by Cindy Brown
“Like human props?” asked Vicki.
“Singing, talking, improvising human props.”
“And you want me to get you an audition with one of these guys?”
I sighed. Vicki was a great agent, which meant she was all about business. I could see why she thought a human prop gig was not worth my (or her) time. “This is all about future work,” I said. “Imagine how great it’ll look on my resume.” This was only partly true. Many film /commercial directors didn’t care much about theater.
“I don’t know.” I could hear the frown in Vicki’s voice. “I don’t have any connection with Broadway theater. I don’t even know who I’d—”
“I’ll take you to lunch at the Arizona Biltmore.” Vicki loved a good meal, especially on someone else’s dime. I wasn’t sure I had enough dimes for such a fancy lunch, but I’d scrape them up somehow.
“You got me. I’ll look into it. Call around, see if I can submit you.”
“Great.”
“This is Camelot, right? What part should I submit you for? Guinevere?”
“Well, John Robert has decided to set the show in the Kennedy White House.”
“Gotcha. But...I don’t see you as Jackie.”
I didn’t either. No one had ever called me elegant. “Put me up for the part of Marilyn.”
“Marilyn?” Vicki sputtered. Probably drinking coffee while we talked. “You’re kidding, right?”
No one had ever called me a bombshell, either. “No, really. I do a great Marilyn impersonation.” I hadn’t yet, but felt sure I could.
Vicki had stopped sputtering and was laughing out loud. “Sure you do. Prove it to me, and I’ll see what I can do about wrangling you an audition.”
I hung up. “All right, Timothy. Let’s go make me into Marilyn.”
Chapter 14
“Oh, and maybe you can help me with my belly dancer disguise, too?” I asked Timothy as we stepped out of Genny’s into the bright sunshine.
“Marilyn Monroe and a belly dancer? Why a belly dancer?”
“I need to go undercover at the Ren faire, and want to make sure no one knows it’s me. This way I can use veils to cover up.”
“Cover up? Well, part of you.”
I really didn’t think anyone would recognize me based on my belly button, even though it was an outie.
Timothy pursed his lips, then looked at me over his sunglasses. “I do love a challenge. Let’s go.”
I followed Timothy to his place just a few miles away in Central Phoenix. I parked and brought my duffle bag and the costumes from Bert Easley’s into Timothy’s apartment. He was already in the little kitchen. I set my stuff down on the living room couch and poked my head inside to see what he was doing (the rest of me would barely have fit. It was a really little kitchen). “Bloody Marys,” he said happily. “With fresh squeezed lemon juice. Want some lemons to take home?”
Lemons, oranges, and grapefruit were the zucchini of Arizona. Lots of people had citrus trees and the fruit all ripened at the same time. Some would even put brown bags marked with “Free grapefruit” on the sidewalks in front of their houses. “Sure,” I said anyway. I was never one to turn down free food. “And make my drink a virgin. I need to go out to the faire for a few hours.”
“Got it.” Timothy poured two drinks. “Grab your stuff and meet me in my boudoir.”
When I got to Timothy’s bedroom, he was already fiddling with a tackle box full of makeup. A platinum blonde wig perched atop a Styrofoam head on the bedside table. I showed him what I had for the belly dance costume.
“Good, good.” He gnawed on his bottom lip. “What accent are you using?”
“Accent?”
“Didn’t you just tell me you don’t want anyone to recognize you? And that you’re going to have to be you, Marilyn, and a belly dancer? Yes, accent.”
“Um...” I was known for my dancing, not my grasp of accents. I had played Nancy in Oliver at Sea!, though. “I do a pretty good Cockney.”
Timothy burst out laughing. “That’s your best one?” Timothy had played Fagin in that particular production. “Omigod, okay, whatever. A Cockney belly dancer. Good thing everyone at Ren faires are eccentric or this would never fly.”
It might still not. “Do I have to do an accent?”
“Didn’t you just tell me that you’re also going to be interviewing people as yourself?”
“Yeah. Oi don’t know what Oi was finking.” Hey, my Cockney accent sounded pretty good.
Timothy sighed. “It’ll have to do. Now, are you really sure about becoming Marilyn? You may be invoking a few demons here.”
“What do you mean?” I sat on the edge of his bed.
“Well, she didn’t exactly have the happiest life. Some impersonators say they feel her spirit when they channel her.”
“Bah,” I said. “I’m not channeling, I’m acting.” Still, a little shiver ran down my back as I reached out to touch the wig. It was a good one. Real hair. “Where’d you get this wig?”
“I used to do Marilyn.”
“Really? You did Marilyn?” Timothy was the hairiest man I’d ever met. And it was black hair.
“A girl’s gotta try,” he said, tossing me a wig cap. “But now I stick to Amy Winehouse and Liza and of course, Cher.” Timothy did an amazing version of “Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves” which he said was autobiographical. His autobiography, not Cher’s. “You’ll need to get blue contacts, of course.”
“Oh, do I have to—”
Timothy cut me off. “You’re triple undercover, remember? Can’t have anyone recognizing you by your green eyes.”
While he was puttering with his makeup kit, I called the place where I bought the brown contacts. Yes, they had my prescription on file and dark blue costume contacts in stock. I could pick them up on my way to the faire. I hung up.
“Let’s do this,” Timothy said, tilting my face back and forth and up and down. “Ooh,” he said. “I never realized how much you look like her.”
“I do?”
“Have you ever seen those photos of her before she became famous, when she was fresh-scrubbed Norma Jean? Even her hair—her real hair—was the same color as yours. As your real hair.”
“Dirt brown?” That was what Vicki had called it right before she told me to dye it blonde.
“This is going to be fabulous, just you wait.” Timothy practically crackled with glee. “A little bit of shading, some eyebrow work...ooh.” He actually rubbed his hands together, like a mad scientist about to begin a particularly exciting experiment. “Oh, wait...” He fiddled with his phone, then set it on the bedside table by the mannequin head. “Ambience,” he said. Marilyn’s voice filled the room, singing about kisses and diamonds and men. “Let us begin.”
Timothy told me what he was doing step-by-step: foundation first, then shading with brown powder to make the contours of my face look more like Marilyn’s, then blush, dark brown arched eyebrows, black eyeliner, red lips. “With a slightly darker lip liner of course.” Like most drag queens I knew, Timothy was a big fan of lip liner. He rocked back on his heels and studied me, pursing his lips. “A little more bottom lip I think...” He leaned in and drew a larger line beneath my lip, then nodded with satisfaction. “Now for the pièce de résistance.” He took the wig off the mannequin and pinned it onto my head. “And now...” Timothy handed me a mirror.
I took the mirror, then almost dropped it. Looking back at me was a blonde bombshell—no, the blonde bombshell. It was almost like looking at a movie screen.
“Timothy,” I said. “You are a magician.”
“C’est moi,” he said. “And you, my dear, are Marilyn.”
Chapter 15
We took a couple of pictures of me, bare-shouldered since I didn’t have any fifties’ style clothes with me, and sent them to my agent. Then I wiped off Ma
rilyn’s red lips, added some sparkly purple eyeshadow Timothy gave me, and dusted my face with bronzer. I put in my brown contacts, dressed quickly in one of the belly dancer outfits, and topped off the costume with the long dark wig and two more veils, one over my hair and another that covered the bottom half of my face.
I examined myself in front of Timothy’s bathroom mirror. I was swathed in sheer fabric and synthetic hair, with only my midriff and eyes showing. Bangles and gold coins circled my hips and jingled when I moved—could be a nice distraction. I smiled at myself underneath the veil that covered my mouth. This could work.
“Nice,” said Timothy as I dashed out the door. “Break a leg.”
On the way to the contacts place, I called Doug to tell him that his undercover PI was on her way. “You really think you can pull this off? That no one will recognize you?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said. “I’m an actor.”
He made a noise that might have been a stifled laugh. I chose not to take it personally. “You could be a mermaid,” Doug said. “It’s a new show, so it could make sense to have a new person—”
“No.” I’d been afraid of water ever since Cody’s accident. A recent-ish scuffle in a swimming pool had helped vanquish that—mostly. I’d been able to picnic near water, wade in Saguaro Lake, and even take a cruise, but still...water. My chest got tight just thinking about it. Of course I didn’t say that. No one wants a scaredy-cat PI. “I think it’d be tough to investigate while stuck in a tank of water wearing a tail,” I said instead. “I’ve decided to be a belly dancer. I really want to make sure no one knows it’s me. I’m pretty covered up this way. Can you help me join a troupe?”
“Sure. Whatever. I just want this taken care of quickly. You heard about Angus’s death?”
“Yeah. In fact, is there any way for you to get me more information for me about the specific cause of death? Maybe from your insurance guy?” Insurance companies often hired their own investigators.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“And I heard they found Riley’s horse.”
“Yes. Thank God.”
Huh. Interesting that he didn’t bring up this vital piece of information until I did. I added a question mark to my mental “Doug” file. I felt like there was something else hiding in that file too. Something Doug had said?
He went on to tell me that Thunder was in good shape. John Robert Turner had discovered the animal drinking out of his swimming pool. “He said he was in the middle of working, so he asked his gardener to take care of it, and to ask around if anyone was missing a horse. The guy did take good care of Thunder, but Turner doesn’t think he put out the word.”
“That sounds suspicious.”
“Maybe,” said Doug. “Or maybe the guy just wanted to keep the horse.”
Maybe. I’d do my own checking on that. “I’ll see you in about half an hour.”
A pause.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“Yes.” Doug’s voice was tight and tired at the same time, like a frayed rope. “I just thought you would be here earlier today. May I ask what you’ve been doing?”
Sheesh, could you say micro-manager? “What any good PI would have been doing,” I said. “Following leads.”
* * *
Finally I was on the highway, headed toward the faire. “Oi fink you sound jolly good,” I said, trying out my accent. Ack. Timothy was right. I’d have to keep my mouth shut as much as possible and study the accent at home. And did people still say “jolly good?” I’d have to look up British-isms, too.
Oh no. I suddenly realized that this wasn’t just using an accent and pretending to be a British belly dancer. This was improv. And I sucked at improv. Maybe I should reconsider, just go in and ask questions as myself.
No. From what I knew of Ren faire folks, I was pretty sure they’d be nice and polite and completely close ranks if they needed to protect one of their own.
One of their own. Of course. It had to be one of them. There was a slim chance that a tourist might be able to joust—maybe he’d been to jousting camp or something—but he wouldn’t have known the Phoenix Renaissance Faire as well as the mysterious jouster. A tourist wouldn’t have known where to jump Riley, or if Riley’s armor would fit him, or maybe most importantly, how to make his escape. I called Uncle Bob on speakerphone. “Oi haf good news.”
“Ivy?” he said. “You sound funny. Are you getting sick?”
“What? No, that’s my Cockney accent. For my undercover British belly dancer.”
“Oh,” said Uncle Bob. “Well. So, you have good news.”
“Yeah.” I told him what I’d realized about the jouster. “So we have way fewer suspects now. Just the Rennies. And John Robert.”
“The guy who found the horse?”
“Yeah.” I told Uncle Bob about seeing him right before the joust.
“In disguise, you said?”
“Well, in a Renaissance costume.”
“Didn’t you tell me that lots of people dress up to come to the faire?”
“Yeah...”
“Still, good work,” said my really nice uncle.
“All righty, then,” I said. “Toodle-oo.” Yikes. I really needed to work on my British persona.
I pulled into the faire’s employee parking lot at two forty-five. Twenty minutes later, Doug and I stood in front of Jasmine, the owner of Gimme Shimmie Belly Dancers, who couldn’t keep her bells from jingling with irritation. “You’re joking, right?” she half-whispered/half-hissed at Doug. “You know that isn’t how this works. You can’t just tell me to hire someone. This is a troupe, a company. A company that I own.”
“A company that is employed by my company.” Sheesh, this guy needed some practice in the art of negotiation. And in just being nice. “All I’m asking for is an unpaid position for my niece Prudence here.” I’d picked the name from the Beatles song. “Like an internship,” said Doug.
“It’d mean the world to me,” I said. “Oi came awl the way from Liverpool just for this.”
“You came from England to perform in a Ren faire in Arizona?”
She had a point. “Uncle Doug says it’s brilliant. And Oi’ve always wanted to see America—cowboys and Indians and such.”
Jasmine frowned at me. “That second veil, that one across your face? It’s overkill. Can’t you—?”
Doug came to my rescue. “I think she should keep it on.” Then in a lower voice, “British teeth, you know.”
“Oi! Oi am affronted for meself and for me countrymen,” I said with as much dignity as I could, given my ridiculous accent.
Jasmine crossed her arms. “I don’t have time to teach her the routines.”
“She’s a quick learner,” said Doug. “And she’s danced professionally.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “Belly dance?”
I nodded. “Graduated from the Prestigious Northern England School of Belly Dance. Otherwise known as Wigglebum Uni.”
Jasmine laughed unexpectedly. She looked me up and down. “She does have a nice figure,” she said to Doug, as if I wasn’t there. “I’ll figure out a way to use her.”
Chapter 16
As soon as Doug left, Jasmine said, “Come hither, wench.” I was momentarily struck dumb, not so much by her serious manner, but by the straight-faced way she said the words. “Cat got your tongue?” she asked.
“Oh, yeah...” I remembered my Cockney accent in just time. “But Oi’m roight as rain now.”
Jasmine sighed. “Do you not know how to speak?”
“Oi fought Oi just did,” I said, thickening up the accent in hopes she’d give a break to a stranger in a strange land.
“No,” Jasmine said. “You did not and you do not.” She looked at me a minute, hands on her well-padded hips and exasperation on her fantastically made-up face (wi
th all the sequins and gemstones stuck to her, she looked like she’d been bedazzled). Then a light glittered in her eyes and she walked over to a small sign hanging from a gold cord on the front of the stage: Gimme Shimmie Belly Dancers. Shows at 1:30 and 4:30. Jasmine picked up the sign and handed it to me. “Tie this around your waist.”
“All roighty, then. Wait, around me waist?”
Jasmine grimaced again at the sound of my voice. Was my accent that bad? “So that it sits on your bum. Use the talents you learned at Wigglebum to lure audience members our way.”
“You’re not serious?” I said. “Oi mean, asking me to use me bum to bring in audience members, isn’t that sexual ha—”
“Have you never attended a faire before?” Jasmine didn’t wait for my answer. “Bawdiness is our meat and potatoes.”
“Even wif all the kiddos about?”
“Bawdy, not dirty. There is a difference and you must learn it.” She stood back and sighed again. “There are many things you must learn.” She rolled her shoulders to release the tension there. “I want you to stroll the faire and see what you can do to raise an audience.”
“Wif a sign on me bum.” I sighed back at her. “Yes, mum.”
“During the show, you can stand at the entrance to our stage and wave people in. After the last show, go to the Enchanted Forest and find William the Wondrous. He’s a wizard who’s been around forever. Ask him to teach you faire etiquette, especially the language.”
“What about learning the dance routines?”
“We’ll see how you fare first.”
“All right.” I gave in. “Oi’ll get you an audience. Oi can wiggle me bum wif the best of ’em.” I turned to go.
Jasmine grabbed me by the shoulder. “One more thing: Don’t speak. Not a word. Until I tell you differently, you are the mute belly dancer.”