by Cindy Brown
“Boys!” yelled Jonas. “You exit stage left. Stage LEFT.”
“They don’t have to have any acting experience?” I said as boys ran every which way.
“However did you guess?” said Timothy.
Jonas ran his hand through his hair. “God bless us…Everyone! Let’s run it again.”
After about an hour, Jonas had worked a small miracle. The boys had made it through their introductory scene and their first musical number, where Fagin taught Oliver how to steal from passersby. “You’ve got to lift a locket, or two, boy,” sang Timothy. “You’ve got to lift a locket or two.”
While waiting, I kept an eye out for suspects in Harley’s death, but didn’t come up with anything viable. Murder by a pack of marauding orphans seemed unlikely.
Finally, I made my way backstage to get ready for my entrance. My first scene consisted of a song and a few lines to establish my character. Nancy was the original prostitute with a heart of gold who belonged to Fagin’s stable and to her brooding criminal boyfriend, Bill Sikes. She was also Oliver’s protector, which got her killed in the end. She helped keep Oliver away from Fagin so the boy could have the chance to live a regular, non-criminal life. But her interference infuriated the old villain, who wreaked his revenge by telling Sikes that Nancy had turned informant. Outraged, Sikes beat her to death. Offstage, of course.
In the blackout (quick lights out) before my first scene, Jonas said, “Alright, Nancy. We’ve changed the blocking from what’s in the script. You and Fagin enter from slightly upstage, like you’ve come in from a different room. Hu’s on first.”
“Who?
“Yes.”
“Who’s on first?”
“Yes.”
“Which actor?”
“Hu.”
“The guy playing…”
The kid playing the Dodger tapped me on the shoulder. “I’m Hu.”
And I was really confused. “Okay,” I said anyway. The lights came up and the Dodger swaggered onstage followed by a wide-eyed Oliver. Timothy and I moved a few feet upstage in the wings to wait for our entrance.
“Welcome to our ’umble abode,” said Hu, doffing his hat to Oliver. “The ’spectable old genelman as lives ’ere will give you lodgings for nothing, as long as I interduces you.”
“He must be very kind,” said Oliver.
“Enter now, Fagin and Nancy,” Jonas shouted over the intro music.
We did, arm in arm and laughing as if we’d just enjoyed a great joke.
“Ah,” Fagin said as he spotted Oliver. “And who have we ’ere?”
“A new pal. Oliver Twist,” replied the Dodger. Recorded music began to play.
“We are very glad to see you, Oliver, very,” said Fagin. “Aren’t we, Nance?”
“We are indeed,” I said, trying to sound like a Cockney putting on a posh accent.
“Indeed,” said the Dodger, whose accent was much more believable than mine. He started off the song. “Consider yourself…onboard.” He sang it to the tune of, yep, “Consider Yourself” from Oliver! “Consider yourself…one of the barnacles.” A smooth-cheeked Asian boy, he had a strong tenor voice and a pitch-perfect Cockney accent.
“You don’t have to stow…away,” I sang. “It’s true, you…have landed a place to stay.”
Fagin put his arm around Oliver and sang, “Consider yourself…shipshape. Consider yourself…one of our happy gang.”
The blonde boy looked up at Fagin with doe eyes and sang, “It’s true that I’m in…your debt.”
“Not yet, but, whatever you take, we get,” sang Fagin.
I knew this number was about Oliver’s introduction to Fagin’s stable of young criminals, but still, I wasn’t sure it was the smartest choice for a theft-plagued cruise line. We finished the song and Jonas said, “Hold it. Nice job, Ivy. Let’s take five. When we come back, we’ll put the rest of the orphans into the scene.”
“Don’t worry, the boys just stand there during our song,” said the Dodger as we exited stage left. “By the way,” he stuck out a hand, “I’m David Hu.”
“Oh.”
He grinned.
“Jonas and David like that Hu joke. I don’t get it,” said the blonde boy. “I’m Oliver. It’s my character name and my real name. What’s yours?”
“Ivy Meadows.”
“Right.” The kid laughed.
Jonas joined our group. “Ivy,” he said. “I wanted to apologize about yesterday. I wouldn’t have pushed you so hard if I’d known about Harley.”
“Did you know her well?” I asked.
“I didn’t, but…” He glanced at David, who pulled in his bottom lip.
“She was nice,” David said.
“What’s wrong with Madame De-fart?” Oliver asked.
I wondered who came up with that nickname first, him or Ada.
“She’s dead,” said Timothy.
“Dead?” said Oliver. “She’s dead as a doornail!” he shouted to the orphan actors. Then to me, “It’s Dickens.”
“It’s also Shakespeare,” I said. “And not a very nice thing to say when someone’s really dead.”
“No wonder you were distracted,” Jonas said to me. “It had to be horrible, finding her.”
“Is she in the morgue now?” asked Oliver. “Hey boys, want to see a dead body?” Before us adults could say anything, he added, “Kids saw dead people in Dickens all the time.”
I ignored Oliver. “It was horrible,” I said to Jonas, “especially not knowing if her killer was still close by.”
“Her killer?” said, oh, the entire cast. “She was murdered?”
Oops.
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 s
aid 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 so
rry.”
“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.
