Chapter 12
Shockingly, the suspect written out of our investigation script was me.
I’d chosen a flavor called ooey gooey pineapple—vanilla ice cream studded with chunks of caramelized pineapple upside-down cake, the edges crystallized with brown sugar that crunches between your teeth like sweet little promises.
My second scoop, nestled precariously atop the first, is their bread pudding custard surprise, which features hunks of buttery croissants soaked in vanilla custard until they’re practically melting into the ice cream itself.
The surprise appears to be pockets of caramel that ambush you just when you think you’re safe.
When Ransom texted asking where I’d like to meet, I was already daydreaming about dessert after staring at fjords for the past few hours.
The clam chowder did its hearty job, but everyone knows a sweet treat comes after a good meal.
It seemed like this was the perfect location for whatever news he had to share.
We waited until filming wrapped for the day, then Bess, Nettie, and I made a beeline down here, giggling like schoolgirls playing hooky.
However, the giggling stopped abruptly when we spotted Wes in his crisp captain’s whites already seated at a corner booth.
Captain’s uniforms should never be seen in ice cream parlors—it’s like spotting your high school principal at a keg party.
Something is fundamentally wrong with the universe when that happens.
“Quinn filed a formal complaint with Royal Lineage Cruise Lines,” Ransom explains, his own untouched chocolate chunk melting sadly in its dish. He hasn’t even picked up his spoon. That’s how I know this is serious. “Corporate has to investigate.”
“Again?” This isn’t the first time someone has turned the white-hot spotlight on me.
“And since you’re technically an employee,” Wes adds, his expression a perfect blend of professional concern and personal discomfort, “they need to suspend you while they investigate the matter.”
I nearly choke on a piece of pineapple. “But they already suspended me back in October!” I protest, waving my cone dangerously close to Ransom’s immaculate white shirt.
“That was because Tinsley filed a complaint claiming I was spooking the passengers. She might have been right, but those charges were dropped, and I was able to resume my position!”
“This involves murder,” Ransom says gently, as if that single word explains everything. And I suppose it does. Dead bodies tend to complicate employment situations.
“A murder that I didn’t commit!” I point out, feeling ice cream drip onto my knuckles. “I merely discovered it. There’s a difference!”
“Quinn is suggesting that your... history... with corpses makes you a person of interest,” Wes explains delicately. “She’s demanding a full investigation into your past incidents.”
“Incidents?” I sputter. “Is that what we’re calling solving murders now? Incidents?”
“Technically, you do solve them,” Bess interjects helpfully. “You just also find the bodies and then meddle until someone confesses or tries to kill you.”
“Thank you for that clarification, Bess,” I mutter.
“Look on the bright side,” Nettie chimes in, attacking her triple chocolate explosion with alarming enthusiasm. “Now you can devote yourself full-time to your new career as a trophy wife!”
“I’m not a trophy wife,” I remind her. “I’m a stand-in for a murdered trophy wife. There’s a difference.”
“Still better than being labeled a trophy corpse-finder,” Bess says with a shrug.
“And you’ll have more time to spend with Victoria Darkmore!
” Nettie adds, her eyes lighting up. “Think of all the soap opera secrets she can share! Does Bridge Blackthorne wear a hairpiece? Does Dr. Luca Carrington Jr. actually have amnesia, or does he just forget his lines? Does Victor Darkmore have a stunt double for love scenes?”
“I’m not spending my suspension gossiping with ghosts,” I say, even though the idea holds more appeal than I care to admit. “And she prefers to be called Marlie.”
“You’re absolutely spending your suspension gossiping with ghosts,” Ransom says with a small smile. “I’ve seen how you light up when she’s around.”
“Besides,” Nettie continues, “this frees you up to spend quality time with all those hunky soap stars! Did you see Santino DiAngelo in those hiking boots yesterday? For a man pushing seventy, he’s got calves you could crack walnuts on.”
“Nettie!” Bess scolds. “However, I will say Bridge Blackthorne filled out those khakis in a way that should be illegal in several Nordic countries.”
“I’m married,” I remind them, pointing my dripping cone at Ransom. “To him. The non-fictional, very real security officer currently suspending me.”
“It’s not me suspending you,” Ransom clarifies. “It’s the cruise line. I’m just the messenger they sent because they thought you might take it better coming from me.”
“How’s that working out for them?” I ask sweetly.
“About as well as expected,” he admits, finally reaching for his spoon. “Which is why I brought reinforcements.” He nods toward Wes.
“This is just a formality, Trixie,” Wes assures me, his captain’s voice slipping into that soothing tone he probably uses when announcing slight delays due to icebergs.
“They’ll clear you this time, just like they did last time.
Meanwhile, I’ve asked Tinsley to run your art classes.
” He winces. “And if you want, I’ll let you assist,” he adds, as if offering me the keys to the kingdom instead of permission to be bossed around by a woman who considers me the human equivalent of a stubborn stain.
“I’d rather drink bleach,” I reply, licking my ice cream with a vengeance.
“Not advisable,” Ransom says. “Bleach would definitely violate your employment contract’s wellness clause.”
“So would murder, but that’s not stopping me from considering it right now,” I mutter. “Kidding, sort of.”
“Speaking of murder,” Wes says, quickly changing the subject, “Boomer has asked permission to film in the formal dining room tonight. It’s the ship’s first formal night, and they want all the glitz and glamour they can get. I’ve approved it, of course.”
“Formal night!” Bess and Nettie exclaim in unison, exchanging glances that can only be described as dangerously gleeful.
“Get ready to flip a table,” Nettie says to me, patting my arm. “Nothing says I’m innocent like creating a scene that will definitely be used in the season trailer.”
“I’m not flipping tables,” I say firmly. “I’m going to be dignified and mature about this whole situation.” But, boy, how I would love to flip a table right about now.
“Boring,” Nettie sings. “Well, at least wear something low-cut. If you’re going to be accused of murder, you might as well look fabulous doing it.”
“Ransom will be there in his tux,” Bess points out, waggling her eyebrows. “That alone is worth the price of admission.”
“I don’t wear a tux,” Ransom corrects her. “I wear the formal security uniform.”
“Which looks exactly like a tux, but with more authority,” I translate for Bess and Nettie. “And does it ever work for him.” I offer a meager smile his way.
“And we all know the captain here cleans up nicely, too,” Nettie says with an exaggerated wink at Wes, who has the good grace to look simultaneously flattered and terrified.
“I’ll be wearing my formal whites,” Wes confirms. “As will all the senior officers.”
“So many men in uniform,” Bess sighs dreamily. “It’s like Officers and Gentlemen: The Cruise Ship Edition.”
“Except we’ll be surrounded by soap stars who think they’re actual royalty,” I point out. “Victor Darkmore once demanded that the staff at the Beverly Hills Hotel address him as Your Excellency during a Daytime Emmy after-party.”
“How do you know that?” Ransom looks a touch surprised by my vast soapy knowledge.
“Daytime Drama Digest. I had a yearly subscription for years,” I admit. “But I bet Marlie has way better dirt on her ex-husband than what makes it into the magazines.”
“I bet she does,” Nettie says, finishing her cone with a satisfied crunch. “The ghosts always know where the bodies are buried. Sometimes literally.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I’d rather not discuss buried bodies while I’m on suspension for finding an unburied one.”
“Fine,” Nettie agrees reluctantly. “But you’re wearing my sapphire cocktail dress tonight. If you’re going down for murder, you’re going down sparkling.”
“I’m not going down for murder. I hope.” I shrug at Ransom. “I’m just temporarily relieved of my art instructor duties while the investigation takes its sweet time.”
“That’s the spirit,” Wes says as he lifts his cone my way. “It’ll all blow over soon. In the meantime, think of it as a paid vacation.”
“A paid vacation where I’m a murder suspect who’s still required to appear on a reality TV show with the victim’s friends and possibly a killer,” I clarify with a forced smile. “It sounds perfectly relaxing.”
“At least the fjords are pretty,” Bess offers.
“And the ice cream is excellent,” Nettie adds.
“And you’re not alone.” Ransom covers his hand over mine.
I sigh, feeling my righteous indignation melting faster than the ice cream dripping down my wrist. “Fine. But I’m not assisting Tinsley, I’m not flipping tables, and I’m definitely not wearing anything low-cut to formal night.”
“Two out of three isn’t bad,” Nettie concedes, eyeing my neckline critically. “Though we’ll revisit the third point when you see the dress.”
As we finish our ice cream and prepare to head back to our cabins to get ready for what I’m betting will be the most dramatic formal night ever, I can’t help but feel the injustice of it all.
I find a body and get suspended. Quinn files a ridiculous complaint and gets to keep her job.
The actual killer walks free and probably gets invited to the captain’s table.
In the daytime drama of my life, the innocent get punished while the guilty order the lobster special—proving once again that on The Bitter and the Beautiful, justice is just another plot twist before the commercial break.