Macdeath (An Ivy Meadows Mystery Book 1) (19 page)

CHAPTER 38

Ripe for Shaking

I loved Agatha Christie’s little Belgian detective. I loved his confidence, his neat mustache, and his tidy bowler hat. I even dressed up as Poirot one Halloween. Everyone thought I was Charlie Chaplin. No matter. Tonight I would emulate my fictional hero with a classic Agatha Christie tactic. I’d assemble all the guilty suspects in one room, tell them everything I’d discovered, and the murderer would show his—or her—hand. The intermission get-together to give Edward his present was the perfect Poirot-type set-up—as long as I could act the part.

A
t intermission, a
stream of actors and techies flowed out the door to the loading dock. Everyone wanted to be there. My amped-up pulse beat a warning. I ignored it. I could do this. Of course I could. I am Ivy Meadows and I am an actress!

I got in line behind Edward and stepped out the door. A blast of too-warm air and a rumble of conversation greeted us. The entire cast and crew lined the sides of the loading dock. A few smoked while they had the chance. All the loading dock lights were on, and the ramp was bare of trucks or equipment.

Edward nudged me. “I’m hoping for a bottle of Rémy Martin. I’ve been hinting.”

I stared at him. He had been unusually friendly to me, ever since...when, exactly? After the phone call I’d overheard. Yeah, that was definitely the turning point. I didn’t get it.

Edward was hoping for Rémy Martin. That’s what he said. A bitter taste crept into my mouth.

“Everybody!” shouted Riley, who had jumped down to the driveway. He had been appointed to buy the present. “Edward told me what he wanted for a present...”

El Director gave me a sideways smile. My mind’s eye flashed back to that horrible night, and I saw an empty bottle next to Simon’s body. A bottle of Rémy Martin.

“But I couldn’t find ‘eye of newt and toe of frog,’ or ‘wool of bat and tongue of dog.’ So instead I bought him three other things that might make a tastier gruel for his cauldron. I was pretty sure he’d like carrot juice...” Groans and laughter as Riley presented Edward with a plastic bottle full of orange liquid. “Rémy Martin...” Applause accompanied this gift. “And...” Riley fiddled with something behind his back. “Diet Coke!”

The plastic liter bottle he held out toward Edward erupted in a fountain, showering several of us with warm, sticky liquid.

“Cool, huh?” Riley jumped back up to the edge of the loading dock. “If you drop Mentos—you know, those mint candy things?—into Diet Coke, whoosh! Geysers of Coke, man!”

“Arrrhhh.” The strangled noise came from Edward, whose once-white shirt was plastered to his chest.

Riley burst out laughing. “Oh man. You really got it.” Then, as he realized his folly, “Oh, hey. Sorry, Edward. Really. I didn’t mean to get you all wet.”

“Riley,” said Edward. “I am going to kill you.”

I screwed my courage to the sticking point. “Speaking of murder,” I said in my loudest voice.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Edward. “Don’t you know an exaggeration when you hear one?”

I persevered. “As some of you know, I’ve been investigating Simon’s death.”

A few groans from the crowd, but several cast members kept their eyes on me, Edward included.

“And I am convinced that it was...”

I tried hard not to slip into a Belgian accent.

“Murder.”

Any chattering had stopped and all eyes were now on me.

CHAPTER 39

Desire Is Got without Content

I looked around at the sea of expectant faces, all waiting for me to tell them what happened next. Poirot-like, I examined each one, looking for signs of guilt. This was going to be harder than I thought, and I only had a few minutes before intermission was over.

Shit. Intermission. What would happen to the second half of the show if I did catch a murderer? Not smart, Ivy, not smart. But it was now or never. I couldn’t wait. I said a little prayer to the gods of theater and St. Agatha Christie, and played my next card.

“It was the same makeup that sent Jason to the hospital.”

I snuck a look at Jason, and was surprised to see his eyes grow wide. He must have suspected, especially since he knew it wasn’t peanuts that caused his allergic reaction. Anyway, the important thing was that he couldn’t be guilty.

“So, he can’t be the guilty party,” I said.

“Sure, he could,” said The Real Witch. “He could have faked the whole thing and made himself sick. He could have lied.”

Before I could point out that I’d seen Jason in the hospital, Bill spoke up. “Yeah,” he said. “He’s that way. Everyone knows he stuffs his dance belt.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

It just came out. I nearly clapped my hand over my mouth, but stopped so I wouldn’t draw too much attention to myself. Too late. Candy hooted, Genevieve scowled, Edward self-consciously cleared his throat, and Jason glared daggers at me (
Macbeth
pun intended). I knew why Jason was pissed—I’d blown our secret—but what was the deal with everyone else? People seemed more interested in me and Jason than Simon’s murder. It didn’t seem right.

Sweat, or maybe Diet Coke, trickled down my face. I wiped it away and pushed onward.

“But Edward,” I began, addressing the buzzing crowd on the loading dock, “Had motive and opportunity.” I kept the Rémy Martin card up my sleeve, in case I needed it later.

“Please,” he said. “I would have never poisoned Jason.”

Was that a slip? Should I ask him about Simon, or stay on the Jason track?

“Why not?” I asked, sticking with the Jason angle.

“Because he’s my lead, for God’s sake. It would have killed the show. Who else could have stepped in?”

I saw Riley open his mouth to nominate himself as a potential Macbeth stand-in and then shut it. Was that suspicious?

“Speaking of the show,” said Linda. “Places in five.”

“Or it could have been Linda,” I said. “She had motive, she had opportunity, and she kept the poisoned makeup in a drawer in her desk.” A hush fell over the cast.

Linda’s face was implacable, as always. “Hated Simon,” she said, crossing her arms. “Didn’t kill him.”

“What motive did she have?” asked Kaitlin/Lady Macduff.

“We loved the same woman,” Linda said, her face still stony. “And this is all a lot of fun,” she looked at her watch, “but you now have places in four.” She yanked open the door to backstage and stood there like a doorman, silently commanding the actors to get into places. The cast shuffled toward the door.

This wasn’t working. Damn. I should have known better. These were all theater people, they could act innocent. I knew someone was “in blood, Stepp’d in so far.” Someone was guilty, and whoever it was, was after me. But what to do? What would Poirot do?

Bill pushed his way toward the door, ahead of everyone. Wait. “Duncan is already dead,” I said. “Bill doesn’t have to go on. Stop him.”

Two burly techies stepped in front of Bill. He didn’t turn around, but stayed facing the door. I was onto something.

“Bill definitely had motive,” I said. “Out of everyone, he gained the most by Simon’s death.”

“What about opportunity?” Linda stood at the open door, her face serious.

“He was here opening night,” I said. “Don’t you remember?”

“Yeah, he brought champagne,” Jason said.

“And he said ‘Macbeth,’” added Riley.

Bill turned around and thrust out his chest. “I always attend opening night at this theater.”

“Not true,” said Edward. “And not only were you in attendance that night, you were on hand to make an appearance at the press conference, directly after Simon’s death.”

“And I saw you at intermission,” said Riley.

“All right!” shouted Bill. “I did it. I poisoned Simon’s makeup.”

Wow. My Agatha Christie scheme had worked. I was stunned into silence.

Linda shut the door to the theater and took a cell phone out of a pocket on her cargo pants.

“Please,” said Bill, appealing to Linda. “Wait until the end of the show. It’ll be public soon enough.” His face crumpled. “Please.”

Linda looked to Edward, who nodded.

“All right,” she said.

Bill’s body sagged. I was afraid he might faint.

“Jason, Riley, and...” she thrust her chin at a few of the soldier actors. “Adam and Kevin. Would you please escort Bill to the Cage?”

The men surrounded Bill, whose face was turning gray. Linda opened the stage door and held it. I pushed my way through the cast so I could follow right behind the guys escorting Bill. The rest of the cast and crew trailed behind.

Our little group proceeded to the Cage. It’s not as bad as it sounds, just a large, fenced-in area backstage where expensive equipment—lights, fog machines, stuff like that—is kept. It’s also locked. Linda selected a key from among the dozen on her carabineer key ring and unlocked it. We all looked at Bill, standing there in his ridiculous ringmaster’s costume. He didn’t move.

“Bill,” said Linda, “You gotta get in.”

Still nothing. Like his shoes were Superglued to the floor.

Linda pulled out her phone again. “You want me to call the police right now?”

Bill shook his head and unstuck his feet. We were all silent as he stepped into the Cage. He stumbled over some equipment, then headed toward a three-foot square space that wasn’t filled with equipment. He looked like a dog that had been banished to the basement.

“Jason,” said Bill through the Cage’s chain link fence, “I’m sorry.”

Jason strode off in the direction of the stage, ignoring Bill’s apology.

“Places,” said Linda to the group. We all turned to go, when we heard a snuffling, choking sound from the Cage.

“I didn’t mean to kill him,” said Bill, tears streaking his stage makeup.

“Tell that to the police,” I said, trying to sound like a detective. I didn’t. I didn’t sound anything like Poirot.

CHAPTER 40

To Win Us to Our Harm

I didn’t feel like Poirot, either. I expected to feel vindicated, victorious. After all, I’d caught the culprit. But no. My stomach hurt like I’d swallowed a big lump of something indigestible, and my head ached with the idea that someone would actually kill for a role. I felt like I had food poisoning of the soul.

I passed by Jason, who was waiting in the wings for his entrance. “Hey,” I said softly.

He wouldn’t look at me. I told myself it was the shock of the revelation, maybe anger at Bill. Yes, I’d spilled the beans about our relationship, but it couldn’t be that big a deal. Could it?

I tumbled into the cauldron beside Candy and The Real Witch. No chit-chat there either.

The show felt leaden. Everyone’s acting seemed forced, unreal. It was as if we were all Lady Macbeth, sleepwalking our way through the show. I could hardly wait for it to be over.

After our last exit, I turned to Candy, who had just crawled out of the cauldron.

“So...” I began.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.” She made a show of stomping off, though it didn’t work very well with bare feet.

I passed Genevieve, whose eyes bore into mine, blazing with hate. What did I do to her?

Still looking over my shoulder at Genevieve, I bumped into Riley, and felt a sort of relief, like when you run into a really stupid Irish Setter who likes everyone. The look he turned on me, though, was anything but Setter-like.

“What?” I said. This was getting ridiculous.

“I waited,” he said. “I even bought you a T-shirt.”

I waited, too, hoping he’d enlighten me as to what he was talking about.

“No one stands me up,” he said and walked away.

I stood him up? Huh? Oh shit. NASCAR. Did I say I’d go? I must have. Shit.

I made my way back to our dressing room. I could wait there for curtain call, maybe phone Pinkstaff. I had to pass through the greenroom on the way there. Tonight it was strangely empty, except for Edward, who paced the length of it, gnawing on a carrot. He stopped when he saw me.

“Bravo,” he said, clapping slowly. “You’ve ruined the show once again.”

I opened my mouth to protest.

“Because of you the police will be called to the theater a second time,” he continued.

That wasn’t fair. I wanted to shout that it was Bill’s fault, not mine, but Edward’s face stopped me. He looked a little like Hitler with a thinner mustache. And a carrot. I swallowed my indignation.

He went on. “Twice in one show. Do you understand what that means to this theater?”

“Publicity?” I said hopefully.

“Oh.” His face lost the crazed despot look. “Well.”

He began pacing again, glaring at the tile floor. “Even so,” he said, “that doesn’t let you off the hook.”

Why was he so mad at me?

I started back to our dressing room, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He’d have to realize eventually I was the hero in all of this.

I was nearly to the hall when he said, “Did you plan to audition for my production of
Much Ado
?”

“Yes! I’d—”

“Don’t bother,” he said, with an evil little sideways smile. “And you did know my wife is the artistic director here, yes? And that she exerts a lot of influence in the community?”

My throat felt tight. It was no fair. I was doing what I needed to do, what anyone should have done. I was the good guy, dammit.

Edward stood, waiting. I nodded, and slid out of the room, with the understanding that my acting career was over.