by Cindy Brown
“Would you like us to check lost and found for you?’
“I already did,” I lied. “I’m sure whoever cleaned up thought it was just junk, but well, my husband gave it to me when he proposed, before he had enough money for a real ring.”
“I can see how losing that might be upsetting.”
“Do you think there’s any possibility it might still be in one of the dumpsters?”
“We have trash pickup twice a week, on Monday and Thursday evenings. When were you here?”
“Last Sunday,” I said. “So I guess there’s no hope. Oh well. Thanks anyway.” I hung up.
“Sunday” buzzed in the back of my mind. Why had I picked that day? I tried to think, but my brain was too focused on the new information I’d found: Candy—or at least someone who ate MoonPies—had been at the Hotel La Fuente sometime after Thursday. The police thought she’d been in Babette’s room sometime around her death, but that was before the Thursday trash pickup. In any case, she certainly wasn’t there now. She must be hiding out in Arrestadt’s room. But why? The certainty I felt about Candy’s innocence was beginning to feel false, like my made-up engagement ring.
I pulled a sofa pillow over my head, as if it could stop me from seeing the direction my mind was going. As much as I hated to admit it, the most logical scenario was this: Candy and Babette planned her disappearance, probably for PR’s sake. Then, something went wrong after the Botox party. Maybe too many pills, or too much stress, or maybe Babette threatened to take away Candy’s newfound fame and Candy killed her.
No. I still couldn’t believe that Candy could have intentionally killed Babette. But c’mon, Ivy. There were her fingerprints at the crime scene, her continued disappearance, plus the fact that it would have been tough for any of Babette’s enemies to get close enough to inject her.
Huh. I took the pillow off my head. It could have been an accident. It could even be that the drugs Babette was supplying made Candy administer the wrong dose, or even flip out. I remembered the wildness in Candy’s eyes, her screams and hallucinations during her overdose incident.
My stomach hurt again. Not sure if my mental puzzling had distracted myself from my belly issues for a short while, or if the thought of Candy on drugs had added more acid to my system. I padded to the kitchen for a glass of water, my mind (and gut) still turning. Candy. Babette. Sunday. Sunday. Ah, I knew what had been bugging me. I grabbed my phone, pulled up Twitter, and flipped through Babette’s tweets. Yes, there was the one of her and Candy at the bar. I zoomed in. The amber light and Spanish-looking leather booth gave the location away: It was the Taverna Real. Candy had met Babette there Sunday night, but Arrestadt had told me the picture was taken before Candy disappeared. Had the two women met at the Taverna Real earlier too? Or did Arrestadt lie to me about when the photo was taken? Neither answer helped Candy’s case. Either she was closer to Babette than she’d let on or Arrestadt was protecting her. Yeah, based on the last few things Arrestadt had said to me, I was pretty sure he was helping Candy out now, maybe trying to get her clean before talking to the police. And if that was the case, the best thing I could do for my friend...was to stop looking for her.
Chapter 64
Exhausting Myself in the Hopeless Pursuit of a Vain Image
Time to go to the show. I warmed up my voice as I got out of my PJs. “Ee, ee, ee, ee, ee, ee, ee, ee,” I sang up the scale.
My gut was still twisting from the apple cider vinegar (and probably lack of anything to eat but Saltines), but my voice actually sounded pretty good. Too bad it didn’t matter to my career anymore.
I threw my aerial dance costume into my duffel bag. I’d borrowed a costume from Phoenix Shakespeare Theater just for the night—one of the witches’ costumes from a production of Macbeth I’d been in. I had planned to wear mine, a sexy serpent-inspired leotard with undulating green stripes, but when I went to pick it up, I remembered that it had shrunk (a lot) after Uncle Bob tossed it in the dryer. Candy had also been a witch in the show, so I borrowed her costume instead—another snake-y leotard, but with a glittering diamondback pattern.
I threw a ponytail twisty into my duffel too. I could just barely get my chin-length hair into a ponytail, but I’d have “wig hair” after wearing Glinda’s bouffant wig, so it’d have to do.
I caught an Uber ride to the theater. The cast was quiet around me. Probably heard the news that I wasn’t moving on with them.
Of course, the show went brilliantly, or at least my part did. Something was off with a couple of the flying monkeys. “Crap, crap, crap.” Vincent the pervy munchkin/flying monkey stood in the wings itching himself like he had a bad case of fleas. “I can’t stand this.”
“Me neither.” Another monkey/munchkin (the mean girl) wriggled. “Do you think our hotel has bed bugs?”
“I don’t know, but I want it to stop.” Vincent backed up against a post and scratched his back like a bear.
“It’s the ghost,” said Madison, who was not scratching herself. “She put a spell on you because you’re so mean.”
“Stupid,” said the mean girl. “Witches cast spells, not ghosts. Don’t you know anything?”
“See what I mean?” Madison said to me.
The show was over too soon. I’d never worked so hard for just three performances. But Arrestadt was right: I’d been awful the previous shows. And besides, did I really want go on tour? I went to my dressing room, trying to ignore the noises that came from my stomach and thinking. Lord knows I wanted to be a working actor, but touring would mean leaving Matt and Cody. Of course, one of them wasn’t speaking to me and the other was so mad that he went out of town with someone named Jesse. It didn’t matter now anyway. I wasn’t going on tour anytime soon, especially once the theater gossip network got hold of the news.
Arghh. Just thinking about it made my stomach hurt. Bad. Really bad, like cramps and too many beans. I tried to ignore it, but by the time I’d changed into my snake leotard, redone my makeup, and stuck about a billion bobby pins into my hair to make it stay in a ponytail, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I went to the wardrobe room to find Eden, who was mending one of the Cowardly Lion’s costumes.
“Do you have a remedy for your remedy?” I asked. “My stomach is killing me.”
“When did you take the apple cider vinegar?” she asked, sewing machine humming.
“I don’t know, around ten o’clock this morning?”
“None since?”
“Not much of anything since, except for crackers and that sort-of-old cottage cheese. You don’t think that had anything to do with it?”
“I think the fact that you haven’t eaten all day is giving you gas pains.” She looked at me seriously. “You know, Ivy, you say you’re worried about Candace’s eating disorder, but I think you need to take a look at yourself.”
“It was just about fitting into the costume. And see, I split out of it. I’m too fat.”
“No, Candace was too skinny. More importantly, you don’t actually believe you’re fat, do you?”
“No…Maybe. I don’t know. I mean, if Candy had to lose that much weight in order to get work, maybe...”
“Didn’t you say she looked unhealthy?”
“Yeah.” I sat down in a hard-backed chair next to Eden’s sewing machine. “I think my head understands that beauty comes in many forms. But sometimes something else takes over that logical part of my brain. I don’t know if it’s that internalized sexism stuff, or the fact that I want to be an actor so badly, or just the whole weird beauty culture, but I find myself wishing I was a size two.”
Eden put an arm around me. “It’s hard to swim against the current, but I have faith in you. I also have something else for you.” She got up and went over to the counter where she rummaged through a stack of clothes. “Ta da—your magic panties!” She tossed me a pair of tie-dyed underwear. “Too bad they’d show under tha
t leotard or you could wear them right now. Tell you what, let’s say the spell together anyway. Beauty within me...”
I joined her: “Beauty around me, beauty in my panties.” I stood up. “Thanks, I do feel better.” My stomach growled. It came out more like a yelp. “Well, part of me feels better.”
“Do you have time to go get something to eat before you go on?”
“I’ve got almost an hour, but Seamus McCaffrey’s is the only place within walking distance that’s open this late and fried food just sounds...”
“Yeah. Here.” Eden handed me a set of car keys. “Logan’s car is parked right off the loading dock. I used it earlier, helping him pick up some costume stuff. Go to a drive-through and get yourself something light—a salad or a pita or something.”
“Thanks.” I grabbed my magic panties. “For everything.”
Chapter 65
Much Gayer, Noisier, More Bohemian
Than the Ordinary Masked Ball
I’d been to the Exotic Art Fest’s big bash a few times before when it was held at Alwun House. The indoor galleries had been filled with titillating art and costumed revelers, and the party spilled out the door onto the surrounding patios, strung with colored lights and peppered with sculptural artwork. Tables were filled with aphrodisiac food, like big bowls of boozy whipped cream into which you could dip gingersnaps, or maybe something else. Performance artists, stand-up comedians, and burlesque performers entertained the crowd on a small temporary stage set in the garden. The place was always filled to overflowing, especially on the ultimate night, the night of the Masquerade.
And now the Masquerade was here, at the Grand Phoenician Theatre. I wove my way through the belly dancers, human peacocks, and satyrs who swarmed the lobby. I felt much better after eating a chicken fajita pita, but was distracted by several thoughts:
Could Candy have really killed Babette, even accidentally?
Who was Jesse, and what was he/she doing with my boyfriend?
And could that mermaid stand upright, or would that buff fisherman dude have to wheel her around in a wheelbarrow all night? And how did she get those seashells to stick to her—Afflech!
“Ivy!” The Tin Man, Lion, and Scarecrow galloped up to me. They all still wore their stage makeup, and nothing else except Speedos. The Tin Man’s was silver to match his body paint, the Lion had glued fur to his Speedo, and the Scarecrow had bits of straw sticking out from his.
“You guys look great,” I said. “But doesn’t that straw itch?”
“Like crazy,” the Scarecrow admitted.
“But he rather likes it,” said the Lion. “You see, our friend is a bit on the maso—”
“Ivy, thank God.” The art fest’s stage manager, a slight man with a pierced tongue, had come up beside me. “One of the acts didn’t show, so you’re on in fifteen. Have you checked your rigging?”
“I did earlier, after Wizard, but I’m going to check it again before I go on.”
He looked at my outfit. “You’re wearing that?”
The old Candy was curvier than me, so her costume was a size or two too big for me. Still, a saggy leotard was better than the cameltoe my too-small leotard had gifted me with in the past.
The stage manager eyed my saggy butt (the costume, not my bottom inside). “I think you should change. It’s not exactly eroti—”
“I am the exotic part of the show,” I said with as much dignity as one could do in a saggy-butt leotard.
“Wait,” he said. “You’ve got—”
“Exotic!” I called back and went into the theater’s house.
It was crowded there too. Partiers stood in the rows and filled the aisles and lined up at tables full of food and drinks set up over sheet-draped seats in the back of the house. Entertainers performed on a small six-foot-high platform set in the middle of the Phoenician’s stage. A few of the front rows were reserved for people who wanted to watch them, and more audience members milled around the platform onstage. The mix of audience and performers could have been annoying in a typical theater setting, but the artistic minds behind this night had got it right: the beautifully and bizarrely costumed party attendees didn’t distract from the performance, but added to the general feeling of Carnival.
I made my way backstage, climbed up the twisting metal staircase, and eased myself onto the catwalk. I checked the rigging for my aerial silk, examining it closely and tugging on the knots. All as it should be.
Applause from the audience below. The performer before me had finished. I let down my aerial silk, the stretchy piece of red fabric I would use in my performance.
“And now...” A man dressed like the emcee from Cabaret stood behind a microphone on a stand. “The incomparable Ivy Meadows...” He peered at the sheet of paper in his hand, then up at me. “...Tree snake,” he finished.
“Serpent of the air,” I hissed at him. “Serpent of the air.”
Pretty sure he heard me, but the music began right then. Nothing to do but jump, as it were. I wound my legs around the fabric of the silk, and gracefully slid into my first position, a Ship’s Lady.
The audience laughed.
Must be something going on below. I scanned the partygoers, but no, they were all looking at me. A few pointed. Guess I shouldn’t have worn the baggy leotard. Oh well. The music modulated and I dropped into my next position, a Half Moon. More laughing and pointing. I heard someone say, “I’ll bet you twenty bucks it stays on for the whole performance.”
Stays on? Was my leotard coming off? I did a quick check; no, everything was fine. I flipped into my next position, the Upside-Down Splits, and I saw it. A Post-It. On my butt. Damn Logan and his messy car. I carefully slid my hand toward the offending note, then tucked it in my cleavage. “You owe your friend twenty bucks,” I said to the gambler below me.
The audience laughed. They were with me. I could see it.
Usually you can’t. See it, I mean. We actors are usually onstage with the lights in our eyes, kept from the audience by the invisible fourth wall created by the nature of drama and by the fact that we were deep into our character’s lives. Tonight, though, I wasn’t a character. I wasn’t even an actor. I was a performer. I took the chance to watch the people who were watching me. There were flocks of women in Mardi-Gras-style feathered masks, bare-chested men with tats and piercings, cat people, and elves and…the Phantom of the Opera, a dashing man with swept back hair, a black and crimson cape and the same exact skull makeup I saw at the séance. Logan.
I nearly dropped his sticky note right on his skull-faced head when I saw the woman with him. She wore a Dia de los Muertos skull mask, a full-skirted black satin ball gown, and a crown of marigolds in her straightened dull brown hair, and she walked with teeny tiny steps across the stage. “Candy!” I yelled at my friend. I didn’t care that I was in the middle of a performance. “Candy!”
The masked woman stopped and slowly turned her face to me. So did the rest of the audience.
“You have candy?” said a guy dressed all in black rubber.
“What kind of candy?” said another who wore a fur diaper. “Do you have any of these suckers that look like peni—”
“I’m the exotic part of the show!” I yelled. “Candy!” The Phantom grabbed her by the arm and pulled her away from the stage, disappearing into the crowd in the wings.
I hung in midair, physically and emotionally. Candy was alive, but she didn’t want me to see her. She didn’t want me. It hurt more than I thought it would. A swell of the music brought me back to reality. I hit a final pose in the aerial dance piece, barely registering the applause. I slid down my silk, stepped lightly onto the stage, and exited into the wings.
Candy was with Logan.
I stood for a moment backstage, where the murky blue lighting matched my mood. I watched the revelers around me, feeling like an outsider who’d crashed the party.
>
The Post-It note scratched me. I took it from my cleavage and moved closer to a light, where I could just make out a scrawled message. “Ready to roll?” it said. I peered at the signature.
Babette.
Chapter 66
The Prince of Conjurers
I shoved the note back into my cleavage, walked through the backstage back into the house, and tried to put the pieces together.
Candy was with Logan. Logan had a note from Babette. Logan had access to the spring room. He must be hiding Candy. But where? In the hotel, or did the hotel and the theater share dumpsters? And why help her? Candy must have killed Babette, maybe tried to help her after the doctor flew the coop and accidentally administered too much Botox. Logan obviously knew Babette better than he let on. He must have found out and decided to help Candy. Probably still held a torch for her. There was really no other good reason.
I sat down on one of the seats near the stage. Did Eden know? It seemed like she and Logan were getting close. I hoped she wasn’t going to get hurt. I also hoped she didn’t know, because that would mean I’d been fooled into trusting both of them. Sheesh, and I thought Cody was gullible.
“And now for the highlight of the evening,” said the emcee onstage. “As everyone knows, this theater is haunted...”
Haunted by the ghosts of my former friendship. Friendships, if you counted Logan and maybe Eden.
“By the ghost of the Lady in White...”
I sank deeper into my seat. Now what? I still loved Candy, even if she didn’t trust me anymore. She was—had been—my best friend.
“Who returns here tonight, aided by the master of illusions...”
Could I, should I turn her into the police? Or should I be like Logan and—appear onstage? Was that Logan walking out from the wings?