Oliver Twisted (An Ivy Meadows Mystery Book 3) (19 page)

CHAPTER 49

A Weary Catalogue of Evils

Val strode away without looking back.

I felt like shit. And now I was going to mess with someone else’s head. How did Uncle Bob do this every day? My family didn’t talk. We didn’t even have regular “how was your day” conversations. These “sacrifice a soul for some information” talks were way beyond anything I was used to.

Still I soldiered on. After all, two lives had been lost. It sucked that I liked the victims less than the people I was interrogating.

It was lunchtime, so I wandered through the Solitary Oyster, Boz’s Buffet, and Food, Glorious Food looking for Target Number Two. Ah, there she was. I grabbed a tray, went through the buffet, and loaded my plate with the first things available. I walked quickly to Madalina’s table.

“Mind if I join you?” I sat down before she could answer. I needed to talk to Madalina about her relationship with Theo. If he had been just a john, why would she change her opinion of him? Or had she just let her mask slip after his death? “Boy, I’m starving. I could eat a horse.”

“You may be eating one.” Madalina looked pointedly at my plate. “Along with rest of barn.” Madalina had a shrimp salad. My plate was filled with meat pies, sausages, blood pudding, and lamb chops. Must have loaded my tray in the meat section.

“Have to stay in character, you know.”

“What is your character?”

“I play Nancy, from
Oliver Twist
. She’s a—” I caught myself before I said “whore.”

“A…?”

“You know, it’s interesting. Dickens never comes right out and says what her profession is,” I babbled, “but it’s implied that she’s a…lady of the night.”

Madalina arched a sculpted eyebrow. “You are afraid to offend me?”

“It’s just that…” How do you ask someone if they’re a sex worker?

“Maybe because you think I am whore?”

Guess I didn’t have to ask. Or avoid the W word.

“Is true. So? Is my life.” She picked a bit of shell off a piece of shrimp.

“It doesn’t have to be.” I leaned across the table to her. “I could introduce you to my agent. She reps models too. I’m sure you’d get lots of work.”

Madalina pursed her perfect lips. “Acting and modeling. They are much like prostitution.”

“Not really.”

“Do you kiss men you don’t like, for acting?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Would you take off your clothes?”

“I haven’t.”

“But would you, to be big star?”

“Madalina, I’m just trying to hel—”

“You judge me. I have enough of that.” She pushed her salad away and scooted her chair back.

“Wait,” I said. “I don’t want to judge. I want to understand. And to help if I can.”

Madalina stood up and began to walk away.

I took a deep breath and said, “I am chained to my old life. I loathe and hate it now, but I cannot leave it. I must have gone too far to turn back—and yet I don’t know.”

She stopped and looked at me.

“One of Nancy’s lines,” I explained.

Her eyes traveled my face. She must have seen something in me, because she sat back down. “You cannot help. There are other people involved. It is not so easy to walk away.”

“Other people? Like Theo?”

“He was no one to me.”

“But—”

“You want to understand or you want to ask questions?”

Actually, I wanted both, but decided to stay silent.

“I have worked for these people since I was twelve.” Madalina did not look at me, but held her head high in defiant dignity. “They come to orphanage where I was raised. They say they were social workers who had training program for young girls. We think sewing, maybe even computer work. It was not that kind of work.”

I imagined a twelve-year-old Madalina, a little blonde girl in threadbare clothes, excited at the prospect of a new life, then…I didn’t want to imagine any further. “Couldn’t you run away?”

“Some tried. When I saw what happened to them, I did not try. And now I am lucky one. I do not work the streets. I am not beaten. Many have it worse than I.”

“But—” My throat closed up and I couldn’t finish. Besides, I didn’t know what to say.

“Is worst for those who feel. I do not. I am dead inside. Only once in my life did I feel something. Then, poof. Dead again. It is way with orphans, you know. If no one loves you, you do not learn to feel. Or even to want. You just hope to live.”

CHAPTER 50

The Arts of Cunning and Dissimulation

The weight of Val and Madalina’s lonely lives sat heavy on my chest, and my meat-filled lunch did the same for my gut. A walk would help.

I was on ambient character duty, so I swished my skirts and smiled at guests as I strode the decks, but I didn’t talk to anyone. Besides confirming my suspicions, I hadn’t learned much this morning, and so needed to continue the conversation I was having in my head. Why would someone kill Theo? The obvious answer was money. The next obvious answer was that whoever inherited his money would be the killer, but I really didn’t believe Jonas was capable of murder. There had to be another angle. Thieves? Unlikely. Theo had lots of money, but I was pretty sure that a savvy businessman like himself wouldn’t have brought cash onboard the cruise, so…Ah.

My serendipitous wanderings had brought me to The Crystal Palace (Fine Jewelry for Discriminating Tastes). I slipped inside the small high-end shop. The burgundy carpet was plush under my feet, beveled glass cases winked at me, and the air smelled faintly of roses. It had that hush that typifies very expensive shops, and it made me supremely uncomfortable. Sure, I was surrounded by beautiful things—Victorian pearl necklaces, butterfly brooches made of gemstones, cherubim earrings carved from coral—but I was also afraid I might do something wrong. Like say, “Fancier than my underpants” to the elegant man who approached me. Damn Timothy and his quotable ways.

The clerk didn’t say anything in response, but smiled genteelly, like a butler dealing with an ignorant master. I curtseyed. “I’m Nancy,” I said in my best Cockney accent. Maybe he’d take the underpants line for a character thing. “I’m just curious,” I continued in my Nancy voice, “to know if you sell many of these trinkets to the swells onboard.”

“We do well,” the clerk replied.

“What’s the most precious bit you sold?” I asked in a conspiratorial whisper.

“Why are you interested?” he whispered back, relaxing a bit.

“Humor me?” I said in my real voice.

He shrugged. “We sold a ten-thousand-dollar diamond and emerald necklace this time—a one-of-a-kind Victorian antique.”

“Wow.”

“It’s not that unusual on these cruises,” he said. “
Get Lit!
serves a high-end clientele, guests are often here for romantic reasons, and we stock Victorian-era jewelry that people won’t find elsewhere.”

“Wow,” I said again, partly because I couldn’t imagine anyone spending ten thousand dollars on a necklace, partly because the thieves had picked a great cruise line to burgle, and partly to convince the clerk that my next question was innocent. “Who bought the necklace?”

“I’m afraid I can’t give out that information.” His manner grew stiff and formal again. Guess the innocent act didn’t work.

I’m not sure why I tried the same tactic at the art gallery, but it bombed again. After that failure, I ambled into the atrium and stared at the statue of Dickens, hoping for inspiration. A bell sounded, and there it was: my next idea.

That sounds pretty woo-woo. It wasn’t. It was just the noise from a slot machine in the nearby casino. I made my way to the Golden Hall Gambling Establishment. Like most casinos, the room was windowless and filled with felt-topped tables for craps and cards. But in a nod to the ship’s Victorian theme, there was no neon, no flashing lights, and no mechanized music from the slot machines. The slots themselves looked like antique reproductions, decorated with scrolled metalwork, spinning wheels, and dancing tin monkeys. Small chandeliers and lamps with fringed shades illuminated the playing areas. The whole effect was one of civilized entertainment, the sort of place where the upper crust might lose the deeds to their estates.

I spied a guy wearing a green eyeshade standing at the side of the room, probably a dealer waiting to go on shift. “How does this work?” I asked him. “Do guests use cash or sign-and-sail cards?”

“Either,” he said. Did he have an accent? “But if they use cards there is small fee, so many prefer to use cash.” Yep, another Eastern European. Was that suspicious?

“How about the payout? Do they—” I asked.

“Woo hoo!” A curly-haired woman jumped up and down as a shining waterfall of tokens spilled out of a slot machine.

“You are good luck. Maybe you stay and say ‘pay out’ more often?” The dealer smiled at me. “About your question, guests turn in tokens and chips for credit on their accounts or for cash now.”

“Do big winners ever choose cash?”

“Sure. Up to certain amount, of course.”

I sidled up close. Might as well try. After all, the dealer had smiled at me, and I was wearing my “booby dress.” I leaned toward him. “Had any big winners this cruise?”

“Yes.” Didn’t look like he was taking the booby bait. “But of course I cannot talk about them.”

Oh well. “Of course. Thanks. Hope someone else gets a
payout
.” I said it loudly and scanned the room to see if anyone else had gotten lucky. I didn’t see any winners, but I did see a familiar back of a head sitting at one of the card tables. Great, maybe I could apologize to Uncle Bob in person.

I headed toward my uncle, who looked like he was having a great time. “Did you know that a popular food item was invented so someone could go on gambling?” he said to his fellow card players. “A nobleman ordered his servant to bring him sliced meat between two pieces of bread, so he wouldn’t have to stop playing. He was the Fourth Earl of Sandwich.”

The table laughed appreciatively. One laugh in particular stood out and I stopped where I stood. I hadn’t recognized Bette because she wore a hat, a straw skimmer that looked jauntily Victorian and modern at the same time. I slipped behind a bank of slot machines and watched whoever-the-hell-she-was whisper in my uncle’s ear.

I was going to have to stop this.

CHAPTER 51

An Opening Presents Itself

“Bernadette Woodward, a.k.a. Bette Foxberry, worked in the media relations department for Positivity Productions for ten years before being fired at age forty-eight.” Timothy and I were both on duty as ambient characters, so we chatted like Fagin and Nancy as we strolled down to Scrooge’s Haunted House. In reality, Timothy was updating me after doing research via his smartphone (he had a way better cell plan than me). He continued: “There was a scandal where it looked like she was embezzling, but nothing was ever proved.”

I went to open the door of the haunted house where we could talk a bit more privately. As I did, the doorknocker changed into a ghostly face.

I decided it was fine to talk outside the house. “Pretty hard to get another job after that,” I said. Was that how Theo ruined Bette’s life? “Anything else?”

“That’s it. She dropped off the radar. No social media accounts, not under Bernadette Woodward or Bette Foxberry. Nothing.”

The clock bonged twice.

“Big Ben has spoken,” said Timothy. “Time for me to go. I’ve got an afternoon date with Marley.”

“Isn’t he a little old for you?” The actor playing the ghost from
A Christmas Carol
looked at least sixty-five.

“Not him.” Timothy looked like a kid about to meet Santa. “The costume shop manager has promised to dress as Marley. But with just the chains.” He scooted off.

I ambled up to the Drood Deck, where I stood looking out to sea in the hope that no one would bother me. I needed to know more about Bette/Bernadette. It looked like the only way I’d get more information was to talk to her directly, but I didn’t see how that was going to happen. I wasn’t exactly her favorite person.

“What’s the matter?” The familiar voice behind me projected well. Oliver.

I turned to see David next to him. They were both in costume. “Hush,” said David. “Do you see that old cove at the book-stall?”

“The old gentleman over the way?” said Oliver, an adorably earnest expression on his face. “Yes, I see him.” Ah. Oliver’s fake sweet look gave it away. They were acting out a scene for the crowd on deck.

“He’ll do,” said David. He tripped Oliver, who fell against the “old gentleman.”

“Cor blimey, sir,” said David. “We didn’t see you at all. Please accept our apologies.” While Oliver steadied himself, David slid a stealthy hand into the oblivious man’s back pocket. Then he presented the man’s very recently stolen goods back to him. “Your keycard, my fine sir,” David said with a bow. After a stunned moment, the man began clapping. Pretty soon the entire crowd was applauding. “Come see
Oliver! At Sea!
Tonight only,” said David. The pickpocket team gave one last bow, David disappeared, and Oliver began to walk away.

But not fast enough. I collared the little creep. “Give it back,” I whispered.

“What?”

“Whatever you took out of that woman’s purse when everyone was applauding.” I pointed at a woman in a pink polo shirt.

“It’s just a phone,” Oliver whined as he handed it to me.

I said in a loud Nancy voice, “And you thought the show was over.” Not very Dickensian, but my best shot at improv. “Madame, your pocket has been picked!” I gave the phone back to the woman and began the applause myself.

Then I hauled the little bugger out of earshot of the crowd. “Just a phone. You’re kidding, right? It’s not as if people just use them for calls. They have half their lives typed into the things, and if they lose…”

Oh. Yes. I knew how I could get Bette to talk to me.

“Yeah, yeah. Let me go, Nancypants.” Oliver tried to wriggle away, but I kept hold of him as I tried to catch a thought that was slipping away like a minnow. I stared at the kid. Oliver. Phone. Pickpocket. That was it. For a little kid, Oliver was awfully good at stealing. “Who taught you how to pick pockets?”

“Fagin did.”

“Tell the truth, Ollie.”

He shrugged off my grip. “Just because he’s your friend doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to steal.”