by Cindy Brown
CHAPTER 43
Who’s Afraid?
A half hour and a quick dinner later, I skidded to a stop outside my cabin door. I was supposed to be at the theater for Fagin’s Magic Handkerchief in five minutes. I fumbled in my skirt pocket for my keycard. Why, oh why was I always late? It was as if my internal clock ran ten minutes behind the rest of the world.
Since I was busy berating myself (which I soundly deserved), I nearly stepped on the small object someone had placed on the floor, tucked against my door. I pulled my foot back at the last minute, and bent and picked up a wooden doll, painted to look like a Russian peasant woman in a blue dress and scarf. I looked up and down the hallway. No one. Huh.
Maybe someone had left me an opening night present? I took my treasure into the cabin and examined it. Yes, it was a little Russian nesting doll. I unscrewed the outside doll to find a smaller version inside, this one with a yellow headscarf. I took that one apart to find a green painted figure. Was this the final doll? No. A hairline fissure circled its middle. I pried the green doll open with a fingernail. Her insides held a tiny red doll cloaked in a scrap of paper. I unrolled the paper carefully. In minuscule print someone had written, “You’re on the right track.”
I stared at the note. What right track? What had I learned today? I knew Bette was Bernadette and I knew Theo had been murdered. What else did I know? And more importantly, who thought I knew something? Shit, I was supposed to be undercover and at least one person knew I was up to something. And sure, that person might be cheering me along “the right track,” but why? And why didn’t he or she just come out and say something instead of hiding a note inside a Russian…
Duh. Inside a Russian doll. When had I mentioned Russians? Once with Madalina, and then again in the bar. Both times there were scads of people around.
No time to think. I was supposed to be at the theater right this minute. I slipped the doll into my pocket, grabbed my costume for Fagin’s Magic Handkerchief off its hanger, and ran.
“We’ve got places in five,” Ada announced as I ran through the dressing room door. “And you still have to get dressed, put your makeup on, and check your rigging.” She turned right before she left the dressing room. “Good luck.”
Nice. She basically just cursed me. There’s a reason actors say “break a leg” instead of “good luck.” Actually, I don’t know what it is. I just know that saying “good luck” pretty much ensures the opposite. I set my opening night present, sans note, on the counter. Maybe someone at the theater would recognize the doll, maybe even let slip who gave it to me.
I scrambled into my costume (a red leotard cut and trimmed to look like a Victorian bustier), slapped on some makeup, and checked my rigging, all in record time.
I was in place when a blackout and music announced the beginning of the show.
I watched the first act from the stage left wing. Timothy pulled a string of handkerchiefs out of his pocket, did his “scarf through the neck” trick, and made a hankie dance while he danced a jig. Then he said to the audience, “Gents, I need a volunteer for my next feat.” About a dozen arms shot up into the air. “But,” Timothy said, “I need a bloke who’s carrying a pocketbook.” All the arms went down. “That’s a wallet in twenty-first century parlance.” Only a few men raised their arms again. Most people left their valuables in their room safes.
Timothy pointed at a nattily dressed man wearing a bow tie. “Would you please join me on the stage?” The man trotted up next to Timothy, who said, “Kind sir, do you think I could pick your pocket without you feeling it?”
“Perhaps,” replied the guy in a British accent. “But I’ve a particularly sensitive bum.” The audience laughed appreciatively.
“Could you please show the audience your wallet, so they can take a good look at it?”
“Of course.” The man reached toward his back pocket. “It’s…” He patted his rear. “It’s gone.”
“But not too far.” Timothy wiggled his fingers in pick-pockety delight. “Dodger!” David ran on, bowed, and presented the man with a wallet. “Is this yours, sir?” asked Timothy.
“It is, indeed,” stuttered the man. “How did you ever?”
“Ah, ah, ah, there’s a code of silence among thieves,” said Timothy.
“Isn’t that code of honor?” asked the man.
“It’s both,” Timothy said, a bit gruffly.
Must have fluffed his line. Didn’t matter. The audience roared.
Then the lights dimmed. My cue. Time to fly. I think I can I think I can I think I can. I’d be the little Ivy that could.
Very un-Dickensian pulsing electronic music played. Timothy stood in the middle of the stage and opened his arms wide in a grand gesture. The two silks dropped on either side of him, and Ada and I ran out and took our respective places. No mats underneath the silks this time. I grasped mine, tied onto the silk with my foot, and struck a pose, one arm swinging out and around as my free leg hooked around the front of the fabric. I held my breath as the pulley engaged and lifted me slowly skyward. When I could nearly touch the curtain that ran along the top of the proscenium, the pulley stopped. I smiled and moved into my first pose—and fell.
What the hell! The ground rushed up at me. My foot tangled in the fabric and my hand still clutched the fabric, so I hadn’t slipped. What—Ow! Shit! The silk yanked tight around my instep as the free fall stopped. My foot felt nearly broken by the force and my arms ached from the death grip I had on the fabric. I looked up. The silk was still attached to the hardware. I looked down. Just ten more feet and I would have smashed into the stage.
The audience, which had been holding its collective breath, erupted into applause. Ever the performer, I smiled and waved. Someone maneuvered the pulley so that it floated me gently down to the stage, where I took a bow. Then I walked offstage and collapsed. Literally. My rubber legs wouldn’t go any farther than a few steps into the wings. I sat there on the hard wooden floor and burst into tears.
A blackout, and Timothy rushed over to me.
“Did I pee my pants?” I asked him. “Please tell me I didn’t pee my pants in front of everyone.”
“You’re okay,” he said.
Jonas appeared next to me, Ada behind him. “God bless us.” Jonas sat next to me and hugged me. He still smelled of booze.
A worried-looking techie shook his head. “Just like Har—”
“Why didn’t you check your rigging?” Jonas said.
“I did. I checked it. All of my carabiners were locked.”
“It was the knot. You didn’t check the knot. It slipped because it wasn’t tied right.”
“Oh.” Fear had sucked away all my brainpower, but several thoughts circled the fuzzy ball that was my mind.
I remembered being told to check the hardware, but did anyone ever tell me to check my knot?
The knot was just fine yesterday. Why had it been retied?
Most importantly, who retied it?
CHAPTER 44
We’re All Afraid
“That slip, was that part of the show?” Uncle Bob’s face looked a little pasty, even in the fire-lit library.
“No.” I took a big gulp of sherry. Its warmth slid down my throat and helped me stop shivering. “The knot slipped. See, the silk is knotted around a piece of hardware called a rescue eight that’s attached to the pulley, which is attached to—”
“Olive, did you forget to check your knot?”
Dang. I had hoped the extra information would distract him. I didn’t want to tell him about some stuff yet—not about the note in the Russian doll and not about the knot, which I was pretty sure had been tampered with. Not until I saw how he’d respond to the news about Bette. So instead I appealed to his love of trivia. “Did you know that aerial silks have only been around since the eighties? I guess a Canadia
n gymnast with Cirque du Soleil came up with the idea. Before he did, aerialists only used trapezes and—”
“Olive. The knot.”
“I…sort of forgot.”
I let Uncle Bob lecture me for a minute, knowing his anger was out of love and fear, and knowing I had never been told to check that stupid knot. When he finally ran out of steam, I said, “You want to hear how Cody found Stu?”
He chuckled appreciatively as I related the Costco story. “Pretty smart, that brother of yours,” he said. “So glad he’s safe. Now, back to work. This security guy, he said Theo was murdered?”
I told Uncle Bob what I knew, how the slight burns on Theo’s face indicated poison. “Should we notify the police that there’s been a murder?”
“Ship security should have already done that. Unless they didn’t, if you know what I mean.”
“Right. If they didn’t provide the police with the information, there’s a reason they’re sitting on it. Do you think Theo’s death could be connected to the theft ring?”
“Probably. I’m surprised this security guy told you anything.”
“He’s a few peas short of a casserole.”
“Were you wearing that booby dress?”
“If you are referring to my Nancy costume, then yes.”
“Got it.” Uncle Bob set down his sherry glass and stared at the fire. “I don’t think we should say anything yet. I checked with the medical staff. All the passengers at the ball who thought they were sick are okay—no signs of poison. We’re too far at sea for the police to bring anyone on board and it would probably put the kibosh on our investigation. It’s a tough call, but I don’t think anyone is in danger.”
Oh boy, here it came. “I think someone may be in danger.”
“Who?”
“You.” I sped ahead, not looking at my uncle. “I think Bette’s on to you.”
“Olive—”
“I know you like her, but she knew Theo. She hated Theo. She’s not who she says she is, and I think she’s…she’s playing you.”
Uncle Bob banged his sherry glass on the table so hard its stem shattered. “Goddammit, Olive, this has got to stop.”
“But—”
“Yeah, Bette did know Theo. She told me today. Used to work for the son of a bitch, until he fired her.”
“What did she do for him?”
“I don’t know, public relations or something.”
“You sure she wasn’t…” I stopped. Not the time to pursue this.
“Wasn’t what? Come on, you started this. Spit it out.”
“You sure she wasn’t a…call girl?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Olive.” Uncle Bob stood up and stomped to the library door. “You’ve got a problem.”
CHAPTER 45
Shrouds with Blood upon Them
If things are okay when you go to bed at night you expect them to be the same when you get up in the morning. So I ignored the slight sense of unease I had upon waking. Probably just a lack of coffee.
Ada wasn’t there. Must have risen early. I ignored that clue too (Ada usually slept even later than I did), performed my morning ablutions, and opened my closet.
“Aaaah! Shit! Oliver!” The little urchin was stuffed in my closet, eyes shut in a grimace, trails of blood dripping from his mouth and ears. “Shit!”
I raced the whole twelve inches to my desk, picked up my phone, and started to dial. I couldn’t stand the kid, but I didn’t wish him dead either. Maybe they could do CPR, or…
Wait. I stopped dialing and sniffed the air. It smelled different than normal, sweet and fruity like…candy? I put down the phone, walked back to the closet, and gave Oliver’s body a sniff. Suddenly Theo’s death flashed back into my mind. The same sickly sweet smell, albeit mixed with vomit.
I grabbed my rubber gloves from my drawer, put them on, and went back to the body. The odor came from the face area. I put a gloved finger on his lips. Maybe someone had placed something inside his mouth…
“Aaaah!” I screamed again as the little miscreant opened his eyes and grinned at me.
“Got you.” Oliver stepped out of the closet and licked the stage blood from his lips. “What were you going to do to my mouth?”
“You smell funny, like…apples or something.” I was too startled to be pissed.
“Jolly Rancher.” He sucked noisily on the candy in his mouth. “Want one?” He produced another one from a pocket.
“I just want you to go away.” The kid made me very, very tired.
“That’s what everyone says. Ha. You screamed like a girl.”
“I am a girl. Now get.” I shooed him away. “No, wait.” Of course Oliver opened the door to leave. I grabbed him by the shoulders before he slipped away. “Did you ever give Theo a Jolly Rancher?”
“Who’s Theo?”
I searched his face. He looked sincere, but he was an actor. A good one too, the little bugger. “Did you mess with the knot on my silk last night?”
“I was with my parents all night. You can ask my mother.”
Something knocked on the door of my coffee-less brain. Silk…knot…mother…Harley. Last night, didn’t one of the techies say something about…“Hey, did Harley—she was Madame Defarge—”
“The dead one?”
“Yes, the dead one. Did she ever do the silks?”
“Yeah. Nancy was supposed to, but she hurt her hand. I have no idea how.” Oliver gave me the “cherubim have nothing on me” look.
“Did Harley fall once? From the silk?”
“Yeah. Sprained her wrist. Ada had to do the magic show by herself for a whole week.” Oliver squirmed under my grip. “Can I go now?”
“One last question: How did you get into my cabin so you could hide in the closet?”
“Ada let me in.”
Of course.
I didn’t know why the smell of Jolly Ranchers stayed on my mind, but I just couldn’t let it go. After a quick breakfast, I trotted down to the ship’s infirmary.
“Hello?” I knocked on the door. A stout woman in a white doctor’s coat opened it wide and I caught a whiff of disinfectant.
“Yes?” she said in a friendly tone. “How can I help you?”
“Is it possible to pay my respects to one of the deceased?”
“Welcome to sick bay.” A short African-American man in blue scrubs held up a hand in a split-fingered Vulcan salute. “Live long and prosper.”
“He can’t decide if he’s Bones or Spock,” said the woman, swatting him on the shoulder.
“I want to be Captain Kirk.” He winked at me. “But she’s in charge.”
She shook her head at him, then said to me, “Please come in.”
The infirmary was a model of organization. Every bit of space was used. Locked cupboards full of medications and medical equipment surrounded a bed, while backboards and stretchers were affixed to the wall. It looked like a cross between a hospital room and an ambulance.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” asked the doctor.
“You do the Dickens thing here too?”
“Oh, no. I just like tea. And we rarely get visitors. Well ones, anyway.” She bustled around getting cups and teabags from a small cubby that also held an electric teapot. “We also don’t get that sort of request too often. Are you family?”
“No, but the man died on top of me.”
“Oh my.” She shot a “don’t you dare say anything” look at the guy in scrubs.
“Not that way,” I said. “He just fell on me. At the ball.”
“You must be talking about Mr. Pushwright. I’m sorry, but since you’re not family we can’t take you down to the morgue.”
“You have a morgue onboard?”
“A lot of
older travelers like to cruise, and it’s not uncommon to have a death at sea. The morgue isn’t anything fancy, basically just a set of refrigerated drawers.”
“But I can’t see it?”
The doctor shook her head.
“We’d have to move the prime rib,” the guy said.
“Jamie! Not funny.” Then the doctor smiled. “Space is at a premium onboard, you know. So we do keep flowers in the drawers when they’re not in use. It’s the perfect temperature.” The kettle must have been one of those super-duper ones, because she was already pouring hot water into our cups. “Why did you want to see Mr. Pushwright?” she asked.
“Just to satisfy my curiosity. There was a smell about him.”
“Was there ever,” said Scrubs.
“Do you know what it was?” I asked.
“Vomit,” he said. “They’re going to have a tough time cleaning that costume.”
“Cleaning it? Wouldn’t they just throw it away or burn it or something?”
“Just between you and me, dear, those costumes are quite expensive,” said the doctor. “They do everything they can to clean them up, no matter what dirties them—vomit, blood, urine.” She smiled at me. “Do you take anything in your tea?”
CHAPTER 46
Exhibiting Decided Marks of Genius
After a very nice cup of tea, I made my way to Madame Mantalini’s Temple of Fashion. I suspected the robe and mask had been cleaned, but having worn my share of stinky costumes, I knew that smells often lingered.
As I turned the corner to the shop, I caught a glimpse of a familiar top hat. Like always, when I looked for David, he wasn’t there.
The guy really did belong in a magic show.
I walked inside the costume shop and my spirits lifted. Sure, I was looking for a dead man’s clothes, but what actress’s heart doesn’t swell at the sight of all that silk and lace?