KILLALOT Read online

  “Thank you,” I said, dropping my chin and looking at him at him through my lashes. It was both a Marilyn gesture and a good way to stare without seeming to do so. The man wasn’t as much of a lookalike as the Jackie-actress was, but he’d certainly pass muster. He had Kennedy’s squarish jaw, the easy smile, the dark side-parted hair that flopped charmingly onto his forehead, but his eyes were a brighter blue—almost like the lobelias in back of him—bigger than the former president’s and not as deep-set. In other words, he was even more handsome than JFK.

  I took the mimosa from him, and took a big sip, partly to steady my nerves. When John Robert said “we,” he must have meant the four of us. There were no other Marilyns, no cover for sleuthing. Just the opposite in fact: John Robert and the two other actors were studying everything about me from my heels on up. I took as deep a breath as my 1950’s-era girdle would let me, and sat in the chair John Robert indicated.

  “So,” said John Robert, “as you know, I am writing a new version of Camelot, using the Kennedy White House as the backdrop. So many reasons why: The Kennedy’s loved the musical, their brief shining reign was the Camelot of modern America, and as in Camelot, there was a love triangle.”

  Given JFK’s many supposed indiscretions, I was pretty sure there was more than a triangle, but I kept quiet, partly because I was channeling Marilyn, partly because I was auditioning for a famous playwright, and partly because I’d never heard anyone say “love octagon” or the like.

  “You are here because I like to see my ideas on their feet, to hear how the lines sound, how the scenes work—or don’t. Working with actors helps me to visualize the outcome more clearly. Speaking of which, I want the actors I work with to be in character at all times—always in costume and always answering to their character’s names.”

  All the time? I didn’t know there were Method playwrights. I used the under-the-eyelashes trick again to look at the other two actors to see what they thought of the idea, but their faces gave nothing away.

  “I already found my JFK and Jackie.” John Robert motioned to the actors, who were now seated side by side, Jackie leaning slightly into JFK. “But I’m looking for a Marilyn who can not only act, but...” He smiled. “Well, we’ll get to that after the formal audition.” My agent had emailed me the audition, a scene from the musical Camelot. “Jack will read with you. Are you ready?” asked John Robert

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.” I laughed Marilyn’s tinkling laugh, put down my mimosa, and stood up, my copy of the scene in hand.

  JFK and I read the scene, which took place before the famous song, “If Ever I Would Leave You.” Jack was a marvelous Lancelot, full of longing and unrequited love and simmering sex. Acting opposite him was a dream. That was one of the things about getting better as an actor—the higher I moved up the ranks of professionalism, the more often I worked with great actors, which in turn made me a better actor. It was a glorious loop.

  “Nice. Very nice,” said John Robert. “Marilyn, I’d like you to do one more thing for me. You’ll find a new costume in the powder room, just to the left of the front door, where you came in. Please put it on and come back out here.”

  This time I used Marilyn’s nervous, unsure laugh. “Okay. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  I walked slowly back through the house, surveying the house again as I went. Still nothing that stood out as unusual. I opened the door to the powder room.

  Oh no.

  My costume hung there, winking at me in the light. I slowly undressed, carefully folding my Marilyn sweater and skirt and then stepping into the dress left for me. The silk lining felt cool against my skin, but the myriad sequins and beads weighed a ton: Marilyn’s chain mail. I sucked in my stomach as I zipped the dress up the back. It was tight, but that was appropriate. I read somewhere that Marilyn had to be sewn into this dress.

  I checked my look in the mirror. Good. Maybe great. But yikes, acting was hard enough. Recreating an iconic real-life scene was enough to make me throw in the girdle (truth be told I was ready to throw in the girdle). But I thought about Riley and Angus, and yes, maybe a little about auditioning in front of a Broadway playwright, and bucked up. The dress’s tight skirt hobbled me, so it took me a while to walk back to the waiting group. I flung open the French doors (might as well make a dramatic entrance) and stepped through onto the patio.

  A soft intake of breath from JFK. Jackie cleared her throat and re-crossed her legs. John Robert was so excited he was nearly dancing sitting down. “Well,” he said, actually twiddling his fingers. “I’m sure you know what I want you to do.”

  “Of course.” I’d watched the short YouTube video several times last night. I flashed a smile at John Robert, shaded my eyes like I was looking past stage lights, and settled my gaze on JFK. I took in and let out a deep breath, and began. “Happy...birthday...to you,” I sang to him. “Happy birthday...to you.” I took audible breaths like Marilyn. I’d thought it was a studied affectation on her part, but I was beginning to think it was the girdle. “Happy birthday, Mr. President...Happy birthday...to you.”

  When I finished, Jackie clapped with gloved hands, JFK smiled broadly, and John Robert jumped out of his chair. “Yes!” He said. “You’ve got it. Not just the part, though you’ve got that, you also have, I mean you have...oh, I’m so excited I’m stumbling all over myself. What I’m trying to say is that you have it.” He smiled at me happily as if I should know what he was talking about.

  “Charisma,” said Jackie. “He means you have charisma.”

  I did?

  “And you have sex appeal,” said JFK.

  I what?

  “That’s right. That’s it. You’re in,” said John Robert.

  I was?

  “So let’s talk about your availability this coming year.”

  Chapter 23

  “Broadway?” I croaked.

  “Well, not at first of course,” John Robert said. “Once we get it hammered out here, we’ll workshop it at La Jolla Playhouse.” Omigod, La Jolla Playhouse. I’d get to work at one of the West Coast’s premiere theaters. “From there we’ll decide if the show will move on to off-Broadway or if it’s ready for Broadway.” Broadway.

  Broadway.

  “I can’t promise you’ll play Marilyn on Broadway—the backers will want to have their say about casting—but I’ll do what I can.”

  John Robert would do what he could. John Robert Turner, of Turner and Toe. The Turner and Toe.

  “So,” John Robert extended a hand to me, “I’ll be in touch with your agent. I can’t wait to have you join us.”

  I felt as if I was in a play myself. This couldn’t be real. I was just Ivy Meadows.

  I maintained my composure until I was back in my pickup. Then I rolled up the windows and whooped with joy. Omigod, omigod, omigod. This was it—my career-defining moment. I sat in my warm truck cab and closed my eyes, savoring the moment. For a moment.

  Cockadoodledoo!

  I glanced at the phone—the number from this morning. From jail. I boxed up my actor enthusiasm for the time being. “Riley?”

  “Hey, Ivy. Yeah, it’s me. Sorry I called so early this morning. I was pretty freaked out and didn’t think, and I knew you were a PI and all—”

  “Don’t worry about that. What happened?”

  “Hey, before I forget, thank your uncle for getting me a lawyer, okay? He’s cool. Your uncle, I mean. Well, I guess the lawyer’s cool too, for a dude that wears three-piece suits in Arizona. Hey, your uncle called you by another name.”

  “My real name is Olive Ziegwart.”

  “I like Olive,” said Riley. “Makes me think of pizza.”

  “Riley, why are you in jail?”

  “Well, the cops asked if they could search our fifth-wheel and I said okay, but I kinda forgot the weed.”

  “Weed?”

  “Just a litt
le, you know, for a bowl at night. Medicinal, really. Jousting’s tough on the ol’ bod.”

  “Medicinal. That should be okay.”

  “Well, it’s not like I have a card or anything. Still, I mean, when do they ever arrest anyone for a little bit of weed?”

  I was thinking the same thing, but instead said, “Why did you call me?”

  “I figured you’re a detective, so you’d know what do. And you did.”

  Riley was a good actor but a bad liar. That wasn’t the reason he called me. I figured he might be too embarrassed to call his folks, wherever they lived, but... “Why not Bianca? I’m sure she’d know what to do and she’s bound to be worried.”

  Riley’s voice got quiet. “She’s uh, not speaking to me.”

  “Why not?’

  “I...” he said something so softly even he couldn’t have heard it.

  “Riley,” I said. “What did you do?” As I said the words, they echoed in my head—the same thing Bianca had said after the joust.

  “We had a fight and I sort of shoved her.”

  “You what?” Riley was a big macho guy, but he’d always had a sense of chivalry, even before becoming a knight. “Why?”

  “I didn’t hurt her.” His voice took on a defensive whine. “She was off balance anyway, so she fell down, but just on the ground. She didn’t get hurt or anything.”

  “Why?” I asked again.

  “I didn’t mean to. It was a reaction. Anyone would have done the same thing if...if they found out...she was hooking up with Angus.”

  This was bad. It gave Riley a motive. “Are you sure? About Bianca and Angus?”

  “Yeah. That’s why she had his helmet that day.” Bitterness crept into his voice. “Everybody knew about it except me. They’d been getting together for months now, since the Louisiana Renaissance Festival. I don’t get it. Everybody knew he was an asshole. And she was going to leave me for him.”

  “How long have you two been together?”

  “I moved in almost a year ago. She’s got a real sweet fifth-wheel...Oh no.” Riley groaned. “I’m going to have to move out. And I hate living in a tent.”

  Bianca and Angus. That was why she was at the hospital that night.

  I asked Riley for her phone number before we hung up, and then texted her about meeting up. I was just about to put my phone away when I noticed its light blinking. A text from Matt. “You too,” it said.

  “You too” what? I scrolled back to my text: “Hope you have a better day. Love you.”

  You too. Did he mean he loved me too? Or that he hoped I’d have a better day? Was my day bad yesterday? I couldn’t remember. It seemed so far away.

  My mood sank momentarily, but popped back up like a rubber ducky in the tub. Broadway! Broadway!

  The glow I felt must have showed on the outside too, because when I walked into the office, Uncle Bob looked up and said, “What? Did we catch the bad guy?”

  “Um, no. In fact, the only info I got was the first name of the gardener.”

  Uncle Bob still looked at me, waiting for more.

  “But I think I’ll get a chance to go out to the ranch again.” I didn’t want to say anything about getting the role until I’d heard from Vicki. I’d had deals go south before. Best not to say anything until the paperwork was in order.

  Uncle Bob nodded and waited.

  “Oh, and I talked to Riley. He says thanks for getting him a lawyer.”

  “Okay. If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t want to tell me. Me, you know, the guy who’s there for you no matter what. Who makes you coffee and buys you donuts...”

  “Donuts? Are there donuts?”

  Uncle Bob pointed with his chin toward a Dunkin’ Donuts box partly hidden behind the coffeemaker. I grabbed a maple bar, my favorite, and waved at him in thanks. I really would miss the guy when I moved on with the show.

  Another momentary mood dip, like a wave bowled over my rubber ducky. Then his sunny yellow face popped back up and sang, “Broadway!” I grabbed another donut (two donuts are always better than one), poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down at my “desk,” a wooden TV tray by the window that overlooked the jail across the street.

  “So John Robert...” Uncle Bob said. “You think you’ll see him again?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. Keep an eye on him. I’d say he was just a Ren faire fan if it weren’t for the horse. Riley say anything interesting?”

  I chewed and thought. “Sort of. Remember how I said that after the joust Riley seemed more worried about his armor and his horse than Angus?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Same thing today. He said Bianca broke up with him, but seemed more concerned about losing his lodging than losing his girlfriend.”

  “Displacement, maybe?”

  Ah. Guess I wasn’t the only one with a bag of emotional tools. “Easier to talk about losing your housing than losing the love of your life?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But...he also said that during the breakup fight he shoved Bianca.”

  “Really? Seems unlike him from what you’ve told me. Have you talked to Bianca?

  “Not yet. I left her a message. But...I guess what bugs me is...could Riley have done it? Killed Angus, or at least set him up to be killed? Now we know he had a motive, and shoving Bianca is evidence of a temper.”

  “One problem: He wouldn’t have hit himself over the head.”

  I thought of the practical jokes Riley had played on the cast of Macbeth: fake reviews, plastic cockroaches in coffee cups, and the Mentos-Coke fountain where he’d sprayed half the cast.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I think he might.”

  Chapter 24

  I spent the rest of the afternoon in Uncle Bob’s office investigating everyone involved in Angus’s “accident.” I first called the jousters and squires on Doug’s list and got voicemail every single time. I texted all of them, too, saying it was vitally important I speak with all suspicious persons ASAP, hoping the message would unnerve them enough to call me back. Then I dug into their backgrounds. A bust. One had a citation for public drunkenness, but that was the only black mark among the lot.

  I moved on to Riley. A load of debt, but no criminal charges. I texted Bianca again, then Googled her and ran her through our databases. Bianca Henry, age twenty-six, was squeaky clean, had even been given Volunteer of the Year for a wildlife rehabilitation center a few years back. Nothing. Nothing except...

  Broadway! I tried to corral my wayward mind, but it kept breaking into show tunes. I checked my phone for the umpteenth time. Nothing from Vicki yet. That stopped the music in my head, for a little while at least. John Robert had seemed sincere. The delay was probably just contract stuff.

  Every time my phone crowed, I grabbed it before the second Cockadoodledoo, hoping it was Vicki. And it rang a lot, because every single jouster and squire called me back. Guess my vaguely menacing message worked. But none of them gave me any new information. No one had seen anything. No one had heard anything. No one really seemed to like—or miss—Angus.

  I didn’t hear from Vicki all day. My mood soured: No news wasn’t always good news. And my detective day had been lackluster, to say the least. I was grumpily answering the last of the agency’s emails when Uncle Bob stood up, brushed the crumbs off his pants (he liked to eat at his desk), and grabbed his car keys from his desk drawer. “You seeing Cody tonight?” he asked.

  Matt and I had a standing double date on Monday nights with Cody and Sarah—a nice way for the guys to stay in touch since Matt stopped working at Cody’s group home. Because of our tight budgets, we usually watched a video and ate pasta at my apartment. Tonight it was just going be Cody and me, so I was going to splurge on dinner out. “Yeah. I think I might take him to MacAlpine’s.” The soda fountain had been around since 1929 and had the b
est ice cream sodas in town. “Want to join us?”

  “Nah, I got some stuff I gotta take care of. But have a good time.”

  “You too.”

  There it was—the other reason for my bad mood. You too. It echoed in my head. What had Matt meant? Did he love me?

  My phone rang. Matt. Well, I guessed I was going to find out. “Hi,” I said, curtailing my neediness for the time being. “How was it today? How is everyone?”

  “Well...you first.”

  That seemed like a bad sign. “Um...” Should I tell him about the audition? No, not yet. Right now I had nothing to tell. “Well...this case is complicated—so many suspects. And Riley was arrested.” I filled Matt in on the story. He didn’t say much, as if he wasn’t really listening. “And how are things out there? You okay to talk about it?”

  Matt launched into full social worker/caretaker mode, talking about treatments and insurance and estimated outcomes—a sure sign he was nervous. But his anxiety didn’t seem to be about his mom. They thought she’d have a near-full recovery. “She’ll probably have a little weakness on her left side, maybe some difficulty with speech,” Matt said. “She’ll be in a rehab center for a few months, though. That’s what we’re dealing with right now.”

  Funny how you can tell, even over the phone, when a silence is comfortable or tense. This was the latter. “Um...How long do you have family medical leave?” Maybe he was worried about work. I hoped it was work.

  “Twelve weeks.”

  “Good. I guess. I mean, I don’t want to be away from you that long, but...”

  “Yeah. Speaking of that...”

  Oh no. Matt was back home. Where he was needed. Where his old girlfriend lived and was probably helping out with his mom and being indispensable and—shit, was that was he’d been thinking about—moving back to Nebraska? I couldn’t breathe.

  “I love you, Ivy,” Matt said.

  Matt loved me. It felt better than Broadway.

  “I love you, too.” I did—I felt it as I said it. I could almost breathe again. “Almost” because I could tell that “I love you” wasn’t the end of Matt’s thought.