Macdeath (An Ivy Meadows Mystery Book 1) (9 page)

CHAPTER 18

Worth More Sorrow

After the show on Wednesday, the greenroom was full of people waiting for Simon’s memorial. Everyone was in attendance: Pamela, Edward, Linda, the entire cast and crew. I snaked my way through them, an enormous plate of Candy’s homemade Pecan Sandies in one hand and a pitcher of punch in the other. I tried to focus on handling the very full pitcher and the plate stacked high with cookies, but my mind kept circling a new idea: If Simon didn’t drink himself to death, something else killed him. Or someone else. I considered each person I passed. Did Simon write one of them a note of apology? A note that ended up in my dressing room, intended to convince me Simon’s death was suicide?

“Witch!” I jumped at Bill Boxer’s voice, too close. One of the Sandies slid off the plate onto the floor. Riley nabbed it. “Five second rule!” Right. Riley’s rule was probably more like five months.

“May I carry that for you?” asked Bill. Unusual. No one would call Bill gracious.

“Thanks.” I handed him the pitcher.

“And may I say how devastating you look in that costume. Rarrr.” He gave what was supposed to be a sexy growl.

I thought about grabbing back the pitcher, but continued toward the table where we’d laid out all the food. Bill followed me. I breathed through my mouth. The Face of Channel 10 and the breath of hell.

“So, Witchie...” said Bill.

“Ivy.”

“Ivy.” Bill wore his fake-looking acting smile. “What exactly is going on here?”

“Oh, sorry,” I said. “You must have been out when we made the announcement. It’s a memorial service for Simon.”

The smile slipped off his face. His brows knit together in confusion. That face was quickly replaced by his “earthquake in South America” serious newscaster face.

“Oh,” said Bill. “Of course.”

Still holding the pitcher, he trailed me toward the food table. Behind the piles of snacks and baked goods, people had tacked up photos of Simon. Simon in theater, Simon in film, snapshots of Simon. Bill plunked the pitcher down on the table, harder than he needed to. “Witch?”

I didn’t turn around. He tapped me on the shoulder. “I really don’t like being called a witch offstage,” I said.

“Sorry, um...Lily?”

I sighed. “Close enough. Yes?”

“Are you sure you didn’t invite me because you didn’t want me to know?”

“Double negative, Bill,” Tyler said.

“Why wouldn’t I want you to know?” I asked Bill, who wore his real face for a change. An unhappy face. A guilty looking face?

Next to me, Candy rapped a spoon against a glass. “Come on, y’all. This memorial is about to begin.” Everyone ignored her.

“People!” Jason said. The room hushed. Jason commanded respect, even in his silly (but kinda sexy) lion tamer unitard.

Bill rolled his eyes at Jason. “Socks,” he said to me and Candy in a stage whisper. “Socks, stuffed down his dance belt. Doesn’t he think we can tell?”

“Yeah, Bill, you’re just jealous,” Candy said under her breath.

“No need for me to be jealous. They don’t call me ‘Big Boxer’ for nothing.” His left eye scrunched up. I think he was trying to wink but his facelift was too tight.

I grabbed a Pecan Sandie and stuffed it in his mouth. “This is a memorial service.” I pointed to a corner.

Bill had the good grace to look embarrassed. He slunk over to where I had pointed and leaned against the wall, looking at the floor.

Jason had been watching us. I nodded at him to begin.

“Duncan is in his grave,” he said, quoting Macbeth. “After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well. In honor of our departed king, we’d like to say a few words in Simon’s memory.” He turned to me. “Ivy? Would you like to begin?”

I’d have to think about Bill later. I stepped forward. “Simon was a kind, generous man...”

A loud snort from someone in the crowd.

No. No one would be that unfeeling. I gathered my thoughts and continued, “A kind, generous man who was just getting his life back together...”

Another snort. This was pissing me off. “Listen, if one of you has something to say—”

“I do,” said Genevieve. “I could say something.” She looked at me levelly, and I realized I should shut up. I’d nearly ruined Simon’s memorial. I stepped back into the crowd.

Genevieve had brought a sheaf of paper with her. “Duncan’s scenes from
Macbeth
,” she said, holding the papers aloft. “Every service needs some sort of ritual.” She paused dramatically and flicked a silver lighter. She held the script above the lighter’s flame. “In Simon’s honor, I burn these pages, knowing that no one else will ever play Duncan as he did.”

Snort. Bill. It was definitely Bill.

“Remove the pig.” Genevieve pointed at Bill with the still-flaming pages. Two of the bigger soldier actors rumbled toward him.

“But...snort!” Bill waved his half-eaten cookie as the actors advanced on him.

“Hold it,” said Linda, stepping forward. “We can’t afford to lose another Duncan. Besides,” she said, “he’s not the pig. I am.” She stared at Genevieve and smiled a tight smile, “Post-nasal drip.” She tapped the side of her nose and snorted, an exact copy of the earlier snorts.

Bill drew himself up. “Thank you,” he said in a raspy voice. “I am not a pig. I am choking on a cookie.” He snort-coughed a few times for good measure and left the room, head held high.

I went to my dressing room a few minutes later. The service was still winding down, but I couldn’t hack it. I was afraid I’d say something I shouldn’t. I was so angry for Simon. I could still hear the snorts.

I shut my eyes and tried to think good thoughts, like...what? Puppies. I tried puppies. Didn’t work. I imagined pug puppies, who wiggled—and snorted. Try something else. Flowers? No. Made me think of funerals.

I heard the door open quietly behind me. In the mirror’s reflection I saw Jason. Yes, that would work. Jason.

He carried a plate of banana bread and a cup of coffee. I was now having very happy thoughts.

“Thought you’d want to try some of this before it’s all gone,” he said. “And I made you a mocha.”

He sat the paper cup and plate down in front of me. The bread was studded with chocolate chips. Mmm, chocolate. I filed that away as another happy thought for the future.

Jason stood behind me and began to gently massage my shoulders. Our eyes met in the mirror.

“Sorry,” he said, glancing toward the greenroom. “I know you wanted it to be nice for Simon.”

I shook my head. “I can’t believe them.”

My head kept shaking, as if anger had taken over my neck muscles. I squeezed my eyes shut, then felt Jason’s lips on the back of my neck. I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. It came out as a sigh.

One of Jason’s hands kept massaging my shoulder, while the other slipped inside the neck of my leotard, pulling it off my shoulder. I opened my eyes and met Jason’s glance in the mirror. I felt my heart drop, and a tingling start low within me. I nodded slightly at him, and he kissed my neck again, his hand reaching for...

“Woo hoo!” Candy skidded into the dressing room, displaying a plastic bucket like a game show hostess. I quickly pulled my leotard back onto my shoulder. She grinned at us. “Ya’ll, if you’re going to make whoopee, you at least need to close the door.”

Now I was really red. Even Jason looked a little embarrassed.

“The service was a hit after all,” said Candy. “We made $500!”

“Really?” Jason and I spoke at the same time.

I pushed back my chair and frowned. “Isn’t this the same cast that eats Bisquick for days?”

“Well.” Candy fished around in the bucket. “They are mostly fives and ones.” She pulled out a dollar bill, then a couple of checks. “But Pamela wrote a check for a hundred and fifty dollars, and someone put in a check from Actors’ Equity for fifty bucks.”

“Great,” I said.

“And...” Candy paused for dramatic effect. After all, she was an actress. “Someone dropped two hundred dollar bills in the bucket. Doesn’t that just dill your pickle?” She waved two crisp one hundred dollar bills in the air.

She whooped again, then caught sight of my face.

“Why Ivy, darlin’, I thought you’d be pleased. It’ll make a nice gift in honor of Simon. Might even get a mention in the paper.”

Something wasn’t right. “Who donated two hundred dollars?”

Candy shrugged. “Didn’t see.”

The gears in my mind were grinding slowly, like they were rusty. I took one of the bills from Candy’s hand and examined it, even though I didn’t know what I was looking for. I sniffed it. Did the bill have a scent? Perfume? Aftershave? Or was I just smelling nearby Candy or Jason?

“I think it’s nice,” said Candy. She looked to Jason for support. He shrugged his agreement. She went on. “Especially since none of us knew Simon all that well. Heck, some folks didn’t even like him and they contributed.”

That was it. “Right,” I said. “Most of the cast didn’t really know him. The ones who did, didn’t really like him.”

“Except you,” interrupted Candy.

“And all of us are strapped for cash. So why?”

“Maybe they felt guilty,” said Candy, her hand sliding toward my banana bread.

I snatched it away from her. “Uh, uh, uh.”

Jason suddenly stood up. “I’ll see you ladies later.” He left.

I stared after him. What the hell?

Candy shrugged. “Sorry to ruin your party.”

I pouted at Candy in the mirror, then shoved the entire piece of banana bread in my mouth as a consolation prize. The bread was chocolaty and fabulous, but something still bugged me. “Ffff guh ee,” I said.

“Swallow first,” said Candy. “Then talk.”

I did as told. “Felt guilty,” I said. “Guilty about what?”

“Got me. Maybe about not liking him.”

I shook my head. Two hundred dollars was a lot of money for any struggling actor. Too much to fork over for not liking Simon. But not enough for killing him.

CHAPTER 19

If You Would Grant the Time

“I want you to take the case,” I said as my uncle steered his Mustang down Indian School Road. The seriousness of my request was undercut by a rumble from my stomach. We’d picked up some Mongolian Beef and vegetarian eggrolls for lunch en route to Uncle Bob’s office and the smell was driving me crazy.

As we slowed for a yellow light, the car next to us sped up and zoomed through the intersection. “Did you know Phoenix is the red-light running capital of the U.S.?” said Uncle Bob, looking at me out of the corner of his eye.

I nodded, my eyes drawn to a young woman standing in the middle of the road.

Phoenix not only has an inordinate amount of red-light runners, but a lot of pedestrians with death wishes. Walking in Phoenix gets really uncomfortable with the heat reflected off the asphalt. Intersections and crosswalks are about a quarter mile apart, so impatient pedestrians with heat-addled brains often cross in the middle of the blocks, even busy six-lane thoroughfares like Indian School. They run across two or three lanes, then stand in the middle turn lane waiting for a break in the traffic, while cars whiz around them going 50 miles an hour.

We passed the young woman, still standing in traffic. She held a baby in her arms. I wished I could keep her safe. I wished I could keep the whole world safe.

My stomach growled again. The smell of the Chinese food proved too much for me. I grabbed an eggroll out of the bag, tore open the accompanying little packet with my teeth, and squirted soy sauce onto the tasty treat.

“Olive! No eating in the car.” My uncle snatched the eggroll and the grease-stained bag from my hand without ever taking his eyes off the road.

Uncle Bob was not exactly a fastidious guy, except when it came to his baby, his red 1969 Mustang. It was his pride and joy, and I suddenly noticed a splotch of soy sauce on the custom white leather upholstery. Ack! Did leather stain? I really hoped not. I surreptitiously dabbed at it with a napkin, then scooted over it, hoping my pants would blot up any remaining sauce.

“Sorry,” I said, meaning it more than he knew, and thinking about places to buy leather cleaner. “So will you take the case? I want you to figure out what killed Simon. With everything I know now, I really don’t think he died from alcohol poisoning.”

My uncle sighed. “Let’s look at this logically. Why do you think it wasn’t an alcohol overdose?”

“Because he died so quickly and—”

“What’s quickly?” asked my uncle.

I frowned. “I checked on him at intermission. I guess maybe forty-five minutes had passed before I found him.”

“Actually that could be enough time. How do you know he hadn’t been drinking when you saw him at intermission?”

“Because he had just come into the greenroom from backstage.”

“Where he could have stashed a bottle.”

I shook my head. Simon had seemed completely sober when we were at the buffet talking about Jason.

Hey, that was another reason. “Simon was at the buffet during intermission. He had food in his stomach. That would have slowed the alcohol absorption.”

“And also caused him to vomit,” said my uncle. “What did you see him eat?”

I saw Simon in my mind, a full paper plate in his hand. “Oh. I guess I saw him with food. I didn’t see him eating.”

My uncle stopped for a red light and turned to look at me. “The brain tends to make those leaps. One reason eyewitnesses are notoriously unreliable.”

This was not going the way I’d planned. “But what about the amount of alcohol? It was just one bottle of brandy.”

“A: brandy is pretty high proof. B: you don’t know it was just one bottle. C: he was an older guy, probably on some other meds, ones that could have interacted with alcohol.”

“But...” I knew my uncle was being logical, like the detective he was, but I was beginning to feel defensive.

“And D: Pink told me Simon had a bad heart. The doctor who signed the death certificate said it was a heart attack, probably brought on by all that booze in such a short time. Didn’t even require an autopsy.”

“I thought that was because his wife didn’t want—”

“It was because Simon’s death wasn’t suspicious. Hell, it wasn’t even considered an accident.”

“But—”

“Olive. Honey. Simon’s heart gave out because he drank too much. It’s not your fault.”

Not your fault. Uncle Bob had said those words to me before. Many times.

No. Not going down that road again. I grabbed my mind’s wheel and jerked myself back into the present. “There was also the note. And the memorial I told you about. Don’t those facts make you suspicious?”

“What facts?” said Uncle Bob. “The fact that Simon apologized for something? Or that someone put a few hundred bucks into a memorial kitty?”

“And there were the pig snorts during the service.”

“A pig snort does not a murder make.”

“Fine.” I stared out the car window. I couldn’t help being pissed, even if I knew it was unreasonable. Uncle Bob’s argument sounded logical, but I knew in my gut that I was right. Simon did not kill himself, even accidentally. I decided then and there to prove it, with or without my uncle’s help.

My uncle pulled into the parking lot of our office building. “Olive,” he said quietly. I didn’t turn. He pulled the Mustang into his reserved spot and turned off the engine. “I’m so sorry this happened,” he continued, “but I think we both know where this is coming from. Simon’s death is not your fault, just like your brother’s...”

I jumped out of the car. Now I was pissed off with reason. I slammed the door. How dare he bring up Cody? This wasn’t like that at all. It wasn’t.

I stood there in the parking lot clenching my fists. I could feel the heat from the asphalt through my shoes, but it had nothing on the fire burning in my chest. Shit. I was afraid my uncle was right. I didn’t want him to be right.

He had gotten out of the car and walked around to me. I still wouldn’t look at him.

“Olive, listen, if it means that much to you, I’ll do it. I’ll ‘take the case.’ Okay?”

I nodded, met his eyes, but didn’t move. My uncle could be a big softie, but he didn’t usually agree so quickly. There had to be a catch. I waited.

“But I want you to do something for me.”

Please, please, please, let it not be about Mom and Dad.

“I want you to go see...”

No, no, no. I held my breath.

“A counselor. To help you get past your, uh, past.”

I could breathe again. A counselor. I could do that. “Can I wait until the show closes?”

“Sure.” Uncle Bob extended his hand and I took it. We sealed the bargain with a handshake.

I heard my cell phone ring from inside Bob’s car. I opened the door and grabbed my purse from the passenger side floor. My phone stopped ringing, but still I rummaged in my bag trying to find it. Instead my hand touched a slick square of paper I didn’t recognize. I pulled it out.

“Scoot, hon,” said Uncle Bob as he reached around me and grabbed our lunch out of the car.

I stared at the photo I’d taken out of my purse. It was one of the pictures we’d used at the service: Simon with donkey ears on his head. There were pine trees behind him, and he had his arm around someone who’d been cut out of the picture. Tiny pinholes were scattered across the surface. Where was this taken and who had been cut away? How did it get in my bag? And why was Uncle Bob glaring at me?

“Olive?” said my uncle, his voice no longer gentle. “Is that soy sauce on my seat?”