Macdeath (An Ivy Meadows Mystery Book 1) (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

Chance May Crown Me

I ran down the hall to the audition room, pulled myself up to my full five foot two, and whispered under my breath, “My name is Ivy Meadows and I am an actress.” I opened the door and strode into the room. Head held high, I focused on the director, who sat behind a table at the far end of the big, windowless space, chewing on a carrot. “Hi,” I said, with my best smile, “My name is Ivy—oof!”

I fleetingly saw the cord snaked across the floor as I tumbled head over shoeless heels, pulled myself into a somersault, and landed at the feet of one of Phoenix’s best directors. Edward Heath, a small thin man with a small thin mustache and a shirt unbuttoned one too many, stared at me, then slowly applauded. “Brilliant,” he said, as I scrambled to my feet. “Perfect.” A note of concern tugged at his mustache. “But the concept is supposed to be under wraps. Linda!”

The stage manager opened the door. A funky smell entered the room with her.

“It seems we have a leak,” said Edward.

“That’s just my shoes.” Linda’s white Nikes shone a slightly slimy green under the fluorescent lights. “Sorry.”

“My concept. Someone must have leaked my concept.”

Linda shrugged her flannel-shirted shoulders. “Don’t know how.” She turned to go.

“And the smell?” Edward wrinkled his nose at the odor, best described as eau d’ dive bar bathroom.

“My old friend Simon.” Linda’s jaw clenched. “He threw up on my shoes.”

Shaking his head, Edward dismissed Linda with a wave of his carrot and picked up my headshot and résumé from among the ones scattered on the table. “Ivy Meadows...” He looked up at me. “Aren’t you Olive Ziegwart?”

He knew me! I nodded.

“Olive Zieg-
wart
. Ha! Smart to change
that
name.”

My father used to tell us that Ziegwart meant “victory nipple” in German. I don’t know why he thought that would make us feel better.

“So, Olive—
Ivy
—, how long have you been a gymnast?”

A what? Oh, the somersault. I punted. “Since I was little.”

It was true. I did do gymnastics in school, and the occasional handstand on the front lawn if anyone interesting was watching.

“Good, good.” He gnawed on the carrot. He had several more lined up like orange pens in his front shirt pocket.

“And how did you hear about,” he lowered his voice, “the concept?”

I had no earthly idea what he was talking about. “Well, you know, your reputation for unusual...”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Unusual-ly intriguing...”

A smile. Phew.

“Adaptations...”

“I do not do adaptations! Every word belongs to the Bard.” A fine spray of chewed-up carrot just missed me.

Dang. What word had he used earlier? Concept.

“I mean conceptualizations...”

His smile returned.

“Of Shakespeare’s work fascinated me to the point where I did a little detective work, just to see how I could best fit into the world you have imagined.” I was on a roll now. “Of course I can’t reveal my sources, but I can promise you I won’t breathe a word of this. It’s a brilliant concept.”

“Thank you. I don’t believe it’s been done before. Not many can say that. I did consider making our hero a pirate and setting the whole thing at sea, but I feel this is much more original, don’t you?” he said, waving his carrot in the air.

I nodded.

“All right then. Based on your appearance and your entrance, you obviously had in mind one of the witches’ roles.”

I did?

Edward slid a “side”—several printed pages of the script—across the table. “Read the first witch in this scene.”

Yikes. A cold reading of a Shakespearean tumbling witch. I really wanted to do the monologue I’d prepared, but I plunged into the part, starting off with another somersault. The side flew out of my hands. I scampered after it, and read, “Where hast thou been, sister?”

Edward, reading the second witch’s part, replied in a squeaky voice, “Killing swine.” Then, in a deep, raspy voice, he played the third witch, “Sister, where thou?”

Taking my cue from him, I squeaked and rasped, “A sailor’s wife had carrots in her lap, And munch’d, and munch’d, and munch’d.”

“Chestnuts!” Edward yelled. “She had chestnuts in her lap!”

“Chestnuts in her lap, And munch’d, and munch’d, and munch’d.”

I threw in another somersault, hoping to distract him from my gaffe. “‘Give me,’ quoth I: ‘Aroint thee, witch!’ the rump-fed ronyon cries.”

I didn’t know what “rump-fed” actually meant, but slapped my ass as if I knew. Edward chuckled. Okay, then. I could do this.

“Her husband’s to Aleppo gone, master o’ the Tiger.” I cracked an imaginary whip. “But in a sieve I’ll thither sail, And, like a rat without a tail, I’ll do, I’ll do, and I’ll do.”

I chased my nonexistent rat tail and ended the scene with a triumphant cartwheel. I held a gymnast’s victory pose while I waited for a response.

“Hmm,” said Edward, worrying his carrot nub.

I tried to mask my heavy breathing. Who knew being a witch was such hard work?

“I see you’re not especially modest,” Edward said, eyeing my heaving breasts and bra-less perky nips. “That’s good.”

I found out two days later that I got the part. Victory nipple, indeed.

Too bad I’d forgotten about the curse.

CHAPTER 3

Happy Prologues to the Swelling Act

“Omigod, it’s The Face of Channel 10,” I whispered to my fellow witch.

“Quick, switch places with me.” Candy MoonPie jumped up from the table in the rehearsal room where we sat waiting for the first read-through to begin. I obliged.

“Thanks, and watch out,” Candy said as the overdressed newscaster zeroed in on the empty seat now next to me. “The man’s a horndog. Last week on a commercial shoot, I had to ‘accidentally’ dump a soft drink in his lap just to get his hand off my knee.”

I knew Candy MoonPie from theater parties. Candy was her real name, MoonPie wasn’t. We called her that because of her affinity for the sticky sweet things and because her Louisiana accent was as thick as the marshmallow filling.

“Well, bless my socks!” she said. “If it isn’t Bill Boxer. So nice to see you again. Can I get y’all something to drink? Maybe a Coke?”

The Face of Channel 10’s smile froze in place. He ran a hand over his perfectly coiffed salt-and-pepper hair.

Candy gave me a conspiratorial smile. I’d always liked her. Everyone did. She literally bounced: a springy walk, lilting accent, and boing-y brown curls. I smiled back at her. This was going to be great. A cool castmate and my first show with a professional theater. I pulled my cotton cardigan tighter (damn air conditioning) and studied the people I’d be spending the next few months with. Lots of men—okay with me. Just four women: me, Candy, a freckly woman a little older than us, maybe early thirties, and Genevieve Fife. A thirty-something lithe brunette with pale skin and big dark eyes, Genevieve upstaged the rest of us just by walking into a room. I’d seen her onstage a number of times. She was an amazing actor, well-known for her Method acting. Once, in preparation for a role in Beckett’s
Endgame
, she spent an entire day in a trashcan. She probably looked better in a trashcan than I looked at prom.

The smell of hairspray assaulted my nose as Bill sat down next to me. “Ivy Meadows,” I said, sticking out my hand, just to be polite. “I’m playing the third witch.”

The Face of Channel 10 shook my hand. “Bill Boxer. I’m reading Duncan.” I could swear he was wearing bronzer.

Duncan. That was the role Simon would have played—if he hadn’t thrown up on the stage manager’s shoes.

Bill took something out of his briefcase, and settled it in his lap. I saw a yellow paperback cover. CliffsNotes for
Macbeth
. I nearly pointed it out to Candy, but took pity on the guy. “I’m so excited to be cast in
Macbeth
,” I said. “What a great story.”

“Er, right,” said Bill, trying to sneak another look at his CliffsNotes.

“I mean, Macbeth kills his king and his best friend Banquo because he wants to believe a prediction by some so-called witches he meets at the beginning of the play.”

“His king...Macbeth kills Duncan?” Bill tried hard to make his question sound like a statement. He had also tried hard to mask his bad breath with mouthwash. Neither trick was working.

“I know, right?” I said. “Imagine you’re the king. You just rewarded Macbeth with a new title, so you think he’s inviting you to his castle to thank you. Instead, he and his wife murder you in your sleep.”

“Duncan dies?” Then to himself, “Ooh, maybe a death scene.”

I was about to tell Bill that Duncan dies offstage when Edward entered, brandishing a carrot. A forty-ish blonde Amazon in four-inch heels followed close behind: Pamela, the executive director of the theater and Edward’s wife.

“I don’t get it,” I whispered to Candy. “Isn’t Edward gay?”

“So they say.”

“But he’s married?”

“It’s a mystery,” she said.

Edward and Pamela took their seats next to Linda at the top of the horseshoe of folding tables.

“Welcome all,” Edward said. “Be prepared to make Shakespearean history with this production. Never before has the world, let alone Phoenix, seen the Scottish play like this.”

It was bad luck to say “Macbeth” out loud in a theater, hence “the Scottish play.” Part of the famous curse. The story goes like this: To impress King James I, who fancied himself an authority on demonology, Shakespeare included a real spell in the play. Ticked off that Will had spilled one of their secrets, witches cursed the play. As a result (or a coincidence), all sorts of people have been killed during runs of
Macbeth
.

I nearly slapped my forehead. I had said “Macbeth” several times during my conversation with Bill. The curse couldn’t be real, right?

Edward continued, “Forsaking tradition, this production takes place in,” he paused dramatically, carrot in the air, “a circus.”

Of course. My acrobatic witch.

“Imagine a traveling circus from the 1930s. Mackers is the lion tamer, Lady M. is the aerialist, and Duncan the ringmaster.”

As if on cue, Simon walked in. Pamela stiffened, Bill sighed, and Edward pointed his carrot at him. “Ah. Here you are. Cast, a bit of housekeeping first. I’d like to read my two potential Duncans before we get started.”

That’s why Bill had said he was
reading
Duncan. For whatever reason, Edward hadn’t decided who to cast as Duncan. Now Bill and Simon were going to have to audition again in front of actors who were already cast. It was a sucky place to be.

“Everyone in Scene Four, please stay,” said Linda. “The rest of you, take ten.”

When we were all back in the room ten minutes later, the seat next to me was empty. Until Simon sat down.

I leaned over to hug him. “Congratulations.”

“Better watch out for him, too,” Candy whispered in my ear.

“Nearly didn’t get the part.” Simon hugged me back. Seemed like a perfectly friendly hug. “To begin with, Edward is not terribly fond of me. Then there was the, ah, incident with Linda’s shoes, and...” He lowered his voice as a young bearded guy wearing a snug-fitting black T-shirt walked in. “Our Mac seems to have taken a dislike to me.”

I surreptitiously checked out “our Mac,” who had a broad, muscled chest and ocean-colored eyes that stood out against his dark hair and beard. Yowza.

Candy nudged me. “Hot, right?” Guess I need to work on my surreptitious skills.

“Ivy,” Simon spoke quietly as I watched our hot Macbeth from under my eyelashes. “There’s a bit of a favor I’d like to ask of you.”

“Sure.” Then I kicked myself inwardly. I always forgot to ask what the favor was before saying yes.

“I’d like you to witness my sobriety.”

“What?” Simon had my full attention now.

“Yes, well, as you know, I’m a recovering alcoholic. I’ve started going to meetings again, but I have been down this road before.” Simon set his mouth. “I’ve learned that it helps me to stay sober if someone watches over me. I do have a sponsor from A.A.—”

“Then don’t you think he should—”

“But I find phone calls distract me during a play. I need it to be someone who’s here, someone who’s part of this world.”

No, no, no. Not me.

My face must have betrayed my panic.

“It’ll be easy,” said Simon. “You won’t have to take a bottle away from me, nothing like that. I just need to be responsible to someone.”

He had no idea what he was asking, or what had happened to the last person I’d been responsible for. I looked around desperately. “Isn’t there someone else?”

He shook his head. “I have a, ah, bit of history with much of the cast. You and I have no past and you’re offstage much of the show. I know we haven’t spent loads of time together, but I do consider you a friend.”

Wow. Even my Uncle Bob had been impressed when I told him I knew Simon Black. “James Bomb?” he said, nearly choking on his coffee (Simon’s spy parody was one of my uncle’s favorite movies). And now the great Simon Black was my friend. I think I blushed. Then my past rushed back at me. I wasn’t fit to watch over anyone.

Simon must have seen it in my eyes. “Please. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t so important. All you need to do is to check in on me every so often. When I’m offstage, I’ll be in my dressing room. It won’t be a problem, because I give you my word,” he looked me solemnly in the eye, “that I will not drink. Will you be my witness?”

What could I do? I swallowed my past along with the lump in my throat. “I will.”