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

  “What is it with you two?” said Bette.

  Uncle Bob said, “She’s my nie—”

  “Niece’s third cousin,” I finished. Wow, he must be whipped. He nearly blew our cover. “We’re close.”

  “Didn’t you say a few days ago that he knew your uncle?” Bette looked from Uncle Bob to me.

  “It’s a big family,” I said.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked Bob.

  I looked pointedly at Bette. “We all have our secrets.”

  “And you still have her phone,” said my still-angry uncle.

  “Shall we continue our conversation later?” I asked Bette.

  Uncle Bob glared at me. “Olive, this better not be about—”

  “It’s not.”

  “Why does he keep calling you Olive?” Bette said to me.

  “Ivy’s a stage name.”

  “So you have two names?”

  “Touché.” I smiled at my worthy opponent. “And our conversation?”

  “Let’s finish it up later. How ’bout after the show? I’ll even buy you another beer.”

  I handed Bette her phone. “Until then.”

  Uncle Bob, who had been watching us openmouthed, shook his head. “I’ll never understand women.”

  CHAPTER 55

  The Blood Chilled

  I got dressed for the show, grabbed a quick dinner at The Best of Days, Wurst of Days, and texted my uncle on the way to the theater. I had three whole bars. Guess the stars were aligned in my favor—or at least the ship and the satellite were.

  “Think I know how H. colored her hair,” I texted. The hair color bit was code for “died.”

  “Not Bette?”

  “No. It was natural. Sort of.”

  Big Ben bonged. I should have been at the theater by now. “More later.” I took the stairs two at a time to the Pickwick Promenade deck and walked as fast as I could toward the Royal Victoria Theater.

  I made my way through a knot of people waiting for the seven-thirty show. Some of the ambient characters from other books were working the crowd in front of the theater. I spotted a familiar costume: a brown vest over a white blouse, a brick red skirt, and a mob cap. How did they find a new Madame Defarge so quickly?

  “It would be easier for the weakest poltroon that lives, to erase himself from existence, than to erase one letter of his name or crimes from the knitted register of Madame Defarge,” said Harley’s replacement in a loud voice. A familiar voice.

  Ada’s voice.

  I had a few questions for my roommate.

  Did this mean she was also playing Madame Defarge in Great Expectations in the spring show?

  As Little Dorrit, Ada was just an ambient character—she didn’t get to perform in a play. Madame Defarge would be a big step up. It’d look better on her resume and probably pay more. And did she know about Harley’s epilepsy?

  Could she be insisting that Harley was being pimped out just to throw me off the trail?

  I had just minutes to get ready for the show. Ada would have to wait. I pulled open the stage door and bumped into Jonas. “I’ve been looking for you,” I said. I had a few questions for him too.

  “Later. We have all the time in the world.” What did that mean? Jonas kissed me on the cheek, then turned away. “Break a leg, sweet pea.”

  “Wait.” I wanted at least one answer. “You said something earlier, when you were, ah, celebrating.”

  “Can you believe I don’t have a hangover?” Jonas said cheerily. “Maybe I’m still drunk.”

  Maybe. “Anyway, it’s about Val. Why did you say he was unemployable?” That particular bit of information had lodged itself in my brain, like a popcorn kernel stuck to a tooth.

  “Did I say unemployable? That wasn’t nice at all. After all, it’s not as if it’s his fault. And it’s not even true. Plenty of people—”

  “Is it because he’s not a U.S. citizen?”

  “Because he can’t read. English, at least. Maybe not at all. Not sure.”

  “Ivy!” Timothy skidded into me. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Better get ready first,” said Jonas as he walked away. “They called fifteen minutes to places a while ago.”

  I steered Timothy the few feet to my dressing room. “Did you know Val can’t read? Or can’t read English?” The “unemployable kernel” had been replaced by a “can’t read kernel.” Something wasn’t right.

  “Yes, but—”

  “I wonder how he memorizes his lines.”

  “He tapes them,” Timothy said as I opened the women’s dressing room door. “But, Ivy, my porn magazine. It’s gone. I think someone stole it.”

  At the mention of porn, several techies turned around.

  “Did you search Oliver?” I said.

  “Ivy.” Timothy grabbed me by the arms. “My porn magazine? Inches? The one with the, um, big white centerfold?”

  Omigod. Someone had stolen our whiteboard. Our whiteboard that listed all the people we thought were criminals.

  “What do we do?” said Timothy. “We can’t let it fall into the wrong hands.”

  “You’re right. It could scar those kids for life,” I said before Timothy’s loose lips sank our ship. “I’ll see what I can find out. I need to get ready.” And I needed to think. I pushed Timothy out of the dressing room and shut the door. I remembered what Oliver had said about Timothy teaching him to steal. It couldn’t be true, could it? Was Timothy playing with me?

  “Five minutes ’til places.” The stage manager’s voice came over the speaker in the corner of the dressing room. Thinking would have to come later. I looked in the mirror. I could be ready in five, since I was in costume. I just needed to fix my wig, which was slightly askew, and amp up my makeup for the stage. I sat down at the dressing room counter and took a big swig from the bottle of Gatorade I’d left there. It was warm and not very good. I made a mental note to get a new bottle for every show.

  Okay, makeup. I reached for my kit. Huh. A small Russian nesting doll sat on the counter in front of my makeup kit. The same doll I’d received earlier? No, that still sat on the counter close to the mirror. Besides, that one was blue. This new one was painted in gray and black.

  I was the only woman in Oliver! At Sea! so I was the only one who used this dressing room. The doll had to be for me.

  I hurriedly stuck a few bobby pins in my wig, swiped on some lipstick, and drew in bolder eyebrows. It’d have to do. Then I picked up the doll and unscrewed it by the waist, doing the same for each successively smaller doll. I carefully looked for a scrap of paper each time. Nothing, until I got to the last, tiniest doll, and the Russian winter invaded my bones.

  There was no note for me, but there was a message.

  The last doll was beheaded.

  CHAPTER 56

  The Violent Current of Her Thoughts

  “Places,” crackled the dressing room speaker.

  Shit. I gulped some Gatorade and ran out of the dressing room. I didn’t have to be onstage for a few scenes, but several of us—David, Timothy, and I—sang backup vocals in the wings. I ran to where the others were gathered around a microphone on a stand. The click track started.

  “Ooooh,” I crooned into the mike. “Ooooh.” It was a good thing the words weren’t difficult because my mind spun like a muddied whirlpool. A thought swam to the surface: Was I in danger right now? I looked around me. Here, backstage, I was surrounded by my fellow actors and half a dozen techies. Onstage, I’d be in full view of the audience. I was safe—for now.

  “Ahhhh,” I sang. “Ahhhh.” Other thoughts joined the first one, like debris caught in the whorls of a rapidly rising river. Why did it matter to me that Val couldn’t read? What did Bette have on Theo? And who stuffed poor dead Harle
y in the closet?

  “Ahhhh.” Another idea started to surface. I was just about to grab hold of it when we reached the big finale. “Ohhhhhh!” The song ended with a blackout.

  My first scene was next.

  Time to replace my mind’s muddied muck with Nancy’s thoughts about criminals, thieves, and orphans. Huh. That last slippery idea bobbed to the surface again, but disappeared before I caught it. Good thing too, because the lights came up. I slipped into character and into Victorian London.

  The ship didn’t begin to leak until right before my death.

  There was a blackout right before the scene to give the scrim time to drop down. That’s when the water began to creep across the stage floor. It looked jellied. And alive.

  “Aaahh! Val!” I whispered, pointing at the floor. My entire body clenched as the watery goo crept up to our ankles. I kicked at it. Something dark rose out of the water and bared its teeth at me.

  “Val, help!” I hissed. The thing—an eel?—wrapped itself around my leg, slimy and strangling. “Help me!” I bit my lip to keep from screaming. I tasted blood.

  Val’s brow furrowed. “What is wrong?”

  “The eel.” I pried the creature off my leg. It released its grip with a wet sucking sound and flashed needle teeth before disappearing into the dark water—which kept rising. “The water! Everyone’s going to drown. We have to do something.”

  The lights came up. The stage had buckled, its floor rising and falling in waves. I hurried onstage toward a dry spot in the middle. Safe. For now.

  “Olive!” My mom’s voice behind me. “Olive.” I turned. No Mom, just Val—and gelatinous seawater pouring down the backstage walls like an enormous waterfall.

  “Mama!” Was it me who cried? No, a little girl, stage right, where sticky webs now covered the wall. “Help me!” The small shrouded figure struggled against its silken bonds. Oh God. I couldn’t breathe, but took a step toward the child. As I did, many-legged shapes coalesced from the shadows. They started for me.

  An arm grabbed me by the shoulder, cockroaches where its nails should have been, their insect legs wriggling against my neck. I screamed and Val pushed me to the floor, into the slimy sludge that now covered the stage. He raised his snake to strike me—his snake? The goo slithered over me, the spiders grew nearer, and I screamed again. Bill Sikes lifted his snake higher and his topcoat flew open. A glint of gold from an inside pocket, a glitter of ice. A diamond necklace?

  “You’re one of the thieves.”

  The necklace turned into sharp shiny teeth that gnashed as they came for me. I cowered on the floor, protecting my neck. “But you didn’t kill Harley.”

  Bill’s face crumpled. The snake dropped to the floor. The teeth backed off.

  But the spiders didn’t.

  They swam toward me as the lights faded to black.

  CHAPTER 57

  With a Degree of Wholesome Fear

  I opened my eyes. A slight sheen covered the ceiling. Flickering fluorescent lights made it quiver.

  “Ivy?” said a familiar voice. “Are you awake?” Someone was holding my hand. Actually, two someones were holding both of my hands, one on either side of the bed. Bed? I blinked.

  Jonas held one hand. Val, still in costume, the other. Their faces were shiny. Too shiny, like they were covered in a thin layer of Vaseline. I closed my eyes again. “Are we dead?”

  “You just had a bad trip,” said Jonas.

  “Where?”

  “We’re not sure, but it wasn’t nice. You’re safe now. They gave you something to counteract the drug.”

  I opened my eyes. “What drug?”

  “They think it was a Dramamine overdose. They’ve assured us you won’t have any long-term effects, but you won’t feel well for a while.”

  “You can say that,” I wanted to say. But I couldn’t. My tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth. “Water,” I croaked instead.

  Val poured me a cup of water from a blue plastic pitcher near my bed. “Ivy, baby, I am so glad you are okey-dokey.”

  I drank the water down in one gulp.

  “We are all glad,” he said. “Even Oliver.”

  I held out my glass. “Please, sir, I want some—”

  “You remember what happened?” Val said. “Anything?”

  I shook my head. It was heavy with seawater, which sloshed in my ears. I reminded myself not to move for a while.

  “They said you’d probably have some short-term memory loss,” said Jonas. “But from what I heard you screaming about, that’s probably a good thing. Swimming spiders.” He shuddered. “I’m going to go tell everyone you’re okay.” He brought my hand to his lips, kissed it, and left.

  “I stay,” said Val.

  I closed my eyes. Val gripped my hand again tightly. “You do not remember saying anything to me?”

  I began to shake my head, then remembered the seawater. “No.”

  “You talked about Harley. How she died.”

  “SUDEP.” Guess my memory loss was contained.

  “Soodep?”

  “Sudden…Unexplained Death…in Epilepsy.”

  “Epilepsy?”

  “I think that’s how she died. She wasn’t killed.”

  “Thank God.” Val kissed me on the cheek and a familiar aftershave filled my nose. I could somehow see it, curling up like lazy smoke inside my head, beckoning me to a soft dark place. I inhaled and drifted off on the scented current.

  When I woke a while later, I was relieved to see that the ceiling wasn’t glistening anymore. I did still smell aftershave, but it was different, spicier. Timothy, still in his Fagin costume, sat in a chair beside my bed, snoring gently. I turned my head to the other side. A small wheeled bed table held the blue pitcher and a glass. I picked up the pitcher gratefully, then nearly dropped it. Behind it sat another Russian nesting doll. I put the pitcher down and checked on Timothy. He slept on. I reached for the doll.

  This nesting doll was painted in shades of red—definitely different from the first two. I slowly unscrewed it. The first doll with its “right track” message seemed to come from a friend. The second one, meticulously beheaded, was definitely not from a friend. Who was this from? I got down to the second-to-last doll, another smiling Russian woman, this one with a blood red kerchief. I rolled the wooden figure back and forth on my palm before opening it with shaking fingers. Yes. There was a note wrapped around the tiniest crimson doll. It said, “I will tell all. Meet me onstage at one o’clock this morning.”

  Did whoever write this think I was completely nuts? As if I’d drag my poor poisoned self to a deserted theater in the middle of the night. I might be curious, even nosy, but I wasn’t an idiot.

  “Hey,” said Timothy. “You’re awake.”

  I shoved the note under the covers and smiled at him.

  “Where’d you get the doll?” He pointed at the figurine in my lap.

  “I guess someone left it as a get well present,” I said. “You didn’t see who?”

  “No, but I know it wasn’t your uncle. He asked me to give you a message. Said he came down to make sure you were okay, but you were sleeping. He didn’t think it would look right for your third cousin’s uncle—do I have that right?—to hang around watching you sleep. Anyway, he loves you, is glad you’re okay, and will talk to you when he can.”

  I put the doll back together. “Maybe Val left this. He’s Russian.”

  Timothy yawned. “Could be. Could be anyone. They sell them in the gift shops.”

  “They do?”

  “Yeah. Not sure why. Maybe Get Lit! had some left over from the S.S. Anna Karenina. I heard they’re quitting the Tolstoy cruise and reconfiguring the ship. Everyone got too depressed.”

  The male nurse I’d met earlier when looking for the morgue
came over and put his fingers on my wrist. He nodded in satisfaction. “Better. How do you feel?”

  “Thirsty.” I poured myself another glass of water. “And like my head wants to fall off.”

  “You’ll have a hangover for a while. Dramamine is nasty stuff.”

  “How do you know that’s what it was?”

  “We’re not completely sure, but we’ve seen a few cases of Dramamine overdose before. Usually kids trying to get high. Did you see spiders?”

  Vague dark shapes crawled at the edge of my memory. “I don’t want to think about it.”

  “Sorry, sorry. You’ll probably feel some of the effects for a while, but you’re okay now.” He turned to Timothy. “Why don’t you take your friend back to her cabin?”

  I didn’t really want to go with Timothy. I didn’t really want to go with anyone except my uncle. Or Cody. Or Matt. Or even my mom and dad. But Timothy was already helping me out of bed. I was surprised to see that I was still in costume. I looked at the clock on the hospital wall. Midnight. I’d only been in the hospital a few hours. I took Timothy’s arm and walked gingerly toward the door.

  “Wait,” called the nurse. “Don’t forget this.” He handed me the Russian doll.

  CHAPTER 58

  So Troubled with Anxiety

  “What exactly happened?” I hung onto Timothy’s arm for balance as we walked slowly back to my cabin.

  “When you went onstage for your final scene, you started talking to Val about water and eels and drowning. You didn’t start screaming until Bill Sikes killed you.” Timothy pursed his lips, impressed. “Even drugged, you are a consummate actor.”

  “Not sure I can take credit for that.”

  “You didn’t get up during the blackout, so a couple of us carried you offstage. You were terrified, thrashing around and whimpering about spiders.” He shivered. “It was scary, hearing what was going on in your head. Jonas and few others got you to the infirmary right away.”