Macdeath (An Ivy Meadows Mystery Book 1) (4 page)

CHAPTER 6

The Battle’s Lost

“Simon?” My voice sounded strangled.

No answer.

I pushed, cringing as the door jammed against the body. The smell hit me then—acrid, stomach-churning. Oh God.

“Simon?!”

Using all my strength, I opened the door enough to squeeze my shoulders into the brightly lit room. It was Simon who blocked my entrance, an overturned chair behind him. I couldn’t tell if he was breathing. He had to be breathing. He had to.

I stretched a leg over him and leapt. As I did, I saw several things in a flash: a half-drunk cup of coffee on the counter, the squashed top hat next to it, a spreading pool of vomit on the floor. I touched down too late to catch myself. My foot slipped on the slick floor and I landed hard on my hip, several feet away from Simon. He lay on his side facing the door, an empty bottle a few feet from his outstretched arm. I couldn’t see his face.

“Help!” I yelled. Someone would hear me. Someone would do something.

My hip aching from the fall, I inched across the floor on my knees, holding my breath against the smell of puke and alcohol. I fought the rising wave of panic that threatened to capsize me, tried to ignore the pre-digested food I crawled through. I drew near Simon. He must have fallen over, hit the floor, and crawled toward the door for help. I reached for his head and turned it so he faced upward. It was going to be okay. Everything was going to be okay.

Then I saw his face. Simon’s eyes were open, staring at nothing. Chunks of vomit covered his mouth and nose, stuck to his beard.

I started to gag, but swallowed my nausea. I needed to do something: CPR, mouth-to-mouth, something. I tried to force my face close to his, but the smell hit again. I jerked back and my hand slipped on the slick floor. I fell, right on top of Simon’s still-warm body. He didn’t move.

Or breathe.

CHAPTER 7

This Filthy Witness

My teeth chattered. The greenroom was freezing. God.

I sat on one of the old couches, huddled in its corner, my arms wrapped around my knees for warmth. I concentrated on following the sofa’s worn pattern with my eyes, blocking out everything but its faded orange swirls. Jason sat down next to me and draped someone’s robe across my shaking shoulders.

“Can I get you something? A drink? Maybe some brandy?”

I nearly bit his head off. “No.”

He backed off. Even in my state, I could see a bit of hurt in his eyes.

“Sorry, it’s just that...Simon...there was brandy.”

I saw the bottle again in my mind’s eye. Brandy. Empty.

Just the thought of it brought back the smell of alcohol mixed with vomit. I swallowed hard, trying to keep down the bile that rose in my throat.

“Oh, God. Sorry, Ivy,” Jason said. “I was trying to think of what people brought in situations like this. It sprang to mind. That and St. Bernards. Can I get you a St. Bernard?”

I nearly smiled. “You’ve been great. I just want to go home.”

“Let me check on that.”

He got up and walked toward the knot of police choking the hall to the dressing rooms.

I glanced toward them, just for a moment. A flash went off within Simon’s dressing room. I knew what they were photographing. I forced my mind away from the scene, but one image was imprinted on the inside of my eyelids. Simon, on his back on the floor, eyes open. Eyes dead.

I hadn’t done shit. I didn’t try to help him, or go for help, or anything. I’d failed Simon and now he was dead.

“Ivy? Ivy.” It was Jason. “Hey, hey, don’t cry.”

Was I crying? I wiped at my face. Wet.

“Hey, he did it to himself.”

“No.
No
. I was supposed to watch him, I was supposed to help him.”

I really was crying now, huge gulping sobs. Jason sat next to me and wrapped me in his arms. I was covered in vomit, but he held me tight. “Sometimes you can’t help. Sometimes people do what they will,” he said, rocking me.

“But I...it’s happened...”

I nearly told him then. Told him it had happened before, that I was supposed to watch over someone and...something in my brain stopped me from saying it, protected the both of us. Instead I just cried louder.

Through my tears I saw Linda approach, trailed by a big, rumpled-looking guy and a young guy with red ears—cops, I guessed. “This is her,” said Linda, “the girl who found him.” She stood in between the cops and me, a bulldog guarding a toddler. Jason gently disentangled himself from me and stood nearby.

I tore my eyes away from him, from the sofa’s swirls, from the safe space I’d created. I saw my fellow actors huddling in groups, heard the buzz of voices from the lobby down the hall, and felt the hole in the room that Simon had left.

“Miss?” said the red-eared cop. “We’d like to ask you a few questions, beginning with your name.”

“My name is Ivy Meadows, and I am an actress.” It just came out.

“Ivy Meadows?” The big guy gave a slight frown. “That a stage name?”

“Oh. Yeah. Legally, it’s Olive Ziegwart.”

“Olive Ziegwart?” Oh no, not now. “Are you Bob Duda’s niece?” The frown on the guy’s face faded.

It took me a second to process, but I nodded. He sat down next to me.

“Bob talks about you all the time.” Then to the young cop, “Bob’s a private investigator, one of the best in town.” He turned back to me, raising his voice above the mounting noise from down the hall. “Tell you what. Why don’t you...”

Bill Boxer rushed into the room, nearly tripping over Genevieve, who sat in the middle of the floor keening.

“Sorry.” He flashed an insincere and inappropriate smile and bounded down the hall toward the hubbub. Edward’s voice rose above the rest: “The show will be back on its feet day after tomorrow,” he said.

The older cop raised an eyebrow at Linda. She shrugged. “Probably talking to the press. Critics must have called their newsrooms.”

“Luckily, we have an understudy who can step into Duncan’s role right away.” Edward’s voice again.

Linda and I exchanged looks. We didn’t have any understudies.

“Bill Boxer,” Edward said.

“The Face of Channel 10,” said the young cop. A sharp look from the older guy turned his ears even redder.

“Like I was saying,” the cop in charge said to me. “Why don’t you go home, maybe even over to your uncle’s house. We can talk tomorrow morning. You need a ride?”

“I’ll take her,” said Jason.

“Alright with you?” the cop asked. I nodded. “I’ll call your uncle. Let him know you guys are on your way.”

I nodded again. Jason gently pulled me to my feet. The cops nodded to me and walked away. Linda followed them.

“Ivy?” said Jason. “You want to, uh, change before we go?”

I nodded. I’d discarded my wig at some point, but was still in costume. I looked down at myself, saw the mess covering my leotard and tights. Simon’s vomit. My own, too. I had thrown up after I fell on Simon. I almost heaved again but grit my teeth and started toward the restroom. And stopped. It was on the other side of Simon’s dressing room.

Jason saw the dread in my eyes. “Never mind. A shower at home—at your uncle’s house—that’ll feel better.”

“Can I let the rest of the actors go, too?” I heard Linda ask as Jason steered me toward the door.

“Yeah. Sure,” the older cop replied. “It’s not like it’s a suspicious death or anything. This rookie here,” he jerked a thumb at the red-eared cop, “interrupted my Friday night for nothing. If he’d looked closer,” he said loudly, looking at the other cop, “he would have seen that the guy downed a bottle of Rémy Martin. If he’d really done his job, he would have noticed the medic alert bracelet lying on the guy’s dressing room counter. The one that said ‘heart patient.’”

“But sir,” said the young cop, “It was Simon Black.”

Was.

Past tense.

CHAPTER 8

The Pitiful Eye of Day

“Ivy?” I heard the voice as if from far away. I decided to ignore it.

Then I smelled coffee.

I cracked one eye open.

“Morning, you.” Jason stood by my bed, holding a steaming cup of coffee. How did he look so good this early in the morning? And what did I look like? I wondered if I was wearing pajamas, but felt too sleepy to check.

“You gotta get up now.”

I looked around me through half-open eyes. I was in my Uncle Bob’s guest room, tucked into a twin bed. I didn’t remember getting there. I did remember being carried from the car to the house. I remembered a soft couch and hushed voices, ginger ale and a pill, and a warm washcloth on my face.

A window air conditioner was blowing full blast. It sounded like the roar of the sea. Jason smiled and held out the cup of coffee. His eyes were gentle, warm, and that incredible ocean green-blue. Ocean...warm water...mmm. I felt myself drift along with some invisible current. It felt good to be buoyed along by something bigger than me.

At first. Then I realized the current was pulling me further and further from shore, dragging me out to sea. I suddenly sensed the unseen danger beneath the surface, the fathoms of water underneath me, the black depths that waited...

“Olive?” A different voice, familiar.

The sea turned dark and turbulent. It rushed around me, pulling me from side to side.

“Olive. Come on.” I could somehow see the voice as a big bubble hovering above the surface of the water I swam in. I kicked toward the surface and grabbed at the bubble, hoping it would save me.

“Ow!”

I opened my eyes to see Uncle Bob standing over me, rubbing his nose. His bubble-shaped nose.

“Man, kiddo, you are one deep sleeper.”

I shook my head, trying to shake off the water from my dream. Dream Jason was nowhere to be seen. I didn’t care. I was glad to be awake.

“Olive, sweetheart, I wish I could let you sleep, but Pink—Detective Pinkstaff—is coming over pretty soon.” My uncle pulled me to a sitting position and gave me a gentle smile, double chins tripling under a day-old beard. A cold cup of coffee sat on the bedside table. Coffee?

“Was Jason really here?” I asked my uncle. I was wearing pajamas, or at least a faded soft blue T-shirt—Uncle Bob’s? The inside of my mouth felt like it was covered in stale cotton candy.

“Yeah, I thought you’d wake up for him,” he said, crossing to the window. “If you were Snow White, you’d still be in the glass coffin. Guess those sleeping pills really hit ya.” He twisted the blinds open. Light spilled into the room and bounced off my uncle’s orange Hawaiian shirt.

I struggled to my feet, confused, but motivated by the thought of those sea-colored eyes. Jason was here. Wow.

Why? Something knocked on the door of my subconscious.

“There’s still some hot water,” said Uncle Bob, steering me toward the bathroom. “You got fifteen minutes before Pink shows up. Jason’s on a bagel run.”

That was all the incentive I needed. I shut the door to the bathroom, and started to strip. What was that smell? Maybe Uncle Bob had burritos last night. Geez. I turned on the fan, but the smell remained. Oh well. I started toward the shower, then caught sight of myself in the mirror. The hair around my face was all matted with...Oh God. Not again.

I sat down hard on the toilet seat. My stomach started to churn. I leaned down, put my head between my knees, and tried not to think.

“Olive?” Uncle Bob tapped on the door. “Pink will be here soon. You gotta get in the shower, hon.”

I sat still on the toilet, not moving, and trying not to breathe.

“C’mon. You’ll feel better after you do something.”

He was right. I needed to do something. I didn’t do shit last night. I didn’t do mouth-to-mouth or CPR. I didn’t call 911. I just threw up, curled up, and cried like a baby. The least I could do now was talk to the police. I made myself get up and turn on the shower.

“That’s the way, kiddo,” Uncle Bob said from the other side of the door. “See you in a few.”

I was still in the shower, letting the now-cool water wash over my shoulders, when I heard Uncle Bob again. “Olive? You got five minutes, tops.”

Shit. I turned off the water and toweled off. I scrounged through Uncle Bob’s medicine cabinet, used his Old Spice deodorant, ran a comb through my hair, put some toothpaste on my finger, and scrubbed my teeth. No time to do much else.

I saw a bundle of clothes laid on the counter—a way-too-big pair of drawstring sweats and an XXL T-shirt. I pulled them on, yanking the drawstring as tight as it would go, and stepped out into the hall where Uncle Bob waited.

“I dreamt about water,” I said.

“Water.” Realization dawned on my uncle’s face, “Oh, hon. This is nothing like your brother. This thing with Simon was an accident.”

His eyes knew it was a mistake as soon as his mouth spoke it.

“I mean, Simon was an adult...” he said, digging himself deeper.

He must have seen the tears threatening me, because his eyes grew wet, too.

“It’s okay,” I said, and meant it, at least as far as Uncle Bob was concerned.

“Thanks,” he said.

He put his arm around my shoulders as we walked down the hall and into the kitchen. Sitting at the table was the detective from last night, recognizable by his broad back and rumpled shirt. I dug in my heels.

“Olive, hon,” Uncle Bob whispered. “Don’t worry about this too much. The police just want to wrap up a few details. They don’t ask much when it’s something like alcohol poisoning.”

“But why is he here?” This was my safe space, this outdated kitchen with its scratched vinyl floor. Where I had pancakes and coffee at the formica table. Where I felt like family.

“We thought it was better than having you go down to the station.”

The policeman must have heard us. He stood up and turned. His short-sleeved shirt had an ink stain on the front pocket. “Mornin’,” he said as we walked into the kitchen.

I wasn’t expecting his voice to be so gentle, or for his eyes to light up when he saw me. “Hey, you like Hap’s too?” He chuckled. “You don’t need no teeth to eat our meat.”

I followed his gaze to my chest. It was kinda hard to read upside down, but I guessed I wore a T-shirt from Hap’s Pit Barbecue.

My uncle gave the guy a sideways look. The detective rewound: “Uh, really sorry you had to go through all that last night.” He pulled out a chair for me. I sat, and Uncle Bob appeared at my elbow with a fresh cup of coffee. I sipped it gratefully.

“So, is it Ivy or Olive?” The policeman pulled out a pen and a small black notebook from the stained pocket. My uncle drifted out of the room.

“My stage name is Ivy Meadows,” I answered, “but legally, it’s Olive. Olive Ziegwart.”

He wrote that, or maybe something else, in his notebook.

“And you found the body?”

I sat up on the edge of my chair. “I found
Simon
.”

“Tell me about it.” He leaned toward me across the table, like he was taking me seriously.

“It was after intermission, nearly the end of the show. I went to go check on Simon.”

“Why?”

I heard the door to the carport open behind me.

“He’d asked me to keep an eye on him, make sure he didn’t drink,” I said.

A noise—a snort?—made me turn around. Jason walked in carrying two white paper bags.

The cop—had Uncle Bob called him Pink?—cleared his throat. “Why you?” he asked me. “What was your relationship with Simon?”

Jason handed me a toasted bagel, already schmeared, wrapped in a square of waxed paper. I felt his eyes on me.

“We were friends, that’s all.”

“I see.”

Jason tore open the two bags to reveal more bagels and little tubs of cream cheese. The detective flipped through his notebook. “When you went to Simon’s dressing room, were there people around?”

I nodded, wondering if the cop had changed subjects because of the waves of tension coming off Jason, who carefully placed the split open bags in the center of the table.

“Who was there?” asked the detective. Jason grabbed a bagel and stood behind me.

God. I tried to remember. “Genevieve and most of the guy actors were in the greenroom.”

“I wasn’t there,” said Jason, his mouth full of bagel. “I was onstage when it happened.”

The detective turned his attention to Jason. “When what happened?”

Jason swallowed. “The death. When Ivy found him. You know.” He shrugged. “I’m onstage or backstage the entire show. I’m the lead.”

Pink did not seem impressed.

“Is she almost done?” Jason looked at his watch. “We need to go to rehearsal.”

The cop looked at him levelly. “Why don’t you go ahead and tell them she’ll be right along.”

Jason took the hint. “I’ll see you at the theater, Ivy.” He left through the carport door.

The cop took a seeded bagel from the bag, and smeared a bit of cream cheese on it. “Simon Black had quite the reputation,” he said. “But you were just friends?”

So I was right about the change of subject. And he was right about the reputation.

Simon had supposedly moved to Arizona because he didn’t like life in L.A. “Boobs and beaches,” he’d famously said in an interview. Phoenix was just an hour commute to Hollywood by plane, and had no beaches. Boobs we had plenty of, and his interview aside, that seemed to suit Simon just fine. Soon after he moved here, his photograph appeared regularly in the society section of the paper, always with a beautiful woman draped across his arm. After awhile though, the photos became less flattering: a glassy-eyed Simon drinking in a bar, brawling outside a nightclub, or breaking up very publicly with his latest conquest.

“I was just a friend,” I said firmly.

The cop nodded. “So as a friend, Simon asked you to make sure he didn’t drink.” His voice was gentle again. “Did he? Drink?”

I thought about my conversation with Simon before the show: how good he looked, how steadfast he seemed, how proud he had been of his sobriety.

“No. He did not.”

And as I said the words, I knew they were true.