Chapter 11
The fjords continue their majestic parade on both sides of the ship with their towering cliff walls rising hundreds of feet from the dark water, their rocky faces streaked with waterfalls and crowned with snow-capped peaks.
Each bend in the waterway reveals new vistas, the narrow passage opening and closing like nature’s own dramatic stage set.
And while the throngs of passengers are entranced with the beauty beyond our rails, I waste no time navigating my way across the promenade deck, balancing two bread bowls of clam chowder as if the case depends on not spilling a single drop.
The rich aroma of cream, potatoes, and clams wafts up, mingling with the crisp Norwegian air that carries notes of salt, pine, and the subtle scent of expensive perfume emanating from the trophy wives’ corner.
It might be freezing cold out, but it’s as cozy as can be.
Around us, passengers crowd the railings, their cameras clicking frantically as if afraid the thousand-year-old rock formations might suddenly decide to relocate.
The ship’s progress through the narrow waterway is slow and deliberate.
The water below us is an impossible shade of blue-green—the kind of color that cosmetics companies name things like Fjord Fantasy or Norwegian Dream and charge extra for.
Beth Williams hovers at the dessert station, stirring hot chocolate with a cinnamon stick.
Her strawberry-blonde hair catches the light so perfectly, I’m half-convinced she travels with her own lighting crew.
The pastel cashmere makes her look like cotton candy—sweet, soft, and leaves me wondering if she’s concealing something hard and sharp in the middle.
Like a cold heart, cold enough to wield a knife.
“Beth,” I call out as cheerfully as I can as I hold up the bread bowls.
“I saw you over here and thought you might want something hearty to put in your belly,” I say, offering her one of the bread bowls, and she graciously accepts it.
“Rumor has it that viewing the fjords burns a surprising number of calories. All that gasping and pointing really adds up.”
We share a quick laugh.
“Oh, Trixie, how thoughtful! Thank you for this. I’m actually starving. The cameras add ten pounds, so I’ve been living on air and anxiety for three days.”
“I haven’t thought about that,” I’m quick to admit.
“But then, after I divorced my ex-husband, I promised myself I’d never count calories again.
He’s a plastic surgeon and demanded that I fit into a certain mold, claiming that I was a walking billboard for his work.
But as it turned out, he was too busy exploring his options with other walking billboards for his work, and I caught him in the act.
Now instead of counting calories, I count desserts—and I’m winning. ”
We laugh again as we settle into a table with a prime view of the towering cliffs. A waterfall cascades down the rock face opposite us, creating a rainbow so perfect and vivid it looks like a cartoon.
“Wow, this view is almost too perfect,” Beth says, attacking her chowder with the enthusiasm of someone breaking a weeklong fast.
“A very expensive, very cold, perfect view,” I agree. “But I suppose that’s the point of cruising—to see beautiful things without having to climb them yourself.”
“That sounds wise enough,” a familiar disembodied voice comments just as Marlie materializes in the empty chair between us, her ghostly form shimmering iridescent in the sunlight. “I always preferred viewing nature from behind climate-controlled glass. Preferably with a martini in hand.”
I manage not to acknowledge the uninvited ghostly commentator, which is harder than it sounds when an ’80s soap star with shoulder pads the size of Rhode Island pops into existence two feet from your clam chowder.
And how I adore this uninvited ghostly commentator.
I’ve never felt more starstruck in my life.
My attention flits back to the suspect at hand.
Up close and without cameras rolling, Beth seems less trophy wife and more human being who might actually, on occasion, shop at a dollar store.
Her eyes have a genuine warmth that’s absent in Val’s calculating gaze, which typically has all the emotional depth of a department store mannequin.
“So, how are you holding up?” I ask, trying to sound casual while simultaneously ignoring a ghost and preventing soup from dripping on my jacket. “With Madison and everything, I mean.”
Beth’s spoon pauses halfway to her mouth. “It’s surreal, honestly. One minute she was there, ordering everyone around, and the next...” She shakes her head. “I keep expecting her to march onto the deck and complain about the lighting.”
If she did, it wouldn’t surprise me all that much. I give a quick sideways glance to the specter among us.
“So, you two were friends?” I probe gently.
“Not exactly friends,” Beth admits. “Madison didn’t really do friends. She did useful connections and temporary allies. But we weren’t enemies either. She was actually kind to me when I first married Lance.”
“Kind? Madison?” Marlie snorts at the thought. “That woman wouldn’t recognize kindness if it came with a designer label and a certificate of authenticity.”
“That’s surprising,” I say, ignoring Marlie’s ghostly comment. “She didn’t seem the nurturing type.”
Beth laughs, a sound so delightful that nearby birds probably considered changing their entire vocal repertoire.
“Oh, it wasn’t nurturing. It was more initiation.
She taught me how to navigate the soap opera wives’ world.
Which charity galas matter, which producers to charm, how to handle fan mail addressed to your husband’s character proposing marriage. ”
“Does that happen often?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“At least twice a month,” Beth confirms. “Usually from women named Brenda who have between twelve and seventeen cats and believe Dr. Luca Carrington Jr. is sending them secret messages through the television.”
“She’s not lying,” Marlie interjects, examining her ghostly nails with a level of interest typically reserved for rare diamonds.
Although, in her defense, they glitter far more than those precious stones.
“I once received a wedding cake topper with my face and a viewer’s face professionally painted on.
The level of detail was actually impressive, if not deeply disturbing. ”
The fjords narrow around us, the cliff walls rising so high they temporarily block the sun, casting the deck in dramatic shadow. Beth pulls her cashmere wrap tighter around her shoulders, pausing just long enough for imaginary organ music—her soap opera mother-in-law would be thrilled.
“Madison had a talent for making everything about her,” Beth continues, breaking off a piece of her sourdough bowl. “Even her death has turned into the Madison Show.” She rolls her eyes at the thought. “I’m sure she’d be pleased about that, at least.”
“The woman did love attention,” I agree. “Any idea who might have wanted to give her a permanent spotlight?”
Beth’s eyes dart around the deck faster than a tennis ball at Wimbledon before returning to mine.
“If I’m being honest? Almost everyone had a reason.
Val and Madison were competing for the center position on the show, and they had terrible arguments about it.
And Harper...” She lowers her voice to a whisper that practically has its own fog machine for dramatic effect, thanks to the icy weather.
“Harper was furious when Madison outbid her for a charity auction painting last month. Apparently, it would have completed her collection.”
“That’s right, I heard she owns a fancy gallery. But is a painting worth killing over?” I ask. “Unless it was painted with unicorn tears and the artist’s own blood, that seems extreme.”
“In our world, appearances are currency,” Beth says with a nod as if she’s trying to convince me. “That painting was going to be featured in Architectural Digest’s spread on Harper’s Malibu home. Madison knew that and swooped in at the last minute just to spite her.”
“That’s a classic Madison move,” Marlie confirms, now perched on the railing beside our table, her ghostly legs dangling over the fjord like a teenager at a mall food court.
Oh, good grief. It’s terrifying to witness, despite the fact that she’s already dead.
“Madison pulled the same stunt with my Tiffany lamp collection,” Beth goes on. “I’d spent years tracking down the butterfly series, and she accidentally outbid me on the final piece the week before she died. Coincidence? I think not.”
Madison was clearly a pill.
“What about you?” I ask Beth directly. “Did Madison ever do anything to upset you?”
For a millisecond, something flickers behind Beth’s warm eyes—a shadow so brief, it’s like watching a shark fin in murky water. You’re not sure what you saw, but you’re definitely not going swimming.
“Me? Goodness, no,” she protests. “I’m probably the only one she didn’t antagonize.
I was too unimportant in the hierarchy. My husband is the oldest of the soap stars, practically a relic.
Dr. Luca Carrington Jr. has been around for a very long time.
She didn’t care about him or me. Madison saved her competitive energy for bigger targets. ”
The crowd around us gasps collectively as we round a bend in the fjord to reveal a waterfall that seems to drop straight from heaven’s bathtub. The mist creates a baby blue gossamer curtain that the sun transforms into diamonds.
Even Marlie pauses her commentary to admire the view.
“Now that’s what I call a backdrop,” she says appreciatively.
“We could have used this for Victoria’s breakdown scene in season twenty-three.
Instead, we got a painted, cheap, flat background and a wind machine that kept blowing my wig sideways.
I looked like I was having a nervous breakdown in a hurricane. ”