by Cindy Brown
Praise for the Ivy Meadows Mystery Series
“This gut-splitting mystery is a hilarious riff on an avant-garde production of ‘the Scottish play’…Combining humor and pathos can be risky in a whodunit, but gifted author Brown makes it work.”
– Mystery Scene Magazine
“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
“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
“Brown mixes laugh out loud observations about the acting life with a witty and intriguing mystery. Consider yourself warned. Oliver Twisted is a fast-paced addictive read impossible to put down until Ivy has caught the killer.”
– D.E. Ireland,
Agatha Award-Nominated Author of Move Your Blooming Corpse
“A definite delight…sit back, wait for the curtain to rise on this one, and then have a whole lot of fun figuring out whodunit.”
– Suspense Magazine
“The setting is irresistible, the mystery is twisty, and Ivy is as beguiling as ever, but what I really loved was the depth and complexity of painful human relationships right there in the middle of a sparkly caper. Roll on Ivy #3!”
– Catriona McPherson,
Agatha Award-Winning Author of The Day She Died
“It is not easy to combine humor and murder, but Cindy Brown does it effortlessly. Who else would think of combining The Sound of Music with Cabaret with a serial killer? The result is such fun.”
– Rhys Bowen,
New York Times Bestselling Author of Malice at the Palace
“A fun and rollicking mystery at sea with a delightfully twisty plot and a heartfelt heroine who is as entertaining as she is soulful. I highly recommend this series. More please!”
– John Clement,
Author of the Dixie Hemingway Mysteries
“This novel excels at operating at several different levels. While it is endlessly entertaining and full of humor, the author is not afraid to tackle serious topics and confront contemporary issues...One of the greatest joys of reading this series is watching Ivy grow up before our eyes…a masterful blend of mystery and the entertaining fun of the theater world.”
– Kings River Life Magazine
“The mystery kept me glued to the pages…had me roaring with laughter…A delightful read and I can’t wait to see what happens next in this amusingly entertaining series.”
– Dru’s Book Musings
“For true Dickens fans, theatre lovers, and mystery buffs everywhere, it is indeed the best of times. Please sir, I want some more!”
– Broadwayworld.com
The Ivy Meadows Mystery Series
by Cindy Brown
MACDEATH (#1)
THE SOUND OF MURDER (#2)
OLIVER TWISTED (#3)
IVY GET YOUR GUN (#4)
THE PHANTOM OF OZ (#5)
KILLALOT (#6)
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Copyright
KILLALOT
An Ivy Meadows Mystery
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition | November 2018
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 © 2018 by Cindy Brown
Cover art by Stephanie Chontos
Author Photograph by AJC Photography
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.
Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-430-0
Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-431-7
Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-432-4
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-433-1
Printed in the United States of America
To all of the wonderful folks
who’ve helped with my launch parties,
with special thanks to Annie Bloom’s Books
and O’Connor’s Café and Bar.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I owe a huge debt of gratitude to all of the people who turned my launch parties into theatrical events—I wish I could have named all of you in the dedication. Thanks to: Portland Actors Ensemble (Patrick Cox, Michael Godsey, Curt Hanson, Sarah Keyes Chang, Brian MacEwan and Jennifer Zubernick), Sam Mowry and The Willamette Radio Workshop, Paulette Rees-Denis and The Harmony Ranchers, Amelia Ford, Beth Kahlen, Michele Mariana, Cindy McGean, Becca Stuhlbarg, Brian Tennison, Autumn Trapani, David Withers, and especially Bruce Miles, who has been in every show and makes an awesome Uncle Bob.
I also want to thank:
Holly Franko, Janice Maxson, John Kohlepp Jr., Lindsey Nyre, Shauna Petchel, and Autumn Trapani for being amazingly helpful first readers.
John Kohlepp Jr. for providing me with cool custom swag (Ivy Meadows coloring pages!), Orit Kramer for her fab graphic design, and Ruth Barrineau-Brooks for being a wonderful proofreader.
Sir Bil Woodford of the Imperial Knights, who is generous not only to mystery writers who want to know about the finer points of jousting, but to the horses he rescues.
John Hopper of JB National Investigations, who’s knowledgeable about everything PI and a nice guy to boot.
Barbara and Dale Fiedler, for being gracious and generous to a writer in need of a quiet space, and to Pam Harrison, who makes nice things happen.
My writers’ group for giving me the support (and the kicks in the butt) I need on an ongoing basis. Thanks to Ann Littlewood, Doug Levin, Evan Lewis, Marilyn McFarlane, and Angela M. Sanders.
My other writer friends who provide support, feedback, and sometimes wine: Lisa Alber, Gretchen Archer, April Henry, and Martha Ragland.
The team at Henery Press, who always makes my books so much better. Thanks to Kendel Lynn, Stephanie Chontos, Maria Edwards, Art Molinares, Christina Rogers and Meagan Smith.
All of my FB friends who gave me ideas for belly dancing troupe names, especially Michael Mooney, who supplied Gimme Shimmie.
And especially to Hal, for giving me a happy ever after.
Chapter 1
“Ow.” It hurt when Riley hugged me. Partly because he was strong. Partly because he was wearing chain mail. But mostly because he was wearing chain mail in the Arizona sun. I craned my neck to look at my upper arm. “I think I actually got a burn from your armor.”
“
That’s ’cause I’m hot.” Riley grinned over his shoulder at my boyfriend to show him he wasn’t flirting with me.
But Matt didn’t notice. Maybe it was because he hadn’t been noticing much lately when it came to me. Or maybe he was distracted by the unicyclist in the kilt. Or the earthbound fairies flirting with landlocked pirates, the knights in homemade armor ogling sun-tanned damsels, or the witches mingling happily with hobbits and dragons and Storm Troopers among cactus-lined roads. Yeah, I had to give him a break. The Phoenix Renaissance Faire was a pretty distracting place.
“No, seriously,” I said to Riley. “How can you stand to wear that?” It was only March but already ninety degrees in the shade—and there wasn’t much shade at the faire, it being in the desert and all.
“I dunno. Sometimes I pour water over my head.”
“I think a lot of people are hot,” Matt’s glasses glinted in the sun as he turned to watch a man wearing nothing but a Conan the Barbarian-style fur diaper. “That would explain some of the costumes.”
“Nah, it’s this way at every Ren faire. Isn’t it great?” Riley bowed to an elfin-looking woman wearing a headdress made of antlers, and then stepped around two underage pirates dueling with wooden swords. “It’s like heaven.” He bowed again to a woman whose breasts nearly popped out of her cinched-up bodice. “With boobs.”
I smacked him on the arm, even though he didn’t mean it in a sleazy way. An old theater friend, Riley was a big curly-haired Irish Setter of a guy—happy, harmless, and good-naturedly goofy.
“I’ve never seen anything like it.” My brother Cody stood next to his girlfriend Sarah, staring at the scene in front of us: merchants hawking their wares from half-timbered storefronts, kids riding on a giant swing shaped like a swan, and hundreds of costumed people thronging the dusty roads. The far-off sound of bagpipes competed with laughter from an open-air theater and the shouts from a nearby axe-throwing booth. “This is so cool.” Cody continued to stare. A few people stared back, probably because he was really handsome, like a twenty-something Brad Pitt. “Why have we never been here before?”
“I don’t know,” I said, but I did. The faire wasn’t cheap, and Matt was still paying off student loans, Cody and Sarah could only make a little bit of money at their jobs since they were both on disability, and my acting gigs and part-time PI work barely paid the bills.
“Riley?” Sarah dipped her head in that shy way she had. “Thank you for giving us tickets.”
“Thank you, indeed,” I said.
“My pleasure,” said Riley. “Let me show you the lay of the land before I have to go to work. Ha! I get to call jousting ‘work.’ This way.” He started to lead us toward a group of Tudor-looking buildings, but was stopped by a little boy wearing dragon pajamas: “Are you a real knight?”
Riley did look impressive in his silver armor. He knelt down next to the boy. “What do you think, small sir?”
The boy chewed his bottom lip. “Do you have a horse?”
Riley nodded. “A gray one. He’s back in the stables.”
“And a sword?”
“Indeed I do.” Riley stood up and unsheathed his sword from the scabbard that hung on his side.
“Wow.”
A roundish middle-aged fellow wearing a short, hooded cape stopped to watch Riley and the boy. He looked vaguely familiar—an actor I’d worked with? I was trying to place his face when Cody gave a shout. “Turkey legs!” He took off running toward Fryer Tuck’s Faire Fowl booth. Matt followed, taking his wallet out of his pocket.
Riley bowed to the little boy and his mom, sheathed his sword, and said to me, “I’m going to go get them a discount.” He hoofed it up to the booth where the guys were placing their orders.
Sarah drifted over to a table full of jewelry in front of a faded red gypsy caravan. I followed and joined her in perusing necklaces of crystals hung on silver chains. An old woman dressed all in black pushed aside the curtain that served as the door of the caravan. “Tell your fortunes, miladies?” she asked in a heavy Slavic accent.
“No, thank you,” said Sarah.
“What about you, my dear? The crone knows all.” She put a finger beside her nose. It was supposed to be spooky but made me think of that poem about Santa Claus. “And laying his finger aside of his nose,” I whispered to Sarah, “and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.” Sarah giggled.
The fortuneteller must have heard. “I wouldn’t be so cavalier if I were you.” She pointed over my head into the faire behind us with a shaky finger. “Death is near.”
Chapter 2
“Oh no.” Sarah’s bottom lip trembled. Her disability made her take things literally. “What should we do?”
What I wanted to do was smack that crone upside the head for scaring Sarah, but she’d skittered back into her caravan right after her pronouncement. “Nothing.” I put an arm around Sarah’s shoulders. “That woman is just an actor, like Riley, like me. We just make stuff up. It’s all just pretend.”
Still, I looked over my shoulder to where the old woman had pointed. Nothing any more out of the ordinary than we’d already seen: a knight in black armor, several top-heavy wenches, a juggler, lots of people in T-shirts and shorts, and the little pirate brothers, who were still dueling in the road a few feet from us. The smaller of the boys turned his back on his brother, who scowled, then swung his wooden sword over his shoulder like a baseball batter about to swing. At his little brother’s head.
“No!” I leapt in between the two boys. Crack! The sword caught me in the shoulder and I fell down in the dirt.
“Boys.” The kids’ mom didn’t look up from her cell phone, just pulled them away from me and continued walking down the road.
“Are you well?” The knight I’d glimpsed earlier knelt down next to me. He wore black armor, but no helmet over his thick blonde hair.
I sat up. “I’m fine. The fall was more about my leaping than the kid’s sword. Though a ‘thank you’ would be in order!” I shouted at the boys’ mom’s back.
The knight stood up and held out a hand to me. He was big—muscled and maybe six four, with a bristling red beard. “It is held that valor is the chiefest virtue, and most dignifies the haver.”
I took his hand and let him help me up. I nearly curtseyed. Don’t know if it was the effect of the Shakespeare line, the knight, or the Ren Faire in general.
“Thank you,” I said. “Sir...?”
“Angus Duff,” he said in a deep baritone. “At your service, milady.” He stepped closer and looked into my eyes. His were green, like mine. “Hear my soul speak,” he said quietly. “Of the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly at your service; there resides, to make me a slave to it.”
I nearly melted. I loved that line from The Tempest.
“Ivy,” Matt said behind me. I turned to see him holding two turkey legs; Cody and Sarah, also with turkey legs, right behind him. “What happened?”
“Well, there was a fortune-telling witch, a hostile pirate, and a gallant knight.” I turned back to Angus, but he had disappeared into the crowd.
“Sounds like a typical day at the Ren faire.” Riley joined us.
“Is the fortuneteller always that creepy?” I took the turkey leg Matt handed me.
“Nah, she’s usually cool. In fact, she told me I’d be the most famous jouster at the faire. Speaking of which, I should get going. Gotta get ready for the joust—you know, prepare physically and mentally. It’s not easy riding a horse while wearing a hundred pounds of armor and carrying a big stick.”
“Is jousting dangerous?” asked Cody.
“You bet. We’re riding big animals at a gallop, head to head, and trying to hit each other with lances. It’s very dangerous. Deadly sometimes.”
“Really?” said Sarah.
“Oh yeah,” Riley said. “You know how to kill a jouster?”
“How?” asked Cody.
“Take away his beer. Ha!”
Cody laughed. “Take away his beer!”
“Is that funny?” Sarah whispered to me.
“It is to Riley,” I whispered back.
“Squire Riley!” Angus had come back. Maybe he’d quote some more Shakespeare. Instead he smiled at me and said, “We meet again, milady,” then turned his attention to Riley, punching him on the shoulder in a sort-of friendly way. “What have you done with my helmet, thou artless apple-john?”
“I haven’t seen your helmet,” Riley said. “I’m not your squire today.”
“Zounds!” Angus’s face grew red. “Some lackey must have made off with my helmet. Can you bloody believe it?”
“I can,” said Cody. Angus frowned at him, and Cody stepped back, unsure if he’d said something wrong.
“It’s okay,” I said to my brother. “He was asking a rhetorical question.” Cody looked even more unsure. “I’ll explain later.”
“He was just asking God,” said Sarah. That was actually a pretty good definition.
Angus’s face looked like a pot that was trying not to boil. “The joust begins in half an hour.” His Ren faire accent—sort of British Shakespearean—was gone. “What the hell am I supposed to do now?”
Cody began to open his mouth. “He’s asking God again,” I whispered, and he shut it.
“I’d let you borrow mine,” said Riley, “but—” He stopped as a young woman ran toward us, long brown hair streaming behind her as she wove through the crowd. She skidded to a stop and held out a black knight’s helmet. She didn’t say a word, probably because she was trying to breathe. The run, plus the dust, plus her tight bodice would have made talking pretty tough.