Macdeath (An Ivy Meadows Mystery Book 1) (24 page)

CHAPTER 52

When the Hurlyburly’s Done

I lay on the ratty couch in the greenroom, my knee propped up on some pillows, sipping lukewarm café mocha from a paper cup. The drink was courtesy of Jason-the-three-timer. Once out of Edward’s earshot, he admitted to bonking Genevieve. Said something about doing it to protect his secret. Right.

“Do you want a refill?” Jason hovered over me like a mosquito, whiny and liable to suck my blood if I gave him the chance. I waved him away.

Matt sat down next to me, carefully avoiding my knee. “Found your cell in your dressing room, like you said,” he said, handing the phone to me. “Cody’s already in the car. You sure it’s all right if I take him back to the house?” I nodded. Cody’d be more comfortable at home, and if the police needed to question him, he’d do better in a familiar environment. “Okay, then,” said Matt. “We’re off.” He got up off the sofa just as Candy MoonPie walked over.

“Bye,” she said, waving her fingers at Matt. He smiled at her and headed toward the door.

“I haven’t seen this much excitement since the pigs ate my baby brother,” said Candy. Then in a lower voice, “Dang, that Matt is fine.” She gazed after him wistfully.

“G’head,” I said. “Go with them. Say I asked you to make sure they got home okay. We can fill each other in later when you come by my house and bring me chocolate and liquor.”

She smiled and lit out after Matt.

“Candy?” I called, sitting upright. “Pigs? Kidding, right?”

She just waggled her eyebrows and left.

I sank back on the sofa. My knee hardly hurt at all anymore. My body felt toasty and liquid-y, like warm syrup ran through my veins. My head was beginning to feel pretty good, too. After stabilizing my knee, the EMTs had given me a shot of something while they took care of Genevieve, who wasn’t dead, just badly concussed. Concussed. That was a funny word. I giggled. Yep, my head was definitely feeling fine.

I dialed Uncle Bob on my cell. As soon as he picked up I said, “I’m so sorry. I’ll never lie again. I’m really working on not being so selfish, and I’ll see a counselor really soon, and Genevieve killed Simon with morphine, and it was a good thing the cauldron was fiberglass so it didn’t kill her, and oh!” Pink pushed his way through the throng of actors crowding the greenroom and stood in front of me. “I guess Linda called Detective Pinkstaff. Gotta go.” I hung up, setting my phone down on Mrs. Lovett’s bloodstained table, but holding onto my mocha.

“You shoulda been here,” I said to Pink, hoisting my cup in a toast to myself. “I got the killer.”

“Yeah. Nice job,” he said, “except for the nearly getting killed part.”

I shrugged. “Nearly only counts in jazz and horseshoes.” I giggled again.

The detective stared at me. “Maybe I’ll talk to you a little later.” A buzz sounded from his front shirt pocket. He took out his phone, glanced at the number and said, “Hey, Bob. Yeah, I’m with her right now.” Pink looked me up and down, focused on my knee. “Not too bad,” he said into the phone. “Yeah, you bet. Later.” He put the phone back in his pocket. “Just told your uncle you were fine. You are, right? Your knee gonna be okay?”

“Sure.” I waved my cup in the air, sloshing a bit of brown liquid on myself. “I’m indestructible.”

A couple of EMTs came through the backstage door to the greenroom, carrying a stretcher with a blanketed figure on it.

“Genevieve, she’s a bit more destructible,” I said. “Wait, is that a word? Destructible?”

The EMTs carried Genevieve carefully. She looked pretty bad. Her face was swollen and bruised, and they had her in one of those neck thingies. Cast members made little noises of sympathy as the paramedics carried her to the door.

“Hello?” I said to the room at large. “Killer, remember? K-I-L-L—”

I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up to see Linda. Good ol’ Linda.

“Linda’s a hero,” I said to Pink. “She protected us from makeup.”

Pinkstaff looked to Linda for a translation. “I thought it was fishy when Jason got sick after using Simon’s makeup,” she said. “So I locked it up. Just watching out for my cast.”

“Tell him about your ass,” I said to Linda.

She rolled her eyes at me. “Someone put a photo of Simon as Bottom—he’s costumed like a donkey—in Ivy’s purse, trying to implicate me, I guess.”

“It was your photo?” Pinkstaff asked Linda.

“Yeah. It was a publicity photo from when we worked together in Flagstaff.”

The holes I’d noticed in the picture were made by darts. Linda had told me she kept the photo tacked to a corkboard inside one of her cupboard doors, using it as a target. Just for stress relief, she said.

“I didn’t think anyone knew about it,” she said. “When it ended up at Simon’s memorial service, I figured Edward had seen it and borrowed it for the service. I thought he wanted people to see a photo of Simon as an ass. Seemed exactly like the passive-aggressive bullshit he’s always pulling.”

“And when she heard about Simon ending up in my purse—Hey, how did you hear that?” I asked.

“Candy,” she said.

“Ah.”

“When I heard the photo had been planted,” said Linda, “I started to wonder if Ivy was right—”

“I was right,” I reminded everyone within earshot.

“And if someone was setting me up to take the fall.”

Pinkstaff looked at Linda and waited.

“Everyone knew I hated him,” she said. “I even started to feel guilty, ’cause I sure as hell wasn’t sad to see him go. I kept an eye out, but...” She thrust her chin at me. “Ivy’s the one who figured everything out.”

I did. I caught Simon’s killer and saved Cody. I felt like Poirot and Wonder Woman.

“I got a few things to clear up,” Linda said. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.” She started to walk down the hall.

“Wait,” I said. She stopped. There was one thing
I
wanted to clear up. “Do you think you need glasses?” I asked.

“Glasses?” she said, squinting. “What for?”

Ah. It wasn’t bad eyesight, just her thinking face.

“Never mind,” I said.

She shook her head at me and ambled off toward her office, the keys on her belt jingling.

Pinkstaff glanced around at the cast, who were hanging out in the greenroom, downing most of the closing night liquor-type presents. When his eye fell on me again, he blushed. Someone had given me a blanket earlier, but it had slipped down. I now sat there like a mermaid in my bra with a green fuzzy blanket for a tail.

“Oops,” I said. I pulled up the blanket, which seemed to slip down again immediately. “Oops,” I said again, tugging it up to my shoulders.

“Nice job figuring out the situation,” said Pinkstaff, keeping his eyes on my face. It was a good thing, too. That was one slippery blanket. “Must share some detecting genes with your uncle or something.”

“Or something,” I said brightly, inordinately proud of my banter. What were these drugs and how could I get more?

Pinkstaff leaned close. “Your uncle was worried about you.”

“Uncle Bob! Awww.”

“And said to tell you he loves you.” Pink blushed again, then jumped up as a wave of people swept into the room. “What the hell?” he said. “Who called the press?”

Bill Boxer rode the crest of the media wave. Of course.

“I’ll go talk to them,” said Edward, who had appeared as soon as the press did. Publicity whore.

“No,” said Pinkstaff. “Out!” he shouted at the press, flashing his badge.

“Ivy!” yelled a young female TV reporter, teetering in too-high heels. “How does it feel to—”

“
Out!
” Pinkstaff’s bulk and authoritative voice pushed the mob back out the stage door. He fumbled with the latch for a minute. “How do I lock this goddamn door?”

Edward jumped up and locked the door. He propped a chair up against it, too, for good measure. I smiled and waved at the photographers I could see pressed against the glass door. Oops. I pulled up the blanket again.

Someone large and angry pounded on the door.

“Let me in!”

It was the largely angry Pamela. Edward ran over to me, but made it look as though he was talking to Pinkstaff.

“Did she forget her keys?” I asked.

The Real Witch started toward the door.

“No!” shouted Edward. The Real Witch jumped back. The rest of the cast stopped carousing for a moment, curious. “As you were,” said Edward in an authoritative director-type voice. The actors went back to drinking and laughing. “Ivy,” Edward said, his voice strained. “About Jason and I...Pamela mustn’t find out.”

Ahhh.

“You mean how you’ve been boffing...Oh!” I said to Jason, who was still hovering, “Does the term ‘blackball’ mean anything to you?” He looked like he might cry.

“Ivy.” Edward was actually down on one knee.

“Let me in! This is my theater!” yelled Pamela from the door, fumbling in her purse.

“Oh, I think she’s found her keys,” I said.

“Ivy,” said Edward, his face a lovely shade of red.

“Hmm,” I said. “Aren’t you directing
Much Ado
next?”

“Yes, yes. I’m sure I could find a part for you.”

“Hero. I want to play Hero,” I told him. “She’s the second female lead,” I explained to Pinkstaff. Back to Edward. “Even if I’m still on crutches.”

Bam, bam, bam! “What the hell is going on?” Pamela yelled.

Bet the journalists were getting some good photos.

“Deal?” I said, sticking out my hand. Pinkstaff tried to hide a grin.

“Deal,” said Edward. He shook my hand hurriedly and rose, looking at the detective. “That’s my wife,” he said. “The artistic director of this theater. May I?” he pointed toward the door.

Pinkstaff nodded. “Just her.”

Edward loped toward the door, took the chair out of the way, and twisted the lock. Pamela burst in.

“What the hell,” she panted.

Edward grabbed her arm and steered her down the hall. “You see, darling, I had to get permission from the detective before I could let you in.” Their voices disappeared down the hall.

I happily downed the last of my café mocha and licked the inside of the cup. Never was one to waste chocolate. I held my cup aloft. Jason took it from me. He jogged to the coffee machine, put some change in, and watched the cup fill, keeping one eye on me.

“You know, you did one hell of a job here.” Pinkstaff pursed his lips in admiration. “Wanna tell me all about it? Over a drink, maybe?”

I looked at the guy. He was nice. He was also old enough to be my father, wore a rumpled polyester shirt with armpit stains, and had hair growing out of his ears. He was nice, though, so I wanted to let him down gently.

“I’d love to,” I said, “but I’ve got a boyfriend.”

Jason nearly ran back with my café mocha.

“Not him still?” Pinkstaff said.

Jason tenderly held the cup up to my lips. I grabbed it from him.

“Nah,” I said. “Him.” I pointed at the nearest manly-looking back.

Jason started to laugh. “Riley?” he said.

Hearing his name, Riley whipped around and poured a splash of Wild Turkey into my cup, spilling a bit onto my chest. Seizing the moment, I grabbed him around the neck and gave him a big wet one, making it look really juicy. After I’d released him, Riley whooped, Jason looked dazed, and Pinkstaff let out a sigh.

Ha.

I’m Ivy Meadows and I am a great actress.

About the Author

Cindy Brown has been a theater geek (musician, actor, director, producer, and playwright) since her first professional gig at age 14. Now a full-time writer, she’s lucky enough to have garnered several awards (including 3rd place in the 2013 international
Words With Jam
First Page Competition, judged by Sue Grafton!) and is an alumnus of the Squaw Valley Writers Workshop. Though Cindy and her husband now live in Portland, Oregon, she made her home in Phoenix, Arizona, for more than 25 years and knows all the good places to hide dead bodies in both cities.