Macdeath (An Ivy Meadows Mystery Book 1) Read online

  Praise for the Ivy Meadows Mystery Series

  Books in the Ivy Meadows Mystery Series

  Copyright

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  About the Author

  Sign up for the Henery Press newsletter

  THE DEEP END

  THE AMBITIOUS CARD

  FRONT PAGE FATALITY

  FIT TO BE DEAD

  NUN TOO SOON

  ARTIFACT

  Praise for the Ivy Meadows Mystery Series

  MACDEATH (#1)

  “Who cannot have fun with a disastrous (and murderous) production of Macbeth? Cindy Brown’s first novel is a delicious romp with plenty of humor and suspense.”

  – Rhys Bowen,

  New York Times Bestselling Author of the Royal Spyness Mysteries

  “An easy read that will have you hooked from the first page...Cindy Brown uses what she knows from the theater life to give us an exciting mystery with all the suspense that keeps you holding on.”

  – Fresh Fiction

  “A whodunit with a comic spirit, and Ivy Meadows has real heart. You’ll never experience the Scottish play the same way again!”

  – Ian Doescher,

  Author of the William Shakespeare’s Star Wars Series

  “Funny and unexpectedly poignant, Macdeath is that rarest of creatures: a mystery that will make you laugh out loud. I loved it!”

  – April Henry,

  New York Times Bestselling Author

  “Vivid characters, a wacky circus production of Macbeth, and a plot full of surprises make this a perfect read for a quiet evening. Pour a glass of wine, put your feet up, and enjoy! Bonus: it’s really funny.”

  – Ann Littlewood,

  Award-Winning Author of the Iris Oakley “Zoo-dunnit” Mysteries

  “This gripping mystery is both satisfyingly clever and rich with unerring comedic timing. Without a doubt, Macdeath is one of the most entertaining debuts I’ve read in a very long time.”

  — Bill Cameron,

  Spotted Owl Award-Winning Author of County Line

  Books in the Ivy Meadows Mystery Series

  by Cindy Brown

  MACDEATH (#1)

  THE SOUND OF MURDER (#2)

  (September 2015)

  Copyright

  MACDEATH

  An Ivy Meadows Mystery

  Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection

  First Edition

  Kindle edition | January 2015

  Henery Press

  www.henerypress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Copyright © 2014 by Cindy Brown

  Cover art by Stephanie Chontos

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-940976-71-6

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For HHH, always

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing a first novel is tough. I never would have made it to the finish line without the feedback, advice, and support of an enormous number of people. Thank you to:

  The wonderful folks at Henery Press, especially Kendel Lynn and Erin George, for believing in me (and Ivy), and for editing that felt generous and right and good.

  The people who helped me get the details right: D.P. Lyle; the crimescenewriter listserv; and Roger I. Ideishi, JD, OT/L, FAOTA, Associate Professor, Dept. of Rehabilitation Sciences, Temple University. Any mistakes are my own.

  Two workshops that especially helped me hone my craft: The Squaw Valley Writers Workshop, where I found great support from author Max Byrd and fellow writers Annam Manthiram and Emanuella Martin; and the Book Passage Mystery Writers Conference, where I met the gracious Rhys Bowen. I’d also like to thank the good people of Oregon Writers Colony, who have been fabulous guides and cheerleaders.

  Portland mystery authors Bill Cameron, April Henry, and Ann Littlewood—wonderful writers, generous mentors, and good friends.

  My early readers and writing friends, including Delia Booth, Randy Bonella, Jennie Bricker, Jane Carlsen, Pat Franko, Judy Hricko, Bernice Johnson, Suzanne LaGrande, Ruth Maionchi, Janice Maxson, Cynthia McGean, Emma Miles, Lindsay Nyre, Shauna Petchel, Rae Richen, Ed Sweet, and Autumn Trapani.

  Barry “Victory Nipple” Siegwart, for several of the bad jokes.

  Holly Franko, an extraordinary writer, editor, and friend who has been with Macdeath since the very beginning.

  Hal, my first reader, first editor, first everything.

  Thank you all. I feel incredibly lucky to have you as part of my life.

  CHAPTER 1

  So Fair and Foul a Day

  Like every actor, I knew Macbeth was cursed, that death and destruction and all manner of bad things happen during the show. You’d think I would’ve remembered this the day of my audition.

  “My name is Ivy Meadows, and I am an actress!” Yuck. I grimaced at myself in the rearview mirror and started up my car. I felt stupid doing these affirmations, and especially stupid when I did them badly. I was an actress, dammit, albeit one who didn’t make a living at it, yet. Bob always says it’s just a matter of time before someone recognizes my beauty, worth, and talent. Bob’s my uncle, not my boyfriend. That’s an affirmation for another day.

  I put my little green Aspire in gear, pulled out of my apartment’s parking lot, and headed for Phoenix Shakespeare Theater. I had scored a blue silk top off the sale rack at Re-Dud, and felt very elegant, very professional, very �
��classical”—for about three minutes. That’s when I noticed my car’s air conditioning was still blowing hot air. Which meant no air conditioning.

  I took a deep breath. “My name is Ivy Meadows and I am an actress!”

  The affirmation worked about as well as the air conditioning. The hundred-and-one degree day wasn’t bad for August, but skyscraper-tall thunderheads made the air unusually muggy. My blouse was beginning to stick to my armpits.

  “My name is Ivy Meadows and I am an actress!”

  The car was heating up, but the affirmation was sounding better. I was getting used to my new name. It had taken me awhile to come up with it. I had tried what my drag queen friends do—that is, taking the name of your first pet and combining it with the name of the street where you grew up. They came up with great names like Mitzi Eldorado or Squeaky Dora, but mine ended up being Stubby Rural Route Number Two. So instead I took my name from a subdivision off the 51 that has neither ivy nor meadows, this being Phoenix and all.

  Something tickled. I looked down. Sweat rivulets were streaking dark indigo stripes down my peacock-blue blouse. The dashboard clock showed just twenty minutes before my scheduled audition time. No time to go home and change. Dang, dang, dang! I really wanted this gig. Getting cast in this show could launch my career in acting.

  I could do this. After all, “My name is Ivy Meadows and I am an actress!” I turned the fan on high, stepped on the gas, and zoomed toward the theater.

  By the time I reached the theater parking lot, my top was soaked, stuck to me like Saran Wrap. But what could I do? I jogged to the stage door, heels sinking slightly into the melting asphalt of the parking lot, and shoved open the door. Inside, the blast of the air conditioning against my wet blouse gave me goose bumps, and nipples. It wasn’t a look I was going for right then.

  I ran into the hallway and tossed my headshot and résumé to a sturdy woman with close-cropped brown hair and a stick-on name tag that read “Linda, Stage Manager.”

  “Ivy Meadows,” I yelled. “Two twenty. I’ll be right back.”

  I turned around and ran right into Simon Black. Yes, the Simon Black. We’d worked together on an independent film a few months earlier—a film that never got made when Simon, its star, didn’t show up on the final day of the shoot.

  “Lovely to see you again.” The aging star was looking a bit tarnished—dark circles under his brilliant blue eyes, a slight whiff of alcohol on his breath. It didn’t matter. He still had the voice. Deep and rumbling with a fabulous English accent, that voice had graced the stages of the Royal Shakespeare Company and thundered from movie screens in multiplexes. Only to wash up in Phoenix.

  “I love you as a blonde, my dear, but...” He eyed my Saran Wrap blouse.

  “I know. Gotta run.” I headed for the restroom. As I skidded into the bathroom, Simon called, “Break a leg.”

  Instead I broke a heel. Right off. I’d just splurged twelve whole dollars at Payless for those piece-of-crap black vinyl pumps.

  Soldiering on, I stuck my indigo-blue armpit under the hand dryer, then yelped as a gust of cold air shocked my system. I banged on the stupid thing and burst into tears.

  A knock, and Simon poked his head in. “Everything alright?”

  I looked at him with mascara-raccoon eyes, wearing one shoe, a wet blouse, and nipples.

  “Ah,” he said. “I see.”

  About a minute later, the stage manager pushed the door open and tossed me a leopard-spotted leotard. A hideous leopard-spotted leotard. “Simon said you needed this.”

  I tore off my top and skirt, kicked off my one good shoe, and pulled on the leotard. It fit, tightly, but off the shoulder—there was no way to wear my bra with it. I wriggled out of my bra and pulled my stretchy black skirt on over the leotard. I glanced in the mirror. Actually, it wasn’t too bad, except for the mascara running down my...

  “You’re up.” Linda pulled me out of the bathroom and into my new, very Shakespearean life, one full of love and betrayal—and murder.

  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.”