by Cindy Brown
After a bit more scolding about home hair products, Martin pronounced my hair unsalvageable.
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s just say it’s a good thing you have nice little ears.”
An hour and a half later, I walked out of the salon with strawberry blonde hair. What was left of it, I mean. The whole inch and a half. Besides the near-buzz cut, Martin also gave me a wig he had in the back room, a rat’s nest of mouse-brown synthetic hair. “Nancy is supposed to be a mess,” he said when I looked at it doubtfully. Okay, I could be a mess.
I grabbed a piece of toast with marmalade on the way back to my cabin, then hid my borrowed books under my pillow next to my copy of Oliver Twist. Didn’t want Ada to know I was reading up.
Tried my phone again. No service. I was supposed to check in with Uncle Bob morning, noon, and night so we could share information and suspicions and PI stuff like that, but we had planned to text. Now how were we going to connect?
I was due to be an ambient character from nine ’til noon, so I dressed in my one non-gin-smelling costume, affixed the wig onto my head, dashed out the door, ran up the stairs, and made it to the Pickwick Promenade just as Big Ben struck nine. As an ambient character, I could pretty much do as I pleased as long as I stayed in character. I wanted to catch Theo’s talk, but that wasn’t for another hour, and it was a bit early for drinking and dancing, Nancy’s typical activities, so I used the time to look for my uncle. I went to every dining area serving breakfast. I even went to the Solitary Oyster Bar, just in case. Didn’t see him anywhere.
All the while I was looking for him, I had the feeling I was being watched. Never saw or heard anything concrete, just had a fleeting image of…a man’s hat? And though I couldn’t put my finger on exactly why I was nervous, my body was on alert. Uncle Bob had taught me never to ignore that feeling. “Might be some leftover warning system from when humans were prey,” he said. “If your hackles are raised, look around for the wolf.”
I knew there were wolves about. Harley didn’t end up in her closet all by herself.
CHAPTER 10
His Oratorical Powers and His Importance
I paced the outdoor Pickwick Promenade, thinking. Who put Harley in the closet? How was she connected to the theft ring? How was I ever going to solve her murder, catch the thieves, and get that ten-thousand-dollar bonus when I couldn’t reach my best investigative tool (my uncle)? And, I thought, as I saw a black hat out of the corner of my eye, who was following me?
I thought the hatted person had disappeared indoors, so I scurried inside to the atrium just as Big Ben struck ten. Time for Theo’s talk, but…a man in a black Victorian top hat headed toward the casino. My stalker? I hurried after him. I could catch Theo later.
The man, who carried a brass-tipped walking stick, went past the Golden Hall Gambling Establishment and maneuvered around the throng of people streaming into the theater for Theo’s lecture. I followed him, careful to keep a tourist or two in front of me at all times. And I followed him. And followed him. He showed not the slightest nervousness or interest in me, not one nervous tic or backwards glance.
By the time he sat down to watch a tennis match at the onboard court, I was pretty sure I had the wrong guy. Then I caught a glimpse of a different black hat behind me to the side. I whirled around, but whoever it was had disappeared into a crowd.
Great. I’d been followed while tailing Mr. Top Hat. Uncle Bob had taught me how to shadow someone, but not what to do when I was the one being followed. I checked my phone again. Still no reception. No chance to talk to my uncle. At least I could follow up on my other clue: Theo. I headed back to the theater and slipped inside. The librarian was right. Theo Pushwright was a draw. Almost every seat in the house was full, and all heads were turned toward the handsome dark-haired man onstage.
Timothy, dressed as Fagin, stood near the back of the theater. I slid up next to him. “Good morning…Ow!” I rubbed my arm where he’d pinched me.
“I can’t believe you found a dead body and didn’t tell me.”
“It was supposed to be hush-hush,” I whispered.
“Well, it was all anyone talked about in the crew canteen this morning.”
“Did they mention Kawasaki in the freezer?”
“What? Another one?”
“No, someone mixed up Harley and—”
“Shhh,” said a woman in front of us. We shushed and turned our attention to the stage.
“It’s simple.” Theo’s voice was both warm and powerful. He may have been twenty years older than Harley, but I could see the attraction. “You don’t have to stay stuck in a low-paying job. You don’t have to be a slave to addiction. You don’t have to be crippled by your insecurities. All together now,” he said to the audience. “If you think it, it will happen.” Other voices in the audience chanted along with him. “If you believe it, it will be.”
The crowd clapped and cheered. I’d never heard applause like that, not even after my costume malfunction during a performance of Chicago. Theo hushed the audience.
“I have time for a few questions.” Dozens of hands went up immediately. He pointed at one. An older man with wispy white hair stood up. “So glad you’re here,” he said in a voice that sounded like it belonged in a boardroom. “But why a Dickens cruise?”
“This is a Dickens cruise?” said Theo. “I’m just here to sail to Hawaii.” Laughter from the crowd, way more than his remark earned. “Seriously, I have always felt a kinship with Charles Dickens,” said Theo. “As you may know, he was very poor as a child. When his parents went to debtors’ prison, he was sent to work in a shoe-blacking factory. Can you imagine? He was alone in the world, living and working in horrible conditions with complete strangers at the tender age of eleven. From that challenging beginning came one of the world’s most successful novelists. Dickens epitomizes the power of positive thinking. I too grew up in poverty. Like Dickens, I had no advantages other than my mind and my will. But I worked hard, and now I stand before you a successful man.”
“A billionaire,” whispered Timothy.
“Shhh,” said the lady in front of us.
“What did that hard work consist of?” asked a familiar voice with a rural twang. Bette stood up. Ah, there was Uncle Bob, sitting beside her. “How exactly did you become a success story?”
“I worked hard from the time I was twelve, doing everything from hauling rocks to writing books.” Theo’s words had a scripted quality. “Most importantly, I believed in myself. I saw what I wanted and set my mind to taking the actions that would get me there.” He cleared his throat, a signal to listen up. “‘I never could have done what I have done without the habits of punctuality, order, and diligence, without the determination to concentrate myself on one object at a time.’ That’s Dickens, from David Copperfield. And that’s the power of positive thinking.”
Bette persevered. “But what about—”
“Unlike Scrooge, I understand that mankind is my business.”
“You can say that again,” Bette said. “In fact—”
Theo pointed to another raised hand. “Next question, please.” Bette sat down.
The gorgeous blonde who’d accompanied Theo the night before approached and spoke quietly to Timothy and me. “You want book from Theo, you get in line now.” She had a thick accent that sounded a little like Val’s, jade green eyes that tipped up at the edges, and cheekbones that could cut glass. I had never seen such a beautiful woman in person. “Books are twenty dollars.”
“I don’t think—” Timothy began.
I nudged him. “Great,” I said to the blonde beauty. “Stand in line with me?” I asked Timothy. He got up and followed me to the line that was beginning to form down the aisle. I had two reasons for being there. The first was that I wanted Theo to sign a book for me, to see if what he had written
to Harley was typical fan-speak or indicative of a closer relationship. I kept that reason to myself, but I needed Timothy’s help for my second goal. “No reception on my cell.”
“Welcome to life at sea.”
“I can’t get ahold of Uncle Bob.” I tipped my chin to indicate my uncle’s seat in the audience.
Timothy’s eyes followed the direction I’d indicated. “Oh, he’s sitting next to that woman.” He nodded at Bette. “Did you see the look on Theo’s face when she first stood up?”
“No.” My attention had been on Uncle Bob.
“He knows her, I think. Caught a flash of an ‘oh shit’ look.”
“You’d make a good detective,” I said. “Which is good because I need your help. How can I meet with Uncle Bob without it looking like I know him?”
Timothy pondered my dilemma as we edged closer to the folding table where Theo’s beautiful assistant took money for books and Theo signed them.
“You need a private place,” Timothy said. “The cigar bar. During the first seating for dinner.”
“Good.” I snuck a look at Uncle Bob, who met my eyes briefly then turned back to Bette. “Now I need to figure out how to get that information to him without it being obvious, and while staying in character.”
“This isn’t detective work.” Timothy pouted. “It’s acting. But I am up to the task.” Then in a voice so loud that people in line turned around, “Nance, my dear, some of your admirers have complained about the smell of your pipe tobacco.”
“Oh they ’ave, ’ave they?” I said in my best Cockney accent. “Dear me.”
“Permit me, therefore, to introduce you to a better quality tobacco. Shall we say five o’clock in the Dombey and Son Smoking Establishment?”
I glanced at Uncle Bob, who gave a slight nod. “I’ll be there, waiting with Old Stubby,” I said. Uncle Bob frowned. “Me pipe, that is.”
“Old Stubby?” whispered Timothy.
“It just popped out,” I whispered back.
“You shouldn’t smoke at all,” said the woman in front of us, who obviously didn’t get the whole I’m-playing-the-role-of-a-Victorian-prostitute thing. “If you think positive thoughts, you can be free of your nicotine addition,” she said. “Right, Mr. Pushwright?”
“Absolutely,” said Theo. The woman nearly glowed with adoration. He continued: “Smoking is a weakness. If I were in charge, not even e-cigarettes would be allowed onboard.” He looked pointedly at his blonde assistant, who ignored him. I handed her the twenty I stashed in my cleavage for emergencies and she gave me a book.
Theo motioned to me and I passed him my book. “Your name?” he asked, looking me in the eyes with a kind, wise expression.
Which name to give? After all, I had three now, if you counted Nancy. “Ivy,” I decided.
“Ivy.” Theo’s voice was warm. “A beautiful name.” Charisma radiated from him like the glow from a fire on a rainy evening. He signed my book with a flourish. “Positive thinking can help you overcome any weakness,” he said.
Then he caught sight of Timothy, who stood with his hand on his hip, looking like the gayest Fagin in the world. Theo’s voice turned from butter to ice. “Even moral weakness.”
CHAPTER 11
Lacking the Niceties of Discrimination
“How in the world did you just stand there?” I corralled Timothy once we were outside the theater. “That was…” I couldn’t find the words. My outrage had tangled my tongue.
“Not unusual.” Timothy shrugged. “Things are better for us ‘friends of Dorothy,’ but there are still wicked witches who wish we were dead. The trick is to avoid them.”
“Or throw water on them and melt them into oblivion.”
“Let me know when you figure out how to do that. I’ll see you at rehearsal this afternoon.” Timothy kissed me on the cheek. I kissed him back, aiming for the small space not occupied by facial hair, either real or stuck on with spirit gum.
I spent a few more minutes wandering the deck as an ambient character, saying Nancy-ish things like, “Keep the game a-going” and “Never say die!” All the while I kept an eye out for my stalker. No sign of a black hat. I finished my shift and headed back to my cabin.
Ada lay on the bottom bunk, flipping through a People magazine.
She glanced at me, then snorted. “Don’t tell me you believe that bullshit.” She inclined her head toward the copy of Positively Powerful in my hand.
“Not sure.” I climbed up into my bunk where I could look at Theo’s signature in private. I opened the book’s flyleaf and read, “To Ivy, You can stop smoking. Be positively powerful.” I tossed it aside. “Oh crap.”
“Yeah, it is,” Ada said from the bunk below me. “And I hear Theo is an asshole.”
“Who’d you hear that from?” I hung my head over the bunk so I could see her face.
“You’re going to lose your wig.”
Oops. I straightened up and repinned my wig tighter on my head.
“Everyone says that about Theo,” said Ada. “Even Jonas thinks so. He’s trying to be nice, but he’s let a few things slip.”
“Like what?”
“Like ‘why do you want to know, Miss Busybody?’”
I wasn’t giving up that easily, but decided to tread lightly. “Just curious. Theo is Jonas’s stepfather, right?”
“Duh.”
One more try. “Is he here to see Jonas?”
Another snort. “Theo’s here to make money. Jonas asked him to come, even gave him the family discount, but Theo wouldn’t come unless he was paid to lecture and allowed to sell books. Get Lit! ended up axing the regular Dickens expert so they’d have the money for Theo. Real literature buffs, this cruise line…Hey.”
At the change in Ada’s voice, I hung my head over the side again, keeping a hand on my wig. “Yeah?”
“Were you the one who found Harley?”
Seemed the dead cat was out of the bag, so I said, “Yeah.”
Ada put down her magazine. “How’d she die?”
“Not sure.”
“Was she really found stuffed in the freezer?”
“Uh, no.”
Ada waited.
“I don’t think I’m allowed to say more, but…”
Ada’s eyes gleamed with the expectation of some gory detail.
“Do you know if Harley had any medical conditions?”
Ada huffed. “Probably had an STD from one of her customers.”
She went back to her magazine.
I couldn’t get anything more out of her. I had a couple hours before afternoon rehearsal for Oliver! At Sea!, so I finished the last few chapters of Oliver Twist, did my regular routine of core exercises on my bunk, and grabbed a late lunch at one of the buffets.
The food was a nice bonus for us actors—we got to eat at the same restaurants as passengers, with the exception of the fancy main dining room, Delmonico’s. Other crew members had to eat in their designated dining room, which tried to cater to the tastes of the majority of the workers. I heard they served a lot of cabbage, ghoulash, and borscht.
The line at Food, Glorious Food was too long, so I scurried to The Best of Days, Wurst of Days sausage bar and ate a big portion of Toad in the Hole, which was actually very tasty sausages in some sort of batter. Then I headed to rehearsal. I wanted to be there early.
Jonas was there too, sitting in the front row of the theater. “Hey,” I said.
“Hey.” Jonas turned to greet me with a smile, which dimmed immediately. “I thought Martin was going to fix your hair.”
“He did. He fixed it nice and short and gave me this wig.”
Jonas gave me a dubious once-over.
“Nancy is supposed be a mess,” I said.
“Not that much of
a mess.”
“Don’t worry, honey.” Timothy had come up behind me. “Wig styling is one of my many talents, along with—”
“Good,” Jonas cut him off just in time. Timothy had a famously dirty mind. Then Jonas said something else that was drowned out by a tsunami of noise as a pack of boys raced into the theater.
“Ready for rehearsal, Master Bates,” said the tow-headed leader of the group.
“Master Bates! Master Bates!” cried his followers.
“Oliver, I asked you not to call me that,” said Jonas Bates.
“But it’s your name, and besides, the Dick-Meister said it.” Oliver looked to be about eleven, with blonde curls and a snub nose.
“Dickens also killed off little children with impunity.”
“But only the nice ones,” replied Oliver. “I’m safe.”
“He did hang the criminals.” Jonas said to Oliver. “Onstage, everyone.” The boys leapt onstage.
“The new sea urchins,” Timothy said, sinking down into a theater seat. He patted the one next to him. “You can relax. This usually takes a while.”
Must be why Val wasn’t at rehearsal yet. Too bad. I really wanted to see his crazy evil Bill Sikes. Who killed me.
Maybe I could wait.
While Jonas tried to herd the boys onstage, Timothy explained the setup. As I knew, in Oliver Twist, the innocent orphaned Oliver ran away from a cruel master. Upon making his way to London, he was befriended by a street boy named the Artful Dodger who took him to the home of Fagin, a villainous but friendly-seeming fellow who headed up a gang of juvenile criminals, all orphans too. The difficulty with mounting any production of Oliver Twist was the large percentage of children needed to play Fagin’s boys.
“So Get Lit! has this genius idea,” said Timothy. “They cast professionals for the roles of Oliver and the Dodger—David over there plays the Dodger.” He waved to a silent black-haired kid with a battered top hat who stood at the side of the stage, watching the action. “And to families with boys between the ages of nine and fourteen, they offer a deal: The kids get to cruise free if they agree to be in the show. It’s brilliant. Get Lit! gets a cast for almost nothing, families with boys compete for the few slots available, and their friends and extended families sign up for a paid cruise in order to see their darlings onstage. There’s just one problem.”
