by Cindy Brown
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re not actually Candy’s sister, right?”
“Still don’t know what you mean.”
“Ah. You haven’t seen it. Google ‘Candace Moon and sister.’”
I did so, using my phone while leaning against one of the wardrobe room’s counters. Good thing I had something to prop me up when I saw the headline: “Candace Moon in Love Triangle with Sister!” The “maid” had secretly taken a photo of me in the hotel hallway, looking unwell and bedraggled. “Damn paparazzi.”
Eden shrugged. “They love taking bad pictures of people. Been doing it forever. Elizabeth Taylor used to complain that they would wait for her to come down the stairs so they could shoot her from underneath and maybe catch a double chin.”
I was still horrified. The first time I was on a national news site and I looked like a dirty poodle. In a love triangle. I dragged my thoughts away from the humiliating photo and got to the reason I had come. “Your picture is all over the internet now.”
Eden continued to stir her pot. “Good. They’ll see what a real woman looks like.”
“One of those pictures was taken near the Eiffel Tower.”
“Uh huh.”
“With Arrestadt.”
“Yeah.”
“You were a couple?”
“Didn’t Candace tell you?”
“Uh—” Oh. That’s why she didn’t want to room with Eden. “Sort of.”
“No bad feelings on my part,” Eden said. “Arrestadt and me—it wasn’t really serious. I think Candace felt bad, though. Sort of like ‘the other woman.’”
“She didn’t tell me that part.”
“Yeah. They got together while Arrestadt and I were still a couple. They pretended it wasn’t so, but he took her to Paris three days after we broke up.”
“When was that—Arrestadt and Candy’s Paris trip?”
“About three months ago.”
Ouch. Candy had been dating Arrestadt even longer than I’d thought. Without telling me.
Eden mistook what must have been a pained look on my face for sisterly empathy. “Really, it wasn’t that big a deal. We wouldn’t have lasted anyway. He’s too...”
Too rich? Too famous? Too handsome? Of course I didn’t say any of that. Instead I said, “Too what?”
“Too controlling. He likes to be in charge.” She shrugged. “Probably a director thing. Didn’t really work for me.” She grinned at me over her shoulder. “Maybe because I like to be in control too.”
After speaking with Eden, I went back to my dressing room to think. The articles had called out Candy, Desirée, Miguel, and Eden as particularly suspicious. I’d already learned as much about Candy as I could, but what did I really know about the other two women? I didn’t want to waste time by walking to the office and back, so I used my phone to do a little detective work. I googled Desirée first. I found several photos of her with her husband, including a fifteen-year-old photo of them at the Emmys (the article called him “Hollywood’s hottest agent”). Something was different about Desirée. I zoomed in. Oh, she looked happy. That was the difference, and what a difference it was. In later photos she looked pinched and hungry, her smile forced. There weren’t any recent pictures of Desirée, but I did see a photo of her soon-to-be-ex-husband with his arm around a slender brunette who looked about eighteen. Bastard.
Miguel was next. Not much on him, but he was a real dentist, and also a part-time model. Probably how he met Babette.
I googled Eden. Wow, tons of stuff on her, especially during her child-star days. Eden had been a pretty hot commodity, with a TV series and couple of movies under her belt. No connection with Babette that I could see, apart from the fact that they both knew Arrestadt.
“Quite the cutie, wasn’t I?” said a voice behind me. Arghh. How had I not heard Eden come in? My ears must still be stopped up. “I wanted to tell you about a couple more cold remedies. From the way you sounded earlier, you could use it.”
“I know.”
“Oh, good, you have one of them right here.” She picked up a head of garlic, left from my broth and garlic cure. “Raw garlic. It cuts through the crud in your throat.” She peeled two cloves and handed them to me.
“Just eat them?”
She nodded. I figured they were safe—after all, I’d bought them myself—so I popped them in my mouth and chewed. Oh. Wow. My eyes watered and my throat burned. I wanted to spit them out, but I wanted even more to not replay the disaster that was last night’s show. I kept chewing and finally swallowed. Gluh.
“I know,” Eden said. “It stings. Stinks too, but I swear it works.”
“I hope so. What’s the other remedy, just in case?”
“Apple cider vinegar. Two tablespoons, diluted. But I wouldn’t try it after eating raw garlic.” Eden started out the door, but turned back. “And Ivy, I don’t mind that you’re checking up on us. I really don’t, as long as it’s for Candace.” She looked at me seriously. “But if it’s about Babette, well…I think we both know the world is better off without her.”
Chapter 55
Only Increased My Alarm
Okay, that was weird. I stared at the dressing room door Eden had shut behind her. She had just flat out given me her motive to kill Babette. Was it because she trusted me? Or because she had nothing to hide?
Probably the second. Because even though Eden had motive, she didn’t have opportunity. I couldn’t imagine Babette letting her get close enough to touch her, let alone inject her with anything.
And though I had to admit that I wouldn’t miss Babette either, the fact that she was murdered made my stomach hurt. Okay, it may have been the lack of food, the addition of raw garlic, or the fact that Matt was mad at me, but still, it hurt, especially when I thought about Candy in connection with Babette. With Babette’s murder. I wasn’t sure how they were related, but I didn’t like the fact that Candy hadn’t turned up and said something—anything—about Babette after she died. But what could I do? How could I find my friend? I’d tried everything I could think of. To me, detecting was always a bit of a mystery, right until the end. Not only did I not know which puzzle pieces fit together, I didn’t even know if I was working the right puzzle, or if there was more than one puzzle to piece together. So I collected all the odd bits I could find: gossip and overheard conversations and…hotel bar receipts. I’d never followed that thread.
I padded down the hall and went into the broom closet, shutting the door behind me. Wow, the smell inside about knocked me over. Oh no. It was me—ol’ raw garlic breath. I made a mental note to stay out of small unventilated spaces, pushed open the shelves, and slid into the secret passageway behind.
I turned on my phone’s flashlight app and walked down the corridor. I went around the corner and past Logan’s Nightmare—no new scary props this time. Logan had said that people could get here from the hotel too, and I wanted to see how, maybe find something else that fit into my “Where is Candy and is she connected to Babette’s death?” puzzle. The passageway ended at a doorway with a newish-looking door, one of those types that have a push bar, like a fire exit or something. I pushed it open and walked into the lobby of the Hotel La Fuente. Well, I actually walked into a potted palm, but it was in the hotel lobby. Once I’d disentangled myself, I took a look around. The hotel seemed to be about the same age as the theater, which made sense if they had shared a speakeasy. The Hotel La Fuente lobby had an “old Arizona” feel: wide open (for air movement), with tile floors (cool underfoot), and high white-plastered ceilings (with strategically placed ceiling fans). A large tiered Spanish-style fountain gurgled in the center of the lobby and well-heeled patrons lounged in carved dark wooden chairs with comfortable-looking leather seats.
I pulled the receipt I’d found out of my pocket. “La Taverna Real, Hotel La Fuente.” I headed toward the bar at the
back of the lobby. Its lighting was dimmer, thanks to amber glass lightshades, and the ceiling was low with rough-cut wooden beams—sort of the cozy drinking equivalent of the lobby. I hopped onto a barstool and waited until the bartender saw me.
“Don’t you think Taverna Real is an odd name for a bar?” I said by way of small talk.
“Why?” He laid a cocktail napkin in front of me.
“It translates as Royal Tavern.”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t know, just seems like these two words don’t go together, like the king is slumming or something.”
“You may have a point,” he conceded. “What can I get you?”
“I’m actually trying to find a friend. I think she may have had a drink here a few days ago.” I slid Candy’s headshot toward him with a twenty on top. My ghost photo stash was dwindling fast.
“Oh no. I’m not getting into this.” He pushed the headshot and money back toward me. “Not unless you’re the cops. And I don’t think you are, since I already talked to them.”
“I’m her friend. Her best friend. Really.” I dug out my phone and the photo of Candy and me in Mexico. “Here.”
The bartender picked my phone, angling it to see better in the dim yellow light. He looked at the photo, then back at me. “I’d had a little hair dye accident,” I explained. “Had to have most of it cut off.”
He gave the phone back to me. “I can tell it’s you,” he said. “It’s your friend who looks completely different. Hey, Kev,” he said to a waiter who had just approached. “This gal’s looking for Ca—” He looked around at all the ears that might be eavesdropping and pushed Candy’s headshot toward the waiter instead. “Her.”
“Wait a sec.” Kev, a slight guy with full lips, shut his heavy-lidded eyes. “Two cosmos, a gin martini with a twist; a dirty vodka martini, extra dirty; a cucumber jalapeño margarita, no salt; and…and…” He screwed up his face tight. “Ah. A Coke.” He opened his eyes and caught me staring at him. “Hey,” he said, “you try to memorize orders when you have the flu.” I scooted away from him. Didn’t need the flu on top of everything else.
“He doesn’t have the flu,” said the bartender. “He has a hangover.”
“My grandpa calls it the brown bottle flu,” said Kev, “so it’s the flu as far as I’m concerned.”
“Anyway,” I said, “have you seen...my friend?” I motioned toward the headshot on the bar.
He nodded. Yes! Finally.
“Who hasn’t?” he said. “I mean, she’s all over the internet now.” The flicker of hope I’d had began to fizzle. “But…” Kev sidled up close enough that I could smell the alcohol coming out of his pores. One hell of a flu. “I also saw her in person—Omigod, woman, what have you been eating?” He backed up.
“Raw garlic.” I covered my mouth. “Long story. So you did see her? Here?”
“I did. And you’ll never guess who she was with.”
“Babette Firman?”
His face fell. “What good is a story if you don’t get to tell it? Thanks for stealing my thunder. Yeah. She and Babette were in right before closing one night, huddled so close you might think they were lovers…Ooh, maybe—”
I shook my head. “So this was what night—Friday? Saturday?”
“No.” Kev pouted at the bartender. “Someone hasn’t seen fit to schedule me for weekend nights lately.” The bartender rolled his eyes. “It was Sunday,” Kev said to me. “I saw them Sunday. This past Sunday night.”
Candy was with Babette Sunday night. The night after she disappeared.
Kev hadn’t heard anything they’d talked about. “Too busy making sure I had their order right,” he said. “I’d seen how that Babette ripped into people.” He left to take another order.
I texted Arrestadt: “I have news. When could we meet?”
“Free now,” he replied.
“Meet me in hotel bar?”
“See you in five.”
I slid my phone back into my bag and reached for Candy’s headshot. The twenty was still on top. “Hey,” I said to the bartender. “Don’t forget this.”
“I can’t take it,” he said. “But if you wanted to order a drink and leave me a nice tip...”
That’s how I found out what a fifteen-dollar margarita tasted like. Or didn’t, really. My sense of taste was still AWOL, courtesy of my stuffed-up nose.
“Ivy!” Arrestadt slid onto the stool next to me. “You have news?”
“Yeah. I’m pretty sure Candy was not taken against her will. She was seen here in the bar on Sunday night. With Babette.”
“Thank God.” Arrestadt drummed his fingers on the bar. “She and Babette must have planned the whole thing, for publicity, I guess. I would have never thought it of Candace.” His shoulders slumped in relief. “I’m just glad she’s safe.”
I was getting that funny feeling in my stomach again, like when I talked to Candy on the phone when she first hit town. The something’s-wrong-and-it’s-not-anything-I-ate feeling. “Why do you think she’s safe?”
“Because you just said she wasn’t taken against her will...Oh.” Arrestadt made a weird face, where the bottom half of his face moved, but the top did not. Had he just slipped up? Was he now hiding Candy? Something wasn’t right. “You’re right,” he said. “Candace was seen Sunday night. And now Babette is...gone. Do you think Candace could be in danger?”
Not confessing then.
“Do you think the killer could be after her? Why?” Arrestadt wrinkled his nose. “And why do you smell like garlic?”
Chapter 56
To the End of the Secret Passage
A bad feeling in the pit of my stomach wasn’t enough to make me think Arrestadt was hiding Candy. But when I combined it with his comment about Candy being safe, the strange face he made, and what Eden had said about his need for control, the combo felt like a lead. Or maybe not exactly, but I didn’t have any other ideas right then. So I waited until Arrestadt left the bar, then followed him. He headed in the direction of the elevators. I hid behind one of the potted palms I’d blundered into earlier and watched. Good, he was the only one who got into the elevator car. After the doors slid shut, I scampered out of my hiding place. The old-fashioned dial above the elevators went up, up, up, then stopped at the fourth floor.
I ran over to the stairs and sprinted up (thank God it was only the fourth floor). I quietly opened the stairwell door and peeked out, just in time to see a door to one of the rooms close. I waited a second, then tiptoed up to the door. Room 427.
I jogged quietly back to the stairs and took them back down to the lobby. I sank down into one of the chairs, pulled out my phone, and dialed. From my position, I saw the front-desk clerk pick up a phone. “Hotel La Fuente,” he said into my ear. “How may I help you?”
“Room 427, please.”
“My pleasure. Please wait while I connect you.”
A few seconds of Muzak, several rings, then “Hello?” Definitely Arrestadt’s voice. I hung up without saying anything.
Okay, then. Arrestadt was staying in room 427. Candy might be with him. But if she was, why didn’t he tell me? Was he trying to protect her? From whom: the press, the killer—or the police? Did Candy have something to do with Babette’s murder? And if Candy was with Arrestadt, why didn’t she let me know she was safe? Was she really that pissed off at me?
And how would Arrestadt’s need for control work with Candy? She’d always been independent. She even gave up Matt for her film career. Oh. Was that it? Did she want to be a star badly enough that she was willing to compromise who she was? Duh, Ivy. Look what she did to herself physically.
My thoughts were too tangled to unravel quickly, so I shoved the Arretstadt-hiding-Candy-in-his-room thought into the back of my brain and hoped my subconscious would work on it while I tried to wrap up another mystery. I checked the battery
on my cell phone. Just enough to power my flashlight for a short excursion. And yikes—just ten minutes before call for the show. I’d probably have enough time. I looked around to make sure no one was watching, then let myself back into the passageway between the hotel and the theater.
I backtracked past the spring room and the Nightmare and stepped into the passageway beyond. If my sense of direction was right, this passageway led behind the theater’s lobby. The dust and cobwebs were thicker here, probably because no one except Logan came down here on a regular basis, and he pretty much stayed in his “studio.” Someone had passed through here recently, though, because the dust had been disturbed and some of the cobwebs were tattered. I pushed on. You’d think I’d be afraid, exploring creepy old underground passages by myself in the dark. But no, I had that same feeling I had with Uncle Bob after visiting the spring room, almost like a friend was beside me.
The hallway stopped at a flight of steep stairs that led upward. I took them, the walls on either side so close that my shoulders brushed the rough concrete walls. The stairs ended at another passageway. This one was not made of concrete, but beams and plasterboard, as if it were in between the walls of a house. I walked slowly, running my flashlight along the lobby-side wall. Wait, was that the time? Only five minutes ’til call. C’mon, c’mon…Yes. A door in the wall. I turned the knob and pushed. It stuck a little but finally gave, and I stepped through the threshold, holding the door open behind me.
I was in the lobby, underneath the spiral staircase where I’d last seen Candy. The door was painted to match the wallpaper, and hidden from view unless you were really looking for it. Maybe an escape route from the speakeasy? I held the door with one hand and looked around. There to my left was the one-eyed portrait that had bled.
I ducked back inside the passageway, closing the door behind me, and walked in the direction of the portrait. I shined my flashlight over the area. It was cleaner than the rest, as if someone had dusted. Huh. I looked carefully at the wall. Nothing, nothing, nothing...aha. A small black dot, maybe drawn with a Sharpie. I was pretty sure it marked the spot where the trickster probably placed the stage blood-filled syringe for best effect. But who was that trickster? Logan was the most likely suspect, since he knew his way around the theater, but could it have been Candy? I tried to remember the sequence of events, but all I could see was Babette’s terrified face.