Oliver Twisted (An Ivy Meadows Mystery Book 3) (6 page)

CHAPTER 12

Troublesome Questions

“They’re calling Harley’s death natural causes,” said Uncle Bob, mumbling around the enormous stogie in his mouth.

“Like people naturally end up in closets when they die?” I waved away the cigar smoke, which smelled like a wet dog eating burnt sausage.

“That would be pretty convenient.” He puffed on his cigar thoughtfully. “You could make coffin closets. Just go in when you feel sick, never come out again.” He and Timothy and I sat in a back corner booth of the cigar bar, which was similar to the library in decor—dark wood and leather furniture—but done in shades of red, with burgundy leather, scarlet Oriental carpets, and an ornately carved bar lit by lamps with wine-colored shades. “Do you think she fell from somewhere?” Uncle Bob asked me.

“What? Why would you—” Oh. My text after the silk rehearsal. Didn’t really want Timothy to know how nervous I was (since he’d recommended me), so I shook my head and snuck a peek at him as I sipped my cream ale (I was off-duty).

He noticed my not-so-subtle glance. “Don’t worry about saying anything in front of me. My lips are sealed.” He puckered up and blew me a kiss. “They’re also really soft, thanks to this new lip balm.” He looked at me critically. “You know, Ivy, you could stand a little…”

“Beauty tips later. Investigation first,” Uncle Bob said.

“Do you think Harley was poisoned?” I said.

“Maybe. But there are usually signs.”

“Maybe there was some drug interaction.” It had happened to a friend of mine recently. “Do you know what Keppra is used for?”

Uncle Bob shook his head.

“You can use one of the internet cafes to look it up,” said Timothy. “Wi-Fi is spotty, depending on where we are, but if you—”

Uncle Bob cut him off. “Don’t think that’s wise. Someone could intercept the information, or even just read over your shoulder. Remember, we don’t know who is involved here.”

Good thing I used the library last night. “Harley wasn’t investigating too, was she?” I asked, remembering what Ada said about Harley’s “special assignment.”

“Not in any official capacity.”

“Anyone else know about us? I think someone is following me.”

“You sure?” Uncle Bob put down his cigar.

“No, but it feels like it. And I keep seeing a top hat out of the corner of my eye.”

“A top hat. Must be a crew member.”

“Not necessarily,” said Timothy. “A lot of the guests dress up too.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” said Uncle Bob.

“Wish I had my spy sunglasses.”

“Olive.” Uncle Bob gave me a stern look. “This is not a game. Be careful, all right?”

I nodded and blew out a stream of smoke.

Yeah, I was smoking. A pipe, which is what I was told Nancy would smoke. What we actors do for art.

“You’re not inhaling, right?” Timothy said. “I’d be devastated if I contributed to the ruin of your vocal cords.”

“You’re safe. I’m not inhaling, and I don’t think I’ll become a lifelong pipe smoker.”

The tobacco I’d bought smelled pleasantly fruity in the air, but tasted like hot ashes in my mouth.

Uncle Bob blew a smoke ring. “Did you know that they sold Pickwick cigars when
The Pickwick Papers
became a hit?” said my trivia-loving uncle. “China tchotchkes too.”

“Did you know Dickens studied to be an actor?” asked Timothy.

“I didn’t,” I said.

“Did you know,” Uncle Bob grinned at Timothy, happy to have a fellow trivia buff, “that when Dickens used to read the murder scene in
Oliver Twist
—”

“You mean Nancy’s death?” Timothy asked. “Where Sikes beats her to death?”

Uncle Bob nodded. “That scene was so shocking that at one of Dickens’s readings, a bunch of ladies,” he made finger quotes, “‘were borne out, stiff and rigid from its effect.’”

“Never happens to me,” said Timothy.

“Can we please get back to the dead girl in the closet?” I turned to my uncle. “Do you think the ship’s doctor is covering up what really happened? Maybe he’s in on the whole theft ring.”

“I had that thought too. I’m looking into it. I’ve also got a list of regular
Get Lit!
cruisers onboard, people who’ve been on more than one ship. I’m working on meeting them and questioning them, in a friendly way, of course. Find out if they know anything helpful.”

“Or if they’re a part of the operation,” I said. “Which ships have had thefts?”

“All of ’em. The
Jack London
incident was the kicker, but there have been substantial amounts stolen from all the ships. We don’t have a lot to go on. You got anything?”

“Nothing.” I took a long drink of my ale. “Except a bad wig, a cranky roommate, and maybe Theo Pushwright.”

“Yeah?”

I explained my theory about Theo’s book. “I know it’s a long shot,” I said. “But the fact that Harley kept her copy separate from her other books plus the sort of special signature could imply a relationship.”

“You’re right about the long shot thing. Plus that guy’s got more money than God. I can’t see how he’d be involved in any theft ring.” Uncle Bob drained the last of his beer. “I got a couple of things. There’s a high-end jewelry store onboard. No thefts from it, but several of its customers have had their jewelry stolen a few days afterward.”

“Which points to someone with inside knowledge,” I said. “Which we kinda already knew.”

“Yeah. The thing is, the thieves must stash the stolen goods onboard, but where?”

“Good question,” said Timothy. “You know the phrase ‘shipshape?’ They clean every inch of this ship all the time. They even inspect the crew quarters.”

“You said you had a couple of things?” I asked my uncle.

“Yeah. You met any Eastern Europeans yet?”

“Sure. There’s Valery and about a hundred others.” I wasn’t exaggerating. Probably a third of the ship’s staff was from Russia or Serbia or Romania or another European country ending with “ia.”

“Got a tip that the thefts may be related to some sort of Eastern European gang working the ships. Keep your eye on ’em.”

“Isn’t that racial profiling?” asked Timothy.

“I don’t think Eastern European is a race,” I said. “Wouldn’t it be ‘cultural profiling?’ Or ‘region-specific profiling?’”

“It would be a tip.” Uncle Bob set down his beer glass and got up. “And one that a smart detective would follow up on.”

CHAPTER 13

Fresh Discoveries

“Gluhhhhhh,” I groaned. “Does anything feel worse than a queasy stomach?”

“Probably lots of things. Torture, surgery without anesthetic, getting your unmentionables waxed.”

I smacked Timothy. “It was a rhetorical question. Wait, do you wax…down there?”

“Slick as a whistle.”

“Okay, I think you just upped the nausea factor.” We sat at a table in Boz’s Buffet. We’d gone there after our cigar bar meeting to get some dinner before rehearsal. I had just finished a big plate of sushi, which
Get Lit!
had tried to make more Dickensian by calling it names like Street Urchin’s Uni, Oliver’s Ono, and Micawber’s Mackerel Maki. “Do you think I ate some bad fish?”

Timothy shook his head. “You just ate dinner. Food poisoning takes time. More likely the combination of rough seas, pipe smoke, and beer. Plus sushi.”

I could see that. I also knew there were two more things causing my stomach to roil. Harley’s dead face still floated in the back of my mind. And as if a dead roommate wasn’t enough, there was the idea of dancing forty feet in the air in front of an audience held up by just a piece of fabric. I’d been keeping the thought at bay, but it crept back into my consciousness as tonight’s rehearsal neared. I wasn’t sure I could do it. Aerial work took a lot of upper body and core strength. I was already sore after just the one rehearsal. Ada had offhandedly remarked that it usually took months to learn the silks. I had just three more rehearsals.

“Omigod, omigod, omigod.” Timothy elbowed me so hard I bet I’d have a bruise.

“Ow. What?”

Timothy’s furry fake Fagin eyebrows nearly met his hairline. He stared fixedly at the buffet line, where cruisers were lined up, jowl to jowl.

“What?” I said again.

“Val,” he whispered. “I just saw him pick that guy’s pocket.”

“Really?” I followed his line of sight. Sure enough, there was Val chatting with a young brunette who stood in the line for the buffet. He wore his Bill Sikes costume: a ratty hat pulled low, a tattered scarf around his neck, a vest with a few strategically placed moth holes, and a greatcoat. Lots of pockets. Lots of places to hide small stolen goods?

“No way,” I said. “Val’s not the criminal type.” I prided myself on my intuition about people. “What exactly did you see?”

Timothy leaned close. “Val bumped into that guy.” He pointed at a large man standing in the buffet line. “And I swear he reached into his back pocket.”

Though I was pretty sure Timothy’s sighting was the result of an overactive imagination, I did watch Val out of the corner of my eye. He bowed and scraped and flirted outrageously, but I never saw him do anything remotely suspicious.

The big man Timothy had pointed out headed toward a table near us where a woman sat with two kids. They all wore shorts and t-shirts with sayings on them. The man, whose shirt said, “I’d wrap that in bacon,” sat down heavily at the table. “When do you think the ship’s gonna disappear?” he said to his wife. Her chest read, “I’m not short. I’m fun-size.”

“Oh, honey.” The guy’s wife clucked in sympathy. “I asked, and they said it’s not that David Copperfield. I’m so sorry.”

“Happens more often than you’d think,” Timothy whispered.

“Oh.” The guy’s face fell. “Well, at least the food’s good.” He tucked into his dinner.

“There is a magic show though,” said his wife. “
Fagin’s Magic Handkerchief
.”

“The pressure’s on,” Timothy said.

And my nausea was back. I pushed myself away from the table and tried to get my mind off silks and audiences and splats of Ivy on the stage floor. My cell buzzed, telling me I had new messages. “Hey, I must have a signal.” I took my phone out of my Victorian-style pocket, basically a small muslin bag attached to a cord that tied around my waist underneath my gown. My overskirt had a slit sewn into it that gave me direct access to the pocket underneath. Very handy, so to speak.

“Grab it quick,” Timothy said. “Before we go out of range again.”

I flipped through a bunch of emails, an old text from Uncle Bob, several missed calls, and one new message. I called voicemail.

“Hi.” My brother’s voice. “Can you talk to Stu?” A sweet guy with Down Syndrome, Stu was Cody’s best friend at the group home. “He’s mad about—” He paused. “Stu? Where are you going? Never mind, Olive-y.” That was Cody’s pet name for me, a combination of Olive and Ivy. He hung up.

The call didn’t help the queasy feeling in my gut. Cody never called me. I ran the conversation over in my mind. I was pretty sure I knew what Stu was mad about. When I saw Cody last week, he told me Stu had been put on a diet. Diets made me cranky too. Still, I decided to call.

“Dang.” No reception. I held up my phone, trying to find a few bars. Nothing.

“I want to go to the Penny Arcade,” said the oldest of the t-shirt family kids, “The World’s Okayest Brother” according to his shirt.

Get Lit!
cruises tried to appeal to families seeking to further their children’s education, so each ship had a few kid-friendly activities onboard. The
S.S. David Copperfield
featured a Curiosity Shoppe that hosted scavenger hunts, Scrooge’s Haunted House (occupied by the three Christmas ghosts plus a pretty spooky Marley), and an arcade that featured Dickens-themed video games, like Betsey Trotwood’s Donkey Kong (David Copperfield’s great-aunt Betsey hated donkeys).

“I need some cash,” said the kid.

“Again?” said his mother.

“I wouldn’t, if Dad would let me have a sail-and-sign card.”

“Buddy, you’re the last person who needs a sail-and-sign card,” his dad said.

I stood up from the table and walked a few feet, trying to see if any bars magically appeared on my phone, so I was close enough to see the guy’s ruddy face turn pale.

“Damn,” he said, standing and patting his pockets. “My wallet’s gone.”

CHAPTER 14

Still Improving

“So what do you know about Valery?” I asked Timothy as we ran down the stairs to the crew cabin area. My stomach lurched with every step, but we had to move quickly in time for me to grab a change of clothes and get to rehearsal.

“Not much. Russian, good actor, ladies’ man.”

“Really?” Val was nice in a goofy sort of way, but his ghostly pale skin, muddy-colored dark hair, and creepy-colored eyes put me in mind of an anemic vampire.

“He’s got something going for him,” Timothy said as he opened the stairwell door to the hall. “Rumor is he’s got a big—”

“Heart,” I said before Timothy could say more. Didn’t really want the image of a naked Val in my head. I mean, maybe all of him was pale, even the nether bits, which would be weird since…Dang. Guess the image was already imprinted on my brain.

“Also, he tends to take his clothes off when he gets drunk. Just a warning.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Just a sec.” I unlocked my cabin door and went in while Timothy waited in the hall.

I took off my wig and gown and changed into a t-shirt and pair of leggings. I hopped the two steps to the bathroom, popped my last two chewable Tums in my mouth, met Timothy in the hall, ran to the theater, and jumped onstage just a few seconds before Jonas and Ada walked on from the backstage area.

“Hey,” said Jonas, “you look great.” He sounded surprised and impressed at the same time. “First time I’ve seen you without a wig since the cut. Short hair really shows off your long neck. I can even see a little Audrey Hepburn in you.”

Audrey Hepburn! I stretched my neck like a preening swan.

“Yeah, if Audrey Hepburn had orange hair and a butt like a sack of potatoes.” Ada flopped a mat under one of the silks.

I whipped my head around to check out my butt, just in case.

“Ivy has a delicious ass,” Jonas said to Ada.

Delicious! It was a pretty nice ass, but no one had ever called it delicious. Was Jonas interested in me? “Start stretching,” he said. “The way Ada showed you last time.” He turned away. Not interested then.

I dropped to the floor and went into a modified lunge, one leg bent in front with my foot flat on the floor, and the other stretched behind me.

Jonas tugged on a rope, and the second silk fell from its place in the fly space. “Timothy, David,” he said to the guys who sat in the front row. “We’re going to go over the basic moves with Ivy. You don’t have to be here for another hour.”

“Moral support,” said Timothy.

“Just watching,” said David.

“What about Val? Will he be at rehearsal later?” I stayed in the lunge position and put my palms flat on the floor. It felt good to stretch my sore muscles.

“No.” Jonas looked at me strangely, probably since Val wasn’t in the magic show. I knew that, but wanted to find out what they knew about him.

“He’s a great actor.” I lowered my front leg to the floor and bent it so that it tucked in front of me. “Sends shivers down my spine when he talks in his Bill Sikes voice.”

“He’s got a great Cockney accent,” Jonas said. “Maybe he could give you a few pointers.”

I made a mental note to work on my accent and persevered. “It’s crazy that he’s so good at acting in English. Did he study here in the U.S.?” I reached back and grabbed my leg, pointing my toe toward the ceiling.

“I don’t think he’s had any formal training. Do you know, David?”

David shook his head.

“David is his roommate,” Jonas said. “Valery used to work onboard as a busboy. He came to me one day after an actor quit. Said he used to act in school and asked if he could audition. Blew me away. I hired him on the spot.”

“Did he go to drama school in Russia?” I watched Ada climb up her silk like Jack scaling the beanstalk.

“I didn’t ask.” Jonas tilted his head, considering me. “Why so interested?”

“Ivy’s got a crush,” sang Timothy.

I spun around and glared at him. “Do not.”

“Do too.” He winked at me, unseen by everyone else. I glared at him and he winked again, slower this time, like he was conveying a message. Oh, he was helping me out. I had been sounding a little investigator-ish.

Jonas waved me over to take my place underneath my silk. “Okay. Time to learn some dance moves.” He held the silk out to me.

“Tie yourself in, using your left foot,” Ada said from above me. I gripped the silk, pulled myself a few feet above the stage and wrapped the silk around my foot, securing my position with a footlock. My arms, still shaky from yesterday’s rehearsal, burned with the effort, and my foot felt bruised from my former attempt at climbing. “Now separate the two pieces with your arms, keeping your elbows at head level.” The fabric was attached in the middle to a beam above me so that its two tails hung down. I separated them. “Now lean forward through the silk.”

“Whoa.” I flailed in the air. Must have leaned too far.

“Like this.” Ada did exactly what she told me, but leaned forward in a fluid motion, ending up in a position that looked like a figurehead on a ship. I was never going to be able to do that. Never. But I was an actor and dancer and a stubborn one, so I smiled and persevered. I tried the move again. “Ohhh.” I actually got it. Nowhere near performance quality, but a start. “Cool.”

“Now bring your right leg up to your knee in a jazz passé.”

I did. Now I looked like a figurehead about to leap off the prow of the ship.

“It’s called The Ship’s Lady,” said Jonas.

I performed the move again, more gracefully this time.

“Bravo,” Timothy said from the audience.

“Nice,” Jonas agreed.

“Please.” Ada rolled her eyes.

She whipped through a few more moves. Jonas clapped his hands together, not in applause. “That’s great, Ada. Now slow down into teaching mode, all right?”

The look on Ada’s face did not say it was all right, but she did stop showing off. She taught me several more moves, mostly dance poses done in mid-air. They took a lot of strength, especially arm strength, but they were familiar moves I’d performed for years, just not in the air. Maybe I could do this.

“Good work,” said Jonas as I touched down on the mat. “Just one more piece of business. Let’s go up to the catwalk.”

Ada began climbing the steel rungs set into the side wall of the theater. I followed. Jonas climbed the ladder behind me. Good thing I had a delicious ass.

I reached the catwalk and walked out on it, the metal grating cool beneath my bare feet. “I’m not going to have to get on the silks from here, am I?” Being hauled up into the air by a pulley was bad enough. Stepping off a catwalk forty feet in the air would feel like walking off a cliff.

“Oh no,” said Jonas. “That would be much too dangerous. We’re up here so you can see how the silks are rigged. We have certified riggers, like Ada here,” he nodded at my roommate, “but you need to check your own equipment too.”

“Each silk is secured to a beam by a span set,” said Ada, pointing to a black band that wrapped around a metal beam in the fly space. “Then you’ve got several pieces of hardware connected by carabiners.” Those were the little metal hook thingies that climbers used. “First of all, check that all carabiners are locked. There are three. One that connects the span set to the pulley.” She pointed at the carabiner and looked to me for confirmation that I understood. I nodded.

“A second one that connects the pulley to the swivel.” She indicated a figure-eight-shaped piece of hardware that swiveled in the middle of the eight. “And a third one that connects the swivel to the Rescue Eight.” This piece of equipment, the Rescue Eight, was about the same size as the others, but was nearly covered by the silk knotted around it so I couldn’t see it well.

“Check your equipment carefully every time you use the silks,” Jonas said. “You really don’t want to fall from this height.”