by Cindy Brown
I drove to Bernice’s, picked up a t-shirt and a stretchy pair of pants, and met Marge back in the locker room. She got dressed, walked with me into the parking lot, grabbed a hide-a-key from under her car’s back bumper, and unlocked her car. “Good thing I keep my wallet in my car.” Marge slid into the driver’s seat. “Listen, I know we talked about a practice session at my house, but I’m not feeling so well. I’d like to rest before preview tonight.”
“Sure.” I waved goodbye and watched her drive slowly, carefully out of the rec center parking lot.
“Cuckoo!”
“That is not what I need to hear right now,” I admonished the clock on Bernice’s wall.
I was worried about Marge and anxious about the show, but there was no way to know if she’d remember her lines or if her sing-in-character advice would help me until we faced an audience. So I decided to tackle another source of anxiety: my lack of progress on Charlie’s case.
What had I learned about Charlie Small? He seemed to be a popular guy, and a busy one, on the theater board and in Bitsy’s karaoke club. He was a Vietnam veteran, a Republican, and a Christian, a strong enough believer that people didn’t think he would take his own life. He was also really depressed after the death of his wife. It wasn’t much to go on.
I had the feeling the answer lay not with Charlie’s life but his death. I found my black notebook on the counter and flipped through it. I knew the basics: carbon monoxide poisoning in his car, no note. My neighborhood investigation hadn’t turned up much of anything except the unusually high number of suicides and the landscaper.
I’d initially thought the idea of a landscaper in this mostly gravel-lawned neighborhood was suspicious, but then I noticed a few around—blowing bougainvillea leaves, trimming orange trees, and pulling the few weeds that managed to survive. Charlie hadn’t hired one, but one of his neighbors could have. I made a note to check on that.
Then there was Carl Marks. I hadn’t seen him or his car since that night outside the theater, but I felt uneasy just thinking about him. Using my laptop, I logged into a database Duda Detectives used to run criminal background checks and typed in his name. Nothing, not even a parking ticket. Next I tried to find out what type of insurance policy he’d sold Charlie. I called my uncle.
“So how do I do this?” I asked, after giving him the rundown.
“To begin with, go to the Medical Information Bureau website and enter Charlie’s information.”
I did. I had to pretend I was Charlie, but I got his file. “Done. Now what?”
“Did anyone pull Charlie’s medical records recently?”
I looked at my screen. “Yeah. It looks like Carl’s company did, about a year ago.”
“That means they probably issued him a sizable policy, since insurance companies don’t usually bother pulling records for policies under 50K.”
“Okay, now how do I find out what type of policy? And who the beneficiary is?”
“Remember how I started this conversation with ‘To begin with?’”
“Uh huh…” I was beginning to wish I was in the office so I could see my uncle’s face. I had the feeling he was grinning.
“That’s all you can find out, at least for now. Then you got some real work to do.”
If I had been in the office, I would’ve considered shooting him with a rubber band.
He continued: “Because the only people who would know more are Charlie’s attorney, his beneficiaries, or his insurance agent.”
“The guy I’m investigating.”
“Right.”
Definitely would have shot him with a rubber band.
Uncle Bob chuckled. “Isn’t it fun being a PI?”
A few hours later, I was in the greenroom enjoying my first free meal: Chicken Marsala with wild rice pilaf and fresh cut green beans. Though it was only preview, the old FOTs and a few invitees would be there, so dinner was being served.
“How’s the chicken?” Roger sat down next to me at the long folding table.
“Wonderful!” In reality, it was a tad dry, but it also wasn’t beans.
Roger took a bite of his London broil and chewed. And chewed.
Zeb appeared, as was his way, and set a plate of coconut prawns in front of me. “This is what you really want to eat.” I bit into one. It was indeed what I wanted to eat, like a tropical vacation for my mouth. “I’ve got a lovely pair of coconuts…” sang Zeb, tweaking imaginary boobs.
“A, does everything have to be about sex?” asked Candy, who sat down next to us with a dish of mac and cheese. “And B, you are way too young to know that song.”
“Arnie taught it to me. And I’m not all about sex. There’s also science—hey! Want to help me test the optimal temperature for maximum enjoyment of mac and cheese?”
“Sure.” Candy shrugged.
Zeb grabbed her plate away. “Okay. Be right back.” He jogged toward the dishwashing area.
“How’s the detecting going?” Candy asked me. I had the sneaking suspicion she was trying to keep my mind off my little singing issue.
After Fran’s remark this morning, I realized I probably shouldn’t blab everything I knew. I was still figuring out how to reply when Zeb set Candy’s new plate of food in front of her. On it were four little piles of macaroni and cheese. “Okay,” he said. “Start with the portion at the top of the plate. Taste it and give me a ranking between one and ten, with ten being the highest.”
Candy took a bite from the top pile. “Ow!” she yelped. “Hot hot hot!” She grabbed my glass of water, downed it, and glared at Zeb. “I think you just burned off all my taste buds.”
“So on a scale of one to ten…” Zeb held a pencil poised above his black notebook.
“OW.”
“I’ll put that down as a ‘one.’”
“Just get me a plate of lukewarm mac and cheese. Now.”
“What approximate temperature do you consider lukewarm?”
“Now.”
“Hey, kiddo.” Marge walked in, looking remarkably better than when I last saw her. “How’d it go today?” she said. “You practice?”
I nodded. It had felt good, concentrating on my character, but since my phobia involved an audience, I had no way of knowing if Marge’s advice would help once I was onstage.
“You’ve been working on the breathing technique I gave you?” asked Roger.
I hesitated. I didn’t really want to tell him I’d had additional help. There was always a bit of tension between Marge and him.
“A half hour until places.” The disembodied stage manager’s voice floated over the PA system and saved me from replying. Instead I wolfed down the last of my chicken, dropped my empty plate at Zeb’s dishwashing station, and headed to my dressing room. All the while I kept my fingers crossed. Whatever happened tonight could determine the fate of two careers.
Marge’s advice worked. Or I heard that it did. I wasn’t really aware of how my voice sounded, or the orchestra, or, thank God, the audience. But after my song, everyone congratulated me—just the way they’d congratulated Marge after her first scene, which went perfectly. I’d stood in the wings and listened. I could just hear the slight rhythm of…what song? I couldn’t place it. Later when I had the chance, I grabbed Marge. “Hey, what song did you use to help you remember? I could just barely hear it and it’s been driving me crazy trying to figure out what it was.”
Marge smiled. “It’s that song from Cats. The one Barbra Streisand made famous. You know…” She hummed a bit of the familiar tune.
“Of course,” I said.
The song was “Memory.”
CHAPTER 22
“WHAT GOOD IS STRUTTING YOUR STUFF ON THE STAGE?”
Even in the parking lot I could hear Marge singing the familiar tune of “Cabaret.” Everyone could. That woman could belt.
“Come HEAR the or
gan PLAY.” The song blew my hair back as I opened the stage door. I trotted down the hall.
“Eternal life AWAITS you, FRIEND.” Marge stood in the greenroom, arms wide, inviting the whole world to…“Come to the CABA—nunnery!”
Oops. But no biggie, really. All of us had a hard time not singing the original words to the songs.
Roger, Bitsy, and the other cast members who were in the room clapped. Everyone was relieved that our headliner was ready just in time for opening night.
“You’re in fine form.” I gave her a friendly swat on her behind, which tonight had “Star” embroidered on mauve velour.
“Thanks to you, chickie.” She crossed the room to the table where she’d left her duffel bag. “You know how I said that music transcends words?”
I nodded.
“I feel so good right now, I just had to sing.” She poked me with an elbow. “I noticed your little problem is gone too.”
“Knock on wood.” I looked around for something wooden to knock on and settled for my head. “By the way,” I said. “What was up at your house today? Everything okay?” Around three o’clock a bunch of cars had converged on Marge’s house, including a posse car.
“Oh, that.” She waved my concern away. “Damn burglar alarm. I punched in the wrong numbers and couldn’t find the code. You know how it is.” Unfortunately, I did. I set off Bernice’s alarm the first night I stayed there and had to run around the house looking for the code, which I found in the nick of time. “I canceled the service,” Marge said.
“Was that wise?” said Bitsy, behind us.
“It’s Sunnydale,” said Roger. “Nothing ever happens there.”
“Ivy, join me in a cuppa joe to celebrate our newfound tricks for success?” Marge poured herself a cup of coffee from her thermos.
As she poured more coffee into a Styrofoam cup, I had that knock-on-wood feeling again, like we were tempting fate with our confidence, but said, “Sure.”
Marge handed me the cup full of the steaming liquid. “Cheers,” she said, knocking her cup into mine. I took a big swig—and spit it out. “Aaaaachhh!” I couldn’t help the spitting or the weird noise I made. There was something god-awfully wrong with that coffee.
“What? It’s good coffee. I even put cinnamon in.” Marge took a sip before I could stop her. Her face turned crimson as she struggled to swallow.
“Omigod, is it poisoned?” asked Candy. The question wasn’t as silly as it sounded. Uncle Bob had been poisoned at a theater once.
I sniffed at the coffee. “I don’t think so.”
“It couldn’t be,” said Marge. “I made it myself and put it right in the thermos. It’s just coffee and cinnamon.”
Roger reached for my cup. “May I?”
I handed it over gladly.
He took a small sip. “Ah.” He leaned close to Marge and spoke quietly, which didn’t really matter because the entire roomful of people was straining to hear. “I think you mixed up cinnamon with cayenne.”
Did Bitsy’s eyes gleam?
Marge stared at Roger for a moment, then burst into raucous laughter. “I did!” She slapped Roger on the back. “Cinnamon, cayenne, both start with Cs, both sort of brown. Ha!” she said, loudly.
I wondered if anyone else noticed that her smile did not reach her eyes. Marge was acting.
CHAPTER 23
Phew. We’d done it. I sang on pitch, Marge remembered her lines, and from the sound of the applause, opening night was a success.
We had just finished the all-cast bow that marked the end of curtain call when Arnie walked onstage with an armful of red roses. None of us were surprised when he presented Marge with the flowers, but several mouths dropped open as he got down on one knee, Marge’s included.
“Think he’ll be able to get up again?” Candy whispered to me. I elbowed her, in a nice way.
The audience quieted down. Keith rapped his baton on the top of his music stand, then, his eyes on Arnie, led the orchestra in the tune to “You’re the Cream in My Coffee.”
“You’re the schmear on my bagel,” Arnie sang. The audience laughed appreciatively.
“You’re the love that is true.” His voice wobbled a little with emotion.
“You really are…My shining star.” Arnie proffered a small jewelry box to his star, whose mouth was still open.
“I want to marry you.”
The audience exploded with applause—and Marge bolted from the stage.
The music halted. The audience stopped clapping. Arnie stayed on one knee for a moment, then slowly slumped back until he sat on the wooden stage. He looked like he’d been hit by an emotional bus.
“Help him up,” I whispered to Timothy/Wolf and I ran offstage after Marge.
For a mature lady, she was pretty fast. I ran through backstage to the greenroom, where I saw the stage door to the parking lot close. I pushed it open in time to see Marge jump into her car.
“Wait!” I yelled, but Marge started up the car and roared out of the parking lot like a teenage boy.
When I got back into the greenroom, Zeb and Roger were helping Arnie into a chair.
“I would have never done it,” Arnie shook his head, his eyes searching the room, “if I wasn’t sure she loved me. I know she loves me. So why do this?” he asked the ceiling. When no answer came, he covered his face in his hands.
“Ivy?” I turned around to see Matt standing next to my brother and Sarah. “I came to pick up Cody and Sarah, but before they left…”
“We wanted to say how good you did.” Cody was dressed in a pressed blue dress shirt that matched his eyes. He held hands with Sarah, who wore a pretty flowered dress, her dark hair curling down around her shoulders.
“Why didn’t she want to marry him?” she asked me in a hushed voice.
“I don’t know,” I replied. Arnie was right. Marge did love him. Why not say yes? Or at least something that wouldn’t have made her refusal so publicly humiliating.
“Hello, baby!” Candy came up and slid an arm around Matt, seemingly oblivious to the sadness that covered the room like a damp sheet. “Why Cody, you look good enough to eat. And this must be the young lady I’ve heard so much about.” She winked at Sarah. “We all going out for a drink tonight to celebrate young love?”
Matt shook his head. “I’m on duty and—”
“C’mon, just a Coke.” Candy wrapped her arms around his neck.
“And Sarah needs to get home. Besides,” Matt looked at Arnie, whose shoulders were shaking, “I don’t think it’s much of a party atmosphere.”
“It is a damn shame,” Candy said. “He wore his lucky alligator shoes and everything.”
“His what?” I said.
“Oh, there’s a good story there.” Candy caught my eye. “But I’ll only tell it over Jack and Coke and chicken wings.”
“Don’t most people have beer and chicken wings?” asked Cody.
“Now, darlin’,” Candy said, “am I most people?”
“Maybe it was because she didn’t love him,” Hailey said.
“Maybe it was because she didn’t think he really loved her,” Timothy said.
“Maybe it was because she doesn’t think he’s really reformed,” Candy said.
“Reformed?” everyone said on cue. Actors, you know.
A bunch of us were crowded into a high-backed booth at Chili’s, a big basket of chicken wings in the middle of the table. Until Candy’s pronouncement, I’d been half-listening to the conversation, too worried about Marge to participate in the banter. But now I paid attention.
“I have it on good authority,” Candy sat back in the booth and sucked on a wing, “that our Arnie is a jailbird.”
“Really?” I didn’t know many (okay, any) jailbirds, but Arnie didn’t seem the type.
“What was he in for? Not using moistur
izer?” asked Timothy, who, though he played my love interest, was as gay as the day is long. He was also really hairy.
Candy downed the last of her drink and held her glass up to the light.
“Lands, have you ever seen such a poor empty thing?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Timothy waved a waitress over. He even had hair on his hands. “Another Jack and Coke over here, please.”
I held up my empty glass too. Timothy ignored me. It was worth a try.
“And another amber ale for this lovely lady.” That was Roger. I wished I hadn’t angled for the drink. I felt beholden enough to him as it was. But what the heck, it was free beer.
“So,” said Hailey. “What’s the story, Morning Glory?”
“Well, I guess Arnie used to wrestle alligators down in Florida.”
“What?” I dipped a wing into some ranch dip. “Arnie’s like five foot four or something.”
“Those little guys can be mighty strong,” Candy said. “Wiry, you know.”
Hailey and I rolled our eyes at each other. This story sounded like a “Candy special,” a bit of gossip accessorized beyond all recognition.
“Anyway,” Candy said, ignoring our eye roll and smiling at the waitress who dropped off our fresh drinks, “one day this alligator was attacking a little boy. Arnie jumped into the swamp and saved the kid, but he ended up killing the gator.”
“With his bare hands?” asked Timothy. None of us really believed Candy, but it was fun to egg her on.
“Yep,” she said. “Broke its jaw or something.”
“How did that put him in jail?” I sipped my drink and decided that free beer actually tasted better.
“I guess it’s illegal to kill an alligator,” said Candy. “So Arnie went to jail. And I heard he got sued too, by the parents of the boy he saved ’cause the kid still got bit by the gator.”
“That was Arnie’s fault?” asked Hailey.
“No, no, no,” said Timothy. “I’ve heard of that type of stuff happening. That’s why I’ll never rescue anyone.”