Oliver Twisted (An Ivy Meadows Mystery Book 3) Read Free Page B

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