Macdeath (An Ivy Meadows Mystery Book 1) (3 page)

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 talked 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.

“Really?” I gazed at my reflection. It’s one of the nice things about theater, you can look at yourself, really look at yourself, without anyone thinking you’re vain or self-absorbed. It’s understood that since the audience will be looking at you for hours, it’s okay, imperative even, to check yourself out pretty thoroughly. Plus we all tend to be vain and self-absorbed.

“The green matches your eyes.” He smiled at my reflection in the mirror.

I was costumed as a sexy serpent in a painted leotard with undulating stripes of iridescent, venomous green, and a long matted wig. Simon’s ringmaster costume showed off his still-fine physique, and his hair was swept back from his forehead in a dashing 1930s film star look. He was right not to wear the hat.

“You’re looking well yourself,” I said.

“Wonderful what sobriety will do for you.”

“Yeah. I’ve been meaning to ask...When you stomped on the hat, were you...?”

Simon met my eyes in the mirror. “I was not drunk. I have...an anger management problem. One of the reasons I drank. Now I act to stay sober. But thank you for checking.” He gave me a slight bow and drifted away to a corner of the room, repeating, “I act to stay sober.”

“A toast to the cast of
Macbeth
.” A tuxedoed Bill Boxer stood inside the stage door holding a bottle of champagne aloft. A few actors groaned.

“Great. Thanks for ruining the show,” Riley said.

Bill’s smile slipped from his face. His brows knit together. I recognized his “breaking news face” from TV. I’d always thought it signified concern, but now I wondered if it just meant he was confused.

“The name of the Scottish play is not to be said in a theater.” Genevieve had ice in her voice. “It brings bad luck. You know that.”

“Oh right. I’m not supposed to say ‘Macbeth.’” Either Bill didn’t believe in the curse, or he was an idiot. Probably both.

“Right,” Riley said, grabbing the bottle. He forcibly steered Bill toward the door. “Now go outside, turn around three times, and come back in.” That was one of the supposed antidotes to the curse.

Bill shrugged off Riley’s hands. “If you don’t want me, all you have to do is say so. I was just being nice.” He strode out the door.

Riley tore the foil off the champagne. “At least he brought something to drink.”

“I’ll take that.” Pamela entered, her gray silk ensemble flowing. She looked like a thundercloud pushing her way into the room. “I will keep all alcohol in my office until after curtain. We don’t want anyone getting drunk during the show.” She made a show of looking at Simon. “Please bring any and all bottles to my office. Thank you.”

She started to walk off, then stopped, “And break a leg, all.” She left, gray silk trailing behind.

Jason smiled at Simon, but it wasn’t a nice smile. His attitude toward Simon had soured even more since a preview article in last Sunday’s paper. It had featured a large color photograph of Simon, and not one mention of the play’s titular character. The article, which had been posted on a bulletin board in the greenroom, somehow disappeared after Monday night.

I punched Jason on the arm. “Stop it,” I whispered. “It’s not fair. You know he hasn’t been drinking.”

“You think he was sober when he stomped on his top hat?”

“Yes. He has an anger management problem.”

“Ivy.” Jason shook his head. “You’re too sweet for your own good.”

I started to protest.

Jason put a finger to my lips. “But not for mine.” He trailed his finger down my neck.

“Five minutes to places,” Linda’s voice floated over the speaker.

Jason leaned in, his breath warm in my ear. “Meet me after the murder at the bucket of blood.” He threw me a wicked smile over his shoulder as he strode backstage.

“Better watch out, Ivy, he’s a married man,” said Kaitlin, who played Lady Macduff.

“Married?”

“Yeah, Lady Macbeth might kick your ass,” Riley said. “She’s in my taekwondo class.”

“Hon.” Candy frowned at me. “Your lipstick is smeared. You better go fix your face.”

Dang. I ran back to the dressing room I shared with Candy and yanked open the door. An exquisite, voluptuous white orchid stood on the counter near my makeup kit. I stepped closer to read the note tucked under its pot. “Nearly as beautiful as you.”

“Witch,” said a voice from the hall, “you’d better get into place.” Genevieve wore a low-cut crimson leotard and brief skirt of blood-colored chiffon.

“I can’t tell who this is from,” I said, motioning to the orchid. “It’s signed ‘your king.’ I mean, Simon is Duncan the king, but Jason is later crowned king...”

Genevieve stared at me.

“Right. Sorry. Getting into place and into character.” I left the dressing room, followed Genevieve backstage, tumbled into the cauldron next to Candy and Tyler, and turned into a witch.

After Duncan’s murder, I waited for Jason near the “bucket of blood,” a tub of water the Macbeths used to wash the stage blood from their hands. Genevieve walked offstage, dipped her hands in the water and scrubbed. Even in the dim light backstage, I could see the water turn red.

Jason followed her. When he saw me, he held up his gore-covered hands. “Some say blood can be an aphrodisiac.”

“Yeah, some vampires,” I said. “But then, vampires can be pretty hot.”

“I’m more into witches,” he said, moving closer.

I glanced at his fictional wife, but Genevieve had turned her back to us. Probably to keep herself in character.

Jason traced a finger on my lips. A bloody finger. “Taste.”

I did, hesitantly, licking the sticky stage blood off my lips. It was surprisingly sweet. A burst of laughter from the audience drew my attention. It was the beginning of the porter scene, the one bit of comic relief in the play.

“Distracted, are we?” whispered Jason. He pulled me into a big black velvet curtain, one of the legs (that’s what we theater folk call side curtains) just offstage, and wrapped us in the soft darkness. “That was my plan,” he said. And then he kissed me—a deep, longing, let’s-never-come-up-for-air-again kiss. He pulled me close, really close, so close that through our flimsy costumes I could feel...

“Is thy master stirring?” said Macduff, onstage.

“How did he guess?” Jason smiled at me, arranged his cloak over the aforementioned stirring bit, and strode onstage.

I stood there for a moment, eyes closed in a haze of lustful anticipation. I floated to my dressing room, fixed my makeup (again), and headed out to the greenroom in time for intermission.

The name “greenroom” came from Shakespeare’s time, when all the actors hung out in the nicest room backstage, the room where they stored all the plants. Our greenroom was pink, supposedly painted that color because it was soothing. I suspected it was because it was flattering. We theater folk are all about good lighting.

All the actors did look fabulous as they swarmed around a long table filled with potluck dishes. “Dibs on the sausage!” said Riley, behind me. He was one of the reasons we had all decided to bring food in lieu of opening night presents. He’d been living off a box of Bisquick for the past week. He squeezed past me and planted himself in front of an enormous antipasto plate full of expensive sausages, cheeses and pâtés, good stuff way beyond the means of most of us actors.

“Who brought that?” I said.

“Genevieve.” Riley piled food onto his plate. “Aren’t you glad she didn’t bring sheep stomach?” We’d all been afraid Lady Macbeth might honor us all with haggis, a traditional Scottish dish.

Simon entered from backstage looking perturbed, but upon seeing the buffet the look of concern slipped from his face. He might have been a famous Shakespearean actor, but he was still a guy who liked free food.

“How are you doing?” I asked.

“I am wonderful. Stupendous. I have been sober for thirty-eight days and have never felt better. Or hungrier.” He began filling a paper plate.

“Great.”

“And thank you for inquiring, my secret, black, and midnight hag,” he said, blowing me a kiss.

I breathed a sigh of relief and looked around.

“Have you seen Jason?” I asked Simon.

His face clouded. “Why?”

“Oh, he and I...” I trailed off as I noticed Genevieve watching us. Fictional wife or not, she made me nervous.

Simon motioned to me to come closer. “Ivy,” he said, his voice low and serious. “I think we should talk after the show.”

“Oh. Ah, I hope to have a date.”

“With the aforementioned gentleman?”

“Um, yeah.”

“Let’s talk,” said Simon. “Before your date. Come to my dressing room?”

“Sure.”

He smiled and turned back to the food. I kept looking for Jason.

No such luck. Intermission was almost over. I wondered where Jason was, and what Simon wanted to talk about. The tension between the two men was palpable. I had put it down to old-fashioned stage rivalry, but could it be more? It couldn’t be about me, could it?

Nah.

I didn’t see Simon. Must have taken his food back to his dressing room. I was about to go there and find out what he had to say when I heard, “Places” over the speaker.

I hoped I’d run into Jason backstage, but I climbed into the cauldron disappointed. When I finally did see him, we were onstage: not Ivy and Jason, but a witch and a murderer. After the scene ended, there was a quick blackout, just enough time to let us witches scramble out of the cauldron.

As I stood to get out, I felt strong arms lift me. Jason smiled as he pulled me close and slid me down the length of his body until my feet touched the stage. “Soon,” he breathed into my ear. My worries evaporated. Once offstage, Jason headed for a dark backstage area, probably to prepare for his next entrance. I drifted back to the greenroom, tingling and happy.
Soon
. I passed Genevieve, who was getting into character for the sleepwalking scene by rocking herself into some sort of hypnotic trance. I smiled as I passed her, feeling that wonderful nasty sort of victory when you get the prize everyone wants.

I nearly skipped as I headed to Simon’s dressing room. His door was ajar, light spilling into the darkened hallway. “My dear Duncan, your witch is here. Which witch, you ask?” I knocked, just to be polite. “Your witness witch, of course.”

I knocked again. He had to be there. His scenes were over and he wasn’t in the greenroom.

“Simon?” I pushed open the unlocked door. It didn’t budge, like something was jammed up against it. I pushed harder, trying to shove whatever it was away from the door. I got it open a crack, just enough that I could see what blocked it.

A body.