Chapter 6
The rest of the day passed in a blur of soap opera stalking and autograph hunting, with Bess and Nettie leading the charge.
We followed Bridge Blackthorne through the art gallery, where he purchased an abstract painting that looked suspiciously like spilled spaghetti, tracked Victor Darkmore to the spa, where he spent three hours getting what I can only assume was industrial-strength hair dyeing, and then we accidentally bumped into Dr. Luca Carrington Jr. at the coffee bar on four separate occasions.
Bess and Nettie were in seventh soapy heaven.
I was in mild embarrassment with occasional dips into acute mortification, especially when Nettie asked Victor Darkmore to autograph her left boob.
To his credit, he did it with the charm of a man who’s been signing body parts since the Ford administration.
Dinner was a much-needed respite from our soap opera safari.
The main dining room served chicken cordon bleu that could make any French chef proud with its crispy golden coating, giving way to tender chicken wrapped around ham and gooey Swiss cheese.
The mashed potatoes had enough butter to make my arteries protest, but my taste buds filed a counter-suit and won.
And the dessert? Seven-layer chocolate cake with vanilla bean ice cream that made me seriously contemplate licking the plate when no one was looking. I ordered a second slice while Ransom pretended not to notice. If there ever was a man who was made for me, it’s this one.
I shared Boomer’s proposition with Ransom over dessert, and his expression suggested I’d just asked him to tap dance on the captain’s table while wearing nothing but a smile.
He said he’d think about it, which in husband language translates to absolutely not, but I’ll find a polite way to phrase that later.
There’s still no sign of Marlie Rothschild’s ghost.
Apparently, even spirits need their downtime. Or maybe she’s just waiting for the most dramatically inconvenient moment to make her entrance? I’m assuming that old soap opera habits die hard, even after death.
Now we’re all packed into the casino like sardines but with more sequins. The air smells of perfume, aftershave, and that peculiar mix of anticipation and regret that seems to float around gambling establishments.
Slot machines sing their electronic siren songs while the roulette wheel punctuates the symphony with its rhythmic spinning. Crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over everything, making even the people losing money look glamorous while doing it.
Captain Wes Crawford stands at a small podium, looking distinguished as the women sigh in his direction.
Tinsley hovers beside him, her uniform somehow tighter than it was this morning.
She’s openly glaring at Elodie, and the tension between them is thick enough to cut with the proverbial knife—hopefully not the same one currently residing in Madison Rothschild’s chest.
Okay, fine. The tension is totally one-sided. Elodie couldn’t be bothered to care. Elodie practically owns Boomer Beaumont, whereas Tinsley couldn’t even hope to rent the man.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Wes announces, his voice carrying that perfect balance of authority and charm, “welcome to the grand unveiling of our Soap Opera Legends slot machines!”
The crowd erupts in applause as a velvet curtain drops to reveal a row of slot machines emblazoned with the faces of the soap hunks, most of which are on this ship.
Each one-armed bandit features a different soap star in their most iconic role.
Victor Darkmore from The Bitter and the Beautiful looks brooding and suspicious, as if the slot machine might be plotting against him.
Santino DiAngelo from Days of Our Nights gazes soulfully into the middle distance, presumably remembering all six of his on-screen weddings.
Dr. Luca Carrington Jr. from Criminal Hospital wears a lab coat despite never having treated an actual patient in forty-five years of television.
Bridge Blackthorne from The Young and the Heartless is caught mid-slap, which was apparently his signature move for seventeen seasons.
And rounding out the collection is Rafe Montoya from Passionate Deceptions, whose character has died and been resurrected so many times that even the writers have lost count.
The machines themselves are a riot of flashing lights and melodramatic sound effects. And I’m pretty sure I heard one of them say, “You’re not my real mother!” just as someone hits a small payout.
“Wow,” Bess beams. “These are really impressive!”
“Step back, sister,” Nettie says, catching her bestie by the elbow. “Bridge Blackthorne is mine. I’m about to make it rain nickels and poor decisions.”
I step in close to my handsome hubby. “Have you given the show any thought?” I ask Ransom, who stands beside me, looking as relaxed as a man who knows that every set of female eyes will find him eventually.
“No way,” he says simply, watching the spectacle unfold while most likely calculating how many security threats are present in the room.
Bess and Nettie immediately launch into a synchronized protest worthy of a daytime Emmy.
“But Ransom,” Bess whines, “this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! You have to do the show!”
“You’ll be on television!” Nettie adds. “And with your bone structure, you could have your own spin-off by next season.”
Ransom sighs as he turns to me. “Do you really want this?”
I press my lips tight and shrug. “I guess I sort of do.”
He frowns. “For investigative purposes?”
I frown right back. “Okay, so you have my number, but I sort of want it for the experience for itself, too. Ransom, I grew up watching these shows. And now I get to be part of one in a roundabout sort of way. It feels like I’m coming full circle with my younger, far more questionable self.
” That girl did go on to marry Stanton Troublefield, after all.
He closes his eyes and sighs the sigh of a man who’s accepted his fate. “Okay, for that part of you, I’ll agree to do it. But you have to promise to leave the investigation to me. Whoever plunged a knife in that woman’s chest isn’t fooling around. We’ve got a psychopath on our hands.”
I lift my hand, about to solemnly swear, when something, or rather, someone, catches my eye.
Floating above the slot machines, her 1980s power dress and gravity-defying hair unaffected by trivial things like physics, is Marlie Rothschild herself!
She hovers directly over the machine featuring Victor Darkmore, her ex-costar and ex-husband, looking like she’s contemplating whether ghosts can sabotage electronics.
“She’s doing it!” I gasp.
“Who?” Bess leans in, following my gaze.
“It’s Victoria Darkmore! And she’s reenacting that famous levitation scene right here in the casino!” I do my best to improvise, knowing they can’t see what I’m seeing.
Bess and Nettie crane their necks, squinting at the empty air where Marlie, AKA Victoria, floats, much to my fangirl approval.
“I don’t see anything,” Nettie complains, adjusting her glasses.
“Use your imagination,” I encourage. “Remember the episode in season seven when she floated over the Blackthorne mansion during the thunderstorm?”
“Oh!” Bess shouts, suddenly transported to another era entirely. “I can see it now! The hair, the dress—it’s just like it was on TV!”
Nettie joins in, clutching her chest. “I remember that, too! They really went all out with those special effects. Do you think they used holograms? Or maybe it was wires?”
“She’s definitely not using wires now,” I say, thoroughly impressed.
Ransom groans, shooting me a look that says he knows exactly what—or who—I’m really seeing.
Marlie notices me staring and winks, then does a perfect somersault in midair before floating in my direction. The soap opera diva may be dead, but her flair for dramatic entrances remains fully intact.
“Hello, darling,” she purrs in a voice only I can hear. “Isn’t it just fabulous to make an entrance that upstages everyone? Even in death, timing is everything. We’ll talk soon.” And just like that, she disappears in a shower of miniature gold stars.
In life or death, some stars never stop shining—they just keep stealing scenes from the other side.