The Phantom of Oz

by Cindy Brown

  Nooooo. What now? Were my teeth too big?

  “No way you can have that name.” Vicki guffawed. “Olive Ziegwart? Zieg wart?”

  “It means victory nipple in German.”

  “Get out of here,” she said in between big hearty man-laughs. “You’re killing me. Change your name, dye your hair, get those new headshots, and we’re in business.”

  “Olive?” My uncle’s voice drew me back to the present.

  “I was just thinking about the acting business. It can be brutal. I would think modeling would be even worse.” Was that why I’d pulled up that memory? Or was I jealous of the fact that Cody was good-looking enough to be a model? Wow. I hoped not.

  “It sounds like you’re worried about both of them,” said Uncle Bob. “I think it’s safe to say you’re not in the shallow end of the relationship pool.”

  I hoped he was right.

  Chapter 43

  Fresh and More Hideous Tragedies

  “I’m having an awful day,” I griped into my phone. “I’m sick, I’m grumpy, I’m basically a mess. Save me.”

  “Okay,” said Matt. “Just let me get my white steed.”

  “Really?” I was driving to the theater, but if Matt was coming I’d pull over right then.

  “Pretty sure you know I don’t have a white steed.”

  “Really, you’ll come save me?”

  “Really, I’m at work, but I’ll come see you tonight as planned. By then, I suspect you’ll have saved yourself.”

  “How is it that you always make me feel better?”

  “I have a magic wand.”

  “I’ll say you do, mister.”

  I swear I heard Matt blush over the phone. “Anyway,” he said, “until then. Break a leg tonight.”

  “Let’s hope I literally don’t. My flying bubble entrances and exits haven’t been exactly graceful, which is why they called me in to go over them a few times this afternoon and—omigod.”

  “What?”

  Blue flashing lights filled my windshield. “Something’s happened at the theater. I’ll find out.”

  “Ivy, wait. Don’t go rushing—”

  “Call you back later.” I hung up, double-parked, put my hazard lights on, and jumped out of my pickup. I ran toward the theater, but the street was clogged with cop cars, plus an ambulance and a fire truck.

  “What happened?” I asked a fireman who was standing near his truck. “I work at the theater. Was it another accident?”

  “No,” he said. “Don’t worry. Nothing wrong at the theater. A guest at the hotel.”

  “Thank God,” I said. “Wait, no one fell, did they?” I wondered if Miguel had crawled out that thirteenth-story bathroom window. Maybe he’d been on a ledge all night?

  “Nothing like that,” said the fireman. “Best you get out of the way, though. Let us do our jobs.”

  “Right. Sure.” I headed back toward my pickup, then slipped around the back of the fire truck. If I poked my head around the corner of the truck, I could just see the entrance to the hotel. And I was out of the way. Just like I’d told the nice fireman I would be.

  Noting happened for nearly five minutes, then...

  “Oh, hey. Sorry!” I ran toward the policeman who was looking askance at my double-parked truck. “Just had to deliver a message. I’m leaving right—”

  There was a shout, and what seemed like fifty people surged toward the entrance of the hotel. The curious cop ran over to help keep order. I scrambled onto the hood of my truck to get a better view. A couple of EMTs trundled a stretcher out of the hotel entrance. I couldn’t tell if the body had its face covered or not. Maybe if I stood on tiptoe...

  “Whoa.” A strong arm reached out just as I began to topple over. “Better watch it.”

  The guy and I recognized each other at the same time. “You’re that reporter.” He must have been working long hours; his jowly face looked saggier than it had a few days ago.

  “You’re the one who sold me those ghost photos,” he said. “Hey, you have any of Babette by chance?”

  “Maybe in the background of some other shot. Why?”

  “Be worth a lot of money.” He turned to watch the EMTs load the shrouded figure into the back of the ambulance. “Now that she’s dead.”

  Chapter 44

  Puzzled by an Inquiry

  The journalist next to me took one final picture, then looked at the screen on his digital camera. “Got it.” He grinned, inappropriately, I thought. “You can just see her red cowboy boots.” He thrust a business card at me. “Gotta go. But if you find a photo, give me a call.” He loped off in the direction of the hotel.

  I was about to follow him, but I was double-parked in front of a plethora of police, so instead I jumped into my truck, found a parking spot about a half-mile from the Grand Phoenician, plugged the meter, and ran the whole way to the theater. I figured I’d find out what I could there, then head to Babette’s hotel once the crowds had thinned.

  “Do you know what happened to Babette?” I asked the stage door security guard. I leaned on the sign-in counter, trying to catch my breath.

  “No, but I did see that half-naked guy last night.”

  “Half-naked guy?” I panted, hoping it was obvious I was out of breath and not excited by a half-naked stranger.

  “Yep, hanging on a ledge outside the thirteenth floor of the hotel, taking off his clothes...Hey, you okay?”

  “Just out of breath from running. With a cold.” I wiped at the snot running down my face, in a ladylike way. The guard handed me a neatly folded handkerchief. “Thanks. I just need to sign in for rehearsal,” I explained. “And…Logan?” My friend was following a cop out the stage door.

  “I guess Babette’s dead,” he said.

  “I heard.”

  “They want to interview all of us who were at that Botox party.”

  “Us?” The cop looked at me. “You were there too?

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Then I’d like you to come down to the station with us, please. Just a courtesy.”

  “Tell me one more time,” said a policewoman with dark circles under her eyes. “Who was in the hotel room when you arrived?”

  “Babette Firman, Desirée Leroux…” At the beginning of my investigation into Candy’s disappearance, I made sure to find out everyone’s last names so I could run them through Duda Detectives’ databases. “A man dressed in a lab coat—Babette called him Miguel—and three men and six women I didn’t know.”

  “Do you think you could recognize them again?”

  “The guys, probably. The women all looked sort of the same. Straightened hair, tight jeans, too skinny…” Ack. There I went, judging women again. This internalized sexism thing was hard to get ahold of.

  “I get it. No one else you recognized?”

  “Not until the intervention. Then Eden Garland, Logan Gale, and Madison Leroux came in.”

  “And which of you handled syringes?”

  “Uh…Logan grabbed some, and Eden too.” I remembered her squirting the mist of Botox into the air.

  The woman took notes on a pad of yellow lined paper. “And no one else came in with them.”

  “No.”

  “Could there have possibly been anyone else in the suite when you were there?”

  “Possibly. I didn’t go into the bedroom or the bathroom. Speaking of which, is the doctor—Miguel—going to be charged?”

  On the way to the station, Logan said he heard that Miguel had crawled out Babette’s bathroom window, divested himself of his scrubs (evidence, I guessed), and made it to the balcony of the room next door, where he surprised a couple of girls in town for a bachelorette party, who thought he was the stripper they’d hired.

  “Not for indecency. And the whole Botox party thing…well, I can’t say.” The police
woman flipped through her notes. “We’re almost done here.” She smiled at me. She had a gap between her front teeth that made her look friendly. “So just to confirm, you saw Babette Firman, Logan Gale, Eden Garland, Madison and Desirée Leroux, the doctor Miguel, and nine people you did not recognize.”

  “Yes.”

  “You did not see Candace Moon?”

  “No. I wouldn’t have. She’s missing.” I sat up straight. “Did you find her?”

  “When did you last see Ms. Moon?”

  A stone lodged itself in my scratchy throat. I managed to swallow and speak. “On Sunday, during the reception after the show.”

  The policewoman nodded and stood. “Thank you for being so cooperative, and for giving us your fingerprints. You may go.”

  Chapter 45

  A Detective Come to Deliver an Important Communication

  Had they found Candy? Or her body?

  Someone tapped me on the shoulder. Someone who smelled like menthol cigarettes.

  “You were right here and weren’t going to say hello to an old friend?” said Detective Pinkstaff in a too-jolly tone. He nodded toward his office. “C’mon. I got a break. And some coffee and donuts.”

  “Sounds good.” I followed him into his office, shutting the door behind me. Pink sat behind his desk.

  I looked around at his messy but food-less office. “Where are the coffee and donuts?”

  “Sheesh, don’t you recognize a ruse when you see one?” Pink opened his desk drawer. “I’ve got some information for you. Didn’t want it spread around.” Cops and PIs didn’t always get along. I was lucky to have Pink on my side. He pulled an evidence baggie from his top drawer and handed it to me. “These look like that pill you gave me?”

  I took the baggie. Inside were two blue pills, exactly like the one I’d given Pink to have analyzed. I rolled them over inside the baggie. Same numbers stamped on them too. “They look identical. Did you find out what they are?”

  “Sort of. They do seem to be some sort of diet pill: a mix of a laxative, a thyroid hormone, and a little bit of amphetamine—speed—for a kick. We think they’re manufactured in Mexico. And they look like they’re, um, custom.”

  “Custom?”

  “Yeah. Not widely available on the open market.”

  “Are they dangerous?”

  “Probably. Hard to tell exactly what’s in them since we just did some preliminary tests, but amphetamines are never a great idea.”

  “Thanks.” I put the baggie on his desk. “It’s really helpful, even if it did take a while.”

  “You’re kidding, right? Stuff like this, favors like this, can take weeks. This got rushed through.”

  “Sorry. Double thanks. I mean it.” I turned to go. “Wait.” I turned back around. “Why did it get rushed through? Though I’d like to think it’s me, I can’t flatter myself that much. And if the pills are custom, where did you find the ones in the baggie?”

  Pink grinned. “There’s the PI I know and love.”

  “I was thrown off. It’s been a hell of a day. And I was promised donuts and coffee. My brain works better with coffee.”

  “You didn’t miss anything. I make shit coffee. So my friend in the lab actually hadn’t gotten to your sample yet, but we just found a big stash of the other ones at a recent crime scene. Ran ’em through a quick and dirty field test, just to see what we were dealing with. They’ll do a more careful analysis later.”

  “A recent crime scene? Like the one I was just interviewed about?”

  “No comment,” Pink said, but I saw his almost-imperceptible nod.

  “Babette must have been giving them to Candy.” I didn’t know I’d made fists until I felt my fingernails digging into my palm. “And Candy? They were asking me about her. Did they find her?”

  “I can’t tell you that.” Pink stood up. “Good to see you. Sorry about the coffee and donuts.”

  “Wait, wait, wait. You can tell me about the ingredients in these pills, but you can’t tell me if they found Candy?”

  “Two different things.” Pink came around his desk, put a hand on my shoulder, and steered me toward his office door. “You came and asked about the pills before all this happened.”

  “But I’m investigating Candy’s disappearance. Can’t you—”

  “This is a murder investigation. I can’t tell you anything more.” He opened the door, caught a glimpse of something over my shoulder, and grimaced. “Though you probably won’t have to wait very long to see something on some sleazy so-called news site. Vultures.”

  Chapter 46

  A Master Stroke

  “Hey, you!” I swam upstream through the sea of journalists clogging the police station lobby. My target’s graying head rose above them. “Hey, guy I sold my ghost photos to.” His jowls flapped as his head swiveled, looking for me. I jumped up and down in order to be seen. “Over here! Papa!”

  He caught my eye, waved at me, and pushed his way through the crowd.

  “Papa?” he said when he was close. “I’m like ten years older than you.” More like twenty-five. Who knew journalists were vain too?

  “I couldn’t think of the singular for ‘paparazzi.’”

  “It’s ‘pap.’ Don’t you watch TV?”

  “Not really. Listen.” I pulled a fifty out of the wad of cash he’d given me and waved it at him. “What can you tell me about Babette’s death?”

  He grabbed my arm so he could see the bill. “A fifty. Nice. Maybe I could buy lunch.”

  “Maybe? You can get a really great burrito at Filiberto’s for under five bucks. It’s over on Indian School Road and—oh.” He wasn’t really talking about lunch. I pulled out another fifty. “Better?”

  He pocketed them both. “So. You were at the Botox party, right? That’s why the police brought you down here.”

  “I thought giving you money meant that I got to ask the questions.”

  “You will. If you promise to give me the scoop on the party.”

  “Yeah, sure.” I had no intention of doing so. “Right after you tell me why they were asking me about Candace Moon.”

  “Babette’s new It Girl? Ooh, that is interesting...” He typed something into his phone. “That must be who...yeah, that makes sense. Do you know if they have her fingerprints on file?”

  “Candy’s? Uh…yeah. I think they do.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, there’s this sort of reflecting pool at the Phoenix Art Museum, which is right next to one of the theaters, and one night after a cast party, she went skinny dipping.” A bunch of us did, but I didn’t tell the reporter that. Candy was the only one who got arrested, thanks to a security guard she’d pissed off (one of those “Candy Crush” things). “She was arrested for criminal trespassing and public nudity. Now, why are they asking about Candy?”

  “All I know is that they’re questioning everyone who was at that Botox party.”

  “But Candy wasn’t...” I shut up. I was there to learn. “Why? And why did they want our fingerprints?”

  “All I heard is that they’ve got a couple good suspects, people whose fingerprints were on the syringes.”

  “But Candy—” Dang mouth. I shut it, then tried again, focusing on what I needed to know. “On the syringes?”

  “Yeah. After all, that’s how I guess Babette died. From an overdose of Botox.”

  Wow.

  “Well, I’m pretty sure you didn’t kill her,” the guy said, “judging from the way your mouth is hanging open.”

  I shut the aforementioned mouth. For a second. “You can kill someone with Botox?”

  “Yeah, but I guess it takes a shitload. That’s why I think someone did it intentionally. I also think Babette had to be pretty looped to let someone inject her with that much. Now, your turn. Tit for tat. Tell me about the party.”

 
“In your dreams.” I turned and walked away.

  “Ivy!”

  I shouldn’t have turned around, but I did.

  Flash. The journalist checked his phone. “Nice shot. Even got the Phoenix Police sign in back of you. What do you think the headline should be? ‘Wannabe Actress Implicated in Babette’s Botox Murder’?”

  “I am not a wannabe actress.”

  He grinned, and I sighed. “Okay. You got me. So, the party...” I gave him the most innocuous version I could, heavy on the intervention. “We were just trying to help people feel beautiful in their own skins. To plant the seeds of healing in the barren ground of materialistic beauty.” Eden’s words sounded odd coming out of my mouth. Odd, but true.

  “Your idea?”

  “No. Eden Garland led the charge. She’s amazing, like some warrior goddess.”

  “Warrior goddess, huh? You think she could have killed Babette?”

  “Of course not. She even stopped me from going after her. Said karma would take care of Babette.”

  “So we got a warrior goddess who said something about karma to the woman who was killed with her own poison.” The reporter tapped notes into his phone and then grinned at me. “I got that right?”

  Chapter 47

  This Is All Going Very Badly

  Yes, I did that. Gave Eden’s sort-of-damning karma quote to the journalist. Did colds affect your brain too? I hoped so. Otherwise I was just an idiot.

  But I had more pressing things to think about. I walked slowly from the police station back toward my pickup. I took my time with the walk, partly because I’d already missed the window of time I could’ve rehearsed with the stage crew, and partly because I had a hard time thinking and walking at the same time, and I needed to think.

  Babette was dead from an overdose of Botox. Since the police were concerned with fingerprints on the syringes, it must’ve been administered with a needle, and it must have been done by someone Babette trusted. For whatever reason, the police didn’t seem too interested in Miguel, and they were very interested in Candy. It sounded like they’d found her fingerprints in the room. Had Babette been hiding her? Was Candy’s whole disappearance part of a publicity stunt? And could she have killed Babette?