Oliver Twisted (An Ivy Meadows Mystery Book 3) (15 page)

CHAPTER 38

A Strange Interview

I hoped Jonas was still drunk. Probably not the nicest thing to wish on a friend at ten o’clock in the morning, but something was up. I wasn’t sure what, but I did know I was interested in Val and Harley and Madalina, and Jonas was the only person I could think of who knew all three. I was especially intrigued by Theo’s ghostwriter. The night of the captain’s table dinner, Madalina said Theo wasn’t a bad man. Now she thought he’d ruined lots of people’s lives. I might be able to find out more if Jonas had a few drinks under his belt, and hey, he started down that road himself.

By the time I found Jonas five minutes later hanging out near the outdoor pool, I had completely rationalized my intent to ply him with alcohol. “Can I buy you a beer?” I said, steering Jonas toward the George and Vulture Pub.

“No.”

Dang.

“I’ll buy
you
a beer. I’ll have a cocktail.” He was already tipsy enough that he said “coch-tail,” like some German sailor on shore leave.

I guided him to a back corner booth where no one would hear what we said. “I’ll have a Mai Tai,” said Jonas. “And she’ll have…”

“A Diet Coke.”

“No, you won’t. I’m not drinking alone.”

“But I’m on the job.” I nodded at the Nancy outfit I wore.

I was supposed to be encouraging guests to get their photos snapped in our ship’s brig, which looked like a nineteenth-century jail. This morning, cruisers could get their picture taken in the Marshalsea Prison with some of Dickens’s criminals, like Fagin and Bill Sikes and Magwitch from
Great Expectations
.

“I’m your boss and I say you can have a drink.”

“A Guinness,” I said to the waiter. It was the healthiest alcoholic drink I could think of. They used to drink it in Irish hospitals, you know.

“So…” I said, not knowing exactly where to start.

“Did you hear I’m rich?” said Jonas. “Filthy rich?”

Okay, we could start there. “Because of Theo’s death?”

“Because of you! I could kiss you. I think I will.” Jonas leaned over and planted a sloppy kiss in the vicinity of my mouth.

“Because of me?”

“Because Theo and I made up.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“The son of a bitch liked you. Oops,” he said, putting a finger to his lips. “Shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”

“I’m still confused about how I helped—”

“Ivy, sweet pea, I’m rich.” Jonas closed his eyes and smiled like a happy cat. A happy drunk cat.

Time to get him back on track. “So Theo put you in his will.”

“Correct. You win another beer. Waiter!”

“I haven’t got my first one yet.”

“Pah. Another beer for the lady,” he said to the waiter he’d flagged down.

“Why did you and Theo need to make up?”

“He disowned me. I used to be bad.” He hung his head in mock sorrow. “I was a juvenile delinquent.”

“Jonas,” I whispered. “I don’t think you should be saying—”

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t need this job anymore. I’m a millionaire. Or maybe a billionaire. Not sure.”

“Were you really a juvenile delinquent? What did you do?”

“Stole a motorcycle.”

“You stole a motorcycle?”

“Just for a joy ride.” He showed his white teeth to the waiter who dropped off a Mai Tai and two pints of Guinness. “Prob’ly good the cops caught me instead of the owner of the bike. Was a Harley,” he slurred.

Okay, Jonas was not gay. Gay men did not ride Harleys. And Jonas had just given me an opening for my next line of questioning.

“Do you think Harley was named after the bike?” I didn’t say it was a smooth opening.

He wrinkled his forehead in thought. “Harley?”

“You know, my roommate? The one who died?”

“Nope.”

“She wasn’t named after a motorcycle?”

“It’s not coming back to me. Harley…”

“She played Madame Defarge.”

“The knitter!”

“Right.” You might be able to get more information out of drunks, but boy, it took patience I wasn’t sure I had. “Do you know much about her?”

“Knitted. Kept to herself. Not many friends, except for David and Val.”

Another opening. Maybe patience was a virtue. “I knew she and David were friends, but Val?”

“Like this.” Jonas tried unsuccessfully to twine two fingers around each other. He gave up and wrapped his cherry stem around the little umbrella that accompanied his Mai Tai. “Inseparable.”

Huh. How had Val described it? Buddy-buddy? “Val didn’t seem too broken up when she died.”

“He was probably on to some other girl by then. He doesn’t stay long with any of ’em.” Jonas swirled his drink, then looked up at me. “You’re not interested in him, are you? ’Cause he’s no good that way. Besides being unemployable, he’s got the whole orphan thing going on. Fear of abandonment and all that. Dump them before they dump you.”

“Let’s go back to the orphan thing.” I was not about to pass up the golden egg that had been laid in my lap. “Did you know Madalina was an orphan too?”

“Nope. I did know—do know—that she’s a prostitute.”

“Really? I didn’t believe the memoir story, but…”

“Thought he was her sugar daddy, didn’ cha?”

I hadn’t actually given it much thought but nodded to keep the conversation going.

“Being a sugar daddy requires commitment. Madalina is bought and paid for so he can return her when he’s done. When he
was
done,” Jonas corrected himself. “He only kept each girl for a month or two.”

“And ruined their lives?”

“What? No, I don’t think so. It’s not like they haven’t been in the business for a while.”

“Wow. If that ever got out, Mr. Anti-Moral-Weakness hiring hookers…”

“It won’t. Lots of rich guys use this particular outfit. The girls are paid
very
well to keep quiet.” Jonas over-enunciated the words with drunken carefulness. “Waiter! Could I have another Mai Tai?”

I persevered. “There’s a woman onboard named Bette. Do you think she could have had something going with your stepfather once upon a time?”

“Not unless she’s a pro. I am the closest thing Theo ever had to a real relationship. Which is why I am rich.” Jonas began to sing: “Oh, yes, I am a rich man…”

Could Bette be a pro?

“…bubba deedle diedle, yowsa frowsa…”

Could Harley have been working for the “particular outfit” Theo patronized?

“…beetle biedel dum.” Jonas stopped mangling the lyrics to “If I Were a Rich Man” and said, “Hey, do you think the
Fiddler
writers did that because they couldn’t think of rhyming words?” he said. “The deedle deedle bit?”

“Yes.”

I was pretty sure the answer was no, but I never disagreed with a drunk. “One more thing,” I said. Might as well ask everything while Jonas was so willing to answer, and before he started singing again. “What happened to the last Nancy? I heard there was an Oliver incident.”

“An Oliver incident!” Jonas laughed so hard his Mai Tai lost its umbrella. “You could say that. The little bugger led her into the swimming pool during a game of Blind Man’s Bluff. The deep end. While she was in costume.” He frowned. “It actually could have been serious. That wet costume probably weighed a ton.”

“Yeah, it could have been bad.” I’d had a close encounter with a nun costume and a swimming pool not so long ago. “So she quit?”

“Yeah, but not after tying the little imp to the Charles Dickens statue in the lobby.” He grinned. “In just his tighty-whities.”

The waiter glided over with a fresh Mai Tai just as Big Ben bonged the half hour. Must be ten thirty. I took a last sip of my barely touched Guinness and then a sip of the other untouched one so it wasn’t completely wasted. I pushed my chair from the table. “I’ve got to go encourage people to go to jail…Oops.” Dang, would I ever learn to think before I spoke?

“No worries. This former criminal is not offended.” Jonas lifted his glass. “But before you go, let’s toast my good fortune and our bright future.” We clinked glasses and I left Jonas admiring the lovely sunset colors of his new drink.

I was halfway to the brig when a thought stopped me in mid-stride.
Our
bright future?

C
HAPTER 39

Under Trying Circumstances

After convincing a number of people to get their photos taken behind bars, I had a few hours free. Time to get back to detective work. I checked my phone. No bars.

I was in a pickle. My investigative tools (the internet, the phone, Uncle Bob) were severely limited. I couldn’t ask for records or interview people or snoop like a normal PI. But though I couldn’t act like an investigator, I could behave like a silly girl.

No matter what anyone thought, I was not a silly girl. I was always a rough-and-tumble type of kid. Creative, sure, but more interested in playing pirate than house. As a grown-up, I scoffed at the type of women who pretended they couldn’t do anything for themselves in case they’d break a nail or soil their white pants (though I did understand the white pants bit, which is why I did not wear them). So no, I was not a silly girly girl. But I was an actress.

“I’m afraid for my safety,” I said breathlessly to the buzz-cut guy who opened the door to the security office. “After what happened at the ball last night.”

“There’s no need, miss,” he said, sticking out his chest. “We’ve got it all under control.”

“I just really need to talk to someone.” My lip quivered and I looked up at him with moist eyes.

“Aww.” Had him. “Why don’t you come in for a minute? You can tell me all about whatever’s bothering you.”

I stepped into the small security office which, like most of the crew section of the
S.S. David Copperfield
, looked less like a floating hotel and more like a ship. The guy, who was built like a brick bungalow (he was on the short side), took a stack of papers off a chair and motioned me to sit.

“So, miss, tell me what’s bothering you.”

I had to be careful.

Not only did I need to maintain my cover, I needed to remember that these guys might be in on whatever was happening onboard.

Talk about having your hands tied. But I did have another body part I could use.

I still wore my low-cut Nancy costume, so I leaned forward. Might as well give him both barrels, so to speak. “This morning when I ate breakfast at the crew mess, everyone said thousands of dollars were stolen at the ball last night—if you count all the money and jewels and stuff missing from the safes, I mean.” The entire story was made up, but it sounded plausible to me.

“Did you have anything stolen?” he asked.

I was about to give him a story about my grandmother’s pearl necklace when he said, “Weren’t you working?”

Oops, almost hoisted by my own petard. Of course he would know I was working, which meant I’d be in my Nancy costume, which meant no expensive jewelry. “I was, but…” I stalled for time so my brain could come up with some plausible reason for being afraid. I smoothed my skirt and felt my phone hidden in my pocket. That would work. “I can’t find my phone.” I remembered what Uncle Bob said about identity theft. “And it has a lot of personal information on it.” I leaned a little farther forward.

“Now that is serious.” Evidently my boobs were also serious, since that’s where the guy’s attention stayed. “When did you last have it?”

The security office door opened.

I recognized the smirking face—the security guard who’d come to my room after Harley’s death.

“If it ain’t Miss Rubber Gloves,” he said.

The guy across from me raised his eyebrows in a lewd question mark. I wanted to melt into my seat, but instead had to act like everything was better than blueberries. Good thing I was an actress. I smiled at the newcomer. “So nice to see you again.”

The buzz-cut bungalow said to the other guy, “Miss…uh…”

“Meadows,” I said.

“Miss Meadows just told me she was worried that her phone may have been stolen.”

“I think someone might have taken it during the ball, when they took all that other stuff,” I said. Sheesh, I hadn’t gotten an ounce of information out of these guys.

“When did you see it last?” said Smirky.

“Hey, I’m questioning her,” said the first guy. “When did you see it last?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t know it was lost until I went to look for it.”

“Do you remember where you saw it last?”

“Not sure. In my room?”

“Did you ask your roommate?”

“Yeah. She didn’t know anything.” I really really hoped they wouldn’t question Ada. Wow, this conversation had gotten away from me. I took back the reins. “And this ball thing really freaked me out.”

“You and about a thousand other passengers.” Smirky smirked.

“Do you think the thieves planned the heist—”

“Heist?” His smile dimmed.

Oh, not ditzy enough. “Isn’t that what they call it in all those movies with handsome jewel thieves?” I asked Brick Bungalow. He was my best shot, given that he seemed a little slow on the uptake. Plus he was enamored of my chest. “Anyway, do you think they planned it or just took advantage of Mr. Pushwright’s death?”

“I’ll tell you something on one condition.” Brick winked at the other guy, who said, “Look at that, time for a smoke break.” He left.

“Okay…” I began to get nervous. I was in a small office far away from everyone and flirting with a guy who might be in league with criminals. “The condition?”

“Have a drink with me later.”

Phew. “Oh, dang. I would but I’ve got a show tonight.”

“Before dinner then.”

“Okay.” I got up to leave.

“Wait, don’t you want to hear what I was going to tell you?”

He was going to tell me now? Before I fulfilled my one condition?

If this guy was in league with a gang of criminals, he sure wasn’t the mastermind. I sat back down.

“This’ll all come out tomorrow, so you have to keep it close to your chest ’til then.” I thought it was “close to the vest,” but didn’t want to correct him. “Not only did someone take advantage of Mr. Pushwright’s death…” Brick paused for best effect. “Someone caused it.”

“Someone gave him a heart attack?” I could see Oliver doing that.

“A heart attack? Where’d you hear that?”

“I was there when it happened. That’s just what I thought.” Hey, a bit of truth amongst all my fibs.

“Did you see the body?”

I was about to tell him that I saw, felt, and smelt it, but didn’t really want to go there, mostly for my benefit. Instead I nodded.

“Notice anything unusual about the guy’s face?”

“Not really.” I willed my mind back to the scene. Theo’s face had been frozen in a grimace, and…“I guess he was a little sunburnt.”

“Wasn’t the sun that did that.” The guy sat back in his chair to deliver the punch line. “That was poison.”

“Theo left Agatha-style,” I texted my uncle as soon as I had a bar on my cell phone. “Agatha-style” was our code for “poisoned,” since Christie, who once worked as an apothecary’s assistant, often used poison in her novels.

“You sure?” he texted back.

“Pretty sure.”

“Do you think we should be worried about the butler?”

“Butler” stood for “killer,” as in “the butler did it.” Should we be worried? If the poison was caustic, that meant it was applied topically, so Theo was most likely the target. Probably not a serial killer.

“I think we’re OK,” I texted him. “Are you with Bette?”

“Yes.”

“Be careful.” Theo’s murderer might not be a serial killer, but it didn’t mean he or she wasn’t dangerous.

“Give it up, Olive.”