Arrestadt took another sheaf of papers out of the briefcase. “Your contracts.”
I glanced at the three sheaves of stapled papers he gave me. The first was a standard Duda Detectives contract for PI services I’d emailed him after our call this morning. The second paid me for rehearsal time as an understudy for the amount of time the tour would be in Phoenix. And the third...I flipped through its pages. “Um…” I held up the contract. “This contract? I think there’s a mistake. It’s for the entire six-month tour.”
“Yeah. Look it over. You’ll see I didn’t sign it yet. We can talk about it at the end of the week, see how you’re working out.”
“Still a little confused.”
“The way things have been going, we could use an understudy for the tour. And we may need a Glinda right away.” Arrestadt closed his briefcase. “In case Candace never comes back.”
Chapter 23
Was She Really a Victim?
“Hey, I brought you lunch.” I stood in the doorway of Duda Detectives office and held up a white paper bag from Miracle Mile Deli. For once, it didn’t smell like stinky liver. Well, it probably did, but for once I couldn’t smell it. Guess there were some benefits to having a head cold. “Did you get my message?”
Uncle Bob didn’t turn from his computer. “The one where you said you’d be in an hour ago and leaving at twelve thirty?”
“I know. Sorry. I had a meeting that went longer than expected.” I put the bag down in front of him.
“At least when you’re late I get lunch delivered. Hey, where’s yours?”
“I already ate.” It wasn’t true. What was true is that I might have to fit into stick-figure Candy’s costume if she didn’t return by Thursday. “And this is my treat.” The unexpected paparazzi photo cash had me feeling flush (plus I was feeling bad about being late again). “Achoo!” I covered my sneeze with my hand. “Ack. Could you pass me a Kleenex?”
“No Kleenex, since someone hasn’t made it to Costco recently.” Uncle Bob handed me one of his napkins. The rough recycled paper did not feel kind to my nose, but it would have to do. Uncle Bob pulled out his white-paper-wrapped liverwurst on rye and grinned at it like a long-lost friend.
“So you forgive me for being late?”
He mumbled something through the big bite of sandwich he’d just taken. I could just make out the word “Costco.”
“If I promise to go to Costco and get Kleenex?”
Uncle Bob swallowed. “And ink and copy paper and snacks and...” He paused dramatically. “Coffee.”
“No. Don’t tell me we’re out of coffee.” Coffee would wake up my brain, fill up my stomach, and feel good on my throat, which was beginning to feel not just scratchy but sore. I practically ran to our office’s little coffee station, which consisted of a beat-up Mr. Coffee maker, some mugs with quotes on them (my favorite said “Starter Fluid”), a couple of filters, and a bag of ground coffee. I picked it up. It was woefully light, but just enough for
a half pot. Phew. “I’ll go to Costco tonight. Oops, I have rehearsal tonight. I’ll go tomorrow morning. First thing.”
“I thought you just finished the show.”
“I did. This is for another gig—one that involves some work for Duda Detectives.” I made coffee while I filled Uncle Bob in on my meeting with Arrestadt. As I finished up, he did too, popping the last of his sandwich in his mouth. My stomach growled. God help me, I was so hungry that even liverwurst looked good. But if I could drop a few pounds, maybe I’d get more film work. I poured myself a cup of coffee instead.
“You know how I feel about investigating friends,” said Uncle Bob.
“But this is different. Arrestadt hired me, and he hired me because I’m the best person for the job, on account of the fact that I know Candy and I understand the acting life.”
“All right.” My uncle sighed. “You’re both seriously concerned about Candy?”
“Yes and no,” I said. “I’m worried, but I can’t imagine foul play. I mean, who would want to hurt Candy?”
Uncle Bob looked at me with eyes that had seen too much. I turned away and trundled on. “But she may be harming herself. I’m pretty sure she’s bulimic or taking some sort of pills or both. And then there are the accidents. There have been more than just the two this week. And no one wants to talk about what happened to the former Scarecrow. Something just feels...off.”
“And this Arrestadt guy actually hired you to find Candy?”
“Yeah. He’s even paying me double. One contract for the PI work, and another one to act as understudy for the company, so I can get closer to the cast and crew.” I didn’t tell Uncle Bob about the third contract. I didn’t know what to think about it. A national tour would be a huge step for me career-wise, but it also meant I’d be out of town for the next six months. Away from my PI job. From Matt. From Cody.
Dang.
I got out my phone and dialed my brother’s group home. When one of the guys picked up, I said, “Hey, it’s Olive-y. Can you get Stephen for me?” I knew Cody was at work, and didn’t completely trust his housemates to deliver messages (I’d once said something about needing to go to bed which by the time the message got to Cody sounded like I was propositioning my own brother). “Hi,” I said when Stephen picked up the phone. He’d replaced Matt at the group home after Matt graduated. Well, sort of. There was no replacing Matt. In fact, after he stopped working at the group home, Cody missed Matt so much we decided to have weekly double dinner dates with him and Sarah. Our typical night was Monday, since theaters were usually dark and I wouldn’t have a show. “Can you tell Cody I need to reschedule dinner tonight?” I asked Stephen. “I have an unexpected job.”
“Will do.”
I called Matt next and left the same message on his voicemail. Then I called Sarah, Cody’s girlfriend.
“Hello?” Sarah’s voice was deep and soft.
“Afflooo!”
“Who is this? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, sorry, it’s Ivy.” I wiped my nose with the rough, slightly soggy napkin. “I was calling to let you know that I need to reschedule dinner tonight.”
“That’s okay. Cody can’t make it anyway. Didn’t he call you?”
“No.” That was odd. “What’s up?”
“He’s so excited,” Sarah said, pride in her voice. “He has an audition.”
We chatted for a minute more. “Cody tell you anything about an audition?” I asked my uncle after I hung up.
“Not on our last call.” Uncle Bob called Cody a couple times a month, just to check in.
“Huh. Maybe he wants to surprise us. About the audition, I mean.”
“Say that again. That last bit.”
“Um...about the audition, I mean.”
“You do realize you said ‘I bean,’ right? What are you going to do about that cold? I mean, this understudy gig involves acting, right?”
“And singing.” Crap. “I don’t know.”
“Still not taking cold medicine?” Uncle Bob knew I avoided it after some bad reactions in the past. I shook my head. He turned to his computer. “Let me see what I can find for you.”
I refilled my coffee cup, sat down at my computer, and tried to see if I could find out anything online about any other accidents connected with The Wizard: A Space OZpera. Nothing in the news. I tried a few online theater forums. I found out they were auditioning munchkins and replacing the Scarecrow, but that was it. I’d have to do any sleuthing the old-fashioned way, by questioning people.
On to my next task: finding Candy. But, yikes, was that the time? “Hey, Uncle Bob, what can you tell me about finding a missing person in just a few minutes?”
Uncle Bob leaned back in his chair. “Tell me again about Candy’s disappearance.”
“She was late for the reception on Sunday. Everyone else was already there when she came down the spiral staircase. Right before the one-eyed portrait spurted blood.”
Uncle Bob raised a shaggy eyebrow in a question, and I told him about the painting. “She must have left the lobby in all the confusion, but no one saw her. And no one saw her after that. I asked around, and looked for her all over the theater.”
“Why? Why were you immediately worried?”
“Well, we had a fight the night before and...”
“So maybe she just didn’t want to see you?”
“Sure. Maybe. But no one else saw her either.”
Uncle Bob’s eyebrow now had a decidedly skeptical bent. “Go on.”
“I went to her dressing room. No sign of her, but she left behind her purse and phone.”
The eyebrow looked interested.
“Then Arrestadt—the director, and Candy’s boyfriend, I guess...” I didn’t like admitting to myself that Candy hadn’t told me they were dating. “He called Monday morning and said that Candy had missed her nightly call. Her bed hadn’t been slept in.”
The eyebrow looked worried. “Anything wrong with the room? Stuff turned over or blood anywhere?”
“I saw it last night. There were just two things missing — a photo of Candy and Arrestadt in Paris and her stash of MoonPies. I’m sure Arrestadt would’ve told me if he saw anything this morning. One more thing: when he went to her dressing room this morning, Candy’s purse and cell phone were gone.”
Uncle Bob’s eyebrow returned to its normal “nothing to see here” place. “It sounds like she did a runner.”
“But why? Things are going perfectly for her: She’s got a great touring contract, a famous director boyfriend, and now this It Girl thing.”
“In my experience, people run away for one of two reasons: either they don’t like the life they lead, or they don’t like who they are. That said, that stuff is best left to psychologists. Our job is just to find them. So, first thing, make a list of all her known associates...”
“Known associates,” I repeated out loud. I loved PI language.
“Then contact those associates.”
“Perfect,” I said. “I’ll go do that right now.”
“Don’t you have rehearsal?”
“Where do you think Candy’s known associates are going to be?”
I had just enough time to stop at the Phoenix Police Station on the way to the theater. “Is Detective Pinkstaff here?” I asked the woman staffing the reception desk. She nodded. “Could you tell him that Olive Ziegwart would like a few minutes of his time?” She spoke into a phone, then pressed a button. A door buzzed open and I walked through. Sort of like the security at the theater, but with better uniforms.
Detective Pinkstaff, or Pink, was one of my uncle’s best friends. He’d become one of mine too, even though he was about twenty years older than me. He appeared to have a teeny unrequited crush on me, but he was also a good man who had helped me out several times before.
“Hey, Olive.” Pink stood as
I walked into his office.” He wore his typical uniform: dark pants and a wrinkled short-sleeved shirt.
“Hey.” I pointed at his chest pocket. “Where’s your pen?”
“We got a new commander. Guy told me I looked unprofessional because sometime I got ink on my shirt. Unprofessional.” Pink snorted. “You should see this guy. Got a haircut musta cost a hundred bucks, pretty shiny shoes, and some cologne makes him smell like a girl. Probably spends more time looking in a mirror than he does at the firing range. That’s unprofessional. Anyway,” he motioned to a chair and sat back down behind his desk, “what can I do for you?”
I stayed standing. “Can’t stay.” I handed him the pill I’d found in Candy’s bag. “But I was hoping you could help me figure out what this is. I already tried all the pill ID sites.”
He looked at it, opened his top drawer, took out some reading glasses, shoved them on his face, and examined the pill more closely. “Don’t recognize it. Why do you need to know?”
I explained my fears for Candy. “Sounds like you think it might be some sort of diet pill,” he said. “You got your phone?”
I didn’t understand why he wanted to know, but nodded.
He laid the pill on his desktop blotter. “Take a couple pictures of it, in case you need to reference it later. I’ll take it down to the lab.”
I did, and then I ran around the desk to hug him. “Thank you.”
“I’m not saying they’ll do this favor for me, though there is a certain redhead who gives me donuts every time I come in—and don’t you dare make a crack about cops and donuts.”
I wouldn’t. I loved donuts. My stomach growled at the thought of a fresh apple fritter, or maybe a chocolate glazed donut, or a cake doughnut dunked in freshly brewed coffee, or...
“I’ll see if she recognizes it. Anything else I can do for you?”
“No thanks, that’s all, ah ah ah...Afllechhh! Um, actually,” I kept one hand over my nose while I pointed to a box on his desk with the other, “could I have some of those Kleenex?”
