Read Online Oliver Twisted (An Ivy Meadows Mystery Book 3) by Cindy Brown - Free Book Online Page B

a long shot,” I said. “But the fact that Harley kept her copy separate from her other books plus the sort of special signature could imply a relationship.”
    “You’re right about the long shot thing. Plus that guy’s got more money than God. I can’t see how he’d be involved in any theft ring.” Uncle Bob drained the last of his beer. “I got a couple of things. There’s a high-end jewelry store onboard. No thefts from it, but several of its customers have had their jewelry stolen a few days afterward.”
    “Which points to someone with inside knowledge,” I said. “Which we kinda already knew.”
    “Yeah. The thing is, the thieves must stash the stolen goods onboard, but where?”
    “Good question,” said Timothy. “You know the phrase ‘shipshape?’ They clean every inch of this ship all the time. They even inspect the crew quarters.”
    “You said you had a couple of things?” I asked my uncle.
    “Yeah. You met any Eastern Europeans yet?”
    “Sure. There’s Valery and about a hundred others.” I wasn’t exaggerating. Probably a third of the ship’s staff was from Russia or Serbia or Romania or another European country ending with “ia.”
    “Got a tip that the thefts may be related to some sort of Eastern European gang working the ships. Keep your eye on ’em.”
    “Isn’t that racial profiling?” asked Timothy.
    “I don’t think Eastern European is a race,” I said. “Wouldn’t it be ‘cultural profiling?’ Or ‘region-specific profiling?’”
    “It would be a tip.” Uncle Bob set down his beer glass and got up. “And one that a smart detective would follow up on.”

CHAPTER 13
    Fresh Discoveries

      
    “Gluhhhhhh,” I groaned. “Does anything feel worse than a queasy stomach?”
    “Probably lots of things. Torture, surgery without anesthetic, getting your unmentionables waxed.”
    I smacked Timothy. “It was a rhetorical question. Wait, do you wax…down there?”
    “Slick as a whistle.”
    “Okay, I think you just upped the nausea factor.” We sat at a table in Boz’s Buffet. We’d gone there after our cigar bar meeting to get some dinner before rehearsal. I had just finished a big plate of sushi, which Get Lit! had tried to make more Dickensian by calling it names like Street Urchin’s Uni, Oliver’s Ono, and Micawber’s Mackerel Maki. “Do you think I ate some bad fish?”
    Timothy shook his head. “You just ate dinner. Food poisoning takes time. More likely the combination of rough seas, pipe smoke, and beer. Plus sushi.”
    I could see that. I also knew there were two more things causing my stomach to roil. Harley’s dead face still floated in the back of my mind. And as if a dead roommate wasn’t enough, there was the idea of dancing forty feet in the air in front of an audience held up by just a piece of fabric. I’d been keeping the thought at bay, but it crept back into my consciousness as tonight’s rehearsal neared. I wasn’t sure I could do it. Aerial work took a lot of upper body and core strength. I was already sore after just the one rehearsal. Ada had offhandedly remarked that it usually took months to learn the silks. I had just three more rehearsals.
    “Omigod, omigod, omigod.” Timothy elbowed me so hard I bet I’d have a bruise.
    “Ow. What?”
    Timothy’s furry fake Fagin eyebrows nearly met his hairline. He stared fixedly at the buffet line, where cruisers were lined up, jowl to jowl.
    “What?” I said again.
    “Val,” he whispered. “I just saw him pick that guy’s pocket.”
    “Really?” I followed his line of sight. Sure enough, there was Val chatting with a young brunette who stood in the line for the buffet. He wore his Bill Sikes costume: a ratty hat pulled low, a tattered scarf around his neck, a vest with a few strategically placed moth holes, and a greatcoat. Lots of pockets. Lots of places to hide small stolen goods?
    “No way,” I said. “Val’s not the criminal type.” I prided myself on my