by Cindy Brown
“Give the kid a break,” Marge said to Bitsy. “Everybody needs a place to go.”
I wondered what she meant, but was distracted by the wonderful aroma emanating from the small cardboard containers that lined a long table.
“It’s Yummy Lunch,” crowed Arnie, waving an unlit cigar at the boxes adorned with the logo of the nearby “Yummy Food” Chinese restaurant. His bald head and big glasses gleamed under the greenroom lights, which also spotlighted his enormous ears.
“Don’t get it on your clothes,” said Terri, the costume designer. “I’m not doing wash before opening night.”
Though it wasn’t the official dress rehearsal, a lot of the cast members (and all of the nuns) wore their costumes to get used to the way they moved in them. Bitsy, who daintily filled up her plate with mostly vegetables, looked like the poster nun for a convent, her round, strangely unlined face peeking out of her wimple and veil. Marge, who was headed back to her dressing room, looked like a drag queen’s idea of a nun.
Arnie made a beeline after her, and I followed, not because I was nosy (though I was), but because I needed to get my cellphone out of my dressing room.
“Babe,” he said, still waving his cigar. “You feelin’ okay?”
“It’s this damn costume,” said Marge. “I can’t hear a goddamn thing.” She pushed back her veil to show the white wimple that covered her head and, yes, her ears.
“Terri!” shouted Arnie. The costumer was only a few feet away so he didn’t need to shout, but he was a naturally loud guy. He and Marge made the perfect couple. “Can we do something here? So Marge can hear better?”
“Of course,” said Terri. “I’m a genius.”
“That’s why we pay you the big bucks,” Arnie said, slapping her on the back.
The three of them went into Marge’s dressing room. I grabbed my phone and went back to the greenroom, where I filled a paper plate with an assortment of noodle dishes and made my way toward the long folding table where the rest of the cast sat. I plopped down next to Candy, my paper plate dangerously full of greasy Chinese food.
“Keep away from my costume,” she said, scooting away from me. “No noodles for this nun.” Then her eyes lit up. “Hey, was Matt ever Catholic?”
“Not sure. Why?”
“I was thinking of taking the costume home with me, maybe play ‘naughty nun.’”
“Too much information.” I clapped my hands over my ears. “La la la la la…”
Zeb bounded up to us like a horny Labrador. “How do you play naughty nun?” The only thing that interested Zeb more than science was sex. “Can you teach me?” he asked Candy, the hormones practically zinging their way out of the few hairs he proudly displayed on his chin.
“No, but I might hit you with a ruler.” Zeb’s eyes gleamed.
“Don’t even go there,” Candy warned. He grinned and went back to the food table, where he grabbed a handful of fortune cookies.
Bitsy harrumphed and rolled her eyes.
“You know, now that I think of it,” Candy smiled sweetly at her across the table, “my granny did carry a spare pair of undies with her. Not sure if it was an incontinence thing or just because she was a woman of loose morals.”
Bitsy opened her mouth, then shut it again, like a goldfish. Candy gave her a “butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth” smile.
I took a big slurpy bite of noodles and looked at the time on my cellphone—7:12 p.m. here in Arizona meant it was 3:12 p.m. (the next day) in New Zealand. I dialed Bernice’s number.
“Gotta do some work on this case,” I said to Candy.
Roger sat down next to me. “Case?”
I scooted over, ostensibly to give Roger room, but really because he was one of those guys who stood or sat just a little too close to any female under thirty.
“She’s investigating some suicide.” Candy took a bite of Kung Pao chicken.
“I didn’t know Ivy was an investigator,” Bitsy said.
“She’s an investigator trying to make a long-distance call in spite of her noisy castmates,” I said. I tried to say it with authority, but was stymied by a mouthful of noodles.
“Swallow, hon,” Candy said, just as Bernice picked up.
“Hello? Ivy? Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, hi, Bernice. Don’t worry, everything’s fine. I was just wondering: Did you hear or see anything the morning of Charlie’s death?”
“Just you. And the landscaper, of course.”
“The landscaper?” I asked.
“Yeah. Charlie must have had a yard guy. They work real early, you know.”
They did. For half the year (May through October), any outdoor work in the Valley had to be done before the day got beastly hot. I guessed landscapers kept to this schedule the rest of the year for continuity’s sake.
“I mostly heard him. Had one of those annoying leaf blowers.”
“Did you get a good look at him? Or her?”
“Not really. Whoever it was wore one of those jumpsuit things.”
“Jumpsuit?”
“Probably a coverall,” said Candy, who’d been listening along with the rest of the table.
“And a hat. Maybe even glasses. I really can’t remember.”
“No, that’s great information, Bernice. Thanks. Bye now.”
“Ta da.” Arnie re-entered the greenroom with Marge and Terri in tow. “Terri, costumer extraordinaire, has saved the day. Show ’em, babe.”
Marge pulled back her black veil. Her white wimple still surrounded her head and neck, but her ears stuck out of the holes Terri had cut on either side of the wimple. “The better to hear you with, my dear,” Marge said.
“Fantastic, right?” said Arnie. “Now she can hear just fine. Take a bow, Terri.”
Terri bowed, to the accompaniment of applause from Arnie and the cast. I wondered if anyone else noticed that Marge was not clapping.
CHAPTER 9
“Can you let them know I’ll be a little late?” I asked Candy via cellphone the next morning. “My car caught on fire.”
“Again?”
I have to confess. When Uncle Bob asked if I’d burned down something else, there was a bit of seriousness to his question. This past winter I’d traded in my little green Aspire for a yellow vintage VW Bug. No one had told me it caught on fire at the most inconvenient times. My mechanic said it was probably something to do with fuel escaping into the engine compartment, but he couldn’t tell for sure. He didn’t think it was a life-threatening problem, and I couldn’t afford to have the engine taken apart to confirm his diagnosis, so I kept an eye out for any telltale smoke.
I put my fire extinguisher down on the asphalt of the parking lot I’d pulled into and peered through the stinky black smoke at the engine, which was at the rear of the car. “Nothing looks too melted.” I’d learned to repair most damage by myself, with spare belts I kept on hand and…
“Got your duct tape?” asked Candy.
“Always.” I kept a roll in my duffle bag, so I could wrap any hoses that looked melted. Plus it was great for repairing flip-flops and making strapless bras. “Need to let the engine cool down a bit, but I should be there in about fifteen minutes.”
And I thought that was going to be the low point of my day.
“Hold it. Stop!” Levin shouted from his seat in the audience.
We had just finished my big duet, “Sixteen Going on Twenty-One,” where Wolf, a regular customer from the cabaret, tries to convince my character, Teasel, a yet-to-be-deflowered Vaughn Katt Club dancer, that she is old enough to, well, you know. It was our first rehearsal with the orchestra and I was onstage with Timothy, who played Wolf. We were working on sound levels, just standing in place singing. Or in my case, making noises like a barfing cat.
“Ivy,” Levin said. “What’s the problem?”
“I don’t know,” I said miserably.
But I did know. Sitting in the audience behind Levin, our director, were the Friends of the Theater. Arnie had invited the group of donors to see what a real technical rehearsal was like. Real technical rehearsals were boring, full of stops and starts as lights and microphones were adjusted. So boring in fact, that a few Friends were sleeping. That didn’t matter. What did matter is that there were more than five of them.
“Let’s take it again from the top,” Levin said.
“Levin,” Keith, the musical director, shouted from the pit, “can we move on? We only have the orchestra until noon.”
Now Levin made a noise like a barfing cat. “O…kay.”
Keith flipped the pages of his score. “So on to ‘Don’t Tell Mother.’” Mary sang this particular song to a group of nuns who had discovered her in a rather immodest dancer costume.
Saved by an overly long rehearsal. I quickly slipped offstage and into my dressing room.
The frustrating thing was, I actually had a nice voice. Not great, but pretty. Kind of like the rest of me. I thought of myself as good-looking but not a striking beauty, except for my legs, which were long and shapely. Whenever I’d been cast in a musical before, it was for my dancing ability—and my legs—not my singing.
“Hon,” said Candy MoonPie’s voice from outside the door. “Can I come in?”
“Of course,” I said. It was her dressing room too, after all.
She came in, dressed in her nun costume, and sat down next to me at the dressing room counter. “Tell me, my child,” she said in a solemn voice, “was it the Old FOTs?”
I nodded. Everyone knew Candy’s name for the Friends of the Theater.
“Is there anything I can do?” asked Candy
“Kill me now?” I was only half-joking. I’d been lucky so far in my fledgling acting career. Decent reviews, good word-of-mouth. And now I was poised to torpedo my own boat. I couldn’t sing in public. More than five people in the audience put me over the edge and my sense of pitch somewhere far, far away.
“Maybe if you concentrate on the times you sounded good? You’ve been great in rehearsal.”
I had been—there were never more than a few people in the audience. I nailed the audition too, since Levin and Keith were the only ones listening. I did so well, in fact, that I really thought I was over my little problem. That’s what I got for being cocky.
“Hey, dolls.” Arnie walked through our open dressing room door flourishing a white plastic contraption that looked a bit like a fancy pair of pliers. “Look what I just got in the mail.” He wore a blue sports coat with brass buttons, presumably for the FOTs, and talked through the unlit cigar that nearly always hung from his mouth.
“Let me guess.” Candy squeezed the handle of the doohickey, which pressed down a lever. “A real big garlic press?”
Arnie shook his head happily. He looked like a bald five-year-old with a new toy.
“A mousetrap?” I asked. That was more of a hint than a real guess. We’d seen a few of the little critters running around in the dressing room area late at night.
“An EZ Cracker!” said Arnie, the words bursting out of him like Bazooka bubbles. “Watch this!” He grabbed a ceramic coffee cup from a shelf (coffee and its accouterments are essential theater tools) and cleared a spot on the dressing room counter. He carefully took an egg from his jacket pocket.
“You been carryin’ eggs around all day?” asked Candy.
Arnie shushed her and set down his new prize. “You watchin’, ladies?” He placed an egg in the cracker, humming as he worked. He squeezed the handle, the eggshell split perfectly in half, and the egg plopped in the coffee cup. “Ta da! A perfectly cracked egg. No shell, no mess! Neat, huh?” Arnie grinned, big ears glowing pink in the dressing room lights.
“Very cool,” I said.
“You ever want to see the latest and greatest gizmo, you just ask me,” said Arnie. “I got ’em all.” He picked up the cup with the egg in it, put the EZ Cracker under his arm, and chucked me on the shoulder. “Gotta go. Do me proud, ladies.” He waved his cigar at us as he left. I got up and closed the dressing room door.
“Wonder what he’s gonna do with that egg?” said Candy. “I didn’t have breakfast.”
“What was that all about?” I asked.
“I think he was tryin’ to cheer you up. Either that or make an omelet.”
Of course. Five days ’til opening and two of his cast members sucked. Poor Arnie.
Another knock on the door. “Hello?” Roger, a.k.a. Captain Vaughn Katt, poked his head in. “You okay, Ivy?”
Wow. Had I really been that bad?
“I’m gonna follow up on that egg,” said Candy. “I could microwave it, you know.” She winked at me in the mirror. I’m sure Roger saw her. I sighed. Candy was always trying to fix me up. She loved double dates. I’d told her about my lunch date with Jeremy and the upcoming picnic, but it must not have sunk in.
Roger, though a nice guy, was not my cup of tea. Too old to begin with (probably in his early sixties) and too…something. He worked out a lot and often walked around the greenroom shirtless, while the older actresses who played nuns batted their eyes at him and he pretended not to notice.
“Just checking in,” he said, sitting down next to me with a fatherly smile. A big lump of self-reproach swelled up in my throat and I swallowed it, along with all of my unkind thoughts. “Seems like there’s something bothering you,” said Roger, watching my eyes in the mirror.
There was more than one thing.
Number One: I couldn’t sing in public.
Number Two: I was way behind on my detective work. Except for the call to Bernice, I hadn’t done anything.
Number Three: I hadn’t figured out what to do about Bernice’s pool.
I picked Number Three. “I’m worried about my house sitting gig.”
“Really?”
“I’m supposed to take care of the pool, and…I have a phobia about water.” This was also true, though again, not the entire truth.
“Easily remedied,” said Roger. “How often do you need to address pool maintenance?”
“Bernice’s instructions said twice a week.”
“Perfect. Twice a week, I’ll take care of your pool chores in exchange for a home-cooked meal.”
“Oh! Well…”
“I’m a horrible cook,” he said, smiling over my head in the mirror. “I’m sure whatever you make will be better than the frozen dinner I usually eat.”
Oh, what the heck. “Great.” I stood to face him and held out my hand to seal the deal.
“Shall we start tomorrow? I could come over during the day.”
“Can’t. I have a—” I was about to say “date” when Roger interrupted.
“Tuesday then.” He took my hand, but instead of shaking it, he kissed it. “Until then,” he said.
Uh-oh.
CHAPTER 10
The next morning, I sat in the cab of Jeremy’s pickup, trying hard to breathe normally. A careful driver, Jeremy was watching the twisting two-lane road, so he didn’t notice my discomfort. I turned to face the open window, just in case he looked at me. Warm air caressed my skin. Saguaro cactus flashed by, fat with water from the recent spring rains. Brittlebush bloomed yellow and a few hedgehog cactus boasted fuchsia flowers. It was a beautiful spring day. A gorgeous guy sat next to me. And I was going to ruin it all.
As we drove around a curve, a sign said, “Lake Pleasant—five miles.”
“Almost there!” said Jeremy, grinning. He wore a t-shirt from Four Peaks Brewery, a pair of board shorts, and a smile that made my insides turn to goo.
A flash of blue appeared around a curve.
“Yes!” Jeremy said.
There is something about water in the desert. Maybe it’s the unexpectedness of it. Ma
ybe it’s the reflection of blue sky amongst so much dusty brown. Maybe it’s something more primal, the lifesaving oasis. Whatever it is, even I can’t deny the nearly magical effect it has.
But there was no way this was going to work. I was trying. I really was. I had smiled when Jeremy picked me up, Jet Skis in tow behind his truck. I made happy noises when he told me about borrowing them from one of his fireman buddies. And when we arrived at Lake Pleasant, I even jumped out of the truck and waved Jeremy down the boat ramp, so he could back the trailer into the lake.
But then I stopped, my feet glued to dry land.
“Okay!” Jeremy yelled from the cab of his truck. “Now just wade out and unhook one of the Jet Skis from the trailer.”
I managed to get pretty close, maybe five feet. Then I froze.
“It’s easy,” Jeremy shouted. “You just wade in and…hey, are you hyperventilating?”
I was. I was bent over, hands on my knees. I hoped he couldn’t tell, but then again, he was a trained professional. And a kind one. He hopped out of the truck and ran over to me. “Here.” He handed me a crumpled paper bag. “Breathe into this.”
After I calmed down, Jeremy helped me back into the truck and we found a picnic spot on a deserted stretch of rocky beach. A few minutes later, we were settled on a Mexican blanket a nice safe distance from the water. I could just barely hear the waves lapping against the shore.
I hadn’t said much since my little freak-out. I’d blown it. I was sure I seemed hysterical, maybe reminded Jeremy of some victim. Not exactly how I wanted him to think of me.
Jeremy didn’t seem upset, just plopped down on the blanket next to me. “Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
He smiled back, but didn’t offer any more conversation.
“Do you always carry paper bags with you?” It was the only thing I could think to say.
“Not only am I a firefighter, but I used to be a Boy Scout. I’m always prepared. Paper bags, first aid kits, and,” he sat up and rummaged in the cooler behind us, “beer.”