Macdeath (An Ivy Meadows Mystery Book 1)

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.