Chapter 11 #2
I clamp my lips closed to prevent the giant grin wanting to break out on my face. I so remember that episode! And it was iconic.
“So, you were close to Madison?” I press on, returning to Beth.
“I wouldn’t say close,” Beth replies, finishing her chowder with the dedication of someone who doesn’t know when their next meal might arrive.
I can’t blame her, it’s just that delicious.
“But she did help me once when I really needed it. My foundation—Small Steps, Big Dreams—supports children with rare genetic disorders. Last year, we were struggling with funding, and Madison stepped in. She hosted a gala at her Aspen home that raised over two million dollars.”
“Two million? That’s amazing. And that was surprisingly generous of her,” I admit.
“Oh, she didn’t do it out of the goodness of her heart,” Beth clarifies with a knowing smile. “It was all about outshining Val’s performing arts charity. But the money helped dozens of children get experimental treatments they couldn’t otherwise afford, so I wasn’t about to question her motives.”
“Smart girl,” Marlie approves, nodding her ghostly head vigorously enough to make her spectral earrings jingle. “I like this one, Trixie. She understands how the game is played. Use the divas’ egos for good.”
I’m starting to agree with Marlie. Beth seems remarkably grounded for someone in her world.
She’s genuine in a way the others aren’t.
In fact, I can’t help but notice that her hands are slightly rough around the cuticles, not perfectly manicured like Val’s or Harper’s.
Her face is fully moveable, and dare I say, she has the beginning of crow’s feet.
She has a tiny chocolate stain on her cashmere sleeve that she either hasn’t noticed or doesn’t care about.
All these little imperfections make her all the more real as the bread in my soup bowl.
“Can I tell you something strange?” Beth asks, leaning forward as if we’re at a slumber party about to share ghost stories—which, considering Marlie’s hovering presence, isn’t far off.
“The night Madison died, I had this weird dream. I dreamed I was in the Golden Compass Lounge, watching Madison argue with someone. I couldn’t see who it was, just a shadow.
But Madison was saying something about knowing the truth and how she was going to make it public.
Then there was just... red. Everywhere.”
“That is strange,” I agree, my amateur sleuth senses tingling like I’ve just stuck my finger into an electrical socket. Not that I give any credence to dreams, but a part of me wonders if she was dreaming at all. “Any idea what truth she might have been referring to?”
Beth shakes her head. “Madison collected secrets the way some women collect shoes. She knew something about everyone.” She glances toward where Val and Harper are now posing for Boomer’s cameras, using the fjord as their personal backdrop like they’re filming Norway’s Next Top Trophy Wife.
“I’d look closely at those two, if I were investigating this case.
Val’s charity finances are pretty creative, from what I’ve heard.
And Harper? Well, I’ve heard she has a past she’s desperate to keep buried. ”
“Interesting choice of words,” Marlie comments dryly, and I gasp because I happen to agree.
“What about their husbands?” I ask. And her husband, but we’ll leave him out of the equation for now. “Could either of them have had a motive?”
“Their husbands?” Beth laughs again, though this time it has all the warmth of an Antarctic swimming pool.
“They’re too busy competing with each other to notice what their wives are doing.
Madison’s own husband, Dirk, was probably her biggest threat, though.
She was planning to publish a memoir that would have exposed some of his less savory behind-the-scenes behaviors. ”
Noted.
“And your husband? Lance—I mean, Luca?”
“Lance is a sweetheart,” Beth says with a soft laugh, although I detect a note of something else in her voice—not quite sadness, not quite resignation, more like the tone you use when describing someone who has seen their best days.
“He lives more in his character’s world than reality as of late.
Half the time he calls me Laurie—his character’s wife’s name on the show—even though I’ve never actually appeared on Criminal Hospital. ”
“Sorry, but I kind of get it, though.” I wrinkle my nose as I say it.
“Luca and Laurie were a pretty big deal as far as soap stars go. In fact, they’re right up there with Cad and Pixie as my all-time favorite soap power couples.
And Layla and the guy with the patch.” I wince. “But still, that must be difficult.”
“You adapt,” she says with a small shrug that carries the weight of a thousand compromise-filled nights. “Marriage is about accepting people as they are, not as you wish they were. Lance gave me a beautiful life, even if he sometimes forgets I’m part of it.”
Marlie studies Beth with newfound interest. “I have a feeling there’s more to Strawberry Shortcake here than meets the eye,” she says with a snarl. “But I like her. She reminds me of myself before I became Victoria Darkmore and forgot who Marlie Rothschild was supposed to be.”
The ship’s horn sounds, a noise so loud it probably sent small Norwegian wildlife running for cover. The crowd surges toward the starboard side with their cameras at the ready like they’re preparing for a paparazzi ambush.
“We should probably join the fjord fanatics,” Beth suggests as she stands. “Boomer will want footage of us looking appropriately awed by nature.”
She’s not wrong.
We quickly gather our empty bread bowls, and Beth gives my arm a quick tap. “I’m glad you’re on the show, Trixie. It’s nice having someone real to talk to. Most people in this world are playing a part so long they forget who they really are.”
“Some of us are better actresses than others,” Marlie comments as she floats alongside us, her ’80s power suit somehow looking oddly at home in another era entirely.
We make our way to the railing, squeezing our way in among passengers who’ve apparently never seen rocks and water before, judging by their enthusiasm.
The cliffs tower above us, casting long shadows across the deck like nature’s sundial.
In the distance, a small village clings to the mountainside, its red and white buildings as bright against the gray stone like crimson lipstick against winter skin.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Beth says with a sigh. “It makes you realize how small we really are. All our dramas and secrets seem so insignificant compared to all this majesty.”
“Yet all the drama and secrets still get people killed.” I can’t help but point out.
Beth’s expression shifts, like a cloud passing across the sun. “Yes,” she agrees. “They certainly do.”
I study her profile against the majestic backdrop, trying to reconcile this thoughtful, seemingly kind woman with someone who might have plunged a knife into Madison Rothschild’s chest. Either Beth Williams deserves an Emmy for this performance or I need to look elsewhere for my killer.
In the land of fjords and fiction, the deepest waters might just hide the darkest secrets.
I’m about to ask the woman another question when my phone chirps, and it’s a text from Ransom. We need to talk.
Ransom’s message hovers on my screen like the season finale of As the Ship Turns, leaving me to wonder who or what has been written out of our investigation script now.