by Cindy Brown
I nodded and sat in my seat as everyone got off the van.
Then I sat some more.
I lied to my uncle. Both right then and earlier, before we took the job, when he asked me if I was over my fear of…
My breath caught in my chest. I beat down my rising panic and pulled out my cell. “Help,” I said when Matt picked up. “There’s water. Lots and lots of water.”
“And you’re good with that now, remember?” Matt’s calm groundedness made him a favorite with the guys at my brother’s group home where he worked, and with me. In fact, since my friend Candy had moved to L.A., he was probably my best friend in Phoenix. “Think about that picnic at Saguaro Lake,” he said. “You even waded in a little.”
I had been afraid of water since I was eleven years old. A successful swimming pool standoff last spring had cured me. Or so I’d thought. I’d begun taking baths again. I’d dipped my feet in the shallow end of a pool. And fueled with hotdogs (and with Matt and my brother Cody on either side of me), I’d ventured into Saguaro Lake as far as my ankles.
But this. This. This water was dark and deep and…
“Ivy?” said Matt. “Just close your eyes and breathe.”
I did.
“Just for a minute,” he said. “Think about—”
“Hey!”
My eyes shot open as someone rapped on the van window.
“Is this you?” A young man with a cigarette dangling from his lip held up a sign with “Ivy Meadows” scrawled in black marker.
“Matt, I gotta go.”
“Call me later?”
“Not sure how my phone will work at sea.” I’d hopped online to look at the FAQs for my carrier, but it seemed the customers of CHEEP cellular didn’t cruise much.
“Hello?” The guy stuck his head inside the van, the smell of his cigarette overpowering the salt air. “You okay?”
I waved at him. He stepped back to give me space, maybe because he saw how I clutched my phone. It felt like a literal lifeline, anchoring me to solid ground. A lifeline I had to leave behind for now. “Take care and tell Cody bye,” I said. “And Matt, thank you.”
“Anytime. And Ivy…” He paused and took a breath, like what he was going to say next was difficult or important. But he just said, “Call anytime. We’ll miss you.”
I grabbed my bags. I’d told Uncle Bob I was over my phobia, and so I would be. Or at least I’d act like it. I swallowed and stepped out of the van.
The sign holder grinned. “Hello, Ivy Meadows.” Though my uncle called me by my real name, Olive Ziegwart, I mostly used my stage name, for what should be obvious reasons. The guy, lanky and beetle-browed with skin the color of Cream of Wheat, held out a hand to help me as I climbed out of the shuttle. Up close, I saw that one of his eyes was light blue and one was half blue, half dark brown. Cool, in a creepy sort of way.
“I am Val Boyko, here to take you to ship, because I won,” he said in a thickly accented voice—Russian? Polish? “We see your photo and all the men want to greet you and I won. But…” He cocked his head. “You do not look like your headshot.”
“I know.” I’d had a little hair dye accident. Since the store was out of my usual brand, I’d picked another one. It said “light ash blonde,” but my roots were now bright orange.
“I like it. You are like sexy Creamsicle.” Val grabbed my suitcase and shepherded me around the hordes of embarking passengers toward an entrance reserved for crew. A big-bellied security man checked our IDs. “Welcome aboard,” he said, popping open my suitcases. He nodded at Val’s cigarette. “Better put that out.”
“Crew can’t be seen smoking?” I asked as the guard rifled through my unmentionables.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” chided the security guard. “Looks like someone didn’t read her employee handbook.”
Yeah, probably should have asked Get Lit! for one.
“Is non-smoking cruise.” Val stubbed out his cigarette and dropped it into a large standing ashtray. “Vaping is permitted on outdoor decks, and cigars and pipes in cigar bar only.”
“Yeah, thank God for Dickens,” said the security guy. “They wouldn’t even have that bar if passengers hadn’t complained that people smoked in Victorian times.” He shut my suitcases and handed me a crew member badge. “Smooth sailing.”
“Let us go, Ivy Meadows,” Val said as he hefted my suitcases once more. He led me to the gangplank, where I took a deep breath, focused on the ship in front of me, and walked out over the water.
CHAPTER 3
Something More than Usual in the Wind
“You are lucky.” Val walked quickly through throngs of crew members, leading me down a passageway and up a staircase. “You room with Harley. She is Madame Defarge.”
Though the current onboard show was a takeoff on Oliver Twist, Get Lit!’s brochure mentioned that major characters from Dickens’s other books would be onboard, greeting people and posing for photos, like Snow White at Disneyland.
“I’m lucky there’s no guillotine on the ship if I’m rooming with her,” I said as we exited onto a deck filled with excited passengers. Val’s heavy brows drew together in confusion. “She’s playing Madame Defarge from A Tale of Two Cities, right?” I spoke loudly to be heard over the din. “The hateful, awful one who likes seeing people’s heads cut off?” I followed Val and my suitcases down a passageway.
“No need for guillotine when you can throw people in sea.” Val stopped in front of a cabin door, slipped a keycard in the lock slot, and opened the door. Me, I tried to just breathe normally. Val turned and caught sight of my face. “Is joke.” He laughed. “No one falls off ship. If you did, I would save you, my Creamsicle. You are lucky to stay with Harley.” He stepped aside to let me enter the cabin. “You get best room.”
“Wow,” I said.
“Nice, yes?”
“Wow, this is the best room?” was what I meant, but Val seemed sincere in his appreciation, so I kept my mouth shut. The windowless cabin held two twin beds, two small closets, and a built-in desk at the far end of the cabin. The far end wasn’t very far: the entire space was about eight feet long by six feet wide. Not bad if you were on just one cruise, but I knew most crew member contracts lasted at least six months.
“You are even on passenger deck,” Val said. “With paintings.” There was a large reproduction of an illustration from one of Dickens’s books mounted above the desk. Still.
Val set my bags on one of the beds, then closed the door behind us. “You play Nancy,” he said. “I am Bill Sikes.”
I whipped around. Val’s Eastern European accent was gone, replaced by a crass Cockney twang with an undertone of menace. “I kill you,” Val continued in that creepy voice, his unsettling two-colored eyes roaming my body. Then, in his own voice, “So it is good we are friends, yes?”
“Yes,” I managed to say.
“I see you are impressed by my big talent.” He grinned, showing snaggledy teeth. “I have other big things.”
Actors.
A knock. “Has Fagin’s newest girl arrived?” said a familiar voice.
“Timothy,” I said, opening the door with a flourish. “Please do come in.”
Timothy played Fagin, Oliver Twist’s king of petty crime, and was the reason Uncle Bob and I were hired. A semi-regular on Get Lit! ships, he’d recommended us to the cruise line after hearing about the thefts. Timothy and I met last spring when he played opposite me in an original musical, The Sound of Cabaret. He was a great dancer, a big flaming queen, and the hairiest man I’d ever met. I adored him.
Timothy gave me a big wet one right on the smacker and hugged me with furry arms. “Omigod.” He stepped back to look at me. “Your hair.”
“I like it,” said my new friend and murderer, Val a.k.a. Bill Sikes. “Is sexy hair.”
“I’ll fix it for the Set Sail party,” Timothy said.
“Is it really that bad?”
“Honey.”
“Okay, okay.” I smoothed my obviously awful hair. “What’s this about setting sail?”
Timothy shot me a look. “Don’t you think this room’s a bit tight for the three of us?”
“Not if one sits on the bed. Or maybe two, Ivy baby.” Val sat and patted the mattress next to him.
Timothy arched a manicured eyebrow.
“Okey-dokey.” Val got up. “I see you at party.” He left.
“Should I be scared of him?” I said to Timothy, whispering in case Val stood outside the door.
“Only that he’ll upstage you,” said Timothy. “His Bill Sikes is crazy good. I mean crazy evil. You know.”
I plonked down on the bed. This undercover thing was going to be tougher than I thought. I needed to be extra careful, to suspect everyone I met, and to vet everything I said before it came out of my mouth.
Thank heavens Timothy knew the real situation. I could relax around him.
He took Val’s place on the bed. “Didn’t they tell you you’d work as an ambient character too? Like for the Set Sail party?”
“Not specifically, but if I’d thought about it…” Of course. If Madame Defarge was available for a chat with travelers, my character would be too.
So even though the ambient character thing hadn’t been mentioned in my PI/actor contract, I should have known. I also should have read Oliver Twist all the way through. But hey, I watched the miniseries.
“You okay with that?”
“Sure.” I would be. Tonight I’d skim the rest of the book for the parts where Nancy appeared.
“Good.” Timothy got up and opened the door. “I’ll come back to pick you up for the Set Sail party in,” he checked the time on his phone, “fifteen minutes.”
Guess I’d wing it.
Timothy blew me a kiss and shut the door. I began unpacking, then stopped. Maybe I should plan my next investigative steps. Or read Oliver Twist. Or find the costume I was supposed to wear for the party in fifteen minutes. Yeah, that.
The door opened behind my back. “Timothy,” I said, “do I need to go somewhere to get my costume?”
“No,” said a new, female voice. “No, no, no.”
I turned around to find a short brunette staring at me. Must be Harley.
“No, no, no.”
I knew my hair was bad, but this was an overreaction.
“I am not supposed to have a roommate.” The woman yanked open her closet, pulled out a long, full, brick red skirt, and stepped into it. “Ever. They promised.” Was that anger or fear on her face?
“I’m a great roommate.” I gave Harley a winning smile. She was already buttoning a brown vest over a white full-sleeved blouse. She’d be great at quick changes backstage. “I don’t snore or hog the bathroom, and I’ve been known to make midnight snack runs.”
“Doesn’t matter. No. No way.” Harley jammed on a mobcap, grabbed knitting needles and a scarf knitted of gray yarn, and threw a shawl over her shoulders. “Don’t unpack.”
CHAPTER 4
Something Dangerous Too
Why was Harley so adamant about not having a roommate? Sure, the room was small, but it had two beds, two nightstands, and two closets. Obviously meant to be shared. She could see from my two small suitcases that I didn’t have a ton of stuff. And she didn’t know me, so it couldn’t have been that I lied a little bit about my excellent roommate qualities. (I may snore a teensy bit.)
Maybe Harley had something to hide.
I started my search with her desk. Nothing on the desktop but a pen, a small tube of hand lotion, and a few hairclips. I was just about to open the top drawer when my phone buzzed. A text from Timothy: “Five minutes ’til places.” Yikes—had ten minutes passed already? This whole working-as-an-actor-and-an-undercover-PI thing was going to be tough time-wise. And I still didn’t know where to find my costume.
I threw open my closet. Phew. Two identical costumes hung there. I yanked a petticoat off a hanger and stepped into it, praying to God that its stains were part of the costume and not leftover yuck. I wrangled myself into Nancy’s red and green dress, tightened the green laces that cinched in my waist, and…wow. Between the lacing and the square low-cut neckline, my modest C-cups looked positively voluptuous.
I finished my makeup just in time. “C’mon, girl,” Timothy said from out in the hall. “Time to be one of Fagin’s minions.”
I opened the door. “Ready.”
“You are not.” Timothy was nearly unrecognizable under a broad-brimmed black hat, a wig of stringy red hair, and a beard to match. He pushed me back into the cabin, sighed exaggeratedly, and held out his hands, ensconced in fingerless gloves. “Ponytail holder, bobby pins, and hairspray, stat.”
Right. My hair. I scrambled through my duffle bag and found the tools Timothy needed. He arranged my shoulder-length hair in an updo that mostly hid my orange roots and we were off.
“Hey,” I asked as we trotted up the stairs, “what’s up with Harley? She really does not want a roommate.”
“Less space in the bathroom, shorter showers, someone else’s hair in the sink—who does want a roommate?” Timothy smoothed down his long green Fagin coat. I was relieved to see the stains on it matched the ones on my costume. Definitely on purpose, then.
“Yeah, but her reaction was over the top. Even for an actor.”
Timothy shrugged. “Probably shagging someone.”
Duh, Ivy.
We arrived at the main deck, the Pickwick Promenade. “Wow,” I said. This time I meant it.
The Victorian-style lobby was resplendent with columns and cornices and framed niches, all painted in shades of green and cream with gilded edges. A massive crystal chandelier hung above our heads, while sconces with fake candles threw pools of flickering light on the oriental carpets. The lobby’s open atrium spanned several decks, which were united by a grand staircase with intricately wrought bronze handrails. The whole thing was like a movie set, but a sturdy one that floated.
“No time to gawk.” Timothy grabbed my hand and led me up the staircase, which circled an enormous statue of Charles Dickens. “The party’s four decks up.”
We left the elevator for the paying guests and hoofed it up the stairs to the London Lido deck. Loud laughter and music poured in through the open door. “Party time,” said Timothy. “Remember, no drinking while on duty. Though you’ll want to.”
Fifteen minutes, ten pickup lines, and three marriage proposals later, I knew what he meant. So when I heard, “Can I buy you a drink?” for the umpteenth time, I felt the urge to smack my latest suitor. Luckily I didn’t, as my admirer turned out to be a portly rancher with a glint in his eye. “Bob Stalwart at your service, ma’am.” Uncle Bob wore a Western-cut suit jacket over his jeans. “How’s the day treating you?”
I smiled a good actor smile and said under my breath, “I can’t figure out how I’m going to investigate and work as an actor at the same time, my roommate hates me, and every male over twelve is way too interested in me.”
Timothy had sidled up beside us. “It’s the girls.” He pointed at my breasts, which threatened to spill out of my costume. “They’re irresistible to the common man.”
Uncle Bob glanced at my chest, blushed, then kept his eyes on my face. “Could be.” He turned to Timothy. “Have we met?”
“When Ivy was in The Sound of Cabaret.”
“Timothy?” Uncle Bob peered at him.
“I know,” Timothy said. “It’s hard to see my hot young body under this costume.”
I was anxious to talk to my uncle while we had the chance. “You found anything yet?”
“Just listening and watching right now. Big party
like this is a good opportunity for a thief. Hey, you looked a little green earlier today on the van. You okay with—”
“There you are.” The blonde woman—Bette—approached us, wobbling a bit, whether from her heels or the enormous drink in her hand, I couldn’t tell. “And who in the Dickens do you have here?” she asked Uncle Bob, laughing at her own joke.
“Fagin and his number two protégé at your service, madam,” said Timothy in a broad London accent.
“Number two? Off with you!” I playfully hit Timothy and a cloud of dust rose from his greatcoat. It smelled like baby powder. I curtsied awkwardly to Bette. “Charmed to make the honor of your acquaintance. They call me Nancy.”
She looked at the nametag pinned just above my bosom. “Hello, Nancy-slash-Ivy. You look familiar.” She caught sight of something over my shoulder and her eyes grew wide. “Lord almighty, did you know he was onboard?” She grabbed my uncle’s arm, pointed at a tall man with black hair, and teetered off her heels and onto me, spilling her entire gin and tonic down my top.
“I am so sorry,” Bette said. She did not look sorry. She looked like she wanted my uncle all to herself.
“Here, my dear,” Timothy withdrew a handkerchief with a Fagin-y flourish. I patted my wet bosom with it, but my costume had soaked up the gin like an old alcoholic. “Nance, love, we’re being summoned.” Timothy nodded at a square-jawed blonde man who was waving at us. “That’s Jonas, our director.”
Jonas, a good-looking guy in his thirties, stood stiffly next to the black-haired object of Bette’s interest, who had his arm around a willowy blonde.
“Who is that dark-haired guy?” I asked Timothy as we waltzed over. Literally waltzed: Timothy had taken me in his arms and hummed a tune as we wove though the crowd.
“No idea.”
No surprise. Timothy was up to speed on the newest musicals, hair products, and trendy cocktails, but that was about it.