The Darkness of Ivy

by Jessica King

  “I’d kill Ivy if her hair was too blond,” Vince said, from where he now laid on the carpet.

  Joyce reached out her boot to kick Vince’s.

  A muffled, “I’m kidding” came from beneath the arm. He threw an arm across his face to block the harsh fluorescents, and Ivy asked if he had finally decided to take a nap.

  “What about this?” Ivy asked, her fingers wrapped around expensive cardstock. “Using black magic to win best actress is not a win. Please decline your nomination and let the true winner take the Oscar, or you will be forced from the stage forever.” Ivy examined the envelope. The address was printed in dark-blue ink. No return address, no stamps. The navy wax had no seal in it, just a dried blob.

  “Sinister,” Joyce said.

  “Pretty blunt, too,” Ivy said, her eyebrows pulling together. “I guess, why be cryptic if you’re anonymous?”

  “Hmm,” Joyce said, her attention back on the computer screen.

  “There are no stamps, though,” Ivy said, taking her turn to knock Vince’s boot, and his head popped up.

  “Half the world could easily figure out where she lives. There’s a mailbox at the end of that driveway for this sort of thing. I doubt her bills are left where any tourist could come by and see them,” Vince said, speaking to the ceiling.

  “But do you think this is a credible threat?” Ivy asked. “Would someone really attack her at the Oscars?”

  “Might actually be simpler than reaching her in that mansion. At the Oscars, it might be easier to distract her bodyguards. There won’t be locks on the doors or an electric fence to hop over.”

  “Weapons?”

  “Dunno,” Vince said. “But I’d say that it would be easier for someone to reach her there than anywhere else. And it’s a public place; they might be able to slip through unnoticed. And with so many famous people, they could cause enough chaos to get away.”

  “That’s less than two weeks away,” Ivy said.

  “Wait, wait,” Joyce said. “Read the message again.”

  Ivy repeated the note.

  “Let the true winner take the Oscar,” Joyce said. “Who is the ‘true winner’?”

  Ivy pulled out her phone. “I don’t know films,” she mumbled, googling the nominees.

  “You said that your mother got a note about not taking a promotion. The only people who would be invested in that type of thing enough to blackmail your mother would be the other people up for the promotion, right?”

  “So, you think one of the other nominees might be trying to push her out of the running?” Vince said, interested enough to raise himself back onto his elbows.

  “That or maybe a superfan of some sort, but that stationery you’re holding looks pretty expensive to me,” Joyce said. “Does it have a watermark on the back?”

  Ivy flipped the paper over to see a light outline of an envelope with wings on it. “The Embossary,” Ivy said, and Joyce tapped at Ivy’s keyboard.

  “Two hundred dollars for a pack of 25 envelopes and flat cards,” Joyce said.

  “Not a bad point,” Vince said. “So, whoever wrote this either drops big bucks on their letter writing or drops big bucks on everything because they’re rich.”

  “If one of those women plans to go through with this threat, I’m sure they could pay off enough people and pull enough strings to get a shooter inside the Dolby Theatre for the ceremony,” Joyce said.

  “It’s a start,” Ivy said, nodding. She downed the rest of her Red Bull. “Let’s make quick work of the rest of this stuff, but I think we have our lead.”

  Vince flopped back down to the floor.

  “Can’t let you in if the red light is on,” the kid said apologetically. He was covered in acne and looked like he hadn’t slept in a few days, and the way he was slowly moving his backpack beneath his chair told Ivy there was something he probably shouldn’t have hiding in there.

  Ivy looked down both ends of the long hallway. It was empty and silent, assistants just like this one posted up to stop people from entering the set.

  And the fact that he feared the director’s wrath of interrupting a shoot more than he did of getting a fine or being arrested made Ivy very concerned for Theo, as he had now introduced himself.

  “Well, Theo,” Vince said, pulling his hand away from the handshake. “When do you think this shoot will be over?” The kid shrugged his shoulders. “It’s been on and off all—”

  Before Theo could tell them if it’d been all day, all week, or all of his life (which was Ivy’s best guess) since they’d been working on this movie, the light blinked out, and Theo whipped open the door for them. A chorus of people yelling, “Cut!” echoed all around the building.

  “Stepping in!” at least five different people said as they rushed onto the set, a tiny, well-lit island in the darkness of the warehouse they’d just stepped into.

  The crew covered the actors in more makeup, more hairspray, and someone gave water to a guy who appeared to be an extra. Several people walked past them, paying no attention and talking into walkie talkies. Random objects that seemed to have nothing in common were scattered across the space. Maybe she just wasn’t creative enough, but Ivy saw no point for a shield and a pair of expensive sunglasses to appear in the same film.

  “Excuse me,” Ivy said to someone who looked like an assistant rushing past. “10-1!” she said, with a bit too much force before running toward the restrooms.

  Vince stalked toward the director, passing through several actors dressed nearly identical to him. Ivy hurried behind, trying not to look hurried at all. Although Ivy tended to be the faster walker of the two of them, Vince’s long legs were difficult to keep up with once they decided to get a move on. Vince walked up to a man standing behind several screens, who was yelling a series of commands, to which lights and cameras and PAs moved to like planets in orbit.

  “Excuse me,” Vince said.

  The director looked him up and down before yelling, “Wardrobe!” and moving his attention back to the screen.

  A person covered in yards of fabric skittered up to Vince and offered him a patch that looked like a rather accurate recreation of their own badges.

  “No,” Vince said, and the girl’s eyes widened in a way that made Ivy hold back a laugh. He took another step toward the director, who was now forced to look up to meet Vince’s eyes. “LAPD,” he said, which caused two nearby producers to snap their heads toward her and Vince. “We need to talk to Serena Adderley,” Vince said, pointing to a woman in her early thirties picking at a nail and rehearsing her lines in a whisper.

  The director attempted a smile, though it looked like he’d merely clenched his teeth. His bald head was shiny with sweat, and a pair of blue-rimmed glasses hung from a gold chain. “Who are you?”

  “Vince Benton,” Vince said, pulling out his badge. “This is my partner, Detective Hart.” Taking a moment to look over the much more realistic duty belt, badge, and vest made for utility and not aesthetics, he groaned.

  “Fine. Fine!” He threw up his arms, revealing dark pit stains. “That’s lunch!” He turned to Vince. “How long would you expect this to take?”

  Vince held his hands in front of him, palms up as though he were the scales of justice. “Kind of depends on her answers there,” he said.

  “Quick,” he said before turning on his heel and walking toward the back of the warehouse and away from the set. “Chicken today?” he asked a producer as they walked out of earshot.

  Serena was standing from a dainty chair by the time they reached her. She’d slipped her feet from her heels, rotating her ankles in turn.

  “Serena Adderley?” Ivy asked as they walked up to the woman. Her hair was in big waves, though her makeup was understated. The set led Ivy to believe they’d stepped into a 1950s diner.

  Giant lights powered down, and Serena blinked at them, adjusting to the newfound darkness. “Yes?” she said. She squeezed her eyes before taking the step down onto the warehouse floor. “Can I ge
t some flats?” she yelled, and a PA popped out of nowhere with a pair of rhinestone flip flops. “Thanks,” she said, slipping her feet into them. The PA disappeared just as mysteriously as he had appeared, and Serena rolled out her neck. “Can I help you?” she asked, searching for an answer somewhere between their faces.

  “We just have a few questions,” Ivy said.

  “Of course, I want to win, but I don’t wish her any physical harm,” Serena said, offended at the mere suggestion. “I don’t know her super well, but you can check my social media. We’ve always been super nice to each other online—I totally support what she does. Only met her in person a few times, but she’s just really sweet. Like a little French fairy or something.” She waved a hand. “And look,” she said, “don’t bother your time with Tillie. I worked with four or five years ago, the woman wouldn’t hurt a fly. Literally.” She carefully moved a long curl over her shoulder and fanned herself. “Sorry, still hot from the lights.” A PA ran up to her with a hand fan, and she thanked them. “But no, seriously, I saw her take a caterpillar outside with a napkin rather than have someone stomp it. And she was, like, a huge supporter of Aline getting the role in that new TV show.”

  “And you don’t think she’d maybe be jealous that someone she supported is now getting more popular than her?” Ivy asked.

  Serena rolled her eyes. “I wish I could say yes, but still no. She thrives on stuff like that. Like, genuinely one of the nicest people I’ve met in show business. She fished her phone out of the bag another PA had delivered to her—how many were there?—and turned it on. “And I know we all say stuff like that about each other, but I’m not on camera, so…”

  “And what about Dominique and Reaghan?” Vince asked

  “I don’t know Dominique, and I’ve only met Reaghan for a talk show before, so I don’t know much about her, but she didn’t seem murder-y to me.”

  “Most murderers don’t seem murder-y,” Ivy said.

  Serena shrugged. “Guess that’s fair. Everyone acts a little bit.” An assistant who looked too much like the female version of Nathan, with scripts and phones stacked in each hand, offered Serena a phone.

  “Peter,” was all she said before Serena grinned and took the phone.

  “We’ll be in touch,” Vince said.

  As they walked back through the crowd of fake police officers by the door, Ivy felt as though she were trying to act like a “real” police officer, despite the fact that she was, indeed, a real police officer. And maybe she was imagining it, but was Vince swaggering a bit?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Wednesday, February 15, 2017, 1:34 p.m.

  “She says she’d rather die than not attend the Academy Awards,” Emily said. She was out of breath, probably from running all over that giant house, and her breathing crackled over the speakerphone.

  Ivy let her head fall back on the headrest of her chair. Sunlight breaking through the blinds slanted across her closed eyes, and she groaned.

  “Did you tell her that very well might be the option?” Vince said from her side, and Ivy shot him a cutting look, though she doubted it looked very intimidating with her squinting. He shrugged, and Ivy tilted her head to the side in concession. He wasn’t wrong. When she closed her eyes again, little blue spots danced across her vision.

  “I did,” Emily said, exasperated. “I told her a million times.”

  Vince’s phone rang, and he retreated to his desk.

  “Look, we can only do so much, but if she plans to go to this thing, you’re going to need to make some more extensive security plans specifically revolving around Miss Rousseau,” Ivy said. “I’ll see what I can do on my end, but keep trying to convince her.” Ivy picked at the dried coffee between the T and Y keys on her keyboard, and her fingernail scratched against it loud enough to make the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

  They’d met with Tillie, who, first of all, was a sugar-and-spice grandma if Ivy had ever met one, and second of all, matched exactly with Serena’s explanation of her. She’d raved over not only Aline but all three of the younger women she was up against for the Oscar. And then she’d shown them several pictures of her grandchildren and offered them a snack—she kept homemade peppermint bark in her purse year-round. Dominique, who had seemed quiet and timid for an actress, hadn’t raised any red flags, either; they’d be meeting with Reaghan after she returned from Iceland for shooting.

  “She’s stubborn,” was Emily’s only reply before thanking Ivy and telling her to have a good day.

  Ivy didn’t mention the fact that she’d already spilled coffee on her desk, so that no, it probably wasn’t going to be a good day at all.

  Ivy refreshed the “WIP” setting on the Kingsmen website again. There was now listed a woman in Florida from the line of Martha Eaton, a supposed ninth reincarnation. At least the killer would have to take a five-hour flight to the next target, not something he was likely to do if there were a target still in town, albeit an incredibly popular and, hopefully, extremely well-guarded target.

  “Please tell me Ivan has something,” Ivy said, looking over to where Vince had just hung up the phone. Vince kicked his feet up onto his desk, where the wood was worn from this near-constant position.

  “He has better than ‘something,’” Vince said.

  Ivan had a name.

  “Jeremiah Ethan,” Ivan said, spreading out a series of papers over the top of Ivy’s desk. “Tech guru, former military. Did some sort of hacking of enemy computers alongside fieldwork, injured, returned home for good in 2009. I pinged the changes made to the server this morning at 4:45 a.m. back to his residence—a mobile home in Mission Hills.”

  “Okay,” Ivy said, and she zoomed in on the satellite map to get a good look at the home. If there were any outdoor cameras, she couldn’t see them.

  Ivan pulled one of the papers closer. “Recent purchases include a flight to Mississippi—”

  Ivy pulled her keyboard to the side and started typing. “Less than a five-hour drive to the next victim in Fort Walton Beach, Florida.”

  Vince started typing the Mission Hills address into his phone.

  “A book on Amazon featuring diary entries from the Salem Witch Trials and some sort of all-natural cleaner.” A picture of the bottle stared up at them, an Earth grinning because the cleaner contained “Zero Harsh Chemicals!” and “Earth-Loving Goodness!” which probably just meant that the cleaner was mostly lemon water.

  “Good to know our murderer cares about the environment,” Ivy said, grabbing her and Vince’s coats from the coatrack and tossing a set of keys to Vince. “Thanks, Ivan, we owe you one.” She draped their coats over her chair and opened the bottom drawer of her desk.

  “Let’s go,” Vince said, patting Ivan on the back before brushing past him to grab his coat. “When does that flight leave and come back?”

  “Monday coming back Saturday,” Ivan said.

  “Academy Awards are the next Sunday night,” Ivy said, walking as she strapped on her vest. It was heavy and instantly made Ivy heat up, warmth prickling at her neck. She pulled her hair up into a bun. “Tell Serg we’re going,” Ivy said to Ivan.

  She and Vince took the stairs, and Ivy downed deep breaths, imagining the adrenaline she felt concentrated in her hands and stomach moving all throughout her body, electric light running through her veins and into her muscles. She shook out her hands.

  “You good?” Vince asked, his feet pounding in sync with hers as they crossed the lobby and went out to the parking lot. The cement reflected brightly in her eyes, another relentlessly sunny California day making everything sparkle and bounce light.

  “All good,” Ivy said, nodding her head so that the bridge of her favorite sunglasses landed on her nose. She slid into the passenger seat and braced herself. Even with the sirens and lights and the LAPD sigil slapped across nearly every inch of the exterior, L.A. traffic was still a mess, even for a cop car.

  The front of the trailer was nearly hidden by greenery. A set
of mismatched trees that looked like they hadn’t been planted so much as haphazardly sprinkled riddled what little yard belonged to the home, and weeds grew between the cracks of the cement. The home must have originally been a brilliant white, but it was now gray all the way around, and brown at the bottom. A series of antennas sat on top of the structure—some looked far too old to still be in use, while others blinked against the cloudless blue of the afternoon.

  The sound of a first-person shooter game was turned up too loud inside, and Ivy pounded her fist to the point of pain against the rickety door. “LAPD!” Ivy yelled, reaching into her stomach for volume. Her fingers flittered at her hip.

  The shooting noises stopped, though a snarling sound started on the other side of the door. The door shook with the thud of what must have been a dog scraping its claws against the door. “Restrain your dog, and open the door,” Ivy said.

  “Yes, yes,” a voice said on the other side, sounding unimpressed. There was a series of hushing sounds, and a “C’mon, Tyler!” before the scratching noises stopped. A moment later, the door opened to a man in his thirties, bent over and holding onto the collar of a rather vicious-looking dog.

  “Sorry, protective rottweiler. Let me put him in the other room,” the man said. He looked up at them with beady blue eyes that were too small for his face.

  “Nope, I’ll do it,” Ivy said. “You’re staying here with my partner.” She slipped her hand under the dog’s collar, which he did not seem to enjoy at all. “Where should I put him that he will be comfortable?”

  “H-he can go in the laundry room,” the man said. “What is this about?” His hands drifted up so Vince could see his open palms. Ivy moved toward the laundry room, making a quick scan for weapons. The linoleum tile was yellow, though it looked brown from layered footprints through the middle of the floor. Only a washer and a clothesline were in the small laundry room, as well as a mostly mangled dog bed and a horrific pile of mail atop the washer. She closed the door, and the dog resumed its scraping and thumping.