by Cindy Brown
“My agent negotiated it,” said Roger. “Normally when I’m on the road, I just ask for travel expenses and housing—plus my wages, of course—but you really can’t get around this city without a car.”
Hmmm. Housing, travel expenses, and a car, plus Equity wages and free dinners on the nights we had shows. Maybe all actors didn’t live on beans.
My phone rang as we walked through the front door. Jeremy! I picked up and motioned Roger to go on ahead of me.
“Hey, you done with rehearsal?” said Jeremy. “I’m over on your side of town. I know it’s late, but maybe a drink?”
“Oh, sorry. It’s—”
“Ivy?” Roger called from the back of the house, too loudly.
“You still at the theater?” Jeremy said.
“No. A friend came over to take care of the pool.”
“At eleven o’clock at night?”
“It’s the only time he had.”
Silence.
“I really needed him to help me. You know how I am about water.” It was a pretty pathetic shot, but true all the same.
“I understand,” said wonderful, thoughtful, gorgeous Jeremy.
After telling him where to pick up his ticket for opening night, I hung up, grabbed the pool instructions from underneath the stereo, and met Roger, who stood waiting by the sliding glass door. We went onto the patio and Roger, directions in hand, flipped a switch on the stucco wall beside the doors. The dark hole that had been the pool now glowed turquoise, a calm presence in the black night. I wasn’t fooled. It was still water, deep enough to drown in.
I waved at the deathtrap. “All yours.” I sat down in a chair with beige-striped cushions, a good fifteen feet from the water.
“No problem.” Roger found a kit mounted on the back patio wall next to some other pool implements, and brought it and the instructions to a table near me. “It’ll be good practice for me. My new house is going to have a pool.”
“You’re buying a house? Back east?”
I only had a vague idea of where Roger lived.
“I’m building a house,” he said, straightening up. “In Mexico. Cheaper there, you know.”
“You speak Spanish?”
“Un poquito.”
Though most of my knowledge of Spanish came from watching telenovelas, I was pretty sure that meant “a little bit.”
“Are there jobs for English-speaking actors in—”
“I’m retiring,” Roger said. “This is my last gig. Then I’ll be off to the land of sun and cerveza.” The Spanish word for beer I knew. Roger grabbed a pool skimmer from the wall. “So you’re afraid of the water?”
“No. Terrified. Truly, deeply terrified.”
“May I ask why?” He skated the skimmer across the surface of the pool, working around an inner tube that bobbed on its surface like an innocent toy.
“Maybe some other day.” Probably not. Cody’s accident was not something I talked about lightly. “Let’s talk about fame and fortune instead,” I said. “Tell me what I have to look forward to.”
“Hard work, rejection, and poverty,” said Roger, the blue light from the pool reflecting a too-serious face. Then he laughed, “Don’t listen to me. It’s not a bad life, if you play your cards right.” He hung up the dripping skimmer and retrieved a couple of clear plastic vials from the pool kit on the table.
I waited for him to go on. Sometimes the things Uncle Bob taught me worked in real life too.
“I’ve done okay for myself, but just because of some lucky investments.” He dipped the vials into the pool, then brought them back to the table. “I missed the boat when it came to real success.”
“You don’t think of yourself as successful? You travel free of charge, you make your living doing what you love, and you’re building a house in Mexico. Seems like a pretty nice life to me.”
Using a dropper, Roger dripped some chemicals into the clear vials. “I could have done better.” A trace of bitterness crept into his voice. “I should have been on Broadway, or at least off-Broadway, but I was…unlucky. Not like some.” He jerked a chin in the direction of Marge’s house next door. He put down the pool test kit and stood in front of me. “You, though…you have a chance.” Before I knew it, he had cupped my cheek in his hand. I gulped, not sure what to do. “You’re so pretty,” he went on, turning my face from one side to the other, like a cowboy checking out a new horse. He dropped his gaze to my legs. I bet cowboys do that too. “And you have the most magnificent legs I’ve seen in ages. Which brings me to the real reason I wanted to help you out with your pool.”
He was making me nervous, but I waited, not saying anything. I was getting good at this.
“I’d like to be your…”
Please God don’t let him say “sugar daddy.”
“Mentor.”
Phew. “What exactly do you mean? I’ve never had a mentor before.” Of course Uncle Bob was my mentor, but he only taught me things that dealt with PI work, like patience and observation and perseverance.
“I’d like to offer you advice on your acting career, help steer you. I think you’ve got talent—and great legs—and with some work, I think you can have a successful career.” He sat down across from me and leaned in. “And I think I can jumpstart it for you. An old New York producer friend of mine is going to fly in and see the show later this month. He heads up Mooney Productions—maybe you’ve heard of them? They produced Mother Teresa, The Musical.”
I nodded. Everyone knew MTTM.
“He’d like to mount The Sound of Cabaret with plans to take it off-Broadway, and he’s looking for new talent. I’d like to introduce you.”
For once, words escaped me. This could be my big break. But why me? Hailey, who played Mary, had a singing voice that sounded like clear water over rocks in a mountain stream, plus she was a true triple threat—an actor who could act, dance, and sing. I was more of a 2.5 threat.
“What do you think?” Roger asked.
“I’m…wow…It’s…” I still struggled with the idea that this was a real possibility. “An amazing opportunity. I can’t thank you enough.”
“Good,” he said. “But we have work to do. And the first order of business is to get you some voice lessons.”
“Oh. I…” Lessons were expensive and my budget was stretched to its limit.
“I’ll teach you. Gratis,” said Roger. “We’ll start tomorrow. I’ll meet you at the theater a half hour before dinner. Sound good?”
It did and it didn’t. Free singing lessons and an introduction to a New York producer sounded pretty great, but I had a nagging doubt about Roger’s real intentions. But hey, I’d handled unwanted attention before. I could certainly handle Roger.
“You bet,” I said.
CHAPTER 18
The next day, I went into Duda Detective Agency early so I could tackle my clerical backlog before meeting Cody and Matt. Uncle Bob wasn’t in—had to deal with “a little plumbing issue.” I knew I’d get a lot of work done without him there to distract me, but the office felt cold and gray without him. It was a pretty gray office. Uncle Bob had acquired the furniture secondhand from some state government department that was updating their décor, so the office was furnished with a big metal desk, a bookcase, three enormous filing cabinets and a wheelie chair with scratchy stained upholstery—all gray. On a typical day, my uncle’s ubiquitous Hawaiian shirt provided the color in the office, and he supplied the warmth.
I plunked down my to-go cup full of coffee and got to work. I flew through the paperwork my uncle had left me and began typing up notes from my investigation. Soon I didn’t even notice that Uncle Bob was gone. I had a lot of questions: Eight suicides in Sunnydale? What was up with the pastor? His reaction to Charlie’s death seemed less than compassionate. And who was the landscaper Bernice saw that morning?
I dialed Amy.
This time I got through right away. “Quick question: do you know if your dad had a landscaper? Or someone who might be blowing leaves at his house?”
“A landscaper?” She sounded puzzled. “You’ve seen Dad’s house. The landscaping is made up of gravel and rocks and a few cacti. He doesn’t even have a palm tree.”
Should have caught that one.
I hung up and began working on my next area of research: Colonel Carl Marks. I found the first piece of info I wanted fairly easily. According to Bureau of Labor Statistics, the annual salary for insurance agents was $63,400. The best-paid ten percent made an average of $116,940, while the lowest-paid ten percent were paid $26,120 on average. Even if Carl was one of the highest-earning agents, Gucci shoes and a Ferrari convertible seemed a stretch.
I was trying to look up his license plate (“trying” was the operative word) when I noticed the clock on my computer: eleven forty-five. Yikes! I grabbed my things, locked up the office and ran down the stairs, out the door, and down the few blocks to my car.
Cody’s group home was about ten minutes away in the somewhat gentrified Coronado neighborhood. The bungalow where he lived had a patchy lawn and a cracked concrete path, but it was tidily kept, with a clean-swept front porch, trimmed oleanders, and even a few rosebushes out front.
I parked in front of the house and had barely gotten the car door open when Cody ran to greet me. He wrapped me in a hug. “Olive-y!” It was his pet name for me, a combination of Olive and Ivy that his friend Stu had come up with. Cody had comb tracks through his damp blonde hair and smelled of soap.
“Hey, mister,” I said. “You smell purty.”
“Just had a shower.”
Stu, a round-faced young man with Down syndrome, ran up behind Cody. “Me too,” he said. “I took a shower too.” He held out his arms, angling for a hug.
“Stu,” said Matt, as he came up the walk. “What have we been talking about?”
Stu hung his head in mock sorrow. “Handshakes, not hugs.”
“Right,” said Matt.
“But Cody—” Stu began.
“Can hug Ivy because she’s his sister.”
“Okay.” Stu stuck out his hand. “Hi Olive-y.”
I shook it. “Good to see you, Stu.”
As Cody, Stu, and their housemates Kerry and Chad clambered into a white minivan, I walked a few steps behind them with Matt. “We’re working on appropriate adult behavior,” Matt said quietly.
“But no hugs?” I said. “C’mon, isn’t that a little over the top?”
“Not so much.” Matt’s eyes smiled behind wire-framed glasses. “You’ll notice Stu only asks good-looking women for hugs.” He clambered into the driver’s seat. “Follow us!” he called out the window. I couldn’t ride in the van, some liability issue or something. “We’re going to lunch.”
I got back into my Bug and followed them, calculating how much cash I had in my wallet. Not much. I hoped we were going somewhere cheap.
After about ten minutes, they pulled into the Costco parking lot. The guys tumbled out of the van as soon as it was parked.
“Costco lunch date!” yelled Stu.
“C’mon, Olive-y,” cried Cody.
As we all walked across the enormous parking lot, Matt said, “We’ve figured out when the samplers are working. Management doesn’t mind if the guys take a little food tour. And today’s tour should be kinda special. It’s one reason I asked Cody to invite you.”
Matt wanted me there? I studied him as he stopped at the entrance to show his Costco card. His brown hair curled over the collar of his blue shirt, which I noticed, with a start, was exactly like the one Cody wore. Duh. Cody adored Matt. I could see him buying a shirt that would make him look just like his hero.
“Okay,” Matt said to the group once we were all inside. “Time to synchronize watches.” The guys all looked at their watches. “I have twelve fifteen,” Matt continued. “Let’s all meet at the deli at twelve forty-five. Alright?”
“Alright!” yelled Stu, who was hopping from foot to foot.
“And remember, no running, anyone.” Matt looked at Stu, who pretended he didn’t see him.
“See you then,” said Matt. Stu took off like a shot, but to his credit, he was race-walking, not running. Kerry and Chad followed him at a slower pace. Cody stuck with us. We stopped at each sampling station, trying dried cranberries, granola bars, and tasty little crackers. As we sipped chicken soup from paper cups, Cody’s gaze settled on something behind us. He smiled broadly, crumpled up his paper cup, and tossed it toward a wastebasket as he strode toward the meat section. I picked up the paper cup from the floor where it had landed. Cody had ataxia, a lack of coordination resulting from his brain injury, and getting something from his hands to a wastebasket was difficult when he was distracted.
And he did seem to be distracted. Matt and I caught up with him near a young woman stirring small hotdogs in an electric skillet. She watched her hands as she worked, brow furrowed with concentration, a few ringlets of black hair escaping her paper cap. Focusing on the sausages, she said in a low, slow voice, “These cocktail weenies are all-natural, made from beef with no added hormones.”
The young woman pinched a hotdog with tongs and placed it in a small paper cup. “They’re fully cooked.” She spoke the memorized words in her Lauren Bacall-ish voice. “And perfect for parties.”
Cody picked up the paper cup and ducked his head, peeking at her from under his lashes.
I shot a look at Matt. Cody was not shy around anyone.
The young woman looked up at Cody. “Oh,” she said. “I know you.” A smile spread across her face.
“From the dance,” said Cody.
“Last month,” whispered Matt to me. “The Arc mixer.” ARC was an acronym that had once stood for the Association of Retarded Citizens. Since “retarded” had become a put-down, the group had renamed itself simply “The Arc.”
“You know who you look like?” said the young woman, whose name tag read “Sarah.”
Cody shook his head.
“Brad Pitt,” said Sarah.
“Brad Pitt?” he said to her, then turned to us. “Brad Pitt!” He had a cinematic glow I’d never seen before. Brad Pitt, indeed.
“Do you like movies?” Cody asked Sarah. She looked down at her weenies, studying them intently. Cody shifted from one foot to another, and back again.
“I need to pick up some ice cream.” Matt took my arm and led me toward the freezer section.
“Was Cody asking her out?”
“Yep,” said Matt. “He’s been practicing for a week, mostly on Stu. I finally took all the guys to a matinee a few days ago. It just seemed fair, after Cody had asked them to the movies over and over again.”
“You would have made a good fireman.” After all, “Be Nice” seemed to be part of his mission too.
“Huh?”
“Never mind.”
“It’s great, don’t you think?” said Matt, with a nod toward Cody and Sarah. She was still looking at the hotdogs, but her smile was as wide as the sky. Cody leaned toward her, hands in his pockets. His ears were pink, like they always were when he was nervous.
Matt had pulled my attention back to Cody, where it belonged. This was a big moment in Cody’s life, and I’d been focusing on Matt and firemen instead. I wondered why.
Matt grabbed a jumbo tub of chocolate ice cream from the freezer. “Would you get a tub of vanilla?”
I pulled out a vat of vanilla, its cold carton stinging my bare hands.
“C’mon,” said Matt. “Let’s find a rogue cart so we can put these puppies down.”
“What about Cody?”
“He’ll meet us by the deli.”
I followed him toward the front of the store. “Sarah’s great,” said Matt. “I worked with her a few years ago. She’s out on her
own now.”
“Really?”
“Well, it’s supervised housing, but she’s in an apartment with a roommate. I hear she’s a pretty good cook too. Aha!” Matt pointed at a lonely cart down a side aisle. “Score!” When we’d put the ice cream cartons in the cart, he looked at me straight on. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just stuff on my mind.” What was on my mind was Sarah with an apartment. The thought of it felt like a burr in my sock. I didn’t know why.
“Of course. The show opens this weekend, right?”
“She said ‘yes!’” Cody bounded up to us. He caught the tip of his sneaker on the floor, and stumbled into me. He righted himself. “Sarah said yes!”
My cell rang: Jeremy. I took the call, grateful to be distracted from the itchy feeling I got when I thought about Cody and Sarah. “Hi.”
“Can’t talk long, and you may not be so happy when you hear why I’m calling. I can’t make it Friday.”
“But it’s opening night.”
“I know, but one of the guys is in the hospital with a burst appendix. I promise I’ll make the show another night. And we’re still on for Saturday afternoon, right?”
“Right.” I tried not to grumble. I did realize that being available to save lives was more important than opening night at a dinner theater, but still.
After I’d hung up, Cody said, “What’s wrong?”
“The guy I’m dating can’t come to opening night.”
“Oh! Can I come? With Sarah?” Cody turned to Matt. “That would be even better than a movie, right?”
“I only have one ticket, and we’re sold out.” Since Jeremy had planned to come solo, I had just made one reservation for Friday. And truth be told, I was relieved about that.
“Ivy.” Matt pulled me aside. “If it’s okay with you, I can give Sarah my ticket. I have a big paper due next week”—Matt was going for his Masters in social work—“and Candy already told me she doesn’t care when I see the show.” He didn’t pull me aside quite far enough, because Cody said, “Say yes, Olive-y. Say yes.”
“Sure. Of course.” I nodded, then turned away to hide the discomfort I felt. That’s when I saw Arnie, strolling behind a cart. What was he doing here? Surely there was a Costco closer to Sunnydale. I waved at him. Was it my imagination, or did he not look happy to see me?