Macdeath (An Ivy Meadows Mystery Book 1) Read online

  I found out two days later that I got the part. Victory nipple, indeed.

  Too bad I’d forgotten about the curse.

  CHAPTER 3

  Happy Prologues to the Swelling Act

  “Omigod, it’s The Face of Channel 10,” I whispered to my fellow witch.

  “Quick, switch places with me.” Candy MoonPie jumped up from the table in the rehearsal room where we sat waiting for the first read-through to begin. I obliged.

  “Thanks, and watch out,” Candy said as the overdressed newscaster zeroed in on the empty seat now next to me. “The man’s a horndog. Last week on a commercial shoot, I had to ‘accidentally’ dump a soft drink in his lap just to get his hand off my knee.”

  I knew Candy MoonPie from theater parties. Candy was her real name, MoonPie wasn’t. We called her that because of her affinity for the sticky sweet things and because her Louisiana accent was as thick as the marshmallow filling.

  “Well, bless my socks!” she said. “If it isn’t Bill Boxer. So nice to see you again. Can I get y’all something to drink? Maybe a Coke?”

  The Face of Channel 10’s smile froze in place. He ran a hand over his perfectly coiffed salt-and-pepper hair.

  Candy gave me a conspiratorial smile. I’d always liked her. Everyone did. She literally bounced: a springy walk, lilting accent, and boing-y brown curls. I smiled back at her. This was going to be great. A cool castmate and my first show with a professional theater. I pulled my cotton cardigan tighter (damn air conditioning) and studied the people I’d be spending the next few months with. Lots of men—okay with me. Just four women: me, Candy, a freckly woman a little older than us, maybe early thirties, and Genevieve Fife. A thirty-something lithe brunette with pale skin and big dark eyes, Genevieve upstaged the rest of us just by walking into a room. I’d seen her onstage a number of times. She was an amazing actor, well-known for her Method acting. Once, in preparation for a role in Beckett’s Endgame, she spent an entire day in a trashcan. She probably looked better in a trashcan than I looked at prom.

  The smell of hairspray assaulted my nose as Bill sat down next to me. “Ivy Meadows,” I said, sticking out my hand, just to be polite. “I’m playing the third witch.”

  The Face of Channel 10 shook my hand. “Bill Boxer. I’m reading Duncan.” I could swear he was wearing bronzer.

  Duncan. That was the role Simon would have played—if he hadn’t thrown up on the stage manager’s shoes.

  Bill took something out of his briefcase, and settled it in his lap. I saw a yellow paperback cover. CliffsNotes for Macbeth. I nearly pointed it out to Candy, but took pity on the guy. “I’m so excited to be cast in Macbeth,” I said. “What a great story.”

  “Er, right,” said Bill, trying to sneak another look at his CliffsNotes.

  “I mean, Macbeth kills his king and his best friend Banquo because he wants to believe a prediction by some so-called witches he meets at the beginning of the play.”

  “His king...Macbeth kills Duncan?” Bill tried hard to make his question sound like a statement. He had also tried hard to mask his bad breath with mouthwash. Neither trick was working.

  “I know, right?” I said. “Imagine you’re the king. You just rewarded Macbeth with a new title, so you think he’s inviting you to his castle to thank you. Instead, he and his wife murder you in your sleep.”

  “Duncan dies?” Then to himself, “Ooh, maybe a death scene.”

  I was about to tell Bill that Duncan dies offstage when Edward entered, brandishing a carrot. A forty-ish blonde Amazon in four-inch heels followed close behind: Pamela, the executive director of the theater and Edward’s wife.

  “I don’t get it,” I whispered to Candy. “Isn’t Edward gay?”

  “So they say.”

  “But he’s married?”

  “It’s a mystery,” she said.

  Edward and Pamela took their seats next to Linda at the top of the horseshoe of folding tables.

  “Welcome all,” Edward said. “Be prepared to make Shakespearean history with this production. Never before has the world, let alone Phoenix, seen the Scottish play like this.”

  It was bad luck to say “Macbeth” out loud in a theater, hence “the Scottish play.” Part of the famous curse. The story goes like this: To impress King James I, who fancied himself an authority on demonology, Shakespeare included a real spell in the play. Ticked off that Will had spilled one of their secrets, witches cursed the play. As a result (or a coincidence), all sorts of people have been killed during runs of Macbeth.

  I nearly slapped my forehead. I had said “Macbeth” several times during my conversation with Bill. The curse couldn’t be real, right?

  Edward continued, “Forsaking tradition, this production takes place in,” he paused dramatically, carrot in the air, “a circus.”

  Of course. My acrobatic witch.

  “Imagine a traveling circus from the 1930s. Mackers is the lion tamer, Lady M. is the aerialist, and Duncan the ringmaster.”

  As if on cue, Simon walked in. Pamela stiffened, Bill sighed, and Edward pointed his carrot at him. “Ah. Here you are. Cast, a bit of housekeeping first. I’d like to read my two potential Duncans before we get started.”

  That’s why Bill had said he was reading Duncan. For whatever reason, Edward hadn’t decided who to cast as Duncan. Now Bill and Simon were going to have to audition again in front of actors who were already cast. It was a sucky place to be.

  “Everyone in Scene Four, please stay,” said Linda. “The rest of you, take ten.”

  When we were all back in the room ten minutes later, the seat next to me was empty. Until Simon sat down.

  I leaned over to hug him. “Congratulations.”

  “Better watch out for him, too,” Candy whispered in my ear.

  “Nearly didn’t get the part.” Simon hugged me back. Seemed like a perfectly friendly hug. “To begin with, Edward is not terribly fond of me. Then there was the, ah, incident with Linda’s shoes, and...” He lowered his voice as a young bearded guy wearing a snug-fitting black T-shirt walked in. “Our Mac seems to have taken a dislike to me.”

  I surreptitiously checked out “our Mac,” who had a broad, muscled chest and ocean-colored eyes that stood out against his dark hair and beard. Yowza.

  Candy nudged me. “Hot, right?” Guess I need to work on my surreptitious skills.

  “Ivy,” Simon spoke quietly as I watched our hot Macbeth from under my eyelashes. “There’s a bit of a favor I’d like to ask of you.”

  “Sure.” Then I kicked myself inwardly. I always forgot to ask what the favor was before saying yes.

  “I’d like you to witness my sobriety.”

  “What?” Simon had my full attention now.

  “Yes, well, as you know, I’m a recovering alcoholic. I’ve started going to meetings again, but I have been down this road before.” Simon set his mouth. “I’ve learned that it helps me to stay sober if someone watches over me. I do have a sponsor from A.A.—”

  “Then don’t you think he should—”

  “But I find phone calls distract me during a play. I need it to be someone who’s here, someone who’s part of this world.”

  No, no, no. Not me.

  My face must have betrayed my panic.

  “It’ll be easy,” said Simon. “You won’t have to take a bottle away from me, nothing like that. I just need to be responsible to someone.”

  He had no idea what he was asking, or what had happened to the last person I’d been responsible for. I looked around desperately. “Isn’t there someone else?”

  He shook his head. “I have a, ah, bit of history with much of the cast. You and I have no past and you’re offstage much of the show. I know we haven’t spent loads of time together, but I do consider you a friend.”

 
Wow. Even my Uncle Bob had been impressed when I told him I knew Simon Black. “James Bomb?” he said, nearly choking on his coffee (Simon’s spy parody was one of my uncle’s favorite movies). And now the great Simon Black was my friend. I think I blushed. Then my past rushed back at me. I wasn’t fit to watch over anyone.

  Simon must have seen it in my eyes. “Please. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t so important. All you need to do is to check in on me every so often. When I’m offstage, I’ll be in my dressing room. It won’t be a problem, because I give you my word,” he looked me solemnly in the eye, “that I will not drink. Will you be my witness?”

  What could I do? I swallowed my past along with the lump in my throat. “I will.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Not Within the Prospects of Belief

  Simon was as good as his word. Three weeks of rehearsal flew past and I never once had to take a bottle away from him, never saw him drink, and never smelled booze on him. Which left me free to memorize my lines, work on my character, and ponder the important things, like the glory that was Jason in tights.

  Tonight was our first rehearsal onstage. Until now, we’d been in the rehearsal room, working with an imaginary set marked out in masking tape on the floor. I wanted to check out the real (and as yet-unfinished) set, so I came early, right after work at the Olive Garden. Jason and Riley, the guy playing Macduff, were already onstage rehearsing the final swordfight. Even better. I made myself comfortable in the audience and settled in to watch. Riley, a curly-haired doofus who could act in spite of himself, wore torn sweats. Jason wore skin-tight Lycra that accentuated his, um, lower profile.

  “I’m a lucky woman, aren’t I?”

  I turned to see Genevieve/Lady Macbeth, standing beside me.

  “Sorry?”

  “Being married to a specimen like that,” she said, eyeing Jason. “Very lucky indeed.”

  I turned back to the stage. Jason’s eyes flashed as he swung his sword. Even in rehearsal, he imbued Macbeth with a passion that made the Scottish murderer nearly sympathetic. The actors sparred their way into the wings. A loud clang and Macbeth’s sword skittered onstage. “Arrrrrhh!” Riley shouted from the wings, as Macduff supposedly beheaded Macbeth.

  “Nice,” said the fight choreographer as the two sweaty actors returned to the stage. Jason bowed slightly and smiled into the audience at...who? Me? God, I hoped so.

  Genevieve smiled back at Jason. Oh. Right. Genevieve wore a tight red leotard that showed off her breasts and made her look like a ripe tomato. I wore a white Oxford shirt and black pants with tomato sauce stains.

  The two actors and the fight choreographer left the stage. Genevieve left, too. I made my way onto the empty stage.

  Edward’s circus concept was bizarre, but it did make for a great set. A striped awning hung from the proscenium (the frame around the stage), lending the feel of a big top. Flats painted to look like bleachers gave the illusion of an onstage audience—all the world’s a stage, you know.

  Edward walked onstage, omnipresent carrot in hand. Eli, our technical director, followed. “The cauldron will fly in, steam roiling from its innards,” said Edward. “At first we’ll just hear the witches, then see their faces, then like the steam, they’ll slither out of the cauldron.” He waved his carrot. “It’ll be spectacular.”

  I looked up at the cauldron, which hung in the flyspace, the area above the stage where flats and set pieces that “flew in” during the show were secured by ropes out of sight of the audience.

  “This is a bad idea,” said Eli, staring at the swaying behemoth over our heads.

  “It’s fine,” said Edward. “You did use fiberglass. It’s lighter than the dozens of flats we’ve flown in before.”

  “I wouldn’t call it light.” Eli crossed tattooed arms. “And those flats weren’t carrying actors.”

  “I’ve already cut Hecate’s part,” said Edward. “You should be pleased.”

  Since Edward (or maybe Eli) had decided that only three witches could fit in the cauldron, he’d cut the character of Hecate, the head witch. She only appeared for a few lines anyway.

  “I’m not pleased,” said Eli. “It’s a bad idea—”

  I must have made some noise of agreement, because Edward’s eyes flicked toward me, and his face lit up.

  “Witch.” A carrot pointed at me. “Would you please do a demonstration for us?”

  “No,” said Eli, “Not yet. We’re not ready.”

  “It’s fine,” said Edward. “She’s non-union.”

  He directed his carrot at a couple of techies. “The cauldron, please.”

  Ropes and pullies lined the side walls backstage. One of the guys walked stage right and slowly pulled a lever, watching the mechanics as he did so. The rest of the crew, who had been chatty up until then, fell silent as they watched the cauldron descend like a monstrous alien from a sci-fi flick.

  Edward pointed at the cauldron. “Witch, er...Holly.”

  “Ivy,” I said.

  “No,” said Eli.

  “Edward,” said Jason, who had come up behind me. “Do you want me and Macduff to rehearse the fight scene onstage one more time while the fight choreographer’s still here?”

  Edward checked his watch. “Ah. Yes.” He waved his carrot at Eli as he walked offstage. “We’ll take care of this later.”

  Jason touched my shoulder. I turned around and looked into his eyes, those stormy, sea-colored eyes. He held my gaze and I felt my heart drop into the pit of my stomach.

  “Everyone clear the stage.” Linda shouted from the wings. Argh. Stage managers are such buzz-kills. “And places for the top of the show in five.”

  Jason walked into the wings to grab his sword. He didn’t look back at me. My heart tried to return to its normal spot, but instead lodged itself at the base of my throat, like a goiter.

  “I think he likes you,” sang Candy, waiting for me offstage right.

  “Really?” I watched Jason and Riley begin their fight onstage. “Do you think there’s anything going on between him and Genevieve?”

  “Doubtful,” she said, “Genevieve’s crazy as a bedbug. Though I guess we should all give her a break. I heard her mama died recently.”

  Tyler, the third witch (Edward’s one instance of gender-neutral casting), met us backstage. “Omigod,” he said, “I heard they’re going to put us in tutus. They wouldn’t, would they?”

  “Anyone seen Simon?” I asked as Linda shouted, “Places!” No one had. After we three witches opened the show (sans cauldron, for now), I walked offstage, spied Simon in his place waiting for the next scene, and breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Lights up!” Linda yelled.

  Simon strode onstage as Duncan, his retinue behind him. Another actor limped onstage, a wounded, bleeding soldier.

  “Stop,” Edward said from the audience. “Where is Duncan’s hat? I want Simon to get used to wearing the hat.”

  All action stopped as a costume assistant scurried onstage and settled a ringmaster’s hat on Simon’s head.

  “Again from the top,” said Edward.

  “What bloody man is that?” Duncan’s voice boomed, the voice of a king. “He can report, As seemeth by his plight, of the revolt...” His voice changed: Simon’s now. “Bloody hell. This is ridiculous. First of all, it makes no sense that Mac’s castle and Duncan’s palace are the same place. If Shakespeare had wanted—”

  From his seat in the theater, Edward sounded edgy and weary at the same time. “Simon, we’ve been over this—”

  “And now this bloody thing!” Simon tore off his ringmaster’s top hat. “How am I supposed to act like a king with this god-awful thing on my head?”

  He had a point. Overly large, and black and shiny like a cheap suit, the hat did him no favors.

  “We’ve t
alked about this, too,” said Edward. “The hat is an extension of your ego, of your insecurity. It’s your mid-life crisis Corvette; helps you keep your pecker up.”

  “Duncan is not insecure!” Simon nearly roared. “And he’s not impotent!”

  He threw the hat into the theater, narrowly missing Edward.

  Something changed in Edward’s face. His voice was tight. “Simon, we will not discuss this now.” He threw the hat back onstage. “Put on the goddamn hat.” It sat there, at the lip of the stage. Simon did not move to pick it up.

  “Simon.” The threat in Edward’s voice was thinly veiled.

  The actor playing Malcolm quietly picked up the hat and held it out to Simon like a peace offering. Simon finally took the hat in a grand ceremonious gesture, slowly raised it toward his head, then threw it to the ground. He stomped on it, violently, crushing it beyond repair. No one breathed. “That’s for Shakespeare.”

  “Simon!” Edward thundered from his seat in the audience.

  Simon stopped. He took a few deep breaths, then shook off his rage as if it were a coat. Now hatless, he took a deep breath, turned back to his retinue and began again: “What bloody man is that?” Simon was gone; Duncan the king was back. Simon could slip back into character at the drop of a, well, hat.

  Beside me, Candy let out a breath. “Whoa, doggy. If that don’t beat all.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “He really gave it to Edward, huh?”

  “Darlin’, that’s not what I meant.” She looked at me sadly. “The man is drunk.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Something Wicked This Way Comes

  I fought my way through a gaggle of actors to the greenroom’s one full-length mirror.

  “You look stunning,” Simon said, appearing behind me.

  It was opening night, over a week later, and I still hadn’t asked him about the hat incident. I had been afraid to ask.