by Cindy Brown
I put that thought away in the garage cupboard where I stored the security kit, just in case Marge had asked Arnie to install it. Then I grabbed Marge’s car keys. I had a moment of hesitation about using her car without permission, but after our conversation yesterday, I was afraid she’d say no because she couldn’t remember who I was.
I drove to the theater in her big, loud beast of a Buick and got there before the rest of the cast, just as I’d hoped.
Uncle Bob always told me that invisible people make great witnesses. Hotel maids, busboys, janitors—people tend to talk in front of them without registering them as people with ears. With this in mind, I went straight to the kitchen.
Zeb was putting his white apron on over black pants and a white Oxford shirt when I came in. He smiled shyly, which was unusual for him, and motioned me closer. “I just wanted to say thanks for getting my notebook last night. And to ask,” he scuffed the toe of his sneaker against the floor, “that you don’t say anything about…you know.”
Now that I knew Zeb’s secret, I wondered how I ever missed the signs, like the fading bruise near one wrist. “No worries. I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” He smiled. “Unless you want to talk about it.” He shook his head furiously. “Okay,” I said. “But the offer stands if you ever change your mind. And now, there’s something you can do for me.”
“Why, Ivy,” Zeb affected a Cary Grant-type voice, “have you come to your senses, and my arms?” The old Zeb—or Zeb’s old way of making it through life—was back.
“Nice. But not what I’m looking for. What I really want…” I crooked a finger at him, and he came closer, “is information. You ever hear anything about the theater being in trouble?”
Zeb glanced around us. The cook was at the far end of the kitchen, along with a few guys chopping vegetables and speaking to each other in Spanish.
“Yeah,” he said in a quiet voice. “In fact, about a month ago, Arnie and one of the board members came through here, yelling like crazy. The one guy kept saying that this show—The Sound of Cabaret—was going to bankrupt them, and the board wasn’t going to let—”
“Ivy!” sang Candy as she came through the door, followed by a bunch of hungry actors. “Heard your car caught on fire again.”
“Again?” said Roger, who was right behind her.
Uncle Bob must have told Cody who told Matt. I shrugged. “Yeah, this time even duck tape wouldn’t do it. Hey,” I said to the group as Zeb disappeared into the kitchen, “did you know the real name is ‘duck tape?’”
All through dinner I regaled the cast with trivia, Uncle Bob style. Afterwards I followed the older nuns back to their dressing room.
“You here to join our game?” one of them asked. The nuns weren’t onstage much, so they whiled away the time playing poker.
I shook my head and shut the dressing room door. My purpose was twofold. First, I slipped Bitsy’s pink tube of lotion out of my pocket and onto the counter. That way, someone would find it but not trace it back to me. As for my second reason for being there: “I just need a little advice.”
They gathered around me, all talking at the same time.
“You want to know about men or money?” asked the tall nun.
“Or maybe how to get men with money?” added the short one.
“If you get that figured out, let me know,” the chubby one said.
“I guess it’s sort of about money,” I said. “I work in downtown Phoenix, and with gas prices, this commute is killing me.” They clucked understandingly. “I heard that removing my catalytic converter could help me save on gas. Any of you ever heard that?”
“Sure.”
“Yeah.”
“Of course.”
“Did you hear about it here at the theater?” A little direct, but I couldn’t think of a better way to angle the question.
Another chorus of “yesses.”
“Any chance you remember who was mentioning it? Maybe whoever knows about it could help me remove mine.”
The little group shook their heads. “You see, everyone’s been talking about it. Here, at the rec center—”
“Even at church.”
“It’s a hot topic here in Sunnydale,” said the tall nun. “On account of all the catalytic converters that have been stolen.”
CHAPTER 39
Saturday mornings are meant to be spent in bed, especially when one has been out drinking with one’s cast on Friday night. I would have adhered to this very practical rule if only my stupid car hadn’t caught fire and made me miss work yesterday. Instead, I sat at my “desk” in Uncle Bob’s office, sipping from an enormous cup of to-go coffee and hoping it would jumpstart my sluggish brain.
“Hey, you.” I heard the jingle of my uncle’s keys as he opened the door. “How’d you get here?” Uncle Bob didn’t usually come in on Saturdays, either. Maybe he wanted to keep me company. Or make sure I showed up.
“I borrowed Marge’s car.” I was really going to have to stop doing that. I could get in big trouble if I ever got pulled over. But right now I didn’t know what I was going to do about a car. My mechanic had told me that my Bug was toast. “Burnt toast,” he cracked. Good thing he had a day job.
Uncle Bob eased his bulk down into his chair with a groan. “Remodeling is a job for much younger men.” He looked at me. “You gonna get those invoices out today?”
“Yep. Then I’m going to work on my case.” I drained my cardboard cup.
“Good. You need to have something to report. Even if it’s nothing. You know what I mean?”
I did. I needed to show that I’d been methodical in my research, not just farting around or relying on hearsay. “I’m going to see what I can find out about catalytic converter thefts in Sunnydale.”
“You might call the posse,” Uncle Bob said. “They might be able to tell you a bit more.”
“I already tried tha—” I stopped. Shit, I’d forgotten I told Hank I’d see him on Thursday. I’d been too busy talking to slow-talking Larry Blossom and just plain forgot.
“Try Googling it.”
I did that while I waited for Uncle Bob to leave the office. Several new sources reported that catalytic converter thefts were on the rise in the Phoenix area. The thieves mostly did their dirty work in public areas like mall parking lots. Some victims never realized their cars were missing converters until they took them in for service. I didn’t really learn much more than what Detective Pinkstaff had told me at the picnic.
Finally, Uncle Bob went to the bathroom. I dialed the posse. “Hi, this is Olive Ziegwart with Duda Detectives. I need to leave a message for Hank Snow.”
“Why, hello, Ivy,” Bitsy said in her sweetly insincere voice. “He’s working dispatch today. I’ll connect you.”
“No, that’s—” A click and some Muzac. Before I could decide whether it would be smarter to just hang up, Hank picked up. “Dispatch.”
“Hey, Hank, this is Olive Ziegwart, Bob’s niece? I just wanted to say I’m really sorry about Thursday.”
Silence. Then, “Thursday?”
“Yeah. I know I said I’d be in to see you, but—”
“This Thursday?”
“No, I…never mind. I found out what I needed.”
“You did, did you?”
What was with this guy? “Yeah.”
“Good.” That must be how he said goodbye because he hung up right afterward. I didn’t have much time to ponder Hank’s strange behavior because Uncle Bob returned. I busied myself finishing up the invoices.
Once I was done, I put my mind toward a new problem. Arnie had never really finished his story about the alligator. I especially noticed how he skipped any mention of jail. “Do you think it’s against the law to kill an alligator?” I asked Uncle Bob.
“I wouldn’t think so, unless it was an endangered type. Or m
aybe rare. Did I ever tell you I saw an albino crocodile once? Really creepy. It looked like a statue made out of marble or something. Then it moved.” He shivered. “Moving statues. Creepy.” His fingers flew across the keyboard. “Oh. I’m wrong.”
“What?”
“I’m wrong.” My uncle was still distracted by whatever he was reading on screen.
“Sorry, I didn’t quite hear you.” I’d heard him perfectly.
“I’m wro—oh sheesh.” He threw a paper clip at me. “Stop disrespecting your boss and listen up.” He cleared his throat for emphasis. “You can only kill an alligator in Florida if you have a specific license. If not, it’s a felony, punishable by up to five years in prison.”
“So someone could have gone to prison for killing an alligator?”
“Looks like it. But doesn’t smell like it.” Uncle Bob tapped the side of his nose. “Better dig a little deeper.” He looked again at his screen. “Hey, did you know that alligators don’t have any vocal cords?”
“Nope.”
“They suck air into their lungs and blow it out to make noise.”
“Sounds like someone I know.”
“Are you trying to get fired?”
I wasn’t trying to get fired, and I did respect my boss (and his advice), so I dug deeper, using the databases Uncle Bob subscribed to. Candy’s and Arnie’s stories were both true. Arnie had run a swamp-themed tourist attraction, there was an accident involving an alligator, and Arnie did go to prison for an offense related to the Swamps are Scary! Theme Park. But not for killing an alligator, or even for making him into shoes. For fraud.
Turns out Arnie may have been the impresario behind Swamps are Scary!, but he was not the principal investor. The money that built the park was from a man who thought he was putting his money toward a dry-cleaning franchise. When the park went alligator-belly-up, the investments were gone and Arnie went to prison.
When I told this to my uncle, he frowned. “How’s Arnie connected to your case?”
“He’s Marge’s boyfriend, and the producer of the theater.”
“And?”
“And I think Marge’s attack and Charlie’s death are related.”
“Why?”
“They live in the same block and know a lot of the same people, like Arnie. Marge was attacked in her garage. Charlie was killed in his garage. They both had viatical settlements from Carl Marks.” Out loud it sounded lame, even to me. “And there have been a suspiciously large number of suicides in Sunnydale recently.”
My uncle shook his head. “You’re beginning to sound like—never mind. Just go look up the incidence of suicide in the elderly.”
I did. I found that older adults made up 12 percent of the U. S. population, but accounted for 18 percent of all suicide deaths. I found that the number seemed to be increasing as baby boomers headed into their “golden years.” I found that elder suicide could be underreported by as much as 40 percent, the deaths disguised as accidents, overdoses, and dehydration and self-starvation. And I found that the mean-spirited Pastor Scranton may have also been well-intentioned: “suicide contagion” was a real issue that could seriously increase the number of suicides in a community.
As if that weren’t depressing enough, right before I was leaving for the day, Uncle Bob said, “You hear from your mom lately?”
“Mom? No.”
“She called me. Went on a rant about Cody.”
“That’s new.” It wasn’t, and it was the reason she and I didn’t talk much. Not only did my parents still blame me for Cody’s accident, they were not exactly happy when I encouraged him to move out of their house and into a group home so he could have a life of his own.
“She doesn’t like the thought of him having a girlfriend. She actually used the word ‘dangerous.’ Like Cody might blow up or something.” Uncle Bob looked at me. “Cody told me you met her. Sarah, I mean.”
I nodded. “I’m going on a picnic with them tomorrow. At Encanto.” I didn’t say anything else.
“Good,” said Uncle Bob. “I knew you’d be on his side.”
CHAPTER 40
“Roger says he has a surprise for you.”
Candy’s words stopped me as I was about to leave our dressing room after the Sunday matinee. “Do you know what it is?” I asked. Candy was very good at wheedling secrets out of people.
“No, dang it all. He wouldn’t spill the beans.” Her voice was muffled as she slipped a short flowered dress over her head. “But he says we’ll all find out in the parking lot.”
“Firecrackers, you think?” I tried to imagine things that one might do in the parking lot. “Or maybe a keg?”
“Maybe it’s a party.” Candy zipped up her dress. “Maybe because he’s going to propose to you or something.”
“Omigod. You don’t think that’s a possibility, do you?” My heart beat faster. I knew Candy was kidding, but I also had the feeling I was playing with fire.
“Nah. Not if he learned anything from Arnie’s mistake.” Candy stepped into her shoes. “Let’s go see what it is.”
We went out into the parking lot, squinting in the bright sunlight after hours in a dark theater. Across the lot, actors gathered in a little ring, close to where I’d parked Marge’s car (which I was still driving without permission). As we neared, they parted to reveal Roger sitting on the hood of a car. A car with a big red bow on the grill.
Seeing me, Roger patted the hood. “Guaranteed to not catch on fire!”
A laugh from the actors and a nervous titter from me. A car? Roger bought me a car? He couldn’t have. I opened my mouth but nothing came out. A car?
“It’s all yours.” Roger slid off the hood and walked toward me, car keys in hand.
I finally got my tongue in first gear. “But…” Unfortunately, my brain was still stuck in park, so that’s all that came out.
“No, buts,” said Roger. “I’ll explain over a beer.” Then to the crowd, “Who wants a ride to the bowling alley in Ivy’s new car?”
The car (not my car—there was no way in hell I was keeping it) was a blue four-door Taurus, used but in good condition. It held four people comfortably, but seven could cram into it, as I found out on the way to the bowling alley. “I can’t keep this!” I shouted to Candy over the noise in the car.
“Hell’s bells.” Candy turned on the radio, as if the din wasn’t loud enough. “Of course you can.”
“But—”
“Just hear him out first, okay?” Candy decided to see how loud the radio would play (loud), and I stepped on the gas. As uncomfortable as I was with the whole scenario, I have to admit it was nice not looking over my shoulder for smoke.
About fifteen minutes later, I grabbed a tray of beers and wound my way through a gaggle of senior bowlers to the two lanes where my actor friends sat tying their bowling shoes. “Get this—bowling and beer for just over five bucks,” I said, handing out plastic cups of beer.
“And free pool.” Candy sighed happily, looking around at the rows of pool tables, indoor shuffleboard courts, and well-lit bowling lanes. “I could live here.”
“Really?” Roger asked Candy as she passed him a beer. “Wouldn’t it be weird being surrounded by old people?”
“What, like you? Aren’t you old enough to live here?” She poked him good-naturedly, missing the steel that glimmered briefly in his eyes.
I passed out all the drinks and sat down next to Roger. “So.” I took a deep breath. “This was incredibly sweet of you, but I can’t—”
Roger shook his head and scooted over next to me, too close, as usual. “Let me explain.”
All of the actors leaned in. This was going to be good.
Roger looked into my eyes. “I see potential in you. The kind of potential I had when I was your age.” A few cast members grumbled into their beers. “A lot of you have potential,�
� he added, “but Ivy is the only one with an exploding car.” The grumblers acquiesced. “I don’t want you to end up like me,” Roger said to me. “Fifty and doing dinner theater in Arizona.”
“And retiring to a custom-built house in Mexico,” I said.
“To be thus is nothing; But to be safely thus.” Before I could figure out why Roger was quoting Macbeth, he went on. “I know it seems a bit much. I just want to give you the chance I never had.”
“If she won’t take it, I will,” Candy said. “The chance and the car.”
“Candy, can I tell you something without you being offended?” Roger said.
Candy nodded.
“I don’t think your future lies onstage.”
Ouch. We all felt that one.
“Wait, I’m not finished. I think you could make it in film.”
“Really? Do you know anyone—”
“Hold on, Candy.” I set my beer down. “I’m not ready to move on.” I dug the car keys out of my bag and handed them to Roger. “I just can’t—”
“I hadn’t finished either.” Roger addressed the group. “Could you all give us a minute alone?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Go pick out bowling balls or something.”
After everyone had “oohed” and nudged each other and finally left, it was time to talk straight to Roger. “I have a boyfriend. I’m not available.”
“Ivy.” Roger sat back, giving me personal space for a change. “I’m not after your body.” He shook his head at me like I was a silly schoolgirl.
I felt my face flush, but I persevered.
“People, men, don’t just give cars to other people.”
“Men don’t?” The corners of Roger’s mouth tugged up.
“You know what I mean. I can’t pay you for this car. In cash or in…any way.”
