Any theater worth its salt has a ghost. There are famous ghosts, like “The Man in Gray,” who’s made his home in London’s Theatre Royal since the eighteenth century; “The Most Beautiful Girl in New York City,” a Ziegfield Follies showgirl who haunts NYCs New Amsterdam Theatre; and even Judy Garland, who’s said to appear at the Palace Theatre on Broadway. But in general, the ghosts are known only to those of us who work in the theater, who are there when the lights are off and the stage is dark and the dressing room doors creak open by themselves.

But on the February morning when this story began, I wasn’t thinking of ghosts. I wasn’t thinking of theaters, either, even though I was wrapping up a successful run of Twelfth Night. And even though I was driving to work, I wasn’t thinking about my job at Duda Detectives or what my uncle/boss would say when I got in, this being the third time this month I’d been late. No, I was just trying to figure out who was calling me.

I didn’t recognize the number, which gave me pause. I was in a fix, phone-wise. As an actor, I needed to give out my number to pretty much anyone who wanted it. You never knew who might be filming in Phoenix and needed a twenty-something blonde. On the other hand, as a part-time almost private investigator, I needed to be circumspect about giving out contact info, since PIs didn’t usually work on cases involving nice people. I typically erred on the side of optimism, which meant I needed to be careful with unknown numbers. I picked up on speakerphone. “Hello?” I shouted. My pickup was great for back roads, but boy, it was noisy on the highway.

“Whuifgfai Ivy?”

Dang. The caller must be using speakerphone too. But it must be about acting work. Ivy Meadows was my stage name. I used my real name, Olive Ziegwart, at the detective agency.

“Sorry, I can’t hear you,” I shouted. “Who’s calling?”

“Gadjkfsah Andi,” crackled a female voice. “Andi Oo tie.”

“Andi Uti?” Maybe a Native American woman named Andi? Cool. Maybe I’d get to film something on the res.

“Annie oo pie, or fest friend? I ear in town.”

“Candy!” Candy MoonPie was my best friend. She moved out to LA almost two years ago, hoping for film or TV work. But I had her number. Or at least I thought I did. I suddenly realized she hadn’t returned any of my calls for a month or so. “You’re in town? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

“Codpkaated.”

Cod-caked? “What?” I grabbed my phone and took it off speaker.

Hooooonk!

“What was that?” Candy said into my ear.

“Just an unexpected lane change.” I waved an apology at the semi driver I’d cut off. “So you’re in town? For how long? And where have you been?”

“Like I said before, it’s complicated.”

Ah, “complicated,” not “cod-caked.” Much better. Maybe. “When can I see you?”

“That’s what I’m calling about. Can you come to rehearsal tonight? We’re at the Grand Phoenician.”

“Omigod, did you get a touring gig?” The aforementioned theater hosted only touring shows and celebrities. Though Candy hadn’t been in contact for a while, I was pretty sure she hadn’t become famous overnight.

“Yeah. Can you come?”

“Sure. No show tonight.” Twelfth Night didn’t run on Wednesdays. “Thanks. I’d really like to see you.” Now that I could hear Candy better, I also heard something in her voice, or rather a lack of something. Candy always sounded like she was having fun, or just about to go have fun, or maybe a little tired from having fun. But now, the soft Southern lilt in her voice was gone, replaced by something hard and fast, like her Louisiana accent had up and moved to Brooklyn.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Fine and dandy.” Well, that sounded more like her. “Come by the stage door tonight and give them my name, and they’ll let you in. Just remember my name’s Candace Moon now.”

“Since when?”

“Since I needed to register with the unions.” As actors, we had to register our names with the unions, sort of like businesses had to do with corporation commissions. “I couldn’t use my real one. It sounds like a stripper.”

Candy was known in Phoenix as Candy MoonPie partly because she loved the marshmallow-y treats, and partly because she never liked to use her real name: Candy Treat. Her parents had some sense of humor.

“So I’ll see you tonight?” she said.

“Of course.” I pulled into a parking spot just a block away from my uncle’s office building. “Hey, I forgot to ask. What show are you—”

But Candy had already hung up.

I got out of my truck, slower than I should have for someone who was late to work. My stomach felt funny, and I didn’t think it was the discounted sausage I’d had for breakfast. It was Candy. She wasn’t herself, and that wasn’t good.

You can read more about Ivy in Phantom of Oz, the fifth book in the “Ivy Meadows” mystery series, coming January 30, 2018.

Creepy munchkins. A mysterious phantom. And a real Wicked Witch.

Who dropped a chandelier on the Wicked Witch of the East? Was it the ghost who haunts the Grand Phoenician Theatre? A “wicked witch” among the cast of The Wizard: A Space OZpera? Or is it someone—or something—more sinister? Actress and part-time PI Ivy Meadows has been hired to uncover the cause of the creepy accidents that plague the roadshow. It’s Ivy’s most personal case so far. Her best friend Candy, who’s touring with the show, is caught in a downward spiral of self-destruction, and is in more danger than she knows. To save her friend and the show, Ivy must answer some tough questions: Do spirits really exist? What is real beauty? What does friendship mean? Ivy needs to learn the answers, and fast—before Candy reaches the point of no return.

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About the author
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 the author of the Agatha-nominated Ivy Meadows series, madcap mysteries set in the off, off, OFF Broadway world of theater. Cindy and her husband live in Portland, Oregon, though 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.

She’d love to connect with readers at cindybrownwriter.com (where they can sign up for her Slightly Silly Newsletter) or on Facebook or Twitter.