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  Praise for the Ivy Meadows Mystery Series

  “This gut-splitting mystery is a hilarious riff on an avant-garde production of ‘the Scottish play’…Combining humor and pathos can be risky in a whodunit, but gifted author Brown makes it work.”

  – Mystery Scene Magazine

  “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

  “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

  “Brown mixes laugh out loud observations about the acting life with a witty and intriguing mystery. Consider yourself warned. Oliver Twisted is a fast-paced addictive read impossible to put down until Ivy has caught the killer.”

  – D.E. Ireland,

  Agatha Award-Nominated Author of Move Your Blooming Corpse

  “A definite delight…sit back, wait for the curtain to rise on this one, and then have a whole lot of fun figuring out whodunit.”

  – Suspense Magazine

  “A fun and rollicking mystery at sea with a delightfully twisty plot and a heartfelt heroine who is as entertaining as she is soulful. I highly recommend this series. More please!”

  – John Clement,

  Author of the Dixie Hemingway Mysteries

  “The setting is irresistible, the mystery is twisty, and Ivy is as beguiling as ever, but what I really loved was the depth and complexity of painful human relationships right there in the middle of a sparkly caper. Roll on Ivy #3!”

  – Catriona McPherson,

  Agatha Award-Winning Author of The Day She Died

  “It is not easy to combine humor and murder, but Cindy Brown does it effortlessly. Who else would think of combining The Sound of Music with Cabaret with a serial killer? The result is such fun.”

  – Rhys Bowen,

  New York Times Bestselling Author of Malice at the Palace

  “The author blends theater lore with a deeper psychological layer, and always on stage is her delightful sense of humor. The concept of a mash-up of The Sound of Music and Cabaret is as brilliant as it is ripe for absurdity, and readers will thoroughly enjoy this extremely fun mystery that entertains until the final curtain call.”

  – Kings River Life Magazine

  “The mystery kept me glued to the pages and I enjoyed all facets as each clue got me closer to the killer’s identity…had me roaring with laughter…A delightful read and I can’t wait to see what happens next in this amusingly entertaining series.”

  – Dru’s Book Musings

  “For true Dickens fans, theatre lovers, and mystery buffs everywhere, it is indeed the best of times. Please sir, I want some more!”

  – Broadway.com

  Books in the Ivy Meadows Mystery Series

  by Cindy Brown

  MACDEATH (#1)

  THE SOUND OF MURDER (#2)

  OLIVER TWISTED (#3)

  IVY GET YOUR GUN (#4)

  THE PHANTOM OF OZ (#5)

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  Copyright

  IVY GET YOUR GUN

  An Ivy Meadows Mystery

  Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection

  First Edition | May 2017

  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 © 2017 by Cindy Brown

  Cover art by Stephanie Chontos

  Author Photograph by AJC Photography

  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.

  Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-207-8

  Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-208-5

  Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-209-2

  Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-210-8

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For Holly Franko

  “It is not often that someone comes along

  who is a true friend and a good writer.”

  – E.B. White, Charlotte’s Web

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Gold Bug Gulch does not exist, but happily, Goldfield Ghost Town does, and is a much nicer place to visit (no murders). My fictional town is not based on Goldfield (which is located in Apache Junction, AZ), but much of my research took place there, and I’m very grateful to “Mayor” Bob Schoose for his incredible generosity, and to Mongo (Jud) Ware for the loan of his name.

  Arnon Kartmazov of Bridgetown Forge (Portland, OR) was also very generous with his time, showing me how blacksmiths work with coal-fired forges. He’s a wonderful teacher for anyone interested in smithing.

  Once again, John Hopper of JB National Investigations proved invaluable to me, helping me figure out some of the ins and outs of PI work and legal issues.

  Thanks to the folks who helped me get the details right: Bonnie Gestring of Earthworks (mining info): the Crime Scene Listserv (forensics); Anthony Petchel (non-profits and money); Dave Furman and Judy Hricko (rifles), and Steve Etling (septic tank…stuff).

  As always, the team at Henery Press has been an invaluable help and a joy to work with. Thanks to Erin George, Kendel Lynn, Rachel Jackson, Stephanie Chontos, and Art Molinares.

  I am lucky to have a fabulous group of reading and writing friends who make my books so much better: Lisa Alber, Delia Booth, Holly Franko, Judy Hricko, Doug Levin, Evan Lewis, Ann Littlewood, Janice Maxson, Marilyn McFarlane, Lindsay Nyre, Shauna Petchel, and Angela M. Sanders.

  I wish I could name all the people who have supported me and my writing, but this book would be several pages longer (really!). So in brief, I’d like to thank Gretchen Archer, Shannon Baker, Bruce Cantwell, Kate Dyer-Seeley, April Henry, Kelly Garrett, John Kohlepp, Erin Pawlus, the folks at Oregon Writers Colony, and the wonderfully supportive Hens of Henery Press.

  And last but never least, all my love and thanks to Hal, my editor, partner, and true love.

  Chapter 1

  “Ivy, come quick! Lassie’s in trouble!”

  The caller hung up, but I knew it was Marge and I knew it was serious. Marge never hung up without saying goodbye.

  “Gotta go,” I said to my friends and flew down the stairs and out the door.

  Lassie. What could have happened? I beat down my rising panic and redialed Marge as I ran across the theater parking lot.

  “
You okay?” I said when she picked up. “Maybe you need to call the vet?”

  “No, but I called 911. They said it wasn’t an emergency.”

  Phew, things must not be too bad.

  “They, they, they…” Marge started to cry.

  Dang, things were bad. Not only did Marge never hang up without saying goodbye, she never cried. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I jumped into my latest used car, a 2005 Nissan pickup, and squealed out of the lot. I’d met Marge last spring when we both did a show at Desert Magic Dinner Theater. I loved my friend and her dog. My throat swelled at the thought of either of them in pain.

  It was Saturday, so I made pretty good time from downtown Phoenix to Marge’s retirement community, west of town. I turned into an entrance flanked by rock walls and two signs, one that said “Sunnydale!” and the other “America’s Favorite 55+ Community!” I zoomed past palm trees, a golf course, and a bunch of golf carts toodling down the road and pulled into Marge’s driveway.

  I didn’t even ring the bell. I just shouted as I walked in the door. “Marge?”

  Heels clicked on the tile floor as Marge rounded a corner into the foyer. “What happened?” I began, then stopped.

  Marge was pale. Marge, who suntanned for all of her sixty-plus years and had skin the color of calf leather, looked positively white. She teetered on her heels. “Lassie…”

  I put an arm around her and steered her back into the living room, where we sat together on a pastel sofa. The surroundings were familiar: I had stayed here last spring, taking care of the house and Lassie while Marge was ill. But though I knew the dent in the sofa like it was my own, I didn’t recognize this version of my friend. Marge was “Arizona’s Ethel Merman,” a bold, brassy former Broadway star. But today she crumpled onto the sofa like a used Kleenex, clutching a cellphone in her hand.

  I scanned the room for Lassie, afraid he was lying on the floor somewhere. Yeah, Lassie was a boy, just like all the Lassies in the movies, but that’s where the resemblance ended. Lassie was a pug. And he wasn’t in the room.

  “Tell me,” I said gently.

  “You’re a detective, so you’ll find him, right? Right?”

  Though I worked part-time at my Uncle Bob’s PI firm, I didn’t have my license yet, so I wasn’t really a detective. I also wasn’t about to correct Marge in her present state. “Tell me what happened,” I said again.

  “Lassie wanted a walk, but I was on the phone, so I let him out in the front yard.” There was a small courtyard in front of Marge’s house, ringed by a decorative iron fence. “He was taking his time, sniffing everything five times before peeing on it, so I went inside, keeping the door open so he could come in when he was done. Then I heard them.”

  “Them?” I couldn’t imagine what she meant—no gangs in Sunnydale, no motorcades, or groups of juvenile delinquents or anything else that could qualify as “them.”

  “I don’t know how they got in—maybe Arnie left the gate open when he got the mail—but they were yipping and…”

  My stomach dropped. Coyotes. I’d seen them around, skulking around the oleanders, looking mangy and underfed. But wait. They were usually out at night. “Marge, what time—”

  Her cell rang. A flicker of hope crossed her face, then died as she saw who was calling. “Arnie,” she said to her husband as she picked up. “Ivy’s here, but Lassie’s still…” She couldn’t go on.

  “It’ll be all right, babe.” Arnie talked so loudly I could hear him, even though Marge wasn’t using speakerphone. “He’ll be all right.” His voice broke too. My eyes filled up just listening to them. I adored these guys, and Lassie. Oh no. Tears were beginning to leak out of my eyes now. I wiped them hurriedly so Marge wouldn’t see. “Let me talk to Ivy,” Arnie said. Marge handed the phone over to me. “Thanks for coming over, kid,” he said. “You know that little dog means the world to us. Do you think you can find him?”

  “I…sure. Of course, but…” I tried not to think about what I might find, what a pack of coyotes might do to a little black pug.

  “The last thing I heard, the pack was skirting the golf courses. Food and water, you know.”

  “Of course. There are the water hazards, and the bunnies.”

  “Bunnies?”

  “Yeah.” Oh boy. Didn’t want to transfer the bloody image in my mind to Arnie’s head so I simply said, “Food.”

  “Food, huh? Seems like they’d go more for pretzels and protein bars and stuff. I hear people throw their snacks at them to keep them away. Bunnies seem a little big, even for a pack of Chihuahuas.”

  “A pack could easily take down—did you say Chihuahuas?”

  “Yeah. Didn’t Marge tell you? It’s that pack—you’ve seen ’em on the news.”

  Sunnydale had recently made the national news, courtesy of a pack of, yes, feral Chihuahuas that were terrorizing the neighborhood. “The Chihuahuas carried off Lassie?”

  “He joined them. Little hoodlum.” The affection in Arnie’s voice turned to concern. “But it’s not safe. They could get hit by a car. A few people even said they’d take pot shots at them if them saw ’em. And then there are the coyotes…” He didn’t have to say more. We both knew what could happen to the snack pack of tasty little dogs. If I could just find Lassie before…

  What was that noise? “Arnie, was that a gunshot?” I whispered, sliding a look at Marge. Either she didn’t hear me or the news didn’t bother her.

  “Yeah.” He chuckled as several more shots rang out over the line, followed by…applause? “But don’t worry, it’s just—oh my God!”

  The line went dead.

  Chapter 2

  Marge heard that. She grabbed the phone out of my hands. “Arnie? Arnie?” Wild-eyed, she thrust the phone at me. I put it to my ear—definitely dead. I put the cell on speakerphone and redialed. The phone rang. And rang. And rang. Then it picked up. “You’ve reached Arnie. Leave me a message and—”

  “Marge, were those gunshots?”

  “Try him again.” Marge leapt up from the sofa and began pacing.

  I stood up too, the muscles in my legs jumping from tension. I redialed. Same message. Marge grabbed the phone from me and tried dialing herself. “You’ve reached Arnie. Leave me—”

  “First Lassie, then Arnie. No. No, no, no.”

  “Come on.” I grabbed my keys from the coffee table where I’d dropped them. “We’ll go see what’s going on.”

  I bundled Marge into the cab of my truck, hoping Arnie would be okay to drive home. No way the three of us would fit in my pickup, unless one of us rode in the back. It was amazing, the strangely normal worries that came into your mind in times of crisis. But maybe there wasn’t a crisis. “Maybe Arnie forgot to charge his cell phone,” I said as we pulled out of Marge’s driveway.

  She shook her head. “Saw it on the charger last night.”

  “Okay.” My stomach dropped, but I put on a calm demeanor. “Where to?”

  “Head west on Grand.”

  I didn’t ask where we were going, and she didn’t tell me. I just kept driving west, and she just kept dialing Arnie’s number. “First Lassie, now this…” she mumbled to herself.

  City turned to desert. “Keep going?” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  The desert northwest of Phoenix was scrubby, devoid of any interesting features except the craggy bare mountains that ringed the valley. Still, Marge stared out of the window as if mesmerized.

  After ten minutes I said, “You doing okay?”

  Marge looked at me as if seeing me properly for the first time. “You come from the theater?”

  “Yeah.”

  She eyed my green-paint-spattered jeans, t-shirt, and ball cap, which kept my bi-colored hair (brown roots, blonde hair) from being tri-colored. “You working backstage?”

  “I was painting some flats for New Vin
tage Theater.”

  She nodded. “Good outfit. You doing a show for them? I thought you were auditioning for Annie Get Your Gun.”

  “I was just helping some friends. And yeah, I did audition. You won’t believe it, but…”

  “You got a callback?”

  “Crazy, huh?” Arizona Center Stage was a regional theater company. A callback for them was a big deal, a definite step up career-wise. “How did you know?”

  “I got big ears. And I know the assistant director.”

  “Did you…?”

  “Nah. You got it on your own, kiddo. I knew you could.”

  I waited, but that seemed to be the end of our conversation. I rolled down my window to let the cool November air stream in (and to save gas by shutting off the AC). After another ten minutes of no sound but wheels on asphalt, I asked, “We going to Wickenburg?” It was the only place I could think of out this direction, a small desert town that still felt like the Old West, maybe owing to its history of cowboys, mining, and massacres.

  “No. That new Western theme park, Gold Bug Gulch. It’s just this side of Wickenburg.”

  “I didn’t know it was open yet.”

  “It’s half-open, what they call a soft opening. Just weekends for now. The saloon and restaurant, reptile house, and blacksmith shop are open, plus they have horse rides and roping and…”

  “Gunfights. That’s what we heard on the phone.” Phew. “Maybe Arnie yelled because it surprised him.” I didn’t say anything about him not picking up the phone. I was sure Marge hadn’t forgotten about that.