Macdeath

by Cindy Brown

Overview

2015 Agatha Award Nominee for Best First Mystery

VIVID CHARACTERS AND A PLOT FULL OF SURPRISES...

"Who cannot have fun with a disastrous (and murderous) production of Macbeth? Cindy Brown's first novel is a delicious romp with plenty of humor and suspense. Ivy (or is it Olive) is a fun heroine." - Rhys Bowen, New York Times Bestselling Author of the Molly Murphy and Royal Spyness Mysteries

Sub-Genre Tags: Humorous Mysteries, Amateur Sleuths, Women Sleuths, Private Investigator Books

Like every actor, Ivy Meadows knows that Macbeth is cursed. But she's finally scored her big break, cast as an acrobatic witch in a circus-themed production of Macbeth in Phoenix, Arizona. And though it may not be Broadway, nothing can dampen her enthusiasm-not her flying caldron, too-tight leotard, or carrot-wielding dictator of a director.

But when one of the cast dies on opening night, Ivy is sure the seeming accident is "murder most foul" and that she's the perfect person to solve the crime (after all, she does work part-time in her uncle's detective agency). Undeterred by a poisoned Big Gulp, the threat of being blackballed, and the suddenly too-real curse, Ivy pursues the truth at the risk of her hard-won career-and her life.

Praise for MACDEATH:

"An easy read that will have you hooked from the first page. It is definitely packed with surprises all the way to the end. Cindy Brown uses what she knows from the theater life to give us an exciting mystery with all the suspense that keeps you holding on." - Fresh Fiction

"Macdeath is a whodunit with a comic spirit, and Ivy Meadows has real heart. You'll never experience the Scottish play the same way again!" - Ian Doescher, Author of the William Shakespeare's Star Wars Series

"Funny and unexpectedly poignant, Macdeath is that rarest of creatures: a mystery that will make you laugh out loud. I loved it!" - April Henry, New York Times Bestselling Author

"Vivid characters, a wacky circus production of Macbeth, and a plot full of surprises make this a perfect read for a quiet evening. Pour a glass of wine, put your feet up, and enjoy! Bonus: it's really funny." - Ann Littlewood, Award-Winning Author of the Iris Oakley "Zoo-dunnit" Mysteries

"Featuring the fierce and determined Ivy Meadows, a delightful misfit with a knack for getting herself into-and ultimately out of-trouble, this gripping mystery is both satisfyingly clever and rich with unerring comedic timing. Without a doubt, Macdeath is one of the most entertaining debuts I've read in a very long time." - Bill Cameron, Spotted Owl Award-winning author of County Line

Books in the Ivy Meadows Humorous Mystery Series:

MACDEATH (#1)
THE SOUND OF MURDER (#2) September 2015

Part of the Henery Press Mystery Series Collection, if you like one, you'll probably like them all...

Author Bio: Cindy Brown has been a theater geek (musician, actor, director, producer, and playwright) since her first professional gig at age 14. Now a full-time writer, she's lucky enough to have garnered several awards (including 3rd place in the 2013 international Words With Jam First Page Competition, judged by Sue Grafton!) and is an alumnus of the Squaw Valley Writers Workshop. Though Cindy and her husband now live in Portland, Oregon, she made her home in Phoenix, Arizona, for more than 25 years and knows all the good places to hide dead bodies in both cities.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781940976723
Publisher:	Henery Press
Publication date:	01/20/2015
Pages:	258
Product dimensions:	5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.63(d)

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

So Fair and Foul a Day

Like every actor, I knew Macbeth was cursed, that death and destruction and all manner of bad things happen during the show. You'd think I would've remembered this the day of my audition.

"My name is Ivy Meadows, and I am an actress!" Yuck. I grimaced at myself in the rearview mirror and started up my car. I felt stupid doing these affirmations, and especially stupid when I did them badly. I was an actress, dammit, albeit one who didn't make a living at it, yet. Bob always says it's just a matter of time before someone recognizes my beauty, worth, and talent. Bob's my uncle, not my boyfriend. That's an affirmation for another day.

I put my little green Aspire in gear, pulled out of my apartment's parking lot, and headed for Phoenix Shakespeare Theater. I had scored a blue silk top off the sale rack at Re-Dud, and felt very elegant, very professional, very "classical"— for about three minutes. That's when I noticed my car's air conditioning was still blowing hot air. Which meant no air conditioning.

I took a deep breath. "My name is Ivy Meadows and I am an actress!"

The affirmation worked about as well as the air conditioning. The hundred-and-one degree day wasn't bad for August, but skyscraper-tall thunderheads made the air unusually muggy. My blouse was beginning to stick to my armpits.

"My name is Ivy Meadows and I am an actress!"

The car was heating up, but the affirmation was sounding better. I was getting used to my new name. It had taken me awhile to come up with it. I had tried what my drag queen friends do — that is, taking the name of your first pet and combining it with the name of the street where you grew up. They came up with great names like Mitzi Eldorado or Squeaky Dora, but mine ended up being Stubby Rural Route Number Two. So instead I took my name from a subdivision off the 51 that has neither ivy nor meadows, this being Phoenix and all.

Something tickled. I looked down. Sweat rivulets were streaking dark indigo stripes down my peacock-blue blouse. The dashboard clock showed just twenty minutes before my scheduled audition time. No time to go home and change. Dang, dang, dang! I really wanted this gig. Getting cast in this show could launch my career in acting.

I could do this. After all, "My name is Ivy Meadows and I am an actress!" I turned the fan on high, stepped on the gas, and zoomed toward the theater.

By the time I reached the theater parking lot, my top was soaked, stuck to me like Saran Wrap. But what could I do? I jogged to the stage door, heels sinking slightly into the melting asphalt of the parking lot, and shoved open the door. Inside, the blast of the air conditioning against my wet blouse gave me goose bumps, and nipples. It wasn't a look I was going for right then.

I ran into the hallway and tossed my headshot and résumé to a sturdy woman with close-cropped brown hair and a stick-on name tag that read "Linda, Stage Manager."

"Ivy Meadows," I yelled. "Two twenty. I'll be right back."

I turned around and ran right into Simon Black. Yes, the Simon Black. We'd worked together on an independent film a few months earlier — a film that never got made when Simon, its star, didn't show up on the final day of the shoot.

"Lovely to see you again." The aging star was looking a bit tarnished — dark circles under his brilliant blue eyes, a slight whiff of alcohol on his breath. It didn't matter. He still had the voice. Deep and rumbling with a fabulous English accent, that voice had graced the stages of the Royal Shakespeare Company and thundered from movie screens in multiplexes. Only to wash up in Phoenix.

"I love you as a blonde, my dear, but ..." He eyed my Saran Wrap blouse.

"I know. Gotta run." I headed for the restroom. As I skidded into the bathroom, Simon called, "Break a leg."

Instead I broke a heel. Right off. I'd just splurged twelve whole dollars at Payless for those piece-of-crap black vinyl pumps.

Soldiering on, I stuck my indigo-blue armpit under the hand dryer, then yelped as a gust of cold air shocked my system. I banged on the stupid thing and burst into tears.

A knock, and Simon poked his head in. "Everything alright?"

I looked at him with mascara-raccoon eyes, wearing one shoe, a wet blouse, and nipples.

"Ah," he said. "I see."

About a minute later, the stage manager pushed the door open and tossed me a leopard-spotted leotard. A hideous leopard-spotted leotard. "Simon said you needed this."

I tore off my top and skirt, kicked off my one good shoe, and pulled on the leotard. It fit, tightly, but off the shoulder — there was no way to wear my bra with it. I wriggled out of my bra and pulled my stretchy black skirt on over the leotard. I glanced in the mirror. Actually, it wasn't too bad, except for the mascara running down my ...

"You're up." Linda pulled me out of the bathroom and into my new, very Shakespearean life, one full of love and betrayal — and murder.

CHAPTER 2

Chance May Crown Me

I ran down the hall to the audition room, pulled myself up to my full five foot two, and whispered under my breath, "My name is Ivy Meadows and I am an actress." I opened the door and strode into the room. Head held high, I focused on the director, who sat behind a table at the far end of the big, windowless space, chewing on a carrot. "Hi," I said, with my best smile, "My name is Ivy — oof!"

I fleetingly saw the cord snaked across the floor as I tumbled head over shoeless heels, pulled myself into a somersault, and landed at the feet of one of Phoenix's best directors. Edward Heath, a small thin man with a small thin mustache and a shirt unbuttoned one too many, stared at me, then slowly applauded. "Brilliant," he said, as I scrambled to my feet. "Perfect." A note of concern tugged at his mustache. "But the concept is supposed to be under wraps. Linda!"

The stage manager opened the door. A funky smell entered the room with her.

"It seems we have a leak," said Edward.

"That's just my shoes." Linda's white Nikes shone a slightly slimy green under the fluorescent lights. "Sorry."

"My concept. Someone must have leaked my concept."

Linda shrugged her flannel-shirted shoulders. "Don't know how." She turned to go.

"And the smell?" Edward wrinkled his nose at the odor, best described as eau d' dive bar bathroom.

"My old friend Simon." Linda's jaw clenched. "He threw up on my shoes."

Shaking his head, Edward dismissed Linda with a wave of his carrot and picked up my headshot and résumé from among the ones scattered on the table. "Ivy Meadows ..." He looked up at me. "Aren't you Olive Ziegwart?"

He knew me! I nodded.

"Olive Zieg-wart. Ha! Smart to change that name."

My father used to tell us that Ziegwart meant "victory nipple" in German. I don't know why he thought that would make us feel better.

"So, Olive — Ivy —, how long have you been a gymnast?"

A what? Oh, the somersault. I punted. "Since I was little."

It was true. I did do gymnastics in school, and the occasional handstand on the front lawn if anyone interesting was watching.

"Good, good." He gnawed on the carrot. He had several more lined up like orange pens in his front shirt pocket.

"And how did you hear about," he lowered his voice, "the concept?"

I had no earthly idea what he was talking about. "Well, you know, your reputation for unusual ..."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Unusual-ly intriguing ..."

A smile. Phew.

"Adaptations ..."

"I do not do adaptations! Every word belongs to the Bard." A fine spray of chewed-up carrot just missed me.

Dang. What word had he used earlier? Concept.

"I mean conceptualizations ..."

His smile returned.

"Of Shakespeare's work fascinated me to the point where I did a little detective work, just to see how I could best fit into the world you have imagined." I was on a roll now. "Of course I can't reveal my sources, but I can promise you I won't breathe a word of this. It's a brilliant concept."

"Thank you. I don't believe it's been done before. Not many can say that. I did consider making our hero a pirate and setting the whole thing at sea, but I feel this is much more original, don't you?" he said, waving his carrot in the air.

I nodded.

"All right then. Based on your appearance and your entrance, you obviously had in mind one of the witches' roles."

I did?

Edward slid a "side" — several printed pages of the script — across the table. "Read the first witch in this scene."

Yikes. A cold reading of a Shakespearean tumbling witch. I really wanted to do the monologue I'd prepared, but I plunged into the part, starting off with another somersault. The side flew out of my hands. I scampered after it, and read, "Where hast thou been, sister?"

Edward, reading the second witch's part, replied in a squeaky voice, "Killing swine." Then, in a deep, raspy voice, he played the third witch, "Sister, where thou?"

Taking my cue from him, I squeaked and rasped, "A sailor's wife had carrots in her lap, And munch'd, and munch'd, and munch'd."

"Chestnuts!" Edward yelled. "She had chestnuts in her lap!"

"Chestnuts in her lap, And munch'd, and munch'd, and munch'd."

I threw in another somersault, hoping to distract him from my gaffe. "'Give me,' quoth I: 'Aroint thee, witch!' the rump-fed ronyon cries."

I didn't know what "rump-fed" actually meant, but slapped my ass as if I knew. Edward chuckled. Okay, then. I could do this.

"Her husband's to Aleppo gone, master o' the Tiger." I cracked an imaginary whip. "But in a sieve I'll thither sail, And, like a rat without a tail, I'll do, I'll do, and I'll do."

I chased my nonexistent rat tail and ended the scene with a triumphant cartwheel. I held a gymnast's victory pose while I waited for a response.

"Hmm," said Edward, worrying his carrot nub.

I tried to mask my heavy breathing. Who knew being a witch was such hard work?

"I see you're not especially modest," Edward said, eyeing my heaving breasts and bra-less perky nips. "That's good."

I found out two days later that I got the part. Victory nipple, indeed.

Too bad I'd forgotten about the curse.

CHAPTER 3

Happy Prologues to the Swelling Act

"Omigod, it's The Face of Channel 10," I whispered to my fellow witch.

"Quick, switch places with me." Candy MoonPie jumped up from the table in the rehearsal room where we sat waiting for the first read-through to begin. I obliged.

"Thanks, and watch out," Candy said as the overdressed newscaster zeroed in on the empty seat now next to me. "The man's a horndog. Last week on a commercial shoot, I had to 'accidentally' dump a soft drink in his lap just to get his hand off my knee."

I knew Candy MoonPie from theater parties. Candy was her real name, MoonPie wasn't. We called her that because of her affinity for the sticky sweet things and because her Louisiana accent was as thick as the marshmallow filling.

"Well, bless my socks!" she said. "If it isn't Bill Boxer. So nice to see you again. Can I get y'all something to drink? Maybe a Coke?"

The Face of Channel 10's smile froze in place. He ran a hand over his perfectly coiffed salt-and-pepper hair.

Candy gave me a conspiratorial smile. I'd always liked her. Everyone did. She literally bounced: a springy walk, lilting accent, and boing-y brown curls. I smiled back at her. This was going to be great. A cool castmate and my first show with a professional theater. I pulled my cotton cardigan tighter (damn air conditioning) and studied the people I'd be spending the next few months with. Lots of men — okay with me. Just four women: me, Candy, a freckly woman a little older than us, maybe early thirties, and Genevieve Fife. A thirty-something lithe brunette with pale skin and big dark eyes, Genevieve upstaged the rest of us just by walking into a room. I'd seen her onstage a number of times. She was an amazing actor, well-known for her Method acting. Once, in preparation for a role in Beckett's Endgame, she spent an entire day in a trashcan. She probably looked better in a trashcan than I looked at prom.

The smell of hairspray assaulted my nose as Bill sat down next to me. "Ivy Meadows," I said, sticking out my hand, just to be polite. "I'm playing the third witch."

The Face of Channel 10 shook my hand. "Bill Boxer. I'm reading Duncan." I could swear he was wearing bronzer.

Duncan. That was the role Simon would have played — if he hadn't thrown up on the stage manager's shoes.

Bill took something out of his briefcase, and settled it in his lap. I saw a yellow paperback cover. CliffsNotes for Macbeth. I nearly pointed it out to Candy, but took pity on the guy. "I'm so excited to be cast in Macbeth," I said. "What a great story."

"Er, right," said Bill, trying to sneak another look at his CliffsNotes.

"I mean, Macbeth kills his king and his best friend Banquo because he wants to believe a prediction by some so-called witches he meets at the beginning of the play."

"His king ... Macbeth kills Duncan?" Bill tried hard to make his question sound like a statement. He had also tried hard to mask his bad breath with mouthwash. Neither trick was working.

"I know, right?" I said. "Imagine you're the king. You just rewarded Macbeth with a new title, so you think he's inviting you to his castle to thank you. Instead, he and his wife murder you in your sleep."

"Duncan dies?" Then to himself, "Ooh, maybe a death scene."

I was about to tell Bill that Duncan dies offstage when Edward entered, brandishing a carrot. A forty-ish blonde Amazon in four-inch heels followed close behind: Pamela, the executive director of the theater and Edward's wife.

"I don't get it," I whispered to Candy. "Isn't Edward gay?"

"So they say."

"But he's married?"

"It's a mystery," she said.

Edward and Pamela took their seats next to Linda at the top of the horseshoe of folding tables.

"Welcome all," Edward said. "Be prepared to make Shakespearean history with this production. Never before has the world, let alone Phoenix, seen the Scottish play like this."

It was bad luck to say "Macbeth" out loud in a theater, hence "the Scottish play." Part of the famous curse. The story goes like this: To impress King James I, who fancied himself an authority on demonology, Shakespeare included a real spell in the play. Ticked off that Will had spilled one of their secrets, witches cursed the play. As a result (or a coincidence), all sorts of people have been killed during runs of Macbeth.

I nearly slapped my forehead. I had said "Macbeth" several times during my conversation with Bill. The curse couldn't be real, right?

Edward continued, "Forsaking tradition, this production takes place in," he paused dramatically, carrot in the air, "a circus."

Of course. My acrobatic witch.

"Imagine a traveling circus from the 1930s. Mackers is the lion tamer, Lady M. is the aerialist, and Duncan the ringmaster."

As if on cue, Simon walked in. Pamela stiffened, Bill sighed, and Edward pointed his carrot at him. "Ah. Here you are. Cast, a bit of housekeeping first. I'd like to read my two potential Duncans before we get started."

That's why Bill had said he was reading Duncan. For whatever reason, Edward hadn't decided who to cast as Duncan. Now Bill and Simon were going to have to audition again in front of actors who were already cast. It was a sucky place to be.

"Everyone in Scene Four, please stay," said Linda. "The rest of you, take ten."

When we were all back in the room ten minutes later, the seat next to me was empty. Until Simon sat down.

I leaned over to hug him. "Congratulations."

"Better watch out for him, too," Candy whispered in my ear.

"Nearly didn't get the part." Simon hugged me back. Seemed like a perfectly friendly hug. "To begin with, Edward is not terribly fond of me. Then there was the, ah, incident with Linda's shoes, and ..." He lowered his voice as a young bearded guy wearing a snug-fitting black T-shirt walked in. "Our Mac seems to have taken a dislike to me."

I surreptitiously checked out "our Mac," who had a broad, muscled chest and ocean-colored eyes that stood out against his dark hair and beard. Yowza.

Candy nudged me. "Hot, right?" Guess I need to work on my surreptitious skills.

"Ivy," Simon spoke quietly as I watched our hot Macbeth from under my eyelashes. "There's a bit of a favor I'd like to ask of you."

"Sure." Then I kicked myself inwardly. I always forgot to ask what the favor was before saying yes.

"I'd like you to witness my sobriety."

"What?" Simon had my full attention now.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "Macdeath"
by .
Copyright © 2014 Cindy Brown.
Excerpted by permission of Henery Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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