Chapter 2
Nothing says bon voyage quite like a bloodcurdling scream from a soap opera diva with flyaway hair.
Madison’s second shriek of the day echoes off the marble floors of the atrium, sending nearby passengers ducking for cover as if they’ve just spotted an iceberg.
The crystal chandeliers overhead tremble with fear, although I can’t tell if it’s from the sheer force of her vocal cords or the ship’s engines powering up. At this point, it’s a toss-up.
Wes dashes toward Madison with the urgency of a captain responding to a five-alarm fire. “Mrs. Rothschild! Are you alright? Is there something I can help you with?”
The atrium fills with the combined scents of expensive perfumes colliding in mid-air—Madison’s floral notes, Val’s spicy undertones, and Beth’s subtle vanilla. My sinuses surrender immediately.
Marlie, however, smells like heaven. Neither she nor her perfume could do any wrong.
Madison thrusts her phone in Wes’s face, and from what I can see, it looks to be in selfie mode.
“Look at this catastrophe!” she rages. “My hair! This humidity is turning me into a cotton ball! How am I supposed to film the opening sequence looking like I just stuck my finger in an electrical socket?”
Dirk Rothschild, standing a strategic three feet away from his wife’s meltdown, catches Lance Williams’s eye and mouths what appears to be fourth time today. Some marriages are built on love and trust. Others, apparently, on hair product and mutual tolerance.
“I’m sure we can find a solution, Mrs. Rothschild,” Wes says with the calm of a captain who’s talked more people than he can count off of hairy ledges. “The ship’s salon is—”
“Did someone say filming?” A voice cuts through the chaos, smooth as aged whiskey and twice as intoxicating.
The crowd parts like the Red Sea as a man strides through the gangway.
If Hollywood created a producer in a laboratory, he’d look exactly like this specimen—salt-and-pepper hair artfully tousled, hazel eyes that could convince you to sign away your life savings, and cheekbones that reach for the sky.
He’s wearing designer jeans and a black cashmere V-neck that looks pricey.
One hand clutches the latest iPhone, and by the looks of it, he’s already recording everything.
“Boomer! Thank heavens!” Madison abandons Wes mid-sentence, floating toward the newcomer with remarkable speed for someone in five-inch heels. “My hair is sabotaging me!”
“Madison, honey,” Boomer is quick to soothe her, “that’s exactly the genuine moment we need! That’s what we call reality gold! The audience will love seeing that even Madison Rothschild battles frizz. It’s relatable!” He somehow makes this sound like he’s offering her an Emmy.
“Really?” Madison brightens instantly, patting her uncooperative locks with newfound affection. “I suppose it does make me more approachable.”
Ransom leans close to my ear. “About as approachable as a porcupine.”
“Be nice,” I whisper back, though I can’t help the smile tugging at my lips.
Boomer glides farther into the atrium, filming everything on his phone while simultaneously dispensing air kisses to the wives and congratulatory back-slaps to their husbands.
He moves with confidence as if he knows exactly how many social media followers he has (I’m betting millions) and how many hearts he’s broken (also probably millions).
“Boom-boom!” Dirk Rothschild calls out, wrapping the producer in a bear hug that seems both genuine and carefully calibrated for the cameras. “Hey, hey, the gang’s all here!”
“Almost,” Boomer corrects, scanning the atrium with the precision of a predator. “Still waiting on—ah! There she is!”
A woman with jet-black hair and porcelain skin steps through the gangway, wearing a burgundy wrap dress that looks painted on. Her crimson lips curve into a smile that doesn’t quite register with the rest of her face.
“Harper Bailey,” Boomer announces. “Fashionably late as always.”
I’m not sure who the woman is, but she looks important, and oddly, not thrilled to be here.
“The traffic was horrific,” Harper says in a voice smooth as silk and twice as expensive. Her gaze sweeps over the assembled wives with cool assessment. “Madison, your hair looks innovative.”
Before Madison can combust, Wes clears his throat and steps forward. “Mr. Beaumont, welcome aboard the Emerald Queen of the Seas. I’m Captain Weston Crawford.”
Boomer Beaumont. I rack my brain to see if it sounds familiar, but it doesn’t.
“Well, if it isn’t the famous Captain Crawford!” Boomer cries out like he’s just met a celebrity himself. “Or should I say infamous? Your reputation precedes you. I’ve heard this is the tightest ship in the entire fleet.”
And the deadliest. I give Ransom’s hand a squeeze in lieu of saying it out loud. And he squeezes my hand right back because he was thinking it, too.
“I prefer well-run,” Wes replies with a modest smile. “Allow me to introduce some of my crew. This is Tinsley, our cruise director.”
Tinsley steps forward with a smile so brilliant it could guide any man on the ship straight to her cabin.
“Such a pleasure to have you aboard, Mr. Beaumont. If there’s anything—and I mean anything—I can do to make your production run more smoothly, please don’t hesitate to ask.
” She manages to make this sound both professional and like she’s auditioning for her own reality show.
And maybe like she’s trying to land him in her bed posthaste. Mostly that.
“And Elodie Abernathy here runs our Queen’s Mall,” Wes continues.
Boomer’s gaze locks onto Elodie as if he’s just found his favorite storyline. “Enchanting,” he murmurs, taking her hand and kissing the back of it. “You must give me a private tour of your domain.”
Tinsley growls and bares her fangs. So much for her fantasies coming true. But it looks as if Elodie’s dirty dreams are well on their way. Per usual.
“Oh, honey,” Elodie purrs like the big cat predator she is. “I’ll give you the tour, but only if you can handle the premium package.”
Elodie herself would be the premium package.
“And Trixie here is our resident art instructor,” Wes carries on, nodding in my direction.
“Perfect!” Boomer exclaims, eyeing me from head to foot as if he were conducting a professional assessment. “You look relatable, approachable, and are giving the everywoman energy that balances all this glamour.” He gestures vaguely at the soap wives.
I shake my head a touch because I’m not entirely sure if I’ve just been complimented or categorized as furniture.
“And next to her is Ransom Baxter, our head of vessel security,” Wes finishes, with just enough edge in his voice to remind everyone of their old rivalry.
It’s true. Wes and Ransom have history. Wes was once married to Ransom’s sister until she left him for a drug dealer. Ransom blamed Wes. Wes blamed himself, and they’ve been on edge ever since. But honestly, as of late, they seem to get along just fine. Mostly.
“Ransom Baxter.” Boomer’s eyes light up. “The FBI legend! Outstanding! Your presence will add some serious credibility to our security scenes.”
“I’m not in your show,” Ransom states flatly.
“Not yet,” Boomer replies with a wink.
“And these two ladies are some of our most valued passengers,” Wes adds, nodding toward Bess and Nettie.
Nettie, whose rhinestone-studded sunglasses are now perched atop her wild gray curls, is still ogling Santino as if she’s planning their future. “Hubba hubba.”
Bess elbows Nettie, even though her own cheeks are flushing. “What she means is we’re so glad you’re all here.” She takes a wobbly step closer to Santino, and I’m afraid her knees will give way. “We’ve been dying to kiss you—” Her eyes widen in horror. “Meet you! I meant meet you!”
“Kiss, meet, it’s all inevitable,” Santino replies with a wink that probably melted television screens in the ’80s. And most certainly melted the women in the vicinity, including yours truly.
Wes and Boomer share a laugh that sounds like a temporary alliance, before Wes turns to address the growing crowd in the atrium.
“For those who haven’t heard, the Emerald Queen is hosting a special voyage this time around. Luxe Network is filming its newest reality franchise, Trophy Wives of Paradise, featuring the wives of daytime television’s most famous villains.”
Nettie sighs. “And what delicious villains they are.”
The crowd murmurs with excitement, and I notice several passengers openly taking photos of the celebrities among us. Believe me, I’m more than tempted. Before this trip is up, I’ll make sure I’ve taken a selfie with each and every one of these villainously delicious men. Some of them twice.
Ransom gives me the side-eye as if he could read my mind, and this time I shrug in lieu of an apology.
“And I’ve got a surprise!” Boomer jumps in as if he’s never one to miss a spotlight.
“We’ve been secretly filming since you all boarded!
” He flashes that Hollywood smile that probably paid for his yacht.
“All of you are officially part of Trophy Wives of Paradise, our newest reality sensation that’s going to storm not only the seas, but every viewing device on the planet.
” He spreads his arms wide as if he’s just bestowed a gift upon us.
“The cameras start rolling tomorrow morning officially, so be sure to get your beauty sleep.” He points to the wives at hand.
“Think of this cruise as one big, floating film set for your fabulous new careers in reality television. And cash, lots of cash, which equals freedom. Think of that, too.”
I don’t miss how every wife’s eyes light up at that last word—freedom. And I say, let freedom ring. I guess even the wives of famous soap opera villains can use a few more dimes to rub together.
“We’ve also welcomed fifty lucky fans who won tickets to join this special sailing,” Wes continues. “I’d like to invite everyone associated with the show to attend a special bon voyage party in the Golden Compass Lounge once we’ve set sail.”
“Black tie optional, drama mandatory,” Boomer adds with a laugh that sounds well-rehearsed and yet somehow feels genuine. “And I personally encourage the captain and his crew to join us.” His eyes flick to Elodie. “I especially look forward to seeing you there, Ms. Abernathy.”
Tinsley practically teleports between them, adjusting her neckline with the precision of a chess player making a rather critical chesty move. “I’ll personally ensure everything runs smoothly, Mr. Beaumont.”
“Please, call me Boomer,” he says, already turning back to the soap stars in our midst. “Shall we discuss some preliminary shooting locations? I’m thinking sunset on the upper deck for the intro sequences...”
The celebrity contingent drifts toward the elevators, trailing with designer luggage and clouds of expensive cologne and perfume.
Tinsley watches them go with her clipboard clutched to her chest like emotional armor.
“Really?” she hisses at Elodie. “You’ve already got the producer wrapped around your little finger?”
“The man is paying attention,” Elodie purrs without regret. “Clearly, he knows value when he sees it.” Her lips curve at the thought.
Tinsley grunts, “I can’t believe I have to watch another man chase after you.”
“Men don’t chase me,” Elodie adds as she lifts her chin. “They recognize me.”
True as gospel. And coincidentally, Elodie gets recognized just about every single cruise.
Tinsley storms off with her heels clicking against the marble like angry Morse code.
“That went well,” I say as Ransom pulls me close and his woodsy cologne envelops me.
He tilts his head to the side. “This looks like it’s going to be quite the voyage.”
Wes nods. “Filming a reality show with the wives of soap opera villains on a cruise ship,” he sighs. “What could possibly go wrong?”
“Add in a staff rivalry for the producer,” I quip, “and we’ve got ourselves a floating powder keg.”
Bess snorts as she leans in. “At least you didn’t see a ghost. That would really complicate things.”
I laugh at the thought before turning back toward the atrium. And then I see her again, my favorite soap star of all time.
There, by the grand staircase, stands Marlie Rothschild in her emerald green gown. She gives me a quick wave, her expression suddenly solemn, before dissolving into a shower of tiny gold stars.
I gasp as my hand flies to my mouth.
“Trixie?” Ransom pulls back a notch. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”
“It’s Marlie,” I pant. “She—she’s gone.” More to the point, she’s evaporated to nothing.
It’s more than apparent now that this voyage won’t just feature reality show drama, manufactured jealousies, and soap opera egos.
It will feature what always seems to find me on the high seas—murder.