Oliver Twisted (An Ivy Meadows Mystery Book 3) Read online

  He handed over Bette’s phone. I took it and tapped an email icon. Her email address, “woodfox,” wasn’t helpful, but the first message I checked was signed Bernadette Woodward.

  “Jackpot,” I said

  “Jackpot? What are you, like eighty or something?” Oliver said.

  “What would Dickens say?”

  He thought a minute. “‘In luck, then.’ Or maybe he’d call me a clever dog.”

  “All right: we’re in luck, then, you clever dog. Now scram. And remember, don’t breathe a word of this or—”

  “Girl’s panties, right.” He scooted away.

  A lame threat, I knew. I hoped it would hold.

  My cell buzzed in my skirt pocket. Matt. Yes.

  I picked up. “I’m so glad it’s you.”

  “And I’m glad it’s you. Wait, I called, didn’t I?”

  Upon hearing Matt’s voice, a great wave of relief crashed over me. “Really. I am. God, it’s good to talk to someone I can trust.” Tears pricked my eyes.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s not so much what’s wrong as what’s not right.”

  “Matt waited for me to explain. He was good that way.

  “You know that feeling you get when you’re the new kid on the block, and you don’t know which kids are going to be your friends, or which dogs might bite you? Or the way you feel when your best friend has found a new better friend? Put those two together and then add your brother going missing and…” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “But talking to you is like coming home and your dog is there and so happy to see you, and you hug him and everything is all right again.”

  “So I’m like your dog?” I heard the smile in Matt’s voice and I smiled too.

  “Best dog in the world,” I said. “Thanks. I appreciate it more than you know. So, everything back to usual there?”

  “Pretty much. I missed an exam, but they’re letting me make it up.” Matt was getting his Masters in Social Work at Arizona State. “In fact, I’m on my way to meet with my professor now.” He was probably at ASU downtown already, crossing the street with his relaxed stride, maybe carrying a few books, smiling at the people he passed...“I wish I had more time to talk, but I’m nearly there, and I wanted to tell you what I found out.”

  “Right.” Back to the task at hand.

  “Okay, as far as I can tell, Keppra is only used to treat seizures.”

  So Harley didn’t just have a sleep disorder. She had epilepsy. She must have been diagnosed after leaving her mom’s house.

  “And yes, people can die from epilepsy. It’s called Sudden Unexpected Death in Epilepsy, or SUDEP. About one out of a thousand people die from it per year.”

  “Do they have any idea what causes it?”

  “Not really. People with poorly controlled seizures are more at risk.” It sounded like he was reading now. “As are those taking multiple anticonvulsant drugs and people who have long-standing chronic epilepsy.”

  “Hmm.” That didn’t really sound like Harley. “Any other risk factors?”

  “Generalized tonic-clonic seizures—what they used to call grand mal seizures—and nocturnal seizures, and also—”

  “Wait, night seizures?” That sounded like Harley.

  “Right.”

  “Go on.”

  Matt continued reading: “Also, not taking medication as prescribed or stopping medication.”

  Harley’s prescription bottle had been empty. “What does death from SUDEP look like?”

  “Like natural causes. Even during an autopsy, they have to rule out every other cause of death. And of course, they have to know that the person had epilepsy.”

  “I think you may have just solved a mystery.”

  “Did someone die?”

  “Two people did. But now it looks like just one was murdered.” With this new information, I strongly suspected Harley died of SUDEP. Whoever was with her must have panicked and stuffed her in the closet.

  “Murdered? I can’t believe I have to hang up right after you tell me that. But—”

  “But you need to take that exam. I understand. Break a leg, all right?”

  “Yeah. And Ivy, be careful, okay?”

  “I will.”

  CHAPTER 53

  The Sneaking Way

  “Consider yourself onboard,” a voice sang. “Consider yourself one of the barnacles.” David was giving another preview, singing the ensemble’s song all by himself. Perfect. I’d grab him once he finished. I could find out if he knew about Harley’s epilepsy and I could ask him to deliver a note to Bette. I’d planned to use Timothy as messenger, but considering what Oliver said, I thought it best to keep him out of the loop for a while.

  David’s preview would last a few more minutes. I found a little cubby next to the shore excursions desk and composed the note to Bette quickly, using paper and an envelope I’d snagged from the guest services desk.

  “Dear Ms. Woodward,” I wrote, “I found your phone. I thought about turning it into lost and found, but know there have been a number of thefts onboard and so decided it was best to return it to you personally. Please meet me in the back corner booth of the cigar bar at 4:30 p.m.” I scrawled an illegible signature and added, “P.S. I apologize for sending this note via messenger, but am booked for a spa treatment. I’ve shown an employee a photo of you (from your phone) so that he’ll deliver this note to the right hands.”

  Perfect. It sounded completely innocent on the surface, but hinted that the letter writer had been rummaging around on her phone. Bette would definitely show up. I sealed the envelope and tucked the note in my pocket just as David bowed to a smattering of applause. I joined the little group of people around him. “Nicely done, Dodge,” I said. “Could you spare your Nance a minute or two?”

  “Anything for you.”

  I smiled. “I’d Do Anything” was one of my favorite songs from the original Oliver!

  “What is it, milady?” David said once his fans had left.

  “Do you think you could deliver a message to someone for me?”

  “Sure.”

  I handed him the envelope. “Her name’s Bette Foxberry.” I pulled her phone out of my skirt pocket and scrolled through the photos until I found a selfie. The photo showed a laughing Bette standing next to Uncle Bob, and the way he looked at her made my fillings hurt. “This is her.” I showed the pic to David. “Or should that be ‘she’? This is she?” I suspected my focus on grammar was my brain’s way of distracting me from the hurt I was going to cause Uncle Bob. Necessary hurt, I reminded myself. He was in danger. “She’s wearing a black blazer over a black and silver leopard print top and black pants,” I told David. “She’s probably with a big guy who looks like a rancher. I saw her about ten minutes ago by the Charles Dickens statue.”

  “Got it. Any message?”

  “No. Please don’t say it’s from me, and it’d be best if you disappeared pretty quickly so you won’t have to answer any questions.”

  David looked at me. I couldn’t read his face.

  “Oh.” I pulled out a ten from my skirt pocket and handed it to him.

  He pushed it away. “Just buy me a beer sometime. And Ivy,” David regarded me with his fathomless black eyes, “I’m doing this because I like you and you seem cool, but I hope I’m not aiding and abetting or anything.”

  “I just want to talk to this woman in private, without the man she’s with knowing about it.”

  I always felt better telling the truth, even if it wasn’t the whole truth.

  “All right.” David tipped his ratty Dodger top hat and turned to go.

  “Wait,” I said. “Speaking of aiding and abetting.” David’s normally placid face began to cloud over. “No, nothing like that. It’s just…” I to
ld him how Ada had helped Oliver by letting him into our room to scare me. “I don’t get her,” I said. “Why does she hate me so much? Just because she wanted to play Nancy and I got the role?”

  “That role was really important to her, but…Ada hates everyone. Women most of all. She’s just…I don’t know,” he shrugged, “really unhappy, I guess.”

  “Was she mean to Harley too?” This was my way in.

  “Yeah.” David said it with a little chuff, as if it was a given. “She was horrible, spreading rumors about Harley.”

  “Like Harley was…easy?”

  “Like she was a prostitute,” said David. “Really bad stuff.”

  “But since Ada said things like that all the time, why would it matter? Why would anyone believe what she had to say?”

  “Well, the prostitute thing happens, though it’s usually men.”

  “Really?”

  “Some single women like to have ‘escorts.’” He shrugged. “But Ada’s bitchiness, it was mostly because Harley was an easy target. She had a hard time speaking up, even if…” David shut his lips tight, as if to keep from saying anything more.

  I needed to keep him talking. “Ada told me Harley was deranged.”

  “She was not.” David’s hands curled into fists. “She just had epilepsy. Is this the Middle Ages or something? God, Ada. She was just pissed off that Harley didn’t have to have a roommate.”

  “Harley had that room because of her epilepsy?”

  “Because her roommate complained, then started spreading rumors. The stupid bitch made it sound like drugs or something, so Get Lit! called Harley in. She told management what was really happening. They ended up giving her a room to herself for privacy. Probably also because they wanted to stop the drug rumors.” David’s hands relaxed, his anger spent. “I miss her.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged off my sympathy. “I’ve got to go. Besides delivering this note, I’ve got stuff to do before the show tonight.” He ran off.

  A thought dropped into the pit of my stomach like a falling stage weight. The show tonight. I wasn’t actually nervous about the play itself. It wasn’t high art, I had my part down, and all my nerves had been around Fagin’s Magic Show and the silks. Which someone had tampered with last night. Aye, there was the rub. I took a deep breath and shook off the heavy feeling. After all, I was just singing and dancing tonight on the nice safe stage in front of hundreds of people. No one would dare try anything. Right?

  CHAPTER 54

  Two Sister-Women

  Bette looked more hunter than prey in her animal-print outfit. She strode into the bar, eyes darting around, hair swinging in a blonde curtain thanks to that expensive haircut. Which she probably got some man to pay for, one way or another.

  Oh, c’mon, Ivy, I thought. You really have to stop this. Detectives need to be objective.

  Screw that. She wasn’t who she said she was, and she was after my uncle.

  Bette caught sight of me as she made her way to the corner booth. Her eyes narrowed. “It’s you,” she said as she slid into the booth.

  Seeing this was an assignation, I tried to channel 007. “It’s me,” I said, “but it’s not you.”

  Bette’s eyebrows drew together.

  “I mean, you’re not you. You’re…someone else.” Bette rolled her eyes. So much for Ivy Bond.

  “Where did you find my phone?” Bette’s rural accent was gone.

  “It’s not important.”

  “It is to me.”

  How did she get control of the conversation so quickly? “What’s important is that you’re pretending to be someone else. I bet there are lots of people onboard who would be interested to learn that information.”

  “I’m traveling under my real name, Bernadette Woodward—that’s what’s on my passport and on the ship’s manifest—so I’m not doing anything illegal. And there’s a good reason I’m Bette Foxberry during this cruise.”

  “Anything to do with Theo?”

  Her face took on a calm look. It felt practiced, like “this is my not giving anything away” face. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because you worked for him for years before he fired you for embezzlement.”

  “If you know that, you know the allegation was never proven.” Bette’s lips were set in a tight line. “And just why did you decide to Google me, or whatever you did?”

  “I heard you arguing with Theo that morning when you said he ruined your life. Then when he was murdered—”

  “Murdered?” Bette’s face blanched under her bronzer. Her reaction looked real. But she was good. She even had my uncle fooled. I needed to remember that.

  “Theo was poisoned,” I said.

  She sat back in the booth for a minute, taking it in. “I can’t say I’m not happy he’s gone,” she said slowly. “He was a horrible man.”

  “That’s what Madalina said.”

  “Madalina?” Bette’s face grew even paler.

  “Tell me. What was it about Theo’s money?”

  Bette kept quiet, but stretched her neck and rolled her head from side to side, as if she was trying to release some tension.

  “You asked a question about it at Theo’s book signing.”

  She still didn’t say anything.

  “Do you want your phone back or not?”

  “Do you promise not to tell anyone about my two identities?”

  I crossed my fingers under the table. “I won’t, as long as you tell me why you need an alias.” Of course I’d tell Uncle Bob. “And if you buy me a beer.”

  Although people think that actors can say anything, lying never came easily to me. The beer might help.

  Plus I liked free drinks.

  Bette flagged a waiter. “A Jack Daniels on the rocks for me, and a…”

  “Guinness.”

  “For her. Make mine a double, please.”

  We didn’t say anything for a moment. I was determined to make her speak first. But when she did, she said, “Did you steal my phone?”

  “Maybe. But this conversation isn’t about that.” I mentally patted myself on the back for switching subjects fairly smoothly. “It’s about your duplicity.”

  Bette sighed. “There are two reasons I used another name. I can tell you one of them.”

  “But—”

  “This is the one that has to do with Theo.”

  I nodded my assent. I’d find out the other reason later.

  “I used the name Bette Foxberry because I didn’t want Theo to know I was onboard until we set sail. This was the perfect opportunity to confront him. He’d have to talk to me—there’s nowhere to go. If he found out I was on the cruise before we sailed, I was afraid he might cancel his reservations.”

  “How would he have found that out?”

  “Money greases every wheel.” Bette stopped talking as the waiter arrived with our drinks. She took a big swallow of hers, then swirled the amber liquid. We both listened to her ice cubes clink for a moment. Then she said, “I grew up in a trailer in the desert just outside of Yuma. Dropped out of high school at sixteen when I got pregnant. It was probably good I lost the baby. I was pretty heavy into drugs then.” She set down her glass. I took a big drink of my beer, mainly to keep my mouth occupied so I wouldn’t say anything that would stop Bette from talking.

  “I held minimum wage jobs ’til I was in my early thirties,” said Bette. “Then I discovered Powerful Positivity. It turned my life around. First I just worked at imagining my potential, then I came to believe in it. I got my GED, went to community college, got my BA from Arizona State, and I did it all while working forty hours a week. When I graduated, I sent a photo of myself in cap and gown along with a note of thanks to Theo.

  “He wrote me back
and offered me a job working with his company in California. Can you imagine how I felt?” She looked at me for the first time since beginning her story. “I had nothing until this man’s work turned my life around. Now he’d given me the opportunity of a lifetime. I was his biggest fan.

  “I was also one of his biggest success stories. He liked to trot me out at conferences, that sort of thing. I didn’t mind. After all, everything he said was true. Theo had changed my life. Plus he gave his Powerful Positivity workshops in fabulous cities all over the world. I got to travel to places I’d never even dreamed of.

  “One day we were on a European tour when I was cc’ed on an email from one of our Eastern European colleagues. The message was innocuous enough, just details about our next stop in Dubrovnik, but it was part of a string of emails. I didn’t remember receiving the others, so I read down the string.”

  She pulled her glass of whiskey back toward her and took a drink.

  “You weren’t supposed to be cc’ed on that email,” I prodded.

  “No, I was not. The correspondence was vague, but it mentioned purchases and shipping and large amounts of money. It also listed a time and place for a meeting. So I went.”

  I was beginning to understand what Uncle Bob saw in the woman. She had balls. If she was telling the truth.

  “I’d begun to wonder where Theo’s money had come from,” she said. “He was rich years before he started his positivity crusade.” Bette’s eyes became unfocused, as if she was watching a scene playing on a screen I couldn’t see. “After reading that email, I figured it was drugs.” Her eyes grew wet. “It wasn’t. It was—”

  “Olive, goddammit!” Uncle Bob stormed into the bar. “This has got to stop. Did you take Bette’s phone?”

  “Sort of. I took—” I was about to say “Bernadette’s phone,” but stopped. She hadn’t told me everything yet. Plus, for some reason I was beginning to believe her.