Oliver Twisted (An Ivy Meadows Mystery Book 3) (16 page)

CHAPTER 40

A Man-Trap!

But I couldn’t give it up. Bette was up to no good. I just knew. Yeah, okay, I also knew I might have a teensy problem with my uncle having a girlfriend, but more importantly, I was sure Bette wasn’t being straight with him. I wanted to protect the old fart, but I had to know what I was protecting him from before I could do anything.

I was on ambient character duty, so I used the time to pace up and down the deck in costume while I figured out what to do. Made it look like Nancy was a thinker.

Here’s what bugged me: No matter what she told Uncle Bob, Bette
was
connected to Theo. Their whispered conversation had made that clear. In fact, Theo had “ruined her life.” There was also that conversation with Madalina in the bar, the one that ended up with a drink in Bette’s lap.

“What are you smiling at?” asked Timothy/Fagin as he caught up with me.

“Just a fond memory.” What had Madalina said as she upended the drink? Something about children? Maybe Bette had children with Theo?

“Earth to Ivy.”

“Hang on. I’m thinking, and I can’t think and talk at once.”

“No comment.”

I ignored Timothy. What was the other thing that bothered me? Right. Bette had dropped her accent when talking to Theo. I didn’t know who she was, but I was pretty sure she wasn’t the recent widow of an oilman from Colorado.

“Ivy?”

“Not done thinking.” The biggest question of all: why was she after Uncle Bob? It could be his supposed money, but—“Omigod.”

“What? Did you hurt yourself thinking?”

Bette had to know Uncle Bob was a PI. She was working so hard to distract him because she was involved in something she didn’t want him to find out about. Like theft. Or murder.

“I’ve got to go.” I headed to the stairs.

“Wait.” Timothy hurried after me, his long green coat flapping. “I’m your sidekick. Remember?”

I didn’t know when Timothy decided he was my sidekick, but I needed one right then. “Okay,” I said as we hurried down the stairs. “I’m going to break into someone’s room and you’re going to help me.”

Timothy’s shaggy Fagin eyebrows shot skyward.

“Right, sidekick?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Whose room?”

“Bette, my uncle’s new girlfriend.” She could have been on to him from the start. From the plane ride, even.

“How do you know which room is hers?” he asked as we emerged from the stairwell onto the Queen Street Deck.

“I followed her once before.” After Bette’s conversation with Theo, I had tailed her to her cabin. “Just watching out for Uncle Bob, you know.”

“Ivy, do you think—”

“You know who the best sidekick was?” I asked. “Tonto.”

“Because he always had the Lone Ranger’s back?”

“Because he hardly ever said anything.”

“Whoa, Miss Bossypan—”

I turned on Timothy. “You want to be a sidekick, Tonto?”

“Yeah, I—” He shut his mouth and nodded.

“Great. Help me figure out how to get into Bette’s room.” I stopped in front of a cabin. “It’s this one.” I looked at the door, which unlocked with a keycard. Dang. I really wished I could talk to Uncle Bob. I bet he knew how to unlock a door like this.

Suddenly Timothy came to life. “Greetings, ladies and gents,” he said to a family coming out of their cabin a few doors down from Bette’s. “May I hold the door for you?” He looked sideways at me, and I sprinted a few steps to stand behind him. “Are you planning to attend my magic show tonight?” he said to the somewhat flummoxed family. “Let me give you a preview.” I stood innocently by the door to the family’s cabin, keeping it just a tad ajar with my foot. Timothy untied the long red scarf he wore around his neck. “I don’t mean to keep you,” he said to the little group. “We can walk and talk and do magic.” He led them a few feet down the hall and then retied his red scarf, pulling it tight around his neck. “Watch carefully.” He pulled on the two ends of his scarf. Instead of strangling him, the scarf slipped off his neck in one piece. “Ta-da!”

“Lame,” said one of the kids.

“Balconies,” Timothy mouthed to me over his shoulder as he ushered the family down the hall. “Lame, you say? Maybe you’d be more impressed by this.” He presented the kid’s phone to him with a flourish.

“How’d you do that?” the now-impressed kid asked as they rounded the corner toward the elevators.

“I learned to pick a pocket or two,” said Timothy.

I waited until the elevator bell dinged, then slipped into the family’s cabin. I crossed the room and let myself out the sliding glass door onto the balcony. Whoa, shit, we were a long way up. A fog was beginning to roll in, but it didn’t completely hide the ocean beneath us. I had no idea how high I was, but the water looked like a solid blue floor from this high up. And it was
water.

My heart rate sped up, but I took a few deep breaths. “For Uncle Bob,” I chanted to myself. “For Uncle Bob.”

I peeked around the edge of the balcony. The other room’s balcony wasn’t far.

All I had to do was climb up on the rail, hold on to the partition, and reach my right leg to the rail of the next balcony. I could do this: I was a dancer—I was an
aerial
dancer. This was just another dance move.

I wasn’t convinced.

Holding on to the partition, I climbed up onto the rail, making sure to not look down. I snaked my leg over and felt the other railing. Good. Or not. I was straddled between the two balconies. The wind tugged at my skirt. Damn costume. Should have tucked it up in my waistband. Too late now. Now I needed to shift my weight past the partition over to the new rail. Good thing I’d been doing those core exercises.

I slipped my left foot over to join my right on the new rail. Then, still holding onto the partition, I swung out and pushed myself onto the new balcony. Now I just had to let go of the partition and jump onto my new perch. Ignoring the thought of falling hundreds of feet into an icy ocean miles from nowhere, I focused on the sliding glass doors on the next balcony and jumped.

Bravo. I patted myself on the back once I’d made contact with the balcony. Only four more to go. The fog was beginning to close in. Couldn’t waste any time. I tucked my skirt and petticoats into my waistband and readied myself. Stretch…and…leap!

Piece of cake.

The next stretch and leap went fine too. I reached my left foot around the next partition—and someone grabbed it.

“Hey!” A man’s voice. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m…Nancy,” I said. “I’m an aerial dancer in
Fagin’s Magic Handkerchief
. I’m doing a preview.” I silently thanked Timothy for the inspiration.

“What?” The man’s grizzled head peered around the corner at me. The fog was now so thick I couldn’t see his shoulders.

“Hey, folks.” I waved at an imaginary audience below. “Tonight only,
Fagin’s Magic Handkerchief
!”

The man released his grip on my ankle and I swung myself onto his balcony. “Luverly to meet you, sir. Please forgive me intruding like this.” I climbed up onto his rail, prepping to climb onto the balcony next door. “Aerial dancers,” I said to my invisible audience. I swung my leg onto the next balcony. “Thrills and chills, but no spills!” I leapt quickly before the fog cleared and the guy realized there was no audience below me, unless he counted fish.

CH
APTER 41

Worse Luck!

Bette’s balcony. Finally.

I tried the sliding glass door to Bette’s cabin. Unlocked. I hoped she’d been as lax about the rest of the place.

Her cabin was one of the nicer ones: a queen bed, small sitting area, and of course, the balcony. It was also very tidy, everything put away except for a few shopping bags from Bette’s Ensenada excursion. I began the search with her closet. The clothes that hung there were expensive, but that just meant she had money, not that her money came from where she said it did. The first few drawers of her dresser yielded nothing. I searched the bottom drawer. Just a bunch of lacy underthings and nightclothes. I scrounged around to make sure nothing was hidden underneath, and pulled out a berry-colored silk robe.

Sheesh, she even had it monogrammed. I folded it up and put it back in the drawer.

Wait. I grabbed the robe again and shook it open. There on the left side in white embroidery was the monogram: B.W.

Not B.F. for Bette Foxberry, the name she’d given us.

I had that weird feeling you get when you’re right about something you wish you weren’t right about, like when you got the first rumblings in your belly after eating the shrimp that smelled fishy but you ate them anyway. Bette wasn’t who she said she was. And she was after my uncle.

I put the robe back in its place, making sure to put the impostor’s underthings back exactly how I’d found them.

Who was Bette really? Maybe B.W. had some prescriptions. I stepped into the bathroom, which was bigger than mine, but still tiny with a toilet, a small curtained shower, and a sink with a medicine cabinet above it. I opened the mirrored cabinet. Lots of potions, makeup, and hair products. Some Dramamine and Aleve. No prescriptions with names printed on them.

I shut the medicine cabinet. Boy, it made a lot of noise, almost like—Shit. It was the cabin door.

Bette was back.

Footsteps padded across the carpeted floor. Wait, were there more than one pair?

“It ain’t the Ritz, but it’ll do.” Bette laughed her insincere laugh. Who was she talking to? “The toilet is right through there.”

I jumped into the shower stall and pulled the curtain closed just as the bathroom door opened. Someone walked in. I held my breath. The room was so small that I was just a few feet away from the person who’d entered.

That person began to whistle. Oh no. It was my uncle, and I was hiding in the bathroom of his paramour after breaking and entering.

Then something worse happened.

“Thanks for letting me use your toilet,” he called.

I heard him lift the lid and sit down heavily. On the toilet. About a foot away from me.

“Don’t know if I would have made it to my room,” he said. “That Bubble and Squeak is really living up to its name.”

“Cabbage’ll do that to you,” said Bette.

Some might call my new personal hell “being trapped while hiding just a foot away from your uncle who’s on the toilet in the throes of intestinal distress.” Others might just say, “Crap.” Either one would be unfortunately accurate.

After what felt like ten minutes, Uncle Bob finally flushed. I heard him stand up, zip his pants, and buckle his belt. He stood so near me that the shower curtain moved as he stepped toward the sink. I held my breath so he wouldn’t hear me breathe, and because I really really needed to.

Finally, Uncle Bob left the bathroom. “How would you feel about a walk in the fresh air?”

Yes! I nearly shouted.

“Sure,” said Bette. “Unless you’d care to help me with a little problem.”

“What’s that?” asked Uncle Bob.

“I think this mattress is a little soft. What do you think?”

No no no no no no no no no no.

“Aw, hon,” said my uncle. “I’m still a little bubbly and squeaky. Best to wait ’til later. How about that walk?”

“You bet,” said the fake Bette. “But I’m taking a rain check.”

When I was sure they’d gone, I let my breath go in a rush. Thank the Lord. That was much too close. In more ways than one.

And my uncle was dangerously close to being taken in by this woman. What if he fell in love with her? What if she murdered him in his bed?

I needed to find out who Bette really was. I double-checked the medicine cabinet. Still nothing there. I went back into the sitting room and re-searched. Nothing. Tried the bedroom again. The drawers and closet held only clothes. I pulled back the covers on the bed, dislodging a towel in the shape of a palm tree. Just sheets and a blanket. I made the bed again, complete with towel tree. I really hoped it wasn’t from Uncle Bob. I tried to look under the bed, but a wooden platform ran from the floor to the mattress. A too-soft mattress—what a lame line.

I straightened up, inadvertently kicking one of the three shopping bags lined up along the wall. Hmm. I went through them, one by one. I unfolded each piece of clothing and unwrapped each souvenir, including every piece of an onyx chess set from Mexico. I rewrapped the final piece—the black queen—in tissue paper, and turned over the chess board. Yes! A receipt was taped to the bottom of the board.

A credit card receipt for the American Express card of Bernadette Woodward.

C
HAPTER 42

Blending Truth and Fiction Together

After I left Bette/Bernadette’s room (by the door this time), I had just enough time to change into street clothes before meeting Mr. Brick Bungalow for a drink in the crew bar. I didn’t really need to keep our date. After all, he already gave me the bit of information he knew. And I’d promised Ada I would stay away from the bar. Still, I showed up right on time, partly because I might be able to wheedle some more information out of him, partly because I was curious to see the place, but mostly because I hated being stood up and wouldn’t do that to anyone.

But maybe not showing up wasn’t such a bad idea if the guy you were meeting was dressed from head to toe in black leather, wore a studded dog collar around his neck, and greeted you with “Hello, Miss Rubber Gloves.”

Needed to shoot down that misconception but quick. “I’m afraid your friend misunderstood,” I said as I slid into the booth where he waited. “I’d been cleaning.” I hoped his buddy hadn’t told him that both Uncle Bob and I wore gloves. “I’m a teeny bit OCD.”

“Clean is nice too,” said BB. I briefly wondered if scrubbing the toilet could be a turn-on but decided I didn’t want to know.

“So,” I said, “I’ve never been here before. It’s nice.” The place was nice, in a bar sort of way. As with the rest of the crew areas,
Get Lit!
had dropped the literary theme. Instead, neon signs sang the praises of Bud Light, an old-fashioned jukebox sat in one corner, and all the surfaces were easy-wipe-clean. Definitely a no-nonsense drinking establishment. And everyone was here. Jonas was with the clerk from the sundries shop and a couple other men at a table a few feet away. David sat nearby at the bar by himself. Ada was laughing with a group of guys that included Val. Everyone was so engrossed in their own conversation (or their drinks) that no one noticed me. Or so I thought.

“Bet they sell a lot of vodka here.” I nodded at a group of guys speaking some Slavic language. “Seem to be a lot of Eastern Europeans onboard.”

“Yeah. Cruises are good money for them,” said Brick. I really should ask his name, but it might make me appear too interested. “Most of them don’t have a pot to piss in.”

I giggled. “You’re funny.” He wasn’t. “Do you think maybe they’re the ones who are stealing stuff, since they’re so poor and all?” A little on the nose, but I hoped my general air of ditziness would make me seem less investigator-ish.

“Could be. I have a theory about all that. You want to hear it?”

I should have known I didn’t need to worry about sounding like a detective. People love to tell you stuff, especially if they think it’ll make them look smart. “Yeah,” I said breathlessly, just for effect.

“I think some of them are stealing IDs so they can pose as American citizens after they’re done with their contracts onboard. You know, get off in Alaska and just disappear into the wilderness.”

Maybe this guy was smarter than I thought.

“In fact,” he leaned in so close the tag on his dog collar was dangerously close to his beer, “I’ve heard they have an underground compound outside of Anchorage where they’re storing up weapons so they can stage a coup and take Alaska back for the Ruskies.”

Nah, I was right about his intelligence to begin with. Still, it was kinda fun to play along. “Isn’t the ground, like, really frozen up there?”

“Yeah.”

“So how would they dig a big underground compound?”

“Oh. Well, first they’d probably steal some dynamite—”

“Hey, Ivy baby.” Val stood next to our table, a puzzled look on his face. “Do you like dogs?” he asked the leather-clad BB.

“Uh, no.” Brick fingered the collar around his neck. “I just—”

“I know S and M!” Val laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, then sat down in the booth next to me. “But I don’t know what they stand for, the S and the M. Can you tell me?”

Brick’s forehead furrowed. Either he wasn’t sure if he was being put on, or he didn’t know what S and M stood for.

“Ivy, if you want to eat before the show tonight, you’d better leave now.” Ada stood beside our table, hands on her hips.

“Right.” I pushed Val out of the booth so I could get up.

“I hear there’s something special on the menu tonight.” Ada narrowed her eyes at me. “Dead meat.”

I got in line at Food, Glorious Food. While waiting, I checked my cell. Yay, one bar. I called the group home, crossing my fingers that Cody was there. He was. For about a minute.

“Olive-y!”

“Hey, I’m so glad you’re back ho—”

“I found Stu. You were right. He was in a safe place.”

“That’s so cool, Cody. But we were worried about you too.”

“You shouldn’t have been. I was in a safe place too.”

“But where did you—”

“Gotta go. Mom and Dad are taking me and Stu for pizza.” Cody started to hang up.

“Wait, can I talk to Matt?” A clunk as Cody put down the phone. The group home still used a landline. Kept down expenses, especially since they’d canceled long distance after the guys decided they wanted to hear a real Australian accent.

“Hey, Ivy,” Matt said.

I was startled by the change in his voice. “Wow, I just realized you sounded like crap these last few days.”

“Thanks. I love you too.”

“No, seriously.”

“Me too.”

“What?”

A pause. “Never mind. I finally got some sleep.”

“You sound way better.”

“We’re all better. I got sleep, Cody got an enormous breakfast, and Stu got his meds.”

At the mention of meds, a tiny lightbulb flickered in the back of my mind. “That was Keppra, right?”

“Yeah. Why?”

No one I’d asked seemed to know if Harley had epilepsy. “Is that medication just for seizures?”

“Not sure. Why?”

“Could you do me a favor? I can’t really use the internet here. Could you find out a bit more about Keppra for me?”

“Sure.”

“And one more thing. Could you find out if someone can die from epilepsy?”