Oliver Twisted (An Ivy Meadows Mystery Book 3) (9 page)

CHAPTER 21

All the Treasures of the World

I popped into Mrs. Chickenstalker’s Sundries Shoppe on my way to the costume shop. I’d run out of Tums and needed more before dinner. My stomach hadn’t felt exactly right for days, and Cody and Stu’s disappearance sat heavy and queasy in my gut like slightly off Mexican food.

Or maybe it
was
slightly off Mexican food.

Like everywhere else, the store was done up Dickens-style, the walls lined with floor-to-ceiling dark wooden shelves.

Signs with fancy lettering announced the goods for sale, though if you looked carefully, you’d see iPod accessories among the aspirin and deodorant.

I took my purchase up to the counter and handed it to the shopkeeper. “We have better stuff than that for seasickness, you know.” The shopkeeper wore a white shirt and brown vest, a sort of string tie around his neck, and a long white apron over the whole outfit. “Would you like to try some Dramamine?”

“Sure.” I slid my packet of chewable Tums toward him too, just for good measure.

He turned and picked up a packet of Dramamine from a mirrored shelf behind him, which in a very un-Dickensian manner was filled with vaping supplies and cold and allergy meds.

“Why do you keep the Dramamine back there?” I asked. “Seems like it’d be pretty popular.”

“Kids.” The clerk sniffed. “They can abuse anything if they put their minds to it. I guess it has some hallucinogenic properties.” He rang up my purchase.

I thought about asking him if Dramamine might also help with that dizzy feeling you got when you were twirling on a flimsy piece of fabric forty feet in the air, but figured I could find that out on my own.

I walked the few feet from Mrs. Chickenstalker’s Sundries to the costume shop next door. Each
Get Lit!
cruise featured a fancy costume ball, so every ship had several shops full of outfits that fit its literary theme. A bell jingled as I opened the door to Madame Mantalini’s Temple of Fashion.

Oh my. I’d reached heaven. Actors’ heaven, at least. I reverentially entered a room that shimmered with light reflected off silken ball gowns. Beaded bodices sparkled and velvet capes whispered of walks through manicured gardens. Neatly pressed men’s suits in black and gray and brown looked proud and pompous, even on the rack. A few brightly colored waistcoats winked from among them. Bowlers and boaters and top hats perched on a shelf above the men’s clothes, while a half dozen free-standing hat racks held confections for women made of feathers and lace and ribbons. Nearly hidden among all this finery were worn-looking cotton and wool costumes like the one I wore, and behind the shop’s counter was a rack filled entirely with what looked like black robes. As I peeked over the counter to get a better look, a short elegant man emerged from a back room. “How may I help you?”

Once I told him what I needed, he brought out several gowns. I tried on a scarlet velvet dress (a little too low-cut for dinner), a gold silk-looking one (did nothing for my complexion), and a brocade gown in a soft sage green that set off my eyes. Perfect. Its off-the-shoulder neckline dripped with tea-dyed lace and its full skirt (hoop skirt included) emphasized my small waist. Or so I thought.

I came out of the dressing room to look at myself in the larger mirror in the shop.

“Hmm,” said the costumer shop manager. “Do you want to try a corset?”

“Uh…Sure.”

He sized me up with his eyes and handed me a front-lacing corset from a drawer behind the counter. I went back into the dressing room with the contraption. Once I was laced up tight, I slipped the gown back over my head and checked my reflection. Oh,
that’s
why he suggested it. My waist looked tiny, which made the skirt look fuller. Plus I stood up straighter, probably because I couldn’t bend in the middle.

“What do you think?” he asked from outside the door.

“I’ll take it,” I said, somewhat breathlessly. “Maybe it’ll help me to eat less at dinner.”

As the manager helped me pick out a blonde wig (neither my one-and-a half-inch orange hair nor my Nancy wig were going to fly), I gazed at the beautiful clothes in the shop. “Are all these costumes historically accurate?”

“They’re of the time period,” he said. “Though maybe not very Dickensian.” He handed me a wig, an elaborate style with swept-up blonde hair and a few long curls spilling down the back. “Most customers want to dress like the upper classes, even though most of Dickens’s major characters were low or middle class.” He settled the wig on my head. “And our most popular costume doesn’t fit into any of those categories.”

“What do you mean?” I said, admiring the way the short curls on the wig framed my face.

He gestured at the rack of black robes behind the counter. “Our biggest seller, so to speak.” I must have looked confused, because he said, “Bestseller is a bit of a misnomer. Costumes are free to all guests for the duration of the costume ball. Or when they’re invited to sit at the captain’s table.”

“But what
is
that costume?”

“The Ghost of Christmas Future.”

“The scary faceless ghost who points at Scrooge’s grave? That’s your most popular costume? Why would anyone want to wear a black robe when they had all this to choose from?” I waved at the finery that surrounded us.

“I know.” The manager put my wig in a hatbox and handed it across the counter. “I think some people wear it because it hides absolutely everything. Allows the shy ones to still dress up, you see.”

“You said some people wear it because they’re shy. What about the others?”

“I think the others are just plain creepy,” he said. “Do you want to see my absolute creepiest costume?”

“Of course.”

He turned to the rack behind him and pulled out an innocent green velvet robe from among the black ones. “A Ghost of Christmas Present costume,” he said. “But a special one given to us by a theater company.” He opened the robe. From the white satin interior scowled two horrifying faces, gaunt children staring out of dark eye sockets, the flesh tight around their skulls.

“Ignorance and Want,” I said, “the two monster-children who clung to the ghost of Christmas Present.”

“‘No change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has monsters half so horrible and dread,’” the clerk quoted.

“The costume almost looks new.” The green velvet was plush and no stains or rips marred the white lining.

“It is.” The clerk nodded. “Hardly anyone wears it. Who wants to be reminded of ignorance and want?”

CHAPTER 22

A Strong Appetite for Contradiction

I would have been on time to dinner, but I had to pee.

“Easier said than done,” I mumbled to myself as I stared at the restroom stall, which was a good foot and a half skinnier than my hoop skirt. I squished the sides of my skirt down and walked into the stall. Doable. Wall-to-wall hoop skirt, but doable. I turned my hiney toward the toilet seat and felt a tug on my skirt. I let go of my hoop skirt so I could see what caught me, and
whoomph
! I felt like one of those exploding Poppin’ Fresh crescent roll thingies, fully expanded to fill the space. I pawed through miles of green brocade, but couldn’t see what had grabbed my skirt. “Dammit.”

“Are you okay?” A small girl peered in the open stall door.

“Kind of,” I said. I tried to push my skirt down at the sides, but now whatever I was caught on had grabbed my skirt but good. I let go of my skirt again so I didn’t tear the fabric.
Whoomph!

The little girl giggled.

“Can you see what my skirt is stuck on?” I pointed to the side of the stall where I thought my skirt was caught.

She stuck her head inside the stall and shook her head.

“Maybe if you come closer?”

She stepped into the stall with me and looked down at my skirt. “Oh, it’s stuck on that thing.”

“The toilet handle?”

“No.”

“Toilet paper roll?”

“No.”

“Toilet cover dispenser?”

“It’s a box. Where my mom puts her mouse.”

“Her mouse?”

“You know. It’s a white mouse with a tail.”

Hmm, white with a tail. “Her tampon.”

“Yeah.”

I am a detective, you know. So I was stuck on the tampon receptacle. “Could you unhook it for me?”

“It’s stuck underneath.”

“Maybe if I lift up my skirt, you could reach it.”

“Okay.”

I raised my skirt and she crept under it.

The door to the restroom opened. “Eloise? Have you fallen in? Whatever is taking you so…Oh.” Eloise’s mom skidded to a halt in front of my stall. “Is that my daughter under your skirt?”

It took several minutes to calm down Eloise’s mom, a few more to get me unhooked from the tampon receptacle, and then several more to figure out how I was going to use the toilet (I really had to pee by then), so I ended up ten minutes late for dinner.

“My apologies, everyone,” I said as I approached the captain’s table. I decided not to go into the whole bathroom/tampon/hoop skirt story.

“No worries. I ordered for you.” Jonas stood and pulled out a delicately carved wooden chair for me. He wore a well-cut black tailcoat. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Though the skirt and corset were pains in the ass, the glimpse I’d seen of myself in the bathroom mirror was small-waisted and full-skirted and pink-cheeked (probably from lack of air). I felt beautiful.

Until I sat down. Then my devil hoop skirt flipped up and hit me in the face, exposing my bright pink Victoria’s Secret underwear, which I suspected weren’t historically accurate despite the name.

“Oh dear.” A woman jumped up from the table and helped me wrangle my skirt into place. “It happens to most of us the first time we wear a hoop,” she said. “The trick is to sit on the edge of your chair. If you lean back, whoops, up goes the skirt.”

I thanked the woman, who was dressed in a high-necked gown of deep blue. “I’m Rose,” she said, sitting down next to a man dressed in a double-breasted navy blue suit with epaulets on his shoulders. “I’m married to Captain Steerwell here.”

“How do you do, everyone.” I nodded slightly at the five couples seated at the table. “I’m Ivy Meadows.”

“Where are your manners, Jonas?” Theo sat next to Jonas and wore a similar tailcoat.

“My apologies. I was just about to introduce—”

Theo stood. “You probably know of me, Miss Meadows, but allow me to introduce myself. I’m Theo Pushwright, and this is my literary assistant, Madalina Botchick.” Madalina was dressed in a gown of dove gray silk trimmed in black, her ash blonde hair pulled into a bun wound about by a braid of her own hair. My lacy dress and wig felt costume-ish by comparison.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Pushwright,” I said. “I understand you’re Jonas’s stepfather.” A waiter silently deposited bowls of soup before each of us.

“Yes.” As Theo studied Jonas’s face, his eyes narrowed in disappointment and his lips puckered in disgust. “If I’d been his real father, perhaps things would have turned out differently.”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“I’m the black sheep of the family.” Jonas sank in his seat.

“Has to be old news,” I said. “A directing gig for
Get Lit!
is quite a coup.”

Jonas shook his head.

“Of course it is. Most theater directors have to go from job to job, or wind up doing theater administration too, which, let’s face it, is not what most creative people want to—”

“I think our onboard theater is marvelous.” The captain’s wife broke in, obviously noting the tension I had ignored in favor of defending Jonas. “Both the entertainment and The Royal Victoria Theatre itself. I saw that you filled the space for your lecture, Mr. Pushwright. You must have many fans onboard.”

At the mention of fans, Theo’s face took on the charismatic glow I’d seen at his book signing. “Why, yes, I’m honored to have so many people who believe in the power of positivity.”

“My former roommate Harley must have believed,” I said.

Jonas gave me a sharp look. No one else seemed to notice that I used the past tense, though the captain’s wife set down her water glass with a thump.

“She must have really been looking forward to your visit,” I continued. “She already had a signed book and everything. You said she was positively perfect.”

“Probably came to one of my Positively Perfect seminars.” Theo sipped his wine. “They’re weekend retreats designed especially for women, to help them realize the power and beauty of their femininity.”

So the signature on Harley’s book didn’t imply anything—unless Theo helped Harley realize her feminine power and beauty in a one-on-one, up-close-and-personal situation. I watched him carefully, but his face showed nothing. No. The signed book was a dead end.

“Maybe you’d like to attend one of my weekends?” said Theo. “When you’re in port, of course.” He smiled at me, a bit too warmly it seemed. “I could arrange a discount.”

Jonas shifted in his seat next to me. This was getting weird. Theo was now studying my face with an expression of interested delight, as if he’d just discovered a new Rembrandt. It was especially strange since the incredibly beautiful Madalina sat right next to him. I had the distinct impression he was using me to goad Jonas.

“Ah.” Theo turned his charm on me full tilt. “I remember you. I wasn’t sure because you wore a different wig and costume, but I recognize you now. You wanted to quit smoking.”

“That was me, but—”

“You
can
quit, Ivy.” Theo spoke my name like it was the name of his favorite cognac. Madalina leaned back in her seat in an amused “here he goes again” attitude. “People have conquered everything using the power of positivity,” he said. “They’ve stopped smoking, overcome addiction, cured long-standing diseases. If everyone around the world thought positively, there’d be no more poverty of mind, body, or spirit. I mean, look at me. I was born a poor nobody, and now I’m one of the Forbes 400.”

“But you’re not saying that positive thinking can solve all the world’s problems, right?” I said. “I mean, sure, I believe it can help somebody break a bad habit or become a better person or even get a better job, but it’s not going to help some poor lower-caste woman in India get a four-bedroom house and a car.”

“It could, if she truly believed.”

I looked around the table. Everyone seemed very interested in their food. I knew I should let the subject go, but Theo’s patronizing prattle had my dander up. “And what about my brother, who has a permanent brain injury? If he thought positively, could he become an Ivy League scholar?”

“The brain has been known to repair itself.”

“You’ve got to be—”

“And your brother might be stunted by a lack of positive energy from his family members.”

“Excuse me.” Silverware clattered as I jumped up from my seat. “I’m going to have a smoke.”