Ivy Get Your Gun

by Cindy Brown

  He crossed his arms. “Not a good idea to be poking your nose into other people’s business.”

  Was that a warning? A threat? Josh’s face gave nothing away.

  I turned away and got in my pickup. Josh didn’t leave, just stood outside my door until I rolled down my window. “Why were you looking for Chance?” he asked.

  I remembered what Arnie had told Nathan. “We’re, um, close.”

  “You too?” Josh shook his head. “Women.”

  Chapter 43

  I was out at Sunnydale at six a.m. the next day. I really hoped I would find Lassie soon. I loved the little bugger, but these early mornings were wearing on me.

  But getting up early also meant that by the time I made it into the office, I had almost a half-day before my three p.m. callback. I put on a pot of coffee as soon as I got in. Uncle Bob was out, but I was pretty sure I could drink the whole pot by myself. As the coffeemaker filled the air with the best smell in the world, I checked my Duda Detectives email. Hey, an email from the lab. They weren’t fibbing about their quick turnaround. I scanned the attached results. Huh. Nathan was definitely Arnie’s son.

  I got up and poured myself a cup of coffee. I guess this meant that Nathan was telling the truth, at least in part. There was nothing in his background that really seemed suspicious either. Failed businesses weren’t a crime. I called Marge on her cellphone. First things first: “Did Chance come back?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’m sure he’s just licking his wounds. He’s a cowboy-type. Probably finds solace in the desert,” I said, as much for me as for Marge. “I have some news…” I told her the paternity results. “No history of criminal activity either,” I said. “I’m beginning to think Nathan’s all above board.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Bad luck seems to follow him. I just wonder if there’s a reason…”

  “Hey,” I said, “I just realized I don’t have a current address for him. He’s not living somewhere onsite, is he?”

  “He’s staying at Rancho De Los Vaqueros.”

  “Really?” Rancho De Los Vaqueros was a dude ranch and resort outside of Wickenburg. A very expensive dude ranch and resort.

  But stays at pricey resorts also weren’t a crime, as Uncle Bob pointed out when I called him later.

  “But where did he get the money?” I said.

  “That’s a tough one to figure out, at least legally. You sure he actually has the money?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The average American household has over ninety thousand dollars in debt,” said Mr. Trivia Buff. “Maybe this Nathan guy’s got champagne taste and a beer budget.”

  I jumped up from my desk and paced the few feet across the office. “There’s got to be something.”

  “Why?”

  “Because…” I went with Marge’s idea. “Bad luck always follows him around.”

  “I get the feeling you just don’t like the guy, Olive.”

  “I don’t. I think he’s highly fed and lowly taught.”

  “Is that Shakespeare talk for ‘asshole’?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Just remember, that’s not a crime either.”

  “Ivy!” A tall athletic, brunette was wrangling an Old English-style lamppost through the Berger Performing Arts Center’s loading dock door. “Did you come to help?”

  I ran to hold the door. “Sorry, Theresa, not really.” Theresa was the artistic director for New Vintage Theater, where I’d been painting flats when I got Marge’s call about Lassie. “I’m here for another callback for Annie Get Your Gun.”

  “Cool that you got called back again.” Theresa set down the lamppost and rubbed her shoulders. She may have been a fit thirty-something, and the lamppost may have been a not-that-heavy prop, but still. “Can I help you with that?” I said. “I’ve got a few minutes.”

  “Yeah. Let’s just get it on the stage.” Theresa grabbed the top of the lamppost and I took the bottom, and we headed through the propped-open door that led to the backstage of the Boothe Theater, the smallest space in the multi-stage Berger Center—the only one that New Vintage Theater could afford.

  “Glad I could help.” I was. I liked Theresa and her theater company. They presented wonderful shows on a shoestring budget, minimizing the costumes and sets (like this one lamppost for their production of Jekyll & Hyde), but maximizing the talent. The theater did cool takes on the classics and new works by local talent (thus the New Vintage name) partly to save money on royalties, and partly because they truly liked the plays. It was the kind of company actors loved to work for—which was good, because most of the time they still couldn’t pay. Shoestring budget, you know.

  We set the lamppost down in the stage left wing. “When does Annie Get Your Gun run?” asked Theresa.

  “They start rehearsals in a month.”

  “Did you hear we got the grant for Twelfth Night? We’re going to be able to pay people and everything. If you don’t get Annie, we’d love to have you audition for Viola.”

  Viola! She was one of Shakespeare’s greatest heroines, clever and resilient. Sure, she had to dress like a boy to get what she needed, but she did it on her own terms. But…“How much are you going to be able to pay?”

  “Two-fifty.”

  “A week?”

  Theresa’s cheeks colored. “For the run. Plus a take of the house.”

  If there were any profit, she meant, which there usually wasn’t. Especially with Shakespeare. And though it was highly unlikely I’d be cast as Annie, Arizona Center Stage might offer me a smaller role, maybe in the chorus. I’d make at least two hundred and fifty dollars per week for the entire rehearsal period and run of the show—eight weeks as it stood right now. My work at Duda Detectives paid a good portion of my bills, but not all. I needed the money. “Um…” I said.

  “Why I don’t I check back with you in a few days?” Theresa said. “I know you have to focus on your callback right now.”

  “Thanks.” I exited the backstage area into the hallways that connected the theaters.

  “And Ivy,” Theresa called from behind me. “Knock ’em dead.”

  Chapter 44

  After the last note of “Doin’ What Comes Natur’lly!” I held my sassy pose and smiled at Larry Cooper, who was sitting in the middle row of the Berger Performing Arts Center Mainstage Theater. He scribbled some notes, his face impassive, and whispered to the musical director who sat next to him. Then he looked up and smiled at me. I hoped, hoped, hoped he wasn’t going ask me anything about the plot. I may have been an actor, but I didn’t think I could act like the ridiculous, untrue, borderline offensive storyline had any merit at…well, you get the picture.

  But Larry didn’t ask me about the script. He just said, “Lift up your skirt. I want to see your legs.”

  I drove home from the theater and flopped down on my couch. Stupid director. My legs? Really? That was how he would decide whether to cast me? My cell buzzed. I ignored the first few rings. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. But curiosity got the best of me, and I glanced at the phone. Nathan. “You’re late,” he said when I picked up.

  “For what?”

  “For the emergency meeting I put on your Outlook calendar.”

  This was the first I’d heard of such a calendar. My suspicion that Nathan was covering his ass was confirmed when I heard a Philly-accented voice in the background say, “Just ask her if she’ll do it.”

  “Since Billie and Mongo are…” Nathan cleared his throat. “No longer with us, we need to replace them.”

  “I don’t see how I can replace Billie. I’m already in the melodrama. And as far as the chuckwagon cookout, the only thing I can cook is beans. Hey, maybe we could have a cowboy all-bean supper? It’d be pretty authentic, I think.”

  “Worstideeverheard.”

  “
It is not the worst idea you’ve ever heard and you really should be nice to someone when you’re asking them a favor.” Take that, Mr. Mumbly.

  “Okay, okay. I’m not asking about the melodrama. Frank will replace Billie there.”

  “Frank?”

  “Yeah. He offered to help, and all he has to do is hold up signs, right?” Nathan hadn’t actually seen the show yet.

  “Right. It could work. Especially if Frank dresses up like an old miner.”

  “I’ll tell him. And we’re not going to be doing those chuckwagon cookouts for a while so we don’t need to replace Billie as cook—”

  “Because of the water problem?”

  “I think we got a handle on that, but no cookouts. We’re also going to close on Sunday evenings for a while, but until I find someone, I need you to bartend at the saloon Saturday nights.”

  The only cocktail I knew how to make was rum and Coke. Oh, and vodka and orange juice, whatever that drink was called. “I really don’t think—”

  “You’d start work at five, after the shows are over, and stay ’til closing at nine. We’ll pay you double whatever Arnie’s paying you for the melodrama, and the tips are good.”

  “Okay.” I could expand my repertoire. “Oh. What about those tours I’m supposed to be giving? Doesn’t sound like I’ll have a lot of time and—”

  “You really won’t have time, since we also need you to replace Mongo. The tours can wait. And before you ask, yeah, double-time for this new job too.”

  Hmm, that meant Arnie would be paying me for the investigation, plus my salary for the melodrama, and Nathan would double my actor’s salary for the bartending and the…“Wait, Mongo?”

  “We need a gunfight. Chance said your Annie Oakley was pretty good.”

  “Chance is back?”

  “Not yet, but he’s done this before.” I seriously doubted Chance had been in quite this situation before. Did Nathan know something, or was he shining on the investors who were listening in? “We’ll have some sort of duel between the two of you.”

  “Oh. Uh…” I wasn’t crazy about anyone pointing a gun at me, especially with two unexplained deaths.

  “You can check Chance’s gun every time,” Nathan said.

  “Well…”

  “And you can write your own script.”

  My own script featuring Annie Oakley. “I’m in,” I said. “You’ll have a gunfight this weekend.”

  Chapter 45

  “What’s Campari?” I sniffed the bottle. “It smells like medicine.”

  “Tastes like it too,” said Uncle Bob. “But some sophisticates like it.” He grinned at his girlfriend, who did look awfully sophisticated with her expensive haircut and nice clothes, especially next to Uncle Bob with his two-day beard and Day-Glo orange Hawaiian shirt.

  “No making fun of my cocktail choices.” Bette poured a measure of the liqueur into a glass of ice, then topped it with fizzy water. “Campari and soda is a perfectly fine drink.”

  Pink took a drink from the glass Bette offered him. “I like it. And I’m not sophisticated.” He belched just to prove his point, though the ink stain on the pocket of his short-sleeved shirt was already a pretty good indicator.

  “Campari is an aperitif,” I read from a library book I picked up on the way to Bob’s house. “Helps with digestion.”

  Pink belched again. “See?”

  “This is the guy you want to me to fix up with my girlfriend?” Bette asked Bob.

  We were all gathered around Uncle Bob’s kitchen table, which was filled with an array of bottles. Bette had picked up the Campari, but most of the liquor came from Uncle Bob and Pink (Detective Pinkstaff). I contributed tequila, peppermint schnapps, and something called Mama Walker’s Bacon Maple Breakfast Liqueur (left over from a cast party). Oh, and a lime.

  “What is this?” Uncle Bob picked up the aforementioned fruit. “A kiwi? What kind of drink do you make with a kiwi?”

  Okay, so the lime was a little brown.

  “No,” said Pink. “I think it’s some sort of dog toy.” He threw it against the floor. It actually bounced a little.

  I grabbed it before it rolled behind the refrigerator. “No making fun of my lime either.”

  “Or she’ll slip it into your drinks,” Bette said.

  “I think throwing it at us would do more damage,” said Uncle Bob.

  Pink belched again. That Campari was good stuff.

  Bette turned to me, and her hair swung in a shimmering blonde sheet. For the umpteenth time, I had to stop myself from asking for the name of her hairdresser. First of all, Bette lived in Denver. Secondly, I suspected her haircut cost more than my weekly salary. “Now, Ivy, is this a full-service bar you’ll be working at?”

  “I don’t know.” I hadn’t spent much time in the saloon. “There were a lot of bottles in the back.”

  “What kind of liquor?”

  “Brown? Oh, and there’s some cheap wine and five different kinds of beer on tap, plus six bottled ones.” Okay, I had stopped in once or twice.

  “Brown…” Bette mused. “Mostly whiskeys, probably.”

  “It is a saloon, after all,” said my uncle. “People probably want to order authentic Western drinks.”

  I flipped through the pages of Drinks for Dummies. “How in the world am I ever going to learn all this stuff? Can’t I just make people rum and coke?”

  “Hey,” Bette said, “you and Bob just gave me an idea. You can just make the drinks you know how to make. We’ll come up with a limited menu of cowboy-type drinks—”

  “I’d need a really limited menu,” I interrupted.

  “And you can steer people toward the ones you know best.”

  “I don’t—”

  “You are a persuasive actor, after all.”

  I shut my mouth. A little flattery went a long way with me.

  We decided to focus on beer (easy-peasy, pour it in a glass), tequila, whiskey, and a very few mixed drinks. In the next two hours, I learned the basic classifications of tequila (Blanco, Reposado, Añejo and Extra Añejo); the difference between Canadian whiskey, bourbon, and rye; and how to make an Old Fashioned, a Whiskey Sour, and Texas Tea. I also sampled them.

  “Gluhhh,” I groaned. “I think I need some Campari.”

  “I’m not sure that’s how it works.” Bette poured me some anyhow. “But I guess it can’t hurt, especially since you’re sleeping here tonight.”

  “I can’t stay here. I have a script to write.”

  “You’re staying here,” said Uncle Bob. “There’s a cop right here who’d ticket you for even looking at your car keys.” I seriously doubted that, since Pink was lying on the couch with his eyes closed. Still, Uncle Bob was right.

  “What’s the script?” asked Bette.

  “I get to be Annie Oakley in a gunfight.”

  “And you’re writing it? I didn’t know you were a writer.”

  “Guy who owns the place probably doesn’t want to pay royalties,” my uncle said quietly.

  Oh. Of course. What the hell, I didn’t care. “It’s going to be great. I love Annie Oakley. Did you know she secretly put a bunch of women through college? When I told Billie that…” Billie’s smiling face came back to me. I swallowed the lump in my throat.

  “Billie’s the one who just died,” Uncle Bob explained to Bette.

  “I hope there’s a heaven,” I said. “I hope she’s with Mongo now.”

  “He’s the one who was shot earlier.”

  “Did you say you’re doing a gunfight?” Bette asked me. I nodded. “Are you sure you want to do that? Sounds like it could be dangerous with everything going on.”

  “I’ll be careful. I get to check Chance’s gun every night.”

  “But—” began my uncle.

  “I’ve done this before.” Yes, just
the one time onstage, but that counted. “Plus I’ll be shooting blanks, and they’ll use squibs.”

  “Squibs,” Pink said without opening his eyes. “Squibs. Funny name. Like a squid’s lips.”

  “Squibs?” asked Bette.

  “They’re just little charges—like teeny bits of dynamite—you set off by remote control. Used all the time in the film industry. We’ll set them up so a tin can flies off the porch railing when I shoot it, stuff like that. And a squid’s lips would be squips,” I said to Pink. “So…” I turned back to Bette and Bob. “Squibs and pre-checked blanks. Perfectly safe.”

  Chapter 46

  “Why are there dead slugs on the counter?” I wailed. “Who wants to see dead slugs first thing in the morning?” Especially when their stomach feels like a half-full water balloon, all the juices sloshing around in…

  I swallowed hard and turned away from the slimy brown things. Pink shuffled past me and peered at the saucer. “DOA,” he sniffed. “Murdered by beer.”

  “I’ve been murdered by whiskey. I feel like hell. Maybe I’m actually dead. Maybe this is hell. There would be platefuls of dead slugs in hell.”

  “You two are such weenies.” Bette pushed past us and picked up the plate. “I just set these down for a sec while I used the ladies.” She poured the dirty beer carefully into the sink and slid the slugs into a garbage can. “We’re leaving in a minute, but Bob wanted to get in a little gardening before we left.” Uncle Bob often baited slugs with saucers of beer. “He even put the bat house up this morning.”

  “Bat house?”

  “He put up a Robin house too?” said Pink.

  “No wonder Bob likes you. Same awful sense of humor.” Bette smiled. “And Ivy, I think you gave him the idea for the bat house—talking about bats while slapping mosquitoes or something? Anyway, we’re off to Sedona.” Bette had an unexpected break in her schedule so she and Uncle Bob were making the most of it. She grabbed her purse from the counter. “We’ll be back Monday,” she said over her shoulder as she went into the garage. “You two are on your own for breakfast.”