The Darkness of Ivy

by Jessica King

  It had started to rain by the time she made it to the bar. Well, at street level, it was a lovely alterations shop filled with wedding dresses and silk, though off to the side of the building, a narrow staircase led down to what used to be the basement of the alterations shop, where Ethel decided the real beauty was hidden.

  Just go down the steps. There’ll be a big bad man sitting outside, but you just flash him your little smile and tell him the password. He’ll let you right on in.

  It was simple as that, he’d promised. So, she pressed her hat farther down against her hair, which was curled and pinned at the nape of her neck. Her short heels made crunching sounds on the old cement stairs covered with washed-away dirt off the slanted streets above. As promised, a large man stood at the bottom of the stairs, standing in the rain as though it there weren’t large splotches of water falling, but instead snow just drifting down from the sky.

  “Hi there,” Ethel said, flashing a smile at the man. He didn’t look too interested in her smile, looking down his nose at her. “Here for a little panther juice,” she said, pushing her smile up higher, popping the dimple she knew was now peeking out at him.

  He nodded once and opened the door for her to a whole different world. The smell of wine and spirits filled the room, both sweet and sour to her nose. Girls were dancing, their dresses too short, and men were swinging them around, their movements too loose.

  She loved it.

  The low lights and the clinks of ice in glasses, it was a tiny world where there were no rules, no landlords, and no family members that needed her to send money back to them every week. Complete freedom.

  She pulled her hat and coat off in a moment, revealing the dress she’d saved so dearly to buy for herself. It was a flapper dress, her best friend, Morgan, had told her. And by the judgmental looks of the woman at the shop where she bought it, she’d bought the perfect dress for this occasion. She spotted John, who pushed himself off the wall and sauntered over to her, his hat dipping low over the front of his face. He tasted like cigarettes and whiskey when he kissed her, and she grinned against his lips.

  He held up a glass filled with something red and sweet-smelling and she kissed his cheek before taking a sip.

  “You’re late,” he said, mischief glittering in his eyes.

  “Good thing we have all night, then,” Ethel said, clinking the ice in her glass.

  “You look stunning.”

  “Not so bad yourself,” she said, slipping a finger beneath a stylish suspender and pointedly looking at his two-tone oxford shoes.

  He ran a thumb across her cheek, and she hoped that the rouge didn’t smudge. She hadn’t tested it out. His hand didn’t look red when he pulled it away though, so she put on her most confident smile and took another sip.

  “Let’s dance,” she said, downing the drink in one last, long sip.

  John pulled her out onto the dance floor to one of the many spots in the wood that had turned light from too much use. The band swelled into a new song behind them.

  “Back here,” John said, beckoning to her as he pushed past a doorway covered by heavy fabric. “One more layer.” He moved behind a door. “Just a bit more private.”

  Ethel giggled as she followed after him. Despite the fact that she could feel her hair falling from her pin and felt damp from dancing, she felt beautiful and daring and just a little bit risky, like John. John was a dangerous man; she’d known that before she met him. His reputation preceded him. But that was the allure of John.

  The male grace, the razor wit, the risk that came with being around him. She didn’t mind the risk. After an entire life on a quiet farm, she invited the noise of drama.

  Her blood sang as she closed the door behind them and turned. Right into the barrel of a gun. Her smile melted.

  “What is your real name, Ethel?” he asked her, running a thumbnail across his lips.

  “John, I-I’m not an officer or a snitch, you know that,” she said. “My name’s Ethel.”

  “But it’s not, Ethel, it’s not. Your name’s Sarah.”

  Was it a game? She tried to smile, but her lips didn’t move that way anymore. “My name is Ethel, John. Are you okay?” She reached out for him, but he only pushed the gun closer to her, and she backed into the cold bricks of the backroom of a basement of an alteration shop. A place no one would find her. Her knees went weak, and she pressed herself into the wall to remain upright. “Maybe you need some water,” she said, trying to maintain her composure.

  John shook his head. “Sarah Pepper, Rebecca Simpers, Harriet Wilson—”

  Ethel shook her head in confusion. “I don’t—” She wanted to shout that she loved him. But the man standing before her was not John. This man was a different creature entirely.

  “Ethel Miller.”

  The gun clicked once and then fired.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Sunday, February 26, 2017 7:02 PM

  The Academy Awards were a glamorous event. Ivy knew they would be; she’d seen them on television. Everything was glittering and gorgeous at the Oscars, and that now included her. Ivy generally had an aversion to dresses, but Aline had insisted on buying one for her just for the Oscars. “Not as a police officer, I know you can’t do that, but as a friend,” she had said. “You cannot simply look good at the Awards. You’ll stick out—in bad way. You have to look amazing.”

  Ivy checked her reflection in the blackened screen of her computer at her desk and swiped lipstick across her lips. The necklace Cassiopeia had enchanted for her hung from her neck. She wasn’t sure if it was just the extension of a gift, a sort of offer of friendship, or the peripheral connection to her mother it held, but that all made the weight of the necklace feel welcome.

  She felt naked in a dress where she usually wore collared shirts and slacks and Kevlar vests, though she was grateful that the Truly Twenties cast and their guests were going for a 1920s look. The loose fabric around her middle, the drop waist style, and the non-binding skirt were incredibly helpful when it came to free movement, even though the security sweep of the Dolby had reassured her that she wouldn’t need to be making any lifesaving moves during the event.

  She went for low-heeled shoes with a strong strap, just in case. She took a few running steps along the tile, testing the traction. The heels clicked against the floor, and she grinned when she changed directions and the short fringe of her dress fanned around her in response.

  “We’re going to be meeting Oliver Corbyn,” Ivy said, trying to suppress her smile as she jogged back to her desk. “He was adorable in that British romcom last year.”

  Vince’s neck craned to look at the monstrosity that was his tie. “If you’re gonna get pink all over when we meet Oliver, then no more jokes about Aline.” He mumbled some rhyme that seemed to be guiding his work with the tie.

  Ivy gave her partner a flat look. “I’ll still be able to form full sentences when I meet him; I’m just excited to meet a famous movie star.”

  Vince straightened his tie. “Windsor knot,” he said, pointing at his handiwork. “Tell me it looks nice.”

  “Looks nice,” Ivy said without any inflection in her voice.

  Vince accepted the compliment all the same and tidied his desk while looking judgmentally at Ivy’s cluttered one.

  “Looking good kids,” Chief Marks said, making his way over to them. He was wearing a suit as well, and his sparse hair that usually stood at odd angles across his head was combed and gelled. He poked Vince in the chest. “Have her home by ten.”

  Vince broke into laughter, slipping his gun into the shoulder holster beneath his jacket.

  “That’s not really accurate to the mob,” Ivy said, pointing to the holster. “They usually just kept it in their pocket or the waist of their pants.”

  “It’s accurate to a policeman who doesn’t want to draw attention with a gun on his hip,” Vince said. “Plus, this suit is old, there isn’t a spare inch in the waistband.” He looked at Chief Marks. “I’m falli
ng prey to the donut-cop jokes.”

  Chief Marks, who was usually the one ensuring that the department was regularly stocked with sugary treats, patted his own tummy with a smile. No pity for the younger cop at all.

  “Woo!” Ivy turned to see Joyce walking toward her. She was holding out both hands toward her. “You look adorable, Ivy.” She ran her fingers over the off-white fabric over Ivy’s shoulders, playing with the tiny pearls that had been sewn onto the fabric. It was a lovely piece, she had to admit.

  “Good,” Ivy said, rolling her eyes. “Because that’s what I’m going for when I’m undercover. Adorable.” She smoothed her hands down the sides of the silky skirt, the fabric cool from the air conditioning against her sweaty palms.

  Joyce laughed and adjusted her duty belt, and Ivy felt the ghost of her own belt around her waist. She already missed it, her hand drifting automatically to where her usual tools sat.

  “So, we have you two watching the crowd and Agent Shea,” Ivy said to Joyce and Kenshin, who were strapping Kevlar vests around them.

  “You have a vest on under this?” Joyce said, now prodding at the fabric around her middle. Ivy could smell the evergreen gum Joyce was chewing and asked for a piece, informing her that she was indeed wearing a bullet-resistant vest, through it was a thinner model.

  “Thank goodness the Twenties was a time of loose clothing,” Ivy said, popping the gum into her mouth. It was so minty that it stung and turned her breaths into icy gusts. “You can’t even see the slim stuff.”

  “Well, while you’re sitting front row, I’ll be sweating under this thing and standing against the wall,” Joyce said. The Velcro on her much thicker vest crackled as she readjusted it.

  “Ready?” Kenshin asked.

  “I will hopefully have no reason to see you until after, yeah?” Joyce asked, and Ivy nodded. “Ten bucks Aline wins Best Actress,” Joyce said on her way out.

  Ivy and Vince mainly murmured with Marcus and Inga on the way, going over their plans one more time, going over where they would meet up, going over code words to text each other. The limo was filled with a variety of movie theater-style snacks, Ivy’s ultimate weakness. She subtly watched Marcus and Inga’s eyes, trying to tell if they were as tempted by the snacks as she was. Vince was on his second bag of pretzels.

  “You found it!” Aline said through a laugh. Her security detail turned to look at her. She was holding a tiny purple iPod that seemed almost as vintage as her dress compared to the smartphone at her side.

  “I thought it might have been left on set,” Oliver said. “I called the studio and asked if I could poke around for the only iPod shuffle still in existence.” He laughed. “I can’t believe you use this thing.”

  Aline grinned and held the tiny contraption in her hand, looking around for the best place to store it.

  “Do you want me to hold it during the show?”

  “I knew I should have brought a clutch,” Aline said. “I was going to give Emily my phone—” Emily held out her hand for said phone and dropped it into her own purse. “I’m worried about leaving a bag on the floor and tripping…just in case,” she said, struggling to suppress a smile.

  Oliver slipped the iPod into his pocket as the limo turned the corner.

  The screaming started, both Ivy and Vince tensing at it, though it took only a fraction of second to identify the noise as happy cheers and excited yelling. Ivy chuckled at their own jumpiness, and they stepped out of the limo into the security screening area before they headed to the red carpet.

  An officer was there already, directing the team using mirrors to check under the car, and Aline and Oliver greeted two of the security guards they’d apparently recognized from a previous event. They were motioned forward.

  Ivy paced at the end of the red carpet, her heart thundering. This would be the first part of the night when a crowd would have an open view of Aline, and their job meant scanning the crowd from the uninterrupted vantage point of the red carpet. Beside her, Vince was taking short breaths in, long breaths out—his regular breathing regimen before they did any work in the field, even with simpler things like traffic direction. Always that same in and out. Ivy wasn’t sure when she’d adopted it over the past few years, but she found herself doing the same.

  Aline looked back at her, flashing a smile, her face strobing from the cameras that were already flashing just ahead of her. Aline and Oliver would be walking side by side, a perfect pair of happy future co-stars, Marcus and Inga flanking them. Emily was already inside. “A nervous puddle,” Aline had called her when she’d described Emily’s most recent state.

  “You can go,” a security guard said, and Ivy and Vince followed Aline and Oliver out onto the red carpet. Inga and Marcus looked undeterred by the screaming fans and the camera flashes. They stood to the side as Aline and Oliver got their pictures taken by some of the most futuristic-looking cameras Ivy had ever seen, moving around on machinery in quick, fluid motions. When a photographer—clearly confused about who she and Vince were—tried to take their picture, she waved him off. Ivy and Vince nodded to the people cheering for them, despite the fact that there was no way for them to know who they were. Soon the cheering picked up for a new celebrity.

  “They think we’re going to be extras in the show Aline and Oliver are making, I bet,” Vince said, and Ivy did her best to look cordial as she scanned the crowd.

  “We’re on the red carpet, so I wouldn’t rule it out at this point,” Ivy said.

  “The Michelin blimp is above us,” Vince whispered. “That’s so cool.”

  “Watching the crowd, Vince,” she said through clenched teeth. That was the main thing Aline had told them. People are great at reading lips, she’d said. So, if you want to say something secret, speak through your teeth.

  “I’m watching, I’m watching,” he said. “But I don’t see anything weird, do you?”

  “Nope,” Ivy said. Just a plethora of adoring fans and people who followed the Oscars like a sport.

  They walked into the theatre doors and were greeted by a much different scene than the morning had presented. There were the red carpet and the larger-than-life Oscar statues. But it was now covered in stars and special guests, each of them glittering and shimmering and smiling and laughing. Aline turned to look at them. “Oliver and I will go with Inga and Marcus to greet a few people before things get started,” she said, pressing her finger to the side of her nose, and sliding it off until she was pointing at the two of them. She topped it off with a wink before turning and walking away.

  “Do you think in her mind, she thinks she’s a spy now?” Vince asked, mimicking her nose-flick, which Ivy imagined she must have taken from a Golden Age movie.

  “Quite frankly, I’m not sure what goes on in her mind,” Ivy said as they headed off toward their seats.

  It was a long way down to the floor of the seating area, but they managed to find their seats after a thousand shallow stairs. With the help of a few ushers, they had the four seats they were assigned disassembled, inspected, and reassembled within a few minutes. Only a few people cast them strange glances as they worked, which Ivy counted as a win.

  “Looks fine to me,” Vince said, and they took their seats.

  They took a moment to take in the sheer space of it. In just a few hours, she had forgotten how incredibly large it all was. No wonder they hosted awards for dramatics and acting here. Here, a single word could fill the whole space with meaning. Here, the height and breadth of the space left room for emotion.

  “I don’t like waiting,” Ivy said. The velvet was much firmer than she imagined, and the seat buoyed her up in a way that made Ivy feel too short for her seat.

  “Well, you better settle in,” Vince said. “My mom watches this every year. It’s three or more hours without fail.” That was a long time to be in the limbo of watching over a celebrity with a death threat in a public place. Best Actress was second to last when it came to the awards.

  Ivy tapped her fingers agai
nst her knees. She and Vince turned toward each other as though they were going into deep discussion, Ivy watching over his shoulder as he watched over hers. “How long will they take to get in here?”

  “I don’t know, but most of these people look old and rather non-killerish.” Ivy craned her neck to see several actors past their prime make their way down to the first layer of seating.

  “That is not a word.”

  “But it kind of is,” Vince said. “Because you understand what I mean.”

  A click in Ivy’s ear and Vince touched his finger to his own tiny earpiece. “I’m moving into position there, guys,” Agent Shea said. “I think Sell and Zhang are on the other side,” he added, indicating Joyce and Kenshin.

  Vince pressed a button on what looked like a lapel pin. “Copy that,” he said. They both turned to see Shea posting up against the wall, his gun in the holster at his side. “You notice what gun he has?” Vince asked.

  Ivy shook her head. “Why?”

  “I just feel like we should know,” he said.

  “Are you getting nervous?” she asked, fidgeting herself. Her gun pressed against her thigh, and she fought the urge to cross her legs, an adjustment that would only make the discomfort of a thigh holster more noticeable.

  A couple of people who sounded like old friends greeted each other behind them, and Ivy had to do her best not to check if one of the smooth voices belonged to Meryl Streep.

  Vince swallowed. “Didn’t think I would. But seeing him standing there, armed, in perfect line with where Aline’s going to be sitting? Yes.”

  Ivy tried Vince’s calm breathing technique—two jumpy detectives wouldn’t do Aline any good. Ivy nodded. “Should we just take him down? Contain him?”

  “He’s a federal agent. And he really only has a loose old connection with Reaghan, who has a stronger reason for her wanting to stay alive, and our own suspicion that there’s someone in on the plot with specialized skills with facial recognition tech? That’s hardly an accusation.”