Macdeath (An Ivy Meadows Mystery Book 1) (5 page)

CHAPTER 9

Lay It to Thy Heart, and Farewell

They were already rehearsing by the time I got to the theater. I sat down in a seat in the audience, next to Candy. “Glad you made it,” she whispered, giving my arm a squeeze.

It was the top of Scene IV and The Face of Channel 10 was onstage. “Is execution done on Cawdor? Are not those in commission yet returned?”

“Got those lines right,” Candy said.

Now, though, as Malcolm replied, you could see Bill’s wheels turning. He was obviously trying to remember his upcoming speech instead of listening to Malcolm, which could have actually helped him to remember those lines.

“There’s no art...” said Bill, “To find the mind’s...” He scratched his head and looked up into the flyspace, as if his lines were hanging on a scroll up there.

A stage whisper from Seth, who played Malcolm: “The mind’s construction in the face...”

“The mind’s construction in the face,” Bill said, repeating the words exactly the way Seth had said them.

“Needs some construction on his brain,” Candy said under her breath. “But I guess he finally got what he wanted.”

“What?”

“Being cast. You know.”

“Omigod, I forgot.” Before he realized Edward hadn’t decided whether to cast him or Simon, Bill had actually announced on the nightly news that he’d be playing Duncan. The station had forced him to make an on-air apology.

Bill stumbled through the rest of the scene. At the end of it, Edward shouted from his seat in the audience. “Stop! Again from the top of the show. Maybe this time Bill will remember he’s a king, not a newscaster.”

“Ouch,” I said as Candy and I made our way backstage.

“He’s out of carrots and a mite testy,” Candy said. “You shoulda seen him when he realized you weren’t here. He asked Genevieve to read your part. She started in with the whole ‘I’m Lady Macbeth’ thing and Edward ’bout had a hissy fit. He flat out ordered her to read it and she said,” Candy put on a snooty voice that sounded only slightly like Genevieve’s, “‘I believe my contract lists my role as Lady Macbeth.’”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. Linda read your part. Now we know why she’s a stage manager, not an actor.”

We got into the cauldron next to Tyler, and the stagehands hauled us up into the flyspace. I was relieved to be onstage where I could concentrate on being a witch. The theater was a magical place for me, and not just because of the lights and costumes and glitter. I could lose myself in whatever world we had created, which helped me get through the world that had been thrust upon me. My childhood therapist called it “denial.” I called it “survival.”

We ran the show from the top through Duncan’s last scene, then took a break. Candy went out to the loading dock for a smoke and I headed to the greenroom. Riley, aka Macduff the sword swallower, ran up to me, the scent of his drugstore cologne following a step behind. “Hey, Ivy. You feeling better?”

I nodded. I did feel better, being here.

“Great. Hey, I like Hap’s, too,” he said, pointing a finger at my T-shirt. “See you.” Riley bounded away again, happy. He was a big sweetie, good-natured and good-looking, but he wasn’t much for conversation. Not a lot upstairs, if you know what I mean. Candy variously described Riley as “dumb as a box of rocks,” “two sandwiches shy of a picnic,” and (my personal favorite) “one fry short of a Happy Meal.”

I scanned the room. Ah. Jason stood in front of the room’s three vending machines, lined up at one end of the room like guardians of bad food. One held month-old snacks. Another was a Coke machine that was always out of Diet Coke. Jason put a dollar into the third machine, which dispensed coffee and other lukewarm beverages.

I made my way to the beverage machine. “Hi.” I said to Jason, whose cardboard cup was now full of cocoa. I suddenly felt shy.

“Hey, you.” He smiled down at me and my shyness slipped away.

“I wanted to say thanks for last night,” I said, pressing the button for the cocoa. Weak coffee poured into my cup. “Dang it.”

“Did you want cocoa?” asked Jason,

I nodded. “I’m just distracted.” I knew, like everyone else, that you had to push the coffee with cream button to get cocoa.

Jason smiled down at me. “You like café mocha?”

I nodded.

“We’ll share.” Jason took my cup from me, poured some of my coffee into his cocoa, and blended the two until both cups were full of milky tan liquid. He presented my cup with a flourish.

“Milady.”

He leaned in close enough I could smell masculinity and romance and hope, or maybe just shaving cream. “I was happy to be there for you last night,” he said. “Though I had planned a different sort of evening.” He brushed a bit of hair off my cheek.

“Places for Act One,” said Linda over the loud speaker. I was beginning to believe she was a romance-hating psychic.

“Catch you later,” Jason said, taking off for backstage. I followed him and tumbled into place in the cauldron beside Candy and Tyler.

We ran the first half of the show again for Bill’s benefit. After the witches’ scenes were done, I snagged Candy backstage. “Can we talk?”

“As long as you don’t mind the loading dock,” she said. “I am dying for a ciggie.”

Candy grabbed a pack of cigarettes from a hiding space on top of an unused flat and opened the loading dock door. A wave of heat nearly pushed me over, but I followed her outside and watched her light up.

“So, you okay?” She exhaled a stream of smoke like a contented sigh.

“Yeah.” I sat down on the dusty stairs that led from the theater to the driveway. I was sure Uncle Bob’s sweats had seen worse. “But I was wondering, did they say anything about Simon?”

“When?”

“Before rehearsal.”

“Um...”

“I mean, was there a moment of silence or anything?”
I had thought they’d say something at break, but no one said a word.

“No,” said Candy.

“I can’t believe it.” I stood up. “I don’t think I even heard his name today. It’s like saying ‘Macbeth’ in the theater or something.”

Candy’s eyes got big. “Omigod, the curse.”

“Don’t worry about the curse,” I said, “We’re outside the theater, not in it.”

“No, I meant—”

“How in the world can they ignore Simon?” I was hot now and not just because of the 103-degree day. “He was one of us.”

“But Edward’s in charge.”

“So?”

“So Edward hated Simon.”

“Because of the hat?” I knew Edward was pretty pissed about that. I had heard them arguing about it one night in the greenroom.

“You are ruining my concept,” Edward had said. “Without the hat, no one will understand you are the ringmaster. They will be thoroughly confused.”

“And you believe that’s for lack of a hat?” replied Simon. “Not because you costumed the wounded sergeant as a bloody tiger? Or because your soldiers are clowns? Or because Lady Macduff is a big bird?” Edward, taking the bird imagery surrounding Lady Macduff very literally, had costumed her entirely in feathers. A bit wide in the hips, Kaitlin looked like a large duck.

“Yeah, the hat,” Candy said, pulling me back to the here and now. “But mostly that thing between Simon and Pamela.”

“Oh. Right.” I shook my head. “Simon and Pamela. I just can’t see them together.” I once saw a statue of the goddess Athena, suited up in armor and ready for battle, a haughty smile on her lips. Pamela to a T.

“I don’t know what happened, but I guess it involved handcuffs.”

That I could see.

Candy pinched out the end of her half-done cigarette, stuck it back into her pack, and opened the door, holding it for me. I scrambled to my feet and we walked into the cool dark theater.

“And there was
Streetcar
, of course,” she said, stashing her pack away again.

When Simon first arrived in Phoenix, the theater community couldn’t believe its luck—a marvelous actor whose fame guaranteed a full house. But when he drank, Simon screwed up royally, and often.

Like the time he forgot his lines in the middle of a performance, and improvised by saying, “Fuck” over and over (luckily, since it was a David Mamet play, no one noticed). Or the time when the Ghost of Christmas Present got a little too jolly and regaled Scrooge with stories of Christmas debauchery that had mothers grabbing their tots and running from the theater. But the topper came during
Streetcar Named Desire
. Simon’s Stanley was fabulous, filled with booze and angst. “Stella!” he roared in the famous scene. “Stella!” Then “Stell—aaah!” as he fell off the stage into the orchestra pit.

“Yeah.” I’d forgotten Edward had directed that show. We walked through the greenroom and into the hall where the dressing rooms were.

“Simon.” Candy shook her head. “It’s too bad he was such a drunk.”

“But he wasn’t any more,” I said. “He was in recovery.”

“But hon...” She opened the dressing room door, then stopped, effectively blocking my entrance. She turned to me, her eyes wide.

“Have you been in here today?”

“What? No. I came straight into rehearsal. I knew I was late.”

“And you didn’t come in here last night after...”

Had it only been last night? I shook my head. “Why are you...” I trailed off as Candy opened the door wide, and pointed to something sitting on top of my makeup kit.

A note.

CHAPTER 10

I’ the Name of Truth

A slip of stationery, torn at the top and at the bottom, sat on top of my makeup kit. I sank down into my chair and picked it up.
“I am so sorry I caused you pain.”
It was the same handwriting I’d seen on the note for my orchid. The one signed “
Your King
.”

My king.

Simon.

Candy touched my shoulder. “It was here when I came into the dressing room last night after, well, after everything. You were already gone.” She sat down in a chair next to me. “I am so sorry.”

The same words Simon had written.

“Me, too,” I said. So he had done it. Somehow slipped past all my best intentions.

“You want to talk about it? Maybe over a strong drink? Oh, shoot.” Candy grimaced. “That was the wrong thing to say.”

I shook my head. “Don’t worry. But I have to work a shift at the Garden tonight. Thanks anyway.”

“Alright, hon. Take care of yourself.” She blew a kiss to me as she left.

I stared at the note.
I’m sorry
. Was that all Simon could say? I fingered the torn edges of the note. Maybe he had written more. He had to have written more.

I stayed in the dressing room for a few more minutes, waiting until I couldn’t hear any sound from the hall. Once I was pretty sure everyone had left the area, I opened the door, double-checked to make sure the coast was clear, and tiptoed down the hall. Upon reaching my destination, I stopped. Could I really do this? Yes. If there were more to the note, it would be here at the theater. I couldn’t imagine him writing the note at home and bringing it with him. I turned the handle to Simon’s dressing room, stepped inside and shut the door.

Though the mess had been cleaned up, the smell of death still hung heavy in the air. Luckily, I had anticipated this. I remembered that people used to sniff at perfumed handkerchiefs to keep bad smells away. I’d searched through my stuff in the dressing room for anything scented. Though some of my makeup was slightly perfumed, my tin of Altoids won out as strongest-smelling. Now, I popped open the lid and stuck my nose inside. It worked. All I could smell was peppermint.

I mentally patted myself on the back and looked around the room. Bill wasn’t using this dressing room. No one blamed him for wanting a different one.

Though the floor had been cleaned, the rest of the room was just as Simon had left it. The tackle box he used as a makeup kit was still on the counter. His script lay next to it, dog-eared from use. Tacked up on the mirror was the preview article with a color photo of Simon. In the picture, he was laughing, head thrown back, clearly delighted by whatever the interviewer had said. Oh, Simon...The grief I had swallowed threatened to reassert itself, so I took another big sniff of Altoids, pushing my nose deep into the tin. The shock to my sinuses pushed the lump of grief back down, and I looked at the room with more analytical eyes.

Next to the article, another piece of paper was taped to the mirror, this one with numbers written across it. I had Simon’s note with me. I compared it to the paper with the numbers. Not the same. The paper he had written “
I’m sorry
” on was good stationery, heavy and cream-colored. The paper taped to the mirror was lined notebook paper. The numbers were written in pen and began at 6. They were all in order and they were all crossed out except for the last number, 38. Interesting, but not what I was looking for.

I checked the clock on the dressing room wall. I should be leaving for work, but I really wanted to find the stationery, to see if I could tell what else Simon had written. It had to be here. Ah. Another piece of paper peeped out from underneath Simon’s ruined ringmaster’s hat. Maybe this was it. I didn’t have gloves, but Simon had left a pencil near his copy of the script. I used the eraser to pull the note out from under the hat, just in case there were fingerprints. I saw it on CSI once.

This note was on a plain white copy paper, the kind you use in a printer. In block letters was written, “You WILL wear the hat.” Didn’t seem to be the same penmanship as the note on the mirror as the lettering was much bigger. Pretty sure it was Edward’s. Underneath the note was a doodle: Shakespeare wearing a top hat, but with a big circle around it and diagonal line through it, the universal symbol for “no” like you see on “No Smoking” signs. Simon had been quite the artist.

I searched the rest of the room thoroughly, even going through Simon’s makeup case. No stationery. No more paper at all. Nothing he could have written a note on.