The Phantom of Oz Page 10

  “What is with you people?” I shouted. “Real women have curves!” The name of the play just sprung to mind. Besides, it was the truth.

  “Touchy, touchy.” The woman had lipstick on her teeth. I decided not to tell her. “But about those ghost photos...”

  I made myself calm down. Money was at stake, and it was a very precious commodity in my life. “How much are you offering?”

  “Two thousand dollars?”

  “Hey,” I shouted to the room. “This...lady just offered me two thousand dollars for my ghost photos. Anyone want to beat that?”

  The mean woman looked crestfallen as I was surrounded by journalists with deeper pockets. Served her right—“if she lost a little weight.” Harpy.

  I finally made a deal with a jowly older man, and had just finished stashing the cash (three thousand dollars!) into my wallet when some of the Wizard cast entered the hotel. I got into the elevator with them. The actress who played Dorothy said to the group in general, “Best reception ever. Babette deserved everything she got. Brownie butt, my ass.”

  “Is that a joke?” Madison whispered to her mom, who ignored her, probably hoping Dorothy would too.

  The entire group got off on the fifth floor. Good. Now I just had to figure out which room was Candy’s, and how I would get in. First things first. “Desirée,” I said as I followed the group down the hotel hallway, “I’m worried about Candy. Do you know which room she stays in?”

  “Why would I?” she said. “As I said before, she didn’t speak to us—”

  “Little people. Right.”

  Madison spoke up. “I know. In fact I have a key.”

  “You do?” said her mother. “Why?”

  “Candace gave it to me a couple of days ago. She forgot her pills, so I got them for her.”

  “Pills?” Desirée said. “What kind of pills?”

  “Probably birth control pills.” It was the first thing that popped into my mind that wasn’t diet pills.

  “What?”

  Guess that wasn’t any better. “No, probably her high blood pressure pills. She takes those other pills at night.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Madison said. “Eden says that birth control is a gift to womankind. Or maybe a right?” We stopped in front of room 508. “Anyways, it wasn’t a big deal. And this is Candace’s room.”

  I knocked. No answer. “Candy,” I said loudly. “Are you in there? Hello?” Nothing. I knocked again, louder. “Candy, I’m really sorry about what I said. Really.” Still no answer. “Are you sure this is her room?” I asked Madison.

  “Positive,” said Madison. “Do you want to go inside?”

  I nodded. She set down her backpack, unzipped a compartment, and fished out a keycard. “I’d better come with you,” she said. “Candace trusted me with her key.”

  I didn’t want her coming in with me. What if Candy was passed out on the floor, or worse? I met Desirée’s eyes. She must have understood, because she nodded. “You know, hon,” she said, putting a hand on her daughter’s shoulder, “you told me yourself that Candace said Ivy was a friend. I think it’s okay to let her go in by herself.”

  “Okay.” Madison reluctantly handed over the keycard. “But we’ll be right here outside the door.”

  “Thanks.” I swiped the key, pushed open the heavy door, and slipped inside. Two double beds, both unoccupied, both made up (probably by housekeeping—Candy was a notorious slob). I walked around the room. No one there. I held my breath as I opened the bathroom door, fighting off images of Candy lying next to the toilet, unconscious on the cold tile floor. But no. I pushed open the shower curtain just to be sure. Empty. I looked in the medicine cabinet: makeup, cleanser and moisturizer, a tin of Band-Aids, some Tylenol. No blue pills, but no antihistamines, either.

  I went back into the bedroom. I peered under the beds. Not even a dust bunny. I checked the closet. Full of clothes, empty of bodies. I opened the drawers, which were filled with a jumble of underwear. I rifled through them, pawing through bras and lacy thongs, all the while feeling like a bad snooping friend instead of a PI. Nothing suspicious there. I put Candy’s underwear back in the tangled heap I’d found it in, shut the drawer, and went to open the hotel room door. “She’s not here,” I said. “Madison, you said you were in here before?”

  “Yeah.”

  “If it’s okay with your mom...” I tried to silently communicate with Desirée again, but she was looking at her phone. “If your mom says it’s okay...” I said louder.

  “Sorry,” Desirée said. “Babette’s stirred up a Twitter storm.”

  “Can I see?”

  She handed the phone to me. Babette’s bloody face (stage-bloody face) filled the tiny screen. “The #LadyInWhite tried to kill me!” said the caption. I flipped through Babette’s other Tweets—all about the newest “accident.” Nothing about Candy.

  “Hey,” I said, handing the phone back to Desirée, “didn’t I hear there were a couple other accidents on this tour? Do you think they could be related to what happened to Candy? Maybe’s she’s scared, and hiding out somewhere?”

  Desirée shook her head. “I don’t think so. The other accidents were mostly costume malfunctions, a few issues with lighting and sound, that sort of thing.”

  “Wasn’t the last Scarecrow hurt?”

  “That fire was his own fault,” said Madison. “He was stupid. What were you trying to ask me about Candace’s room?”

  “Oh, right.” I turned to Desirée. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like Madison to take a look at the room. Maybe tell me if anything looks different.”

  “Sure. Go on in, honey.”

  Madison walked into the room. Desirée followed. Madison took her job seriously; opening the drawers, checking inside the closets, and studying the skin potions in the bathroom. Then she stood in front of me like a student giving a book report and said, “Three things are different. Her bed is made.” A little huff of disapproval. “Her MoonPie stash is gone, and the picture of her and Arrestadt in front of the Eiffel Tower is missing.”

  “What? Where?” I squeaked.

  “It’s in Paris,” Madison said seriously. “The Eiffel Tower.”

  I nodded, though of course I knew. That wasn’t why I’d yelped.

  Candy had gone on a romantic trip to Paris with Arrestadt.

  And she never told me.

  Chapter 20

  What Do You Mean, She Has to Be Found?

  Has She Disappeared?

  “Which room is Arrestadt’s?” I said as the three of us walked down the hall to their room.

  “Oh,” sniffed Desirée, “he doesn’t stay here with the little—”

  “People,” I said. “I get it. Where does he stay?”

  “He’s at the Hotel La Fuente. Do you think Candace is with him?”

  Duh. I nearly slapped my head in relief. “Of course. Do you have his number?”

  Desirée got out her phone, then frowned at me. “I can’t give you his number. What if you sold it to the paparazzi, or gave it to some actor who wanted a screen test? Or maybe you really know where Candace is and you’re making all of this up because you want to get close to Arrestadt. You are an actress, right?”

  “Why does everyone think actors have no principles?” It was one of my hot buttons.

  “Because they’ll do anything to get ahead. I should know.” Desirée tossed her shining hair over a skinny shoulder.

  “If you really think that, why would you want your daughter to be part of this world?”

  “Yeah, Mom.” Madison looked strangely excited. “I shouldn’t be hanging around with people like that.”

  Desirée didn’t say anything. Madison stopped walking as if standing still would make her mom answer. It worked. I filed that trick away for future use. “Actors can be selfish,” Desirée said to her daughter, “b
ut they can also be amazingly caring people. Since they’re always thinking about motivation—”

  “The good actors, that is.” I couldn’t help interrupting.

  “They understand others’ motives, and can be really empathetic. They can be awful too, but it’s more like siblings fighting, like a cast is one big dysfunctional family who respect each other underneath it all.”

  Judging by Madison’s open mouth, I wasn’t the only one blown away by Desirée’s admission. But Madison was quicker on the uptake. “I don’t need another family,” she said. “I have you and Dad. And the science club. Let’s go home.”

  A flash of something—pain?—crossed Desirée’s face. “We signed a contract,” she said. “We have to honor it.”

  Madison stuck out her bottom lip.

  “Since we have decided I am an amazingly caring person—” I said.

  “I didn’t say that,” said Desirée.

  “Yes, you did,” said Madison.

  “How about Arrestadt’s phone number?” I said.

  “How about I call him?” Desirée began dialing. Smart. “Arrestadt?” she said into her phone. “I’m here with that friend of Candace’s—”

  “Ivy,” I said.

  “And she’s wondering if Candace is with you.” She listened, then shook her head at me. “Okay, well—”

  I grabbed the phone. “Arrestadt? I’m worried about Candy. She ran away during that fracas at the reception.”

  “Fracas?” Madison asked her mom.

  “We’ll google it later.”

  “And I haven’t seen her since,” I finished.

  “She’s probably just hiding from the journalists,” Arrestadt said.

  “But she left her purse and cellphone behind in her dressing room. I saw them.”

  “When?”

  “Um...an hour or so after the reception and the bloody painting thing.”

  “An hour?”

  “Yeah.” I was glad Arrestadt couldn’t see my face flush. “I’m overreacting, aren’t I?”

  “Maybe. She probably just needs some time alone. A lot has happened in the past few days.”

  “But why would she leave her purse and phone?”

  “If she wanted to be alone, her phone could have been a distraction. I’m sure a lot of people are trying to contact her. And her valuables would be pretty safe in her dressing room. I suspect she’s already gone back for them.”

  He was right. And though he couldn’t see my red face, Desirée and Madison could. I turned away from them. “Okay, thanks. I was just worried.”

  “Tell you what,” Arrestadt said. “Let’s check in with each other tomorrow morning, just in case. See if either of us has heard from her.”

  “Thanks.” My cheeks felt cooler immediately. Arrestadt and I exchanged phone numbers, ascertained that morning meant ten o’clock (theater folk are night owls), and hung up. I gave the phone back to Desirée.

  “Looks like you got his number after all.” She unlocked their hotel room door and held it open for Madison.

  “Yeah, thanks.” I started to walk away, but something pulled at me, like a stray hair caught too tightly in a barrette. Something Desirée had said. “Hey,” I said, catching their door right before it closed. “Earlier when you said actors will do anything to get ahead, you also said ‘I should know.’ What did you mean?”

  “Nothing. Goodnight, Ivy.” She shut the door.

  Chapter 21

  Something Uncomfortable, Disquieting, Alarming

  I stood in the stage left wing of the theater, heart pounding. I should have studied the script more. I should have known I couldn’t memorize lines that quickly. Especially Samuel Beckett’s dialogue. His absurdist conversations often didn’t make a lot of rational sense. Did I have time to find my script? Maybe if I could glance at it...

  “You’re on.” Someone pushed me onstage. The lights shown bright in my eyes and hot on my face. I suddenly realized I had on only one shoe. Was that part of my costume? I couldn’t see the audience, but I could hear them breathing. It sounded like a big house. A huge house.

  What was my opening line? I searched my brain. Nothing. No one onstage, either, no fellow actors who could help me out. I was onstage alone, with one shoe and nothing in my mind. I didn’t think things could get worse. Then the music started.

  A song? I had a solo? In a Beckett play? The music wasn’t familiar, and no lyrics came to mind. Maybe a dance. That seemed more likely. The unseen audience was beginning to make impatient noises. I smiled at them and began a sort of soft-shoe dance. “Sort of,” because I only had one shoe. Still I soldiered on, grinning and making great big arm movements, waiting for the music to end or for someone to come onstage and rescue me. Someone in the audience said, “What the hell is she doing?”

  Bong. Bong. Bong. The grandfather clock on set began to chime. Was it a cue?

  Bong. Bong. Bong. A cue for someone else? Out of the corner of my eye I saw someone in the wings, about to make an entrance. Candy. It was Candy. Thank God.

  Bong. Bong. Bong. She took one step onstage, then a white hand reached out from behind the black velvet curtain and grabbed her by the shoulder. She turned to see who it was, and the hand dropped to her neck and drew her in, whether in an embrace or a chokehold I couldn’t tell. “Candy!” I rushed toward her, but the grandfather clock glided downstage and blocked my view. Bong. Bong. Bong.

  I opened my eyes, pulled my phone toward me, and turned off the alarm. I lay in bed a moment, heart still beating against my ribs.

  They call it “The Actor’s Nightmare.” It’s obviously a stress dream, the theater version of the “I didn’t study for the test” dream combined with the “I’m naked in front of a crowd” dream tossed with the “I just sabotaged my entire career” dream. Okay, that last one may not be a popular phenomenon, but it has to be a thing.

  I kicked off my covers, panting. Some dreams felt like movies, something I was observing, but the Actor’s Nightmare always felt so real. I sat up in bed. Oh no. I swung my feet out and stood up. Yes. Oh no. My head felt enormous, my throat scratchy, my nose—Achoo! Great. A head cold. The real Actor’s Nightmare.

  A cold may not sound like a big deal, but think about it. We actors make our living with our bodies, especially our voices and faces. A cold can cost us an audition, get us a bad review, and make our fellow actors shun us (“Get away—I am not catching that”). Luckily, I was done with Twelfth Night and had no auditions lined up this week. I had an aerial dance gig on Saturday night, but this was Monday. I’d be fine by the weekend. I could even take some time off work at Uncle Bob’s if I started to feel really bad.

  I padded to the kitchen for some coffee. Yes, I know you’re not supposed to drink coffee when you have a cold since it dehydrates you, but coffee is a necessary ingredient in any morning where I have to be upright. I filled the kettle, put it on the stove, and ground my coffee beans. Oh no. I couldn’t even smell freshly ground coffee.

  I sat down at my kitchen table to think. The paperwork Uncle Bob needed me to do wasn’t urgent, and my show had wrapped up. I could stay home and take care of myself, and I probably should. I got up to pour myself some coffee. Ah, if I put it right up to my nose I could smell it a little bit. Achoo! Ow ow ow! Hot coffee down my naked body—that’d teach me to sleep in the nude. I lurched to the bathroom, ran cold water on a washcloth, and dabbed at my chest. No blisters, but awfully red. Yep, good day to stay home. Maybe Matt would bring me lunch. Some good pho from the Vietnamese place down the street always made me feel better. Plus there would be Matt. I’d call my uncle first, tell him I wasn’t coming in, then call Matt. I picked up my phone, but before I could dial, it rang. Arrestadt.

  “Hello?” Wow. I sounded like a walrus.

  “Ivy?”

  I cleared my throat. “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “It’s
Arrestadt. Sorry to call so early.”

  “It’s okay. I was up.” I glanced at the time on my phone. Eight thirty. Didn’t we agree to talk at ten?

  “You’re an actress and a PI, right?”

  “Um...yeah.” I wasn’t at my best in the morning. Especially when I had a cold.

  “Great. I want to hire you.”

  “To...?”

  “We need to find Candace.”

  Chapter 22

  What Is This New Business?

  “Nine thirty in the morning. Awfully early for an actor,” said the Grand Phoenician’s stage door security guard.

  “Don’t you know it.” I signed my name on the clipboard, sipping coffee from a cup I’d brought with me. The warm liquid felt good on my scratchy throat. “I’m meeting Arrestadt Giry.”

  “Love his movies.” The guard buzzed me in.

  Arrestadt had asked me to meet him as soon as possible, so I’d taken a quick shower, hoping the steam would help my plugged-up head, and grabbed a cup of coffee and a package of string cheese for breakfast on the road. So much for taking care of myself. I’d get an orange later.

  Why was Arrestadt so worried about Candy? He wouldn’t say much on the phone. I was worried too, but also strangely excited. Little jolts of adrenaline bombarded my system as I made my way through the back halls of the theater to the dressing rooms. I was always excited when I took on any case, but something else lay under this particular flutter in my chest. Hmm. I was walking through a haunted theater—could that be it? I stopped and stood absolutely still. No sign of a ghost, no feeling of anything unnatural, at least not right now. So no, not that. I was walking through a haunted theater to have a conversation about Candy...but no, the worry about Candy had been with me for days. That wasn’t it. Let’s see, I was walking through a haunted theater to have a conversation about Candy with a famous director whom I’d always admired. That was it. I was excited about talking to Arrestadt. Sheesh. Sometimes my actor’s ambition raised its head at the most inappropriate times. Luckily, now that I had IDed my buzz, I could beat it down and focus on what mattered.