by Cindy Brown
He handed me the book. Inside were instructions on how to make elephants, palm trees, and monkeys out of towels. No erotic towel-ry. But nothing to do with Dickens either. “You found this in the library?”
“No. Um…Bette bought it for me.”
“Did she buy you the aftershave too?” Uncle Bob had never smelled of anything except Mexican food and beer, which is why it took me so long to finger him as the source of the scent.
“No. They were doing some Victorian Life talk at the Leather Bottle Bar today, and one of the bartenders made this for us to try. It’s bay rum.” Uncle Bob lost his shy embarrassed look and grinned at me. “Did you know you could actually drink it too? It’s basically rum infused with bay leaves, spices, a little orange peel, and vodka.”
“It does smell tasty. Does Bette like it?” This was my way in, but I had to tread carefully.
“Uh, yeah.” Uncle Bob flushed pink again.
I swallowed a big gulp of sherry for the liquid courage. “So tell me about her.”
“She’s a nice gal.”
Oh no. It was worse than I suspected. This was what Uncle Bob said about all his girlfriends.
“She’s from Golden, Colorado, outside of Denver. Her husband died about a year ago. He was in oil, I guess.”
“She a big Dickens fan?”
“Not really. Get Lit! Cruises just sounded fun to her. She could travel and learn something at the same time.”
And meet her next rich husband. “I thought maybe she was onboard to see Theo.” I remembered Bette asking a question at Theo’s book signing. Timothy had thought Theo recognized her.
“No. She doesn’t believe in that New Age crap.”
Another bad sign. Uncle Bob’s last girlfriend, Echo, had been a big New Ager and it sat just fine with him. Now he was okay with whatever Bette believed.
“Hey.” Uncle Bob looked at me over his glass of sherry. “Why so interested?”
I wanted to say, “Because I wonder why she’s after a fifty-ish overweight rancher if it’s not about his fake money,” but that would be insulting. After all, I thought Uncle Bob was quite a catch. It’s just that it usually took people a while to see beyond his not-so-suave exterior. The bigger reason, though, was that I knew Bette’s type. They were the ones who showed up at theater galas in too much makeup and too many jewels and treated the actors like waiters. Who snapped at the servers. And who played footsie under the table with their friends’ husbands. But I couldn’t say any of that, because I loved my uncle. So instead I said, “Just keeping an eye on you.”
And Bette. I was definitely keeping an eye on her too.
CHAPTER 26
A Conversation of Some Importance
I grappled with Bette and tore the key from her hand. I raced to her car and unlocked the trunk, where she’d kept Cody this whole time. Could he breathe? I opened the trunk. An alarm went off.
My cell phone buzzed beside my pillow where I put it last night.
A Phoenix area code number I didn’t recognize. Please, not the police, not the hospital, I prayed. I picked up.
“I need your help.”
“Cody?”
“I still can’t find Stu.”
It was Cody. He must have found a pay phone. Thank you, thank you, thank you God. “Where are you?”
“Downtown.”
“Thank God you’re all right.”
“Keep it down.” Ada’s voice was groggy. “Some of us are trying to sleep.”
“Hang on, Cody.” I hopped the few steps to the bathroom and shut the door. “Okay. I need you to go back to the group home—”
“No. I’ve got to find Stu. He needs his medicine.”
“Can’t you conduct your search from the house?”
“No. They’ll be mad at me for leaving.”
Yeah, they would. “Maybe you could go to the police.”
“NO. Are you going to help me or not?”
Once Cody got an idea in his head, he didn’t let it go until he was ready to be done with it. It may have been part of his brain injury, or just a family trait.
“Okay, okay. How can I help?”
“I don’t know where to look.”
“Did I hear you’ve been looking in bars?”
“Yeah. Stu likes beer. But he’s not supposed to have it.” Cody rattled pills in a bottle. “Do not combine with alcohol,” he read slowly. “That means he’s not supposed to have beer when he’s on Keppra.”
Keppra. That again. “You have Stu’s medicine with you?”
“Duh. He needs it so he doesn’t have a seizure. That’s why I’m looking for him.” Cody sighed exaggeratedly. “You’re no help. I’m gonna go.”
“No, wait, wait. Um…” Where would I look for Stu? “Think about where Stu might want to sleep. Look for him there at night.” Did I just tell Cody to stay out on the streets after dark again? I nearly slapped myself in the forehead. “No, wait, that’s not a good idea—”
“Yes, it is.” Cody’s voice brightened. “Thanks, Olive-y.” He hung up. I called the number right back but it rang and rang.
Damn. I couldn’t believe I’d done that. My phone said 6:02 a.m. I usually wasn’t up for another hour (or two), but there was no way I could go back to sleep. I snuck quietly back into our cabin, grabbed a t-shirt and jeans out of my drawers, and dressed quietly in the bathroom. I slipped outside and checked my cell phone. It still had one bar. I speed-dialed Matt.
He picked up immediately. “Ivy?”
“Cody called me. He’s okay.”
“Oh, Ivy, thank—”
Dead air. And no bars. I redialed, just in case. I really really wanted to talk to Matt. No, the signal was gone. At least Cody had been able to reach me. And now Matt could rest a little easier.
I ran up to the Pickwick Promenade and used one of the deck-to-cabin phones to call my uncle’s room. “Hey, it’s me.”
“You’re up?”
“I know, I know, but I talked to Cody. He’s okay.”
Uncle Bob sighed with relief.
“But…I think I encouraged him to stay out another night.” I told him what I’d done.
“Hon,” said Uncle Bob, “you know your brother. Do you really think you could have talked him into going home?”
“No.”
“Cody must be staying somewhere safe. He’s a careful kind of guy.” It was true. Cody liked order. “And it sounds like he’s got a plan. I really think he’ll be fine.”
I did too. Even though my mind was trying to latch on to worry, my heart felt comforted, like it did last night after dinner. I hoped it was our psychic sister-brother connection and not just wishful thinking. “Okay. See you at the library tonight?”
“I’m going to that costume ball thing, but afterward.”
After we hung up, I went to Boz’s Buffet where I celebrated with a full English breakfast. I sat down at a table facing the ocean (take that, water phobia) and devoured my entire fry-up: eggs, fried bread, a fried half of a tomato, sausages, and black pudding. I was just mopping up the last bit of egg with a slice of fried pudding when Timothy sat down across from me, a cup of coffee in his hairy hand. “I can’t believe you’re eating blood pudding,” he said.
“Please don’t call it blood pudding this early in the morning. I was just starting to feel good.” I told him about Cody’s call.
“Thank God,” he said, scooting his chair back from the table. “And good thing you ate a big breakfast. Today is the day from hell, you know. Think I’ll go see if I can scrounge up something not fried.” He wandered off in the direction of the buffet line.
The day from hell? It wasn’t going to be that bad. We were off until lunch, at which time all ambient characters would encourage the passengers to attend Mr. Fezz
iwig’s Ball tonight (and to get their costumes before three p.m.). Then we had a half-hour lunch before attending Oliver! At Sea! rehearsal, then a two-hour break for dinner, then the costume ball where we’d dance with the guests, then our last rehearsal for Fagin’s Magic Handkerchief, which premiered tomorrow night. Plus I was supposed to keep an eye on Oliver, the little brat. I guess it was the day from hell.
But what the heck. I was off until lunch. I planned to let my breakfast settle a bit, soak out the soreness in my arms and shoulders in one of the hot tubs, then head to the onboard art auction at eleven o’clock. Seemed like a good opportunity for a thief to learn which travelers were potential marks.
At 10:59, I was in position behind a potted palm where I could scan the auction audience members without being seen. Most of them wandered around, gazing at the artwork on the wall and peering into glass cases, mimosas in their hands. Waiters circulated, balancing trays of crystal flutes filled with the sunny orange drinks.
The squeal of a microphone announced the beginning of the auction. “Welcome to Cruikshank and Cattermole’s Art Auction,” said a too-amplified voice. “Today’s auction items include Dali prints, Russian nesting dolls by master artist Lonuchenkova, and a rare copy of David Copperfield from 1914, written entirely in Chinese.” Pretty impressive, some of this stuff. Definitely worth stealing.
But I didn’t see anything suspicious as I peered through the palm fronds or hear anything that piqued my interest. For about ten minutes. Then I heard semi-familiar voices. Familiar, because I’d heard them both before: Theo and Bette. Semi, because I’d never heard either of them spitting mad.
“Are you following me?” Theo’s voice was low and full of menace.
“Why would I do that?” Bette’s Western accent was gone. “Oh, because you ruined my life?”
“You did that to yourself.”
“That’s right. We’re all the masters of our own destinies, right?”
“You can be, if you decide to—”
“Stuff it, Theo. We both know what—”
“What do you want?”
“I want to give you one more chance to—”
“Why are you hiding behind a tree?” Arghh. Oliver’s timing couldn’t have been worse, and from his grin I think he knew it. He quickly rearranged his face into an innocent look and pointed at my hiding place, just in case Bette and Theo hadn’t noticed me.
“Just…lost…an earring back,” I said as they glared at me. “Thought it might have flown back here. Here it is.” I bent down to pick up the invisible back and pretended to attach it to my earring. “See ya,” I said to all involved. I scooted down the hall to a bar that hadn’t opened yet and found a quiet place to sit. I wanted to think about Theo and Bette. To think about Bette’s lack of accent during their argument. And to think about what I would tell Uncle Bob.
CHAPTER 27
The Devil’s in It
Lunchtime didn’t start off too badly, except for the complaints from the cooks who were overloaded with orders for gruel. Seems Oliver had convinced all the orphans to order it for lunch.
After lunch, I stood outside on deck talking to a gaggle of senior citizens: “Ladies and gents, you’ll want to outfit yourselves for the fancy dress ball tonight, and Madame Mantalini’s Temple of Fashion has all the flounces, feathers, frills, and furbelows you’ll want, so—oof!” My feet went out underneath me, and I sat down hard in something slick and wet and lumpy. Oh no.
“Oh dear.” One of the ladies pointed at the mess I’d slipped in. “I’m afraid someone’s been seasick.”
I picked myself up carefully, my stomach churning with the thought of having to clean myself off when I heard a smothered giggle. Oliver and a few orphans watched from a distance. Hmm. I swiped at the yuck covering the back of my skirt and lifted a finger to my nose. A few of the seniors looked horrified, others entertained. I gave the stuff an experimental sniff. Yep. Gruel. I shook a sticky finger at Oliver, who ran off laughing.
On my way back to my room to change into my other (now clean) Nancy costume, I ran into a traffic jam. I pushed my way through the crowd, in a respectful sort of way.
“Did you decide who you’ll be for the ball tonight?” a woman asked the man next to her.
Ah, the bottleneck was right outside the costume shop.
“I’m not going to the party. I wish to be left alone.”
“You’re kidding,” she said in a crestfallen voice. “You were so excited about it earlier.”
“Bah humbug,” said her husband. Then he laughed, a big hearty laugh. “Get it?” he said. “I’m practicing to be Scrooge already.”
“You!” His wife smiled and swatted him.
Excited travelers swarmed the costume shop and dozens more spilled out in a long line that filled the hallway. I had nearly made my way past the crowd when I saw Jonas’s blonde head. He had sent me a text last night after rehearsal: “Amazing night. All because of you.” Ack. Jonas was nice and handsome and…not for me, romantically at least. But I still thought there was something fishy about Theo, and Jonas was my best way in. Mata Hari would have led him on. But that just seemed mean, especially since I liked Jonas. I decided to be friendly but not flirty, and hope he didn’t get the wrong idea.
I started to wave to him when he looked over his shoulder, furtively it seemed, then ducked into Mrs. Chickenstalker’s Sundries Shoppe.
Being a natural snoop, I crept to the door of the shop, keeping myself well hidden in the throngs of people. Jonas pointed to something behind the shop’s counter. The clerk grabbed it from off the shelf, but I couldn’t see what it was. Jonas left the store, a small paper bag under his arm.
I changed clothes and went to rehearsal, arriving a few minutes early for once. I spent the time working on my Cockney accent with Val. And trying to find out more about him and Harley.
“Have you worked on any other Get Lit! ships?” I asked. “I always wanted to see Alaska, and ’arley said she really liked the Jack London.” A big fib: Harley never said anything to me except “no,” but maybe I could find out where she and Val met.
“This is only ship for me. And Alaska is cold. Try last line again with more Cockney.”
“’Arley said she really loiked the Jack London,” I said. “And Oi fought Russians loiked the cold.”
“Put words in the front of your mouth,” Val said.
“You are Russian, roight? I didn’ see anyfing abou’ cha onloine, but—”
“You Google me?” Val grinned. “You like me. Yes, I am Russian. Try another sentence.”
“Doncha eveh go onloine?”
“No. Too much money.” Val scooted closer. “You have to know me in person, not by computer. Much better that way.”
“Oi see.”
“Better. You almost have it. Push your lips forward.” I did and Val leaned into me.
“Are you trying to kiss me?” I said in my regular voice.
“Can you blame me?”
Right then Jonas walked in. But maybe he didn’t notice Val trying to kiss me, or maybe he wasn’t the jealous type, or maybe I was all wrong about him liking me, because he just clapped his hands and said, “Everyone! We’re going to run the show from the top, but let’s go over Nancy’s ballad and her death scene first.”
Go over? It was more like “let’s do them for the first time.” All of our rehearsal time had been spent on blocking orphans and running their musical numbers. Oh, I knew it made sense, them being volunteer amateurs and me a paid professional, but still.
I headed backstage. As soon as I was in place in the wings, the click track (the recorded accompaniment) began, playing the first few bars of the tune of “Where is Love?” from the original musical. I stepped onstage, gazed wistfully into the distance, and sang, “Whe-eh-eh-eh-ere…is food?” Not exactly the poignant song
Oliver sang in the movie. “Are the pork chops any good?” I sang. “Should I drink my tea, or maybe see…if coffee’s freshly brewed?” I guess Oliver! At Sea!’s lyricists had decided that food was the one thing the story and the ship had in common. “Whe-eh-eh-eh-ere…is pie? Should I order ham on rye? Or fish and chips, or Spotted Dick, or a pasty with fungi?”
“Really?” I stopped. I couldn’t stand it anymore. “I’m afraid the audience will throw things at me.”
“Don’t worry,” Jonas said. “They eat it up.” He grinned.
I knew I was sunk, so I started in again. “As long as he feeds me…” This half of the song used “As Long As He Needs Me,” a lovely ballad of heartache, and they’d turned it into a song that featured Bangers and Mash. I finished the stinker and exited stage right.
“Great. Let’s move on,” Jonas said from his place in the audience.
I opened my mouth to protest the fact that I’d practiced my big ballad exactly once with no feedback or anything, when I realized that if I did complain, I’d have to sing the song again. I shut my mouth.
Val and I got into places for Nancy’s death scene. Get Lit!’s playwrights had played this part of the story seriously. In both Oliver! At Sea! and the original Oliver Twist, Nancy tries to help Oliver, but Bill Sikes erroneously believes she’s given Fagin and him up to the authorities.
The click track began again: this scene was choreographed to music and played behind a scrim, so the audience saw only our shadows. I entered, took a few steps, and tentatively looked back. Holding my shawl tightly around my shoulders, I walked a few more paces.
Strong hands clenched my shoulders and whirled me around. Fingers dug into my neck and I looked up into a face crazed with pure hatred.
Val was gone. Bill Sikes threw me to the ground, raised his walking stick over his shoulder, and swung with uncontrolled rage. I screamed as the stick arced toward me, its heavy metal head hitting the pillow next to me with a sickening thud. I whimpered as the stick came down again and again, until finally it stopped. Bill’s ragged breathing rang in my ears. The lights faded to black.
