Chapter 8
Ransom and I head for Val as the sheer drop of Pulpit Rock looms behind her, and I unload a rapid-fire summary that would make the FBI take notes.
“Valentina Cruz-Henderson,” I whisper. “Forty-four going on thirty-six, thanks to what I’m guessing is an expensive relationship with Switzerland’s finest surgeons.
Former Miss Venezuela who still maintains her pageant posture even on windy cliffsides.
Runs the Cruz Foundation for Performing Arts—supposedly helps underprivileged kids learn theater and dance.
Madison wanted to feature it on the show, but Val shut that down fast.”
“So, she’s suspicious,” Ransom says with his eyes fixed on our target.
“Let’s just say if she were a tax return, the IRS would be sending love letters.”
Val stands at the edge of the cliff with her caramel-colored hair somehow resisting the Norwegian wind’s best efforts to muss it.
Her hiking outfit—if you can call designer cargo pants and a silk blouse proper hiking attire—still manages to look impeccable despite the trek over.
The sky is cloudy, the wind is icy, and the entire plateau around us is brimming with bodies, all hoping to catch a glimpse of the daytime villains and their diva wives on set.
“Her husband is Santino Henderson, silver fox extraordinaire,” I continue.
“Plays Santino DiAngelo on Days of Our Nights. His character has died and come back to life more times than a cat with extra lives. He’s sixty-eight years old with a toupee that’s been with him longer than any of his wives and a forehead smoother than a baby’s bottom, thanks to enough Botox to paralyze a small country. ”
Ransom nods slightly, absorbing the information. “How should we approach this?”
“Gentle but direct,” I recommend. “She’s skittish. Watch her eyes—they’ll tell you more than her mouth.”
Ransom nods. “You’re a little too good at this, Mrs. Baxter.”
“The lesson’s not over yet,” I say with a wink. “Watch and learn.”
He frowns, completely unamused by the fact I’ve just taken the lead on the case. It could be worse. I usually do this part without him.
We reach Val, who turns to us with a carefully constructed smile that’s all teeth and zero warmth.
“Val,” I say, trying to sound cheerful, “this has been quite the day, hasn’t it?”
She sighs dramatically. “Honey, you have no idea. First, the lighting was all wrong, then that dingbat, Beth, nearly sends me plunging to my death—accidentally, she claims—and now my hair is fighting a losing battle with this ridiculous Nordic wind.” She pats her perfectly styled locks.
“My stylist would have a conniption if he knew what I was dealing with.”
“It must be difficult,” Ransom says, calm and measured, “dealing with Madison’s death on top of everything else.”
Val’s smile falters for a millisecond before it bounces back on her face. “Oh, it’s absolutely devastating. We were all so close, you know. Like sisters.”
The delivery is perfect, but I’ve seen more genuine emotion in a shopping channel jewelry presentation.
“How did you and your husband meet?” I ask, easing into the conversation. “Was it on set?”
Val’s face brightens at what looks like the chance to tell her favorite story.
“Oh, no. It was much more romantic. I was modeling at a charity gala in Miami for the local performing arts center. Santino was the celebrity host. He saw me across the room and told his agent, ‘I’m going to marry that woman.’” She pauses for effect.
“Three months later, we were exchanging vows on his yacht in Saint-Tropez.”
“Sounds like love at first sight,” I say with a shrug. Or love at first yacht, but I don’t say that out loud.
“More like lust,” she says with a wink. “But twenty years later, we’re still together, which in Hollywood is practically a golden anniversary.”
“I’ll say,” I give a little laugh, and both she and Ransom give me the side-eye.
“You and Madison seemed to work closely on the show,” Ransom says, smoothly transitioning the conversation.
Val’s perfectly arched eyebrows twitch slightly. “We had creative differences, as they say in the business. Madison always wanted to be front and center. The rest of us were just background decoration to her.”
I glance down at the icy swath of water below, and my head starts to spin on cue. The fjord is dreamy and gorgeous from this bird’s-eye vantage point, but oh-so-terrifying, too.
I’m about to suggest we hit the refreshment table before I accidentally topple over the edge when a spray of tiny gold stars shimmers next to Val.
And within seconds, Marlie Rothschild appears decked out in full 1980s soap opera glory.
This time she’s donned a gold silk blouse and white slacks with a hard crease running down the middle, along with flashy red high heels that sparkle in the light.
Her shoulder pads are so massive she could easily run defense in the NFL, and her hair is teased to heights that could interfere with low-flying aircraft—if she were alive.
I gasp audibly at the sight of her, because who wouldn’t? And well, that causes both Ransom and Val to inspect me with concern.
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “I thought I saw something fall from the cliff.” Like my sanity.
Ransom raises a brow as if to ask the question, and I give a subtle nod his way. That’s the nice thing about being married to someone who you’re a perfect fit for. You can have an entire conversation with just one look.
He’s familiar enough with my supernatural quirks to recognize when I’ve got otherworldly company.
“Please, continue,” I encourage Val, while trying not to openly stare at Marlie, who is now examining her ghostly nails as if she were bored. And considering some of the insane plotlines she’s lived through, she might be. “What about Madison?”
“Darling, that woman was insufferable,” Marlie answers before Val can. “She stole my husband, my role, and my signature eyeshadow technique. The only thing she didn’t steal was my talent.”
I bite my lip to keep from responding, but I can’t stop staring at the woman.
I can’t help it, I’m actually starstruck.
Victoria Darkmore herself—or at least the actress who played her—is floating right here next to me.
Dead and in person. I’m dying to see her levitate again just the way she did last night.
If you ask me, that’s her signature move.
“Madison and I worked well enough together,” Val continues, oblivious to our ghostly celebrity guest. “But she was, let’s see… ambitious. Perhaps too ambitious.”
“Ambitious enough to dig into your charity finances?” Marlie asks, circling Val as if she were about to go in for the kill. “Tell them about the missing money, honey. The kids at the performing arts center would like to know where their funding went—straight into your closet, wasn’t it?”
I gasp again without meaning to, and Val nods my way as if I understood the implications of what she meant by too ambitious.
“Did you and Madison have any disagreements recently?” Ransom asks.
Val examines her manicure as her red polish glitters in the light. “Nothing serious. Just the usual reality TV squabbles over screen time and storylines.” Her tone is casual, but there’s a marked tension around her eyes.
“Now, tell the truth. She threatened to expose your little charity scam on national television,” Marlie says with a wry smile curving on her lips. “Is that what you call a squabble these days? In my world, we’d call that a motivation for murder in the first degree.”
In my world, too, I agree while nodding at the disembodied entity in our midst.
I catch Val eyeing me with suspicion, and I clear my throat. “Val, who do you think might have wanted to harm Madison?”
Val’s laugh sounds like wind chimes made of ice and venom.
“Honey, the list is longer than the credits on Santino’s show.
You should talk to her husband Victor Darkmore from The Bitter and the Beautiful.
” She leans my way. “Or should I say Dirk Rothschild in real life, though I doubt anyone remembers his actual name anymore.”
“I remember his name,” Marlie says bitterly. “And his birthday, and his favorite breakfast, and how he likes his—”
“Is there anyone specific you’d suggest we look into?” Ransom interrupts, mercifully cutting off what I suspect was going to be overly detailed information about Victor Darkmore’s private preferences.
“Oh, believe me, Beth Williams is hiding something behind those crocodile tears,” Val says, lowering her voice.
“And Harper? That woman calculates every move like she’s drafting a battle plan.
But honestly?” She glances around, making sure no one else is within earshot. “You should look at the fans.”
“The fans?” I repeat.
“Absolutely. The producers let all these crazed soap fanatics onto the ship. Lord knows everyone wanted to be the next Mrs. Victor Darkmore.” She shoots a glance in the general direction of where Marlie is floating.
“I mean, look at poor Victoria Darkmore. Someone took her out, and Madison stepped right into her designer shoes.”
“Took me out? I fell off a balcony!” Marlie cries out. “And then a chandelier accidentally fell on me during filming! And that’s when my so-called understudy was comforting my husband before my fictional body was cold—and my actual body wasn’t much warmer!”
I’m struggling not to react to Marlie’s outburst when a commotion erupts a few yards away near the cliff’s edge.
Apparently, Nettie, in her infinite wisdom, has decided that the perfect photo opportunity involves standing on one foot at the very brink of the daredevil drop while Bess snaps pictures as if her bestie’s life depends on it. And it just might.
“Nettie!” I cry out in horror.
“Is she trying to join me in the afterlife?” Marlie asks, just as horrified.
Ransom growls at the sight. “Excuse me,” he says, before sprinting toward the precarious scene because rescuing people from their own bad ideas just so happens to be his specialty.
Val’s eyes light up at the potential drama. “Oh my! What a perfect moment for my Insta Pictures account!” She pulls out her phone. “Please excuse me, Trixie. Social media waits for no one. If I catch this woman plunging to her death, I might go viral.”
She clicks toward the commotion in her designer heels, already framing the shot with her phone.
Marlie begins to fade as her form becomes all the more translucent, and I instinctively reach out in an attempt to grab her by her ghostly arm.
“Not so fast, Soap Queen,” I hiss. “You’re not going anywhere. I may have questioned Val within an inch of her rhinestone-studded heels, but you’re next on my list.”
In the game of All My Enemies, The Young and the Dead never rest in peace.