The Darkness of Ivy

by Jessica King

  Ivy didn’t know. She’d always wished her mother had left something behind for her. A legacy or a mark on the world she could make greater. And now, finding that legacy and that mark, and wanting nothing to do with it, watching someone else taking the torch and carry it forward… She felt jealous.

  “Oh, before you go!” Cassiopeia said. “One second.” She took a few scurrying steps over to the piano, shuffling through a series of loose pieces of sheet music. She pulled out one piece and handed it to Ivy. The page wasn’t covered in lines and notes, but rather a simply drawn outline of a human body. Specific areas were highlighted with paragraphs written in blue pen.

  “So, I don’t know if this would help,” she said, “but in witchcraft, different places on the body can often symbolize different things. And I noticed that some of the cards the killer left were in those places.” She pointed on the page to where the hand and lips and foot were highlighted. “It might just be a coincidence, but it might not be, right?”

  Ivy looked at the diagram. Lots of pieces were highlighted, but her eyes were drawn to the hand. The description next to it read: Contact and direction of power.

  Cassiopeia pointed to the lips. “So, for example, the lips would be associated with the incantations, spells, blessings, stuff like that. Maybe I took it wrong but seeing the card over that girl’s lips—it kind of seemed like the killer meant to silence her.”

  “Hmm,” Ivy said, moving her attention to where she was supposedly meant to leave a card on Amrita Patel. The description read: Wisdom and true sight. “What about this?” she asked, tapping on the area on the forehead representing the Third Eye.

  “Most chakra charts would tell you that the Third Eye is aligned with imagination or psychic abilities, spiritual vision, that type of thing.” She pointed in turn to her eyes, and then to the space above the break between her eyebrows. “Two eyes to look, one to see. And you’ll see it with a lot of major religions or cultural designs, and that’s where the Thalamus is, which is like, supposedly where our consciousness lives and is shaped nearly like an eye and whatnot. Think of the bhindi, people place that decoration to place emphasis there, to respect that part of the body. But, a lot of people warn against opening the Third Eye.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s supposed to be the “all-seeing-eye,” and it’s supposed to connect someone to the spiritual, open their consciousness. And that’s why they fear witches that have a connection to their Third Eye, that use it as a direction for their lives. They think it’s a connection to life and death, and that we somehow wield that power—like just because someone might be using their Third Eye to be more conscious of the spiritual world, that they’re also controlling spirits or something. It’s just mostly fear and misinformation.” She shrugged. “But they won’t listen to us, and they would never try to connect to their Third Eye themselves.”

  “Is that what you were doing with the Blessing of Wisdom,” Ivy said, trying to replicate the hand gestures that the women then pressed to their forehead.

  Cassiopeia reached out to her, moving her fingers to the correct places. Her rings—one on every finger—clinked together as she did. Cassiopeia nodded. “We don’t necessarily want you to start having prophetic visions or anything—” She yawned deeply. “But just wisdom in the case. It’s the only way we can help.” Another yawn. “I hope it helps you. But I know it helps them. Witchcraft is powerful, but guns are stronger. They’re scared.” She tightened her sweater around her, feeling a chill Ivy didn’t.

  “You should get some rest,” Ivy said, remembering her conversation with Chief Marks. Everyone was losing sleep on this case, not just her.

  Cassiopeia laughed. “That bad?” She scrubbed at her face, frowning when she realized she’d dragged mascara off her lashes and onto her skin.

  “Prickly pear seed oil,” Ivy said, picking up her bag. She pointed to the skin beneath her eyes.

  “Really?” Cassiopeia asked. “It works?”

  Ivy took a step away before saying, “Like magic.”

  Cassiopeia smiled.

  “Thank you for this,” Ivy said, waving the paper before escaping to her car, which didn’t smell like a thousand candles and where the silence didn’t echo with the words of enchantments.

  She still rolled down the window and turned on the radio. The California roads were packed, but the air was chilly, and the palm trees swayed happily despite it, which Ivy felt she was supposed to find some sort of meaning in but couldn’t.

  “And we’ll have all your coverage right here on 102.3 for the Oscars, aren’t you excited, Harry?” a woman’s voice asked.

  Ivy ran a hand through her hair and rolled up to a red light. The car next to her was bouncing from the group of kids inside blaring music loud enough that Ivy could feel each base drop through her seat and steering wheel.

  “I’d be more excited if I could get in, Marlene!” the co-host said, his words rounded, and his voice exaggerated.

  “Well,” Marlene said, “it looks like only a who’s who of Hollywood will be making it in this year.” Ivy yawned wide, straining to keep her eyes open and on the road.

  “They still have that lottery system for us nobodies, right?” Harry asked, laughing.

  Or front row tickets if you’re a nobody trying to solve a series of murders, Ivy thought.

  Marlene laughed with him. “Of course! But to get those you’ve got to enter that lottery in…November?”

  Ivy turned on the defrost, hoping it’d clear up the windshield, the blurry reflection of the streetlights and the annoying green blur of her turn signal across the glass. She wasn’t sure if it was too hot inside the car, too cold inside the car, or too humid inside or outside, but rolling up the window didn’t seem to be helping.

  “Actually, September, I think,” Harry said.

  “Something like that,” she said. “And there’s an extensive security screening process. We talked with the head of security at the Dolby Theatre and asked what precautions look like the day of, and apparently, Harry, they’ve got everything from drug dogs to snipers to keep our favorite movie stars safe during the festivities.”

  Ivy pulled into the parking lot of her apartment complex. She’d already learned about most of the security measures being taken and figured it had to be nearly impossible to get a weapon into the Dolby at all.

  “You mean I can’t sneak in my popcorn?” Harry asked.

  “I would not try that, Harry,” Marlene said, and the two of them laughed.

  Ivy turned off the car and trudged up the stairs to her apartment.

  +++

  Friday, February 24, 2017, 1:15 p.m.

  Ivy’s legs dangled from the upscale bar stool. She and her father both sipped on Moscow mules. “Little early for this,” Ivy said. She should have ordered something fruitier. There was grapefruit or something similar in her drink, but she suddenly wished for something bright red and mango-y.

  “It’s her birthday,” he said, staring straight ahead at the mirror behind the bar.

  Ivy looked at the fake greenery and twinkling lights that lit the interior of the restaurant. She knew that emerging back into the daylight after lunch in this place would be jarring, like she’d experienced twilight before the afternoon and had a second sunset to look forward to.

  “I know,” Ivy said, taking a sip of her drink. She knew the second she woke up. It was like her body had an alarm clock for the day. She was glad she didn’t remember the exact hour, and she had never asked her father if he remembered.

  However, the way he took long sips from his mug made her think that the time was soon. “I don’t want to talk about her, really,” he said, pulling at his tie.

  “Believe me, I don’t, either,” Ivy said, adjusting her ponytail.

  Her father took a long sip. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked. He wasn’t defensive, just…empty. He was always empty on her birthday.

  Ivy wasn’t sure if she wanted Sandra there or not. She would hate
Sandra if she made her father forget something like the day of her mother’s death. But she also wished she’d suddenly appear, holding his hand and making him laugh.

  Ivy shook her head. “Nothing. I just feel like I’m surrounded by her and memories of her at work right now. I know it’s been a while, but it still hurts.”

  Her father nodded, clearly not wanting to talk about old wounds that still bled. “Do you have any…hobbies?” he asked, not sure how to ask an adult if they had extracurriculars. He hadn’t really asked what she did outside of school or her profession since she’d been in college.

  She’d always told him about her job. Her job was interesting, and her father thought her retellings of the excuses people gave when she pulled them over where hilarious. But today, her job included her mother, so that was out.

  Ivy laughed. “I don’t really have hobbies?” she said more like a question. “I work out, I guess,” she said.

  “But that’s mainly for your job,” he said, already knowing.

  “Yeah,” Ivy said. She tried to think of any television show she watched that wasn’t about police work. Of anything she did other than work and sleep and do work off the clock.

  Her father laughed at her side. “I’ve picked up puzzles,” he said.

  “Like, you’ve started doing puzzles in your free time?” Ivy asked, needing clarification.

  Her father laughed. “Yep. Sandra thought I’d like them, so she got me one for my birthday. And I actually quite like them. She was right.”

  “What design did she get you?” Ivy asked. Her father pressed his lips together. “Tell me,” Ivy said, smiling around the tiny straw of her drink. “Was it Star Wars? I bet ten dollars it was Star Wars.”

  “Star Trek,” her father said, taking a sip of his drink. “So, I’m going to assume these are on you, then?” He lifted the copper mug, letting the ice cubes clink inside.

  Ivy rolled her eyes, knowing he was kidding. He never let her pay for their lunches or dinners. “Are they actually fun?” she asked. “I remember thinking they were boring when I was little.”

  “Because children think anything that takes longer than twenty minutes is boring,” he said, and Ivy snorted. “It actually is fun. Relaxing, too. Something you might need?”

  Ivy didn’t answer because they were getting very close to work talk, which was close to Mom talk, which they weren’t doing today despite the fact that it was her birthday.

  “Maybe I’ll get some of California or something,” Ivy said, trying to steer the conversation back on track. She’d actually like a puzzle of the Santa Monica Pier. She could enjoy something like that. Maybe.

  “I might do that, too,” her father said, taking the bait willingly. “You can borrow the Star Trek one if you want,” he said. He knew what was coming next. He’d walked right into it, and she could see the smile forming on his lips, the die-hard Trekkie.

  Ivy narrowed her eyes. “Is it the old Star Trek, or the new one? The movies,” she said.

  “The old ones,” her father said, pointing his nose in the air just enough that Ivy noticed.

  “Meh,” Ivy said, and her father shook his head in mock disgust.

  “What have I taught you?” he said. He drew a simple snowflake in the condensation that’d formed on the bar top, and Ivy ordered a brownie skillet.

  “Chocolate for lunch,” she said happily, and he laughed.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Saturday, February 25, 2017, 3:35 p.m.

  Reaghan Knox was complaining about jetlag when Ivy and Vince finally managed to get a meeting with her. Her home was just as lavish as Aline’s. Instead of white marble and spiraling staircases, nearly everything was covered in black velvet and crystals. A glittering chandelier larger than Ivy’s bed hung from the high ceiling, casting an expansive record collection into prisms of rainbows.

  “Iceland was so cold,” she said, holding up a “one minute please” hand, even though she’d done this twice already. “It was the wind chill that was the killer. I asked them to—”

  Ivy crossed her arms, and Reaghan seemed to get the message.

  “Look, I gotta go. I’ll call you back.” The woman didn’t wait for a response before she ended the call. “Sorry,” she said. “Big month.”

  “Us too,” Ivy said, impatient. “Four murders in a week.” This seemed to catch Reaghan’s attention.

  She pressed a hand to her chest, which was covered in some sort of furry-looking contraption that wasn’t quite a jacket and wasn’t quite a poncho.

  “Oh, God,” Reaghan said. She lowered her voice. “Am I in danger?” Her eyes skittered, calculating who might be in the house at this very moment.

  Ivy couldn’t help but compare her reaction to Aline’s complete trust in her team that her home was a safe place for her. But, the way the edges of Reaghan’s lips pulled upward told her the woman found it flattering and dramatic to imagine someone trying to find her.

  “Unlikely,” Ivy said. “However, we do need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Okay,” Reaghan said, not so discreetly checking her watch. When she noticed Ivy’s glance at her elaborately decorative watch as well, she smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, I have a few things that have to get done.”

  When Ivy didn’t respond to that, seeing as she and Vince had life-saving things to do themselves, Reaghan misunderstood the pause.

  “It’s a Cartier,” she said, letting the watch catch the light.

  “We saw that you had a recent online feud with Aline Rousseau,” Vince said, unfolding a piece of paper and holding it to her so she could see the highlighted messages, “where you called her an ‘untalented witch.’”

  A man behind Reaghan coughed, and she turned toward him with an aggravated sigh.

  “Oh, calm down, Rutherford.” Reaghan pursed her lips. “I’ll admit I’m not her biggest fan.” Incorrect realization hit her. “Is she—”

  “No,” Ivy said. “But we’re concerned that she is being targeted.” Ivy took a step to the side. She couldn’t tell which piece of jewelry or furniture was reflecting light onto her face, but her eyes had taken to squinting.

  “No offense,” Reaghan said, “but I don’t see why anyone would bother with her. She’s cute or whatever, but she’ll fizzle in a few years.”

  “So, you haven’t made any moves toward her career declining?” Vince asked.

  Reaghan narrowed her eyes at him. “No, I have my own career to worry about. And since I know it’s coming, no, I would never put a hit on her, no matter how many roles she literally steals from me. Did you know I was originally cast in Truly Twenties until the director accidentally found her in some foreign film? Loved her, booted me.” Reaghan rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”

  “But if she’s stealing roles from you, that would give you a pretty good motive for wanting her gone,” Ivy said. “You have to see how that might look suspicious to us.”

  Reaghan’s nostrils flared. “Look, detective, in show business, you can be as valuable as the freaking moon, but if you die…you’re untouchable. If that girl dies, it’s bad for me. Because, sure, I might end up in roles that she would have gotten picked for, and I’d do great and make money. But you know what everyone would say?” she said.

  “That Aline would have done it better,” Vince said, glancing at Ivy.

  She read his eyes. The actress in front of them might be rude and might not like Aline, but she had more to lose in her death. Ivy decided that still didn’t rule her out completely, but the actress seemed just conceited, not dangerous.

  “Exactly. No matter what I do, if she dies, there will always be the conversation about how Aline would have been better because no one can criticize a pretty dead girl.” She shook her head. “Maybe if she were older than me, it’d be fine if she died because I could say I was following in her footsteps or whatever. But because she’s younger, I’d never hear the end of it if she were tragically killed.” Seeming to recognize that she’d just alluded to the fact that she
was aging, she turned to the closest mirror and pressed her cheeks up, examining their skin. She made a disgusted noise. “Oh, I need a facial immediately.”

  She then asked them a series of questions, which was not something Ivy was used to. Were they investigating the other Oscar nominees? Yes, they already had. Did they think any of the other nominees had ulterior motives? They couldn’t disclose that information. Why couldn’t they tell her that? Because that’s protocol. Could they break protocol for her? No, they couldn’t. Were they allowed to discharge their guns? Yes, that’s why they had guns. Were they good at shooting even though they were detectives? Yes, they were both pretty good at shooting.

  After a ten-minute volley of questions, she checked her watch again, as if she’d been trying to run out the clock on a radio interview. “Are we good?”

  “We did want to ask you about your knowledge of Aline’s connection with witchcraft,” Ivy said, clicking the end of her pen to show that they weren’t going to be leaving until they had all the information they needed, no matter how long it took.

  Reaghan looked up to the ceiling as if she were composing herself, licking her pink lips. “I heard about that. Absolutely ridiculous. I wish she’d stop. Once it makes its rounds on the press—and it will; that type of thing never remains hidden—it’ll make all of us look like airheaded freaks. Some of us actually have our feet planted on the earth, but no one thinks that because of girls like Aline.” She pointed to Ivy and Vince in turn. “And don’t take that out of context. My career is far more important to me than any impact that piece of news will make. So, I won’t be ‘taking her out’ in order to save myself the questions of whether I’m involved in that mess or not. I’m not that stupid.”

  “So, Aline’s death would guarantee you money, more jobs, and would eliminate any rumors about you and your fellow actresses practicing witchcraft, but you have no desire to see her gone?” Vince said.