KILLALOT

by Cindy Brown

  William rose. “I think you’ll fit in nicely here.” Dang, guess we were done for the day. I’d hoped to get more.

  I got up off my pillow. “Look up that vocabulary, stay silent for the first week, and remember to listen.” He stepped forward, hands outstretched toward me, but the hem of his robe caught on his chair, snagged in the teeth of a face carved in the bottom of one of the chair’s feet—a grinning malevolent face at odds with the other magical creatures that adorned the chair. William extricated his robe with an expert tug, then followed my gaze to the unsettling face. “It’s a goblin,” he said. “A reminder that evil exists among the good, waiting. An important reminder.”

  Chapter 19

  I got in my truck and grabbed my cellphone from below the seat where I’d stashed it (Doug had warned me that Jasmine would not allow me to have it at the faire). The little light was blinking: a text message. Part of me hoped it was from Matt, and part of me didn’t, in case it meant bad news. But it wasn’t him. It was Vicki. “Call me ASAP,” she wrote. I called her right there and then, still sitting in the dusty employee parking lot.

  “Your timing couldn’t have been better,” Vicki said when she picked up. “I talked to a friend at a New York agency today. You’re right on both counts. That guy does want to hire actors to help him with his new play, and yeah, you actually can—do—look like Marilyn. A lot. I got you an audition for tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yeah. I’ve emailed you a side.” A side was actor-speak for the scene being read at an audition.

  “Brilliant.”

  “You have a cold or something?”

  Oops. I ditched my Cockney accent and switched to a breathy Marilyn-esque voice. “Don’t worry. I can do this.” I threw in a Marilyn quote I’d always liked. “It takes a smart brunette to play a dumb blonde.”

  Silence. “Vicki?” I said in my normal voice. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. It’s just...you really sounded like her right then.”

  Maybe it was just Cockney accents I sucked at.

  “So this audition is a little unusual,” Vicki continued. “In fact, if I didn’t know who this guy was I wouldn’t send you out.”

  “Why not?”

  “He wants to keep this secret, so you can’t tell anyone you’re auditioning, or that you’re working with him if you get the part.”

  “Okay...”

  “And he’s not using any of the casting agents in town. He’s holding the auditions himself. At his ranch, somewhere out in the desert. You comfortable with all that?”

  “I am.” An audition at the ranch where Riley’s horse showed up. “In fact, it couldn’t be better.”

  It was after eight by the time I got home. I flopped down on the couch, then dragged myself off it after a few minutes. Sure, it’d been an incredibly full day and I’d been up early for me, but I still had a lot to do. I made myself a big bowl of mac and cheese and ate while studying the Phoenix Renaissance Faire map. I wrote some notes about Angus being a charming bully, and/or a possible pedophile, and reminded myself to ask around about jousting rivalries. I rehearsed the scene for tomorrow’s audition, found some clothes that would work, and watched a few more videos of Marilyn, just to get her speech patterns right. Then I did a bunch of research on Liverpool, and waited for Matt to call. Finally, close to eleven o’clock, he did.

  “Sorry to call so late,” Matt said. “But I didn’t really have a chance before and I knew you’d be up.”

  “No worries. So...how is everything?”

  Matt filled me in briefly: It was too early to tell for sure, but his mom’s prognosis looked good. “Ends up she was pretty lucky to have had the stroke at church in town instead of out on the farm because they got her to the hospital right away.”

  “How are you doing?”

  He sighed. I bet he was taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes, like he did when he was tired. “I don’t know. I’ve been at the hospital all day. It’s like being in the Twilight Zone.”

  “Yeah.” My memory of the hospital after Cody’s accident was both fuzzy and clear, like being in a thick fog where I’d suddenly bump into something too close: my mother’s red swollen eyes; my father hands curled into fists; Cody’s sweet, sweet, unresponsive face. Even now, it took effort to pull myself back to reality.

  “So, this may sound weird,” said Matt, “but I’ve been talking and thinking about my mom all day, and I really just want...can we talk about your day? Wait, no. I don’t want to hear about murder, either.”

  “Okay...um...I have other stuff to talk about...Did you know that Liverpool has two excellent football teams?”

  “I actually did know that.” The relief in Matt’s voice was palpable.

  “Or that people who live there are called Liverpudlians or Scousers?”

  “Scousers?”

  “I guess Scouse is a kind of stew. And Liverpool is home to the Spaceport, an interactive space museum which—wait for it—houses a huge collection of Star Wars memorabilia.”

  “When do we leave?”

  I loved my geeky boyfriend.

  “Anything else good and non-murdery happening there?”

  “I’ve got an audition tomorrow morning.” I explained about John Robert and the play. Sort of.

  “You’re going undercover as Marilyn Monroe?” asked Matt. “Seems like the jig would be up, seeing as how she’s...dead.”

  “I’m not saying it right ’cause I’m tired.” I yawned. “And I carbo-loaded and everything.”

  “What?”

  “I had a bunch of work to do when I got home, so I ate a bunch of carbs to give me energy.”

  “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

  “You’re telling me.” I yawned again. “All I can say is, if you ever have trouble sleeping, eat an entire box of mac and cheese. It’ll do the trick.”

  “I’ll remember that. Good night, Ivy.”

  “Good night.”

  Chapter 20

  Cockadoodledoo!

  Cockadoodledoo!

  Cockadoodledoo!

  Arghh. I grabbed my cellphone from my nightstand. Really needed to change that ringtone. Cockadoodledoo! Only seven o’clock. No one who knew me would call this early in the morning unless it was an emerg—

  My eyes flew open. No, not Matt—phew. A local number, but not one I recognized. I turned off my phone and went back to sleep.

  I got up an hour later, took a shower, made some coffee, and put on the Marilyn outfit I’d come up with: a pencil skirt, a form-fitting vintage sweater, high-heeled pumps, and a girdle I’d worn for a production of Picnic. I made up my face the way Timothy showed me, put in my new blue contacts, and pinned on my wig. It was amazing: I didn’t quite have Marilyn’s hourglass figure (though the girdle helped with that), but I really did look like her.

  I snagged a banana for the road, grabbed the audition scenes and directions to Harmony Ranch that Vicki had emailed me last night, and jumped into my truck. But something was bugging me, and it wasn’t just that I was up before my usual time. Let’s see...Angus...no...John Robert...no...Matt...

  Yes. What was it? I replayed our conversation from last night. We’d talked about the auction and Liverpool and his mom...That call this morning. Maybe it was Matt calling from a different phone. At a red light I checked my cell. A voicemail pending.

  “Ivy? Oh shit. Man, I wish you were picking up. I don’t know who else to call about this...”

  Not Matt. But who? The connection was crackly.

  “Could you, uh, I don’t know, find me a lawyer or something? They’re holding me at the Fourth Avenue Jail. And...uh, shit I wish I could talk to you. Just...yeah, a lawyer. And thanks.”

  Riley. It was Riley.

  I called Uncle Bob from the road. “So what do I do? I tried calling the jai
l, but inmates can’t receive incoming calls.”

  “Yeah. Tell you what; I’ll see if he has a lawyer yet. If not, I’ll get someone down there.”

  “Thanks. Oh, before I forget: someone said something yesterday that made me wonder if Angus liked young girls. Wouldn’t that have shown up on his criminal record?”

  “Probably, but I’ll check the Sexual Offender Database. Are you coming in this morning?”

  “Not ’til this afternoon.” I told Uncle Bob where I was going.

  “I don’t like the sound of this,” he said. “Out in the middle of nowhere with a guy who might be connected to a murder, and you’re not supposed to tell anyone where you are?’

  “If you promise not to call Backstage, I’ll give you the address.”

  “Call who?”

  “Yeah, I think it’s safe to tell you.” I gave him the particulars. Harmony Ranch was twenty miles northeast of the Ren faire. The closest town was Gold Canyon, fifteen miles away. John Robert must really like his solitude. I promised to keep my pepper spray in my purse and my cell phone on, then hung up and merged onto the highway.

  But something still felt off, like a bed sheet that had come untucked during the night. It was about Matt. I tried again to remember our conversation. It went well, didn’t it? We even had that little joke about Star Wars, then I got sleepy and we said goodnight, just like usual.

  No wait, it wasn’t like usual. Matt didn’t say he loved me.

  Chapter 21

  Matt always said, “I love you” at the end of our conversations. Always.

  Get a grip, Ivy. The man just spent all day with his mom in the hospital.

  Right. I turned on the radio to crowd out my ridiculous thoughts and drove. When I finally reached the road to John Robert’s ranch, I was glad he’d given Vicki really specific directions (“the turn-off is just past the skeleton of a saguaro cactus”) since my GPS didn’t recognize the road as, well, anything. Not even a road. I bumped down the washboard dirt track until I spotted the ranch. Then I pulled off to the side of the road (there was no shoulder), partly screened by a big patch of creosote.

  The house wasn’t fenced. There was a gate across the drive, but it would only stop people who wanted to drive up to the ranch. Sure, there was a ditch alongside the road and some big rocks, but anyone who wanted to walk, drive a truck with good clearance, or most importantly, ride a horse could get to the house. It was as if John Robert expected everyone to be polite and obey the rules.

  Matt didn’t say I love you.

  For heaven’s sake, Ivy. Focus, would you? You have to be Marilyn, get through an audition, and do some sleuthing all at the same time.

  The voice in my head was right. I needed to stop thinking about what was probably nothing and gather my wits about me. I’d text Matt really quick and call it good. “Hope you have a better day. Love you.” Then in a formidable show of restraint, I turned off my phone, put it in my bag, drove up to the driveway gate, and buzzed in like I’d been asked to do. “Hello?” a male voice crackled through a speaker mounted on a gatepost. It was John Robert. I’d listened to a few interviews with him late last night.

  “It’s Marilyn,” I breathed. I’d been told to do that, too, to act like Marilyn during the audition. Something about John Robert’s creative process.

  “Fabulous,” he said. “We’re having mimosas on the lanai.”

  Being an ace detective, I noticed two things about that sentence (three if you counted the fact that there would be mimosas). One, as a playwright, John Robert must have an ear for dialogue, so if he was still saying “lanai” he hadn’t mixed with the locals much. Arizonans didn’t say lanai. Patio or deck or even terrace, but not lanai. Secondly, he said, “we.” Were there going to be a bunch of wannabe Marilyns trying to outdo each other over morning cocktails?

  Hey, that could actually work in my favor. After all, this was really an investigation, not an audition. I was damn lucky to be here at all—I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting the role. This way I could relax, let the other Marilyns upstage me, and snoop while they were doing so.

  The gate swung open and I drove up to John Robert’s hideaway. The ranch house was beautiful in an Old Arizona way—a low-slung adobe building laid out in a U-formation, with shaded porches that ran the length of the buildings (an architectural trick that was as much about keeping the sun from beating on the walls as it was about sitting outside). Not many plants, just a few well-placed mesquite and acacia trees, plus some prickly pear cactus. I couldn’t see behind the house, but caught just the edge of a split-rail fence in the near distance—a corral, maybe? I parked, checked my look in my rearview mirror, swapped out my sneakers for high heels, and walked to the front door. I was just about to push the doorbell when the door opened.

  “It’s...you,” I said in my Marilyn voice. I hadn’t expected John Robert to answer the door himself.

  “And oh.” He clasped his pudgy hands together in front of his chest, like a little boy getting an unexpected gift. “It’s you, Marilyn. He ushered me in with a sweeping gesture. “Please, please, come in.”

  “Why thank you.” I made sure to do the starlet walk, one foot in front of the other in a near-straight line. It gave me a sultry sway.

  “Good, good.” John Robert watched me with eager eyes. Well, maybe. I might be mistaking eagerness for the fact that his eyebrows naturally slanted up toward the middle of his forehead. He looked like an amused teddy bear. “We’re just out this way.”

  That “we” again. It was a little odd. Though actors in community theaters often auditioned in front of the competition, professionals usually did not. Oh well. So much of John Robert’s process wasn’t typical—this was probably just one of his things. I followed the playwright over Saltillo-tiled floors, surveying the house’s interior as I did: dark and cool like the old adobe houses were, with hand-hewn tables, expertly worn leather chairs, and Navajo rugs hanging on the walls. Nothing to suggest that one of the leading lights of Broadway lived here. No photos, posters, or Tony Awards (Turner and Toe had won several). Nothing personal at all, like the whole house had been done by a decorator. And no sign of a horse, of course. I made a mental note to bring up the horse conversation. It would be tricky, as it wasn’t public information. Hell, even John Robert’s Arizona residency was pretty secret.

  Huh. Pretty secret. Was that an oxymoron? I’d have to ask Uncle Bob later. Right now I needed to smile at John Robert as he held open the French doors to the patio.

  I stepped outside. The morning sun was bright (plus my eyes were still half-shut, this being morning and all), so at first all I saw was a lawn so green I wondered for a moment if it was Astroturf, like the “lawn” surrounding the tiny pool at my apartment complex. But no, the grass must be natural, because real flowers—bright pink petunias and deep blue lobelia—filled the flowerbeds edging the lawn and the turquoise pool. “Oh...Isn’t it delicious?!” I said, quoting the famous floating white skirt scene from The Seven Year Itch. “All these flowers.” I flashed a delighted Marilyn smile. “I must get the name of your gardener.” Might as well jump right in.

  John Robert’s face clouded. “Juan? You don’t want him. I had to let him go.”

  “Oh, they can be so frustrating, can’t they? My gardener is forever leaving the grass clippings on the lawn.” Of course my apartment complex had no gardener. Our Astroturf didn’t need much care.

  “I’m afraid he disobeyed me. About something...big.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I put a light hand on his arm and looked into his eyes. “What was it?” Might as well come right out and ask.

  “It’s a long story.” I gave a little Marilyn pout. “About a horse,” he added to appease me. Wow, that pout thing actually worked.

  “Oh, you’re joking with me,” I said. “My uncle used to say that. You know, ‘I have to go see a man about a horse.’” I la
ughed, hoping they used that saying in New York too.

  They must have, because John Robert blushed. “No, a real horse.”

  I pointedly looked at the nearby corral and the two horses inside it. “Oh! I love horses. Can I meet him?” Maybe I could get a closer look at the corral.

  “He’s not here anymore. Long story,” John Robert said again. Someone cleared her throat behind us. I turned, and my mouth fell open of its own accord.

  Chapter 22

  Jackie Kennedy sat behind us in the shade of a green-striped awning, slim legs crossed in a ladylike manner, leaning back in her chair like she was relaxing on the lawn at Hyannis Port. I blinked. Jackie was dead. I knew she was dead. And even if she weren’t, she certainly wasn’t this young, but...I blinked again and made myself shut my mouth.

  John Robert clapped his hands together in another happy little boy gesture. “Marilyn, meet Jackie.”

  The woman rose and held out a white-gloved hand to me—gracious, but with touch of formality, maybe even disdain, as if she were the real first lady meeting her real rival. “Charmed,” I said.

  I was. The actress was impeccably dressed in a powder blue Chanel-type sheath with matching jacket. She had Jackie’s large, wide-set brown eyes and generous mouth, played up with makeup to look even more Jackie-esque, but even more impressive was the way she carried herself: like a queen, but one who might be friendly to the right people.

  The French doors opened behind me. “Fancy a drink?”

  I turned to face the voice behind me. I had to shut my mouth again.

  The man grinned boyishly and held out a fuchsia cocktail. “I’m Jack. And this is a prickly pear mimosa.”