Chapter 13 #2
Ransom’s mouth quirks with amusement, completely unfazed. “Sorry to disappoint, but I’m strictly off the market.” He slides his arm around my waist. “Taken by the most dangerous woman on this ship.” He winks my way, and I’m not amused.
This produces a collective sigh from around the table, with the women all leaning his way like flowers toward the sun.
“But back to our sweet Madison,” I say, trying to keep this suspect train on track.
“Madison had such a presence,” Harper adds, adjusting her glasses.
“She was one of a kind,” Beth offers, her expression unreadable.
“To Madison,” Victor Darkmore says, raising his glass. “May she rest in peace, unlike on my show, where death is merely a temporary inconvenience.”
Everyone drinks solemnly, except for Marlie, who makes gagging noises behind Victor that only I can hear.
“Madison is probably rolling in her grave right now,” Marlie comments. “Or she would be, if she weren’t currently being stored in the ship’s morgue freezer next to the premium ice cream.”
I nearly choke on my water. I thought she would have been removed by now.
“You okay there, Trixie?” Wes asks with concern.
“Fine,” I manage. “Just remembering Madison’s unique... personality.”
I lean toward Ransom and whisper, “Why is Madison still on the ship?”
His lips pull to the side. “The authorities asked us to drop her off when we arrive in Flam.”
I nod and exhale, considering it’s our next port of call. I guess she’s enjoying the cruise after all, in a roundabout way.
The main courses arrive—enormous plates for the men, sad little salads for the trophy wives, and my glorious lobster that arrives with enough butter to send my cholesterol into the stratosphere, and I can’t help but smile.
“Cut!” Boomer shouts again. “Trixie, could you look a little more guilty about eating when the other wives are dieting? We’re trying to establish you as the outsider here.”
“I don’t think that needs establishing,” I mutter, but dutifully adopt a slightly shamefaced expression when cameras resume rolling. It’s one that my ex, Stanton, would approve of, I’m sure.
“So, Val,” Boomer prompts from behind the camera, “tell us how you’re coping with Madison’s death.”
Val dabs at the corner of her eye with a napkin, careful not to disturb her makeup. “It’s been devastating. We were so close. Like sisters, really.”
“Sisters who hated each other,” Marlie snorts. “The only thing they shared was a plastic surgeon and a vindictive streak.”
“Harper, your thoughts?” Boomer continues.
“Statistically speaking, when a woman in her demographic is murdered, it’s usually by someone she knows well,” Harper says clinically. “I’ve been analyzing the variables and—”
“Cut!” Boomer interrupts. “Harper, we’re going for sad friend, not human calculator. Try again with some real emotions this time.”
Clearly, Harper turns into a robot when she’s nervous. And maybe when she’s not.
Harper’s expression doesn’t change, but something cold flashes behind her glasses. “I’ll see what human emotions I can access for you,” she says flatly.
The dinner progresses with increasing tension. Between takes, the trophy wives snipe at each other with claws out, each comment designed to slip between ribs and puncture vital organs.
“Val, darling, is that dress new?” Beth asks innocently. “I could have sworn I saw something similar at a consignment shop last season.”
Val’s smile could freeze mercury. “Beth, sweetheart, your foundation is creasing under your eyes. Do you need a touch-up? I know how difficult aging can be.”
By the time dessert menus are presented, the atmosphere could be cut with one of the many unused butter knives. I order the chocolate lava cake with extra ice cream, while the trophy wives request herbal tea with lemon. “No honey, no sugar, nothing resembling joy,” as Marlie puts it.
“For the next segment,” Boomer announces, “I want you ladies to discuss your favorite memories of Madison.”
“She had exquisite taste in jewelry,” Val offers, fingering her own pricey-looking necklace. Red rubies laced with enough diamonds to fill a coffee cup.
“She was remarkably determined,” Harper adds, glaring at something in the distance.
“She always knew exactly what she wanted,” Beth says softly. “And how to get it.”
“She stole my husband, my role, and killed me,” Marlie contributes with a nod. “She was determined to ruin me.”
She was determined to end her, but I don’t dare make the correction.
“I didn’t know her well,” I admit when it’s my turn. “But she seemed like someone who made an impression.”
“A deep, possibly fatal impression,” Marlie adds.
Val clears her throat. “I think what Madison would have wanted is for her killer to confess and spare everyone this dreadful suspense.” Her gaze slides meaningfully toward me.
“Me?” I spike up in my seat a notch and look from Ransom back to her. “Are you suggesting something, Val?” I set down my fork because things just took a turn for the serious.
“Only that some people have suspicious timing when it comes to discovering bodies,” she replies sweetly.
“And some people have suspicious motives when it comes to murder,” I counter before I can stop myself.
A collective gasp ripples around the table. Boomer looks as if he might pass out from excitement.
“How dare you!” Val screeches, rising from her seat. “I was Madison’s closest friend!”
“You were her closest competitor,” Harper corrects coolly. “Let’s not rewrite history quite so quickly.”
“You’re one to talk,” Val spits, while pointing at Harper. “After what she knew about your past—”
“Careful,” Harper warns, her voice dropping to freezer temperature.
Ransom and I exchange a glance.
Well, well, it does beg the question. What exactly did Madison know about Harper’s past?
“Ladies, please,” Wes attempts to intervene.
“You’re all acting like you actually cared about Madison,” Beth says, and her voice is stronger than I’ve heard it before. “When the truth is, you’re all relieved that she’s gone.”
A breath hitches in my throat, but I don’t dare release it.
Val makes a strangled noise of outrage and grabs the edge of the tablecloth, clearly intending to flip the entire table in classic soap star fashion. She grunts and wiggles while doing her best to lift it, but nothing happens except for a few glasses toppling over.
“The tables are bolted to the floor,” Ransom informs her calmly. “This is a cruise ship. We anticipate both rough seas and theatrical outbursts.”
Val’s frustration quickly redirects itself. She grabs her water glass and throws the contents directly at Beth, who gasps as the liquid drenches her pale blue gown.
A stunned silence takes over the dining room—all three stories.
Beth gasps and shakes out her hands as water drips from her before picking up a lobster claw from my plate and hurling it at Val’s forehead with surprising accuracy.
More gasps and screams go off.
What a waste of perfectly good lobster.
And just like that, chaos erupts.
Lettuce leaves fly through the air like exotic birds.
Bread rolls become projectiles. A baked potato sails over my head and narrowly misses decapitating a waiter.
The soap husbands dive under the table to protect their hairpieces, while Boomer dances around the periphery, urging his cameramen to “Get this! Get all of this!”
Bess and Nettie abandon all pretense of dignity and join the fray, with Nettie wielding a shrimp cocktail like a weapon of mass destruction.
Ransom jumps up, attempting to restore order while simultaneously shielding me from flying dinner rolls.
Wes stands at the head of the table, his captain’s authority completely ignored as a splash of red wine blooms across his pristine whites.
Ooh, that is not going to come out.
Through it all, I manage to protect my chocolate lava cake, hunching over it like a mother bear defending her cub. We all have our hills that we would die on, and this is most definitely mine.
“This is better than any scene I ever filmed!” Marlie crows, floating above the melee with the delight of a ghost who can’t be hit by flying food. “Season twenty-three’s wedding massacre doesn’t hold a candle to this!”
I’ll say.
After what feels like hours but is probably only minutes, the ammunition runs out, and an uneasy cease-fire descends.
The dining room looks like a crime scene where the victim was a buffet.
Trophy wives stand panting, their designer gowns ruined, hair plastered to their heads with various sauces.
The soap husbands emerge from under the table, checking their hair with nervous patting motions.
“That,” Boomer declares with tears of joy in his eyes, “was the best footage of the season. Possibly of my entire career.”
Wes surveys the destruction with the thousand-yard stare of a man who’s just watched his ship’s formal dining room transform into a food fight arena on international television.
“All right,” he says with admirable composure for someone with hollandaise sauce dripping from his shirt. “I trust that everyone has expressed their feelings adequately for one evening?”
Ransom helps me to my feet, checking me for injuries with such thoroughness you’d think he was expecting to find shrapnel wounds rather than gravy stains.
“I’m fine,” I assure him, still clutching my miraculously intact dessert. “But I think formal night has been formally cancelled.”
His cheek flinches just shy of a smile. “I think we can find something better to do, starting with a shower.”
“I am most definitely in.”
Three different trophy wives give me the stink eye, and I shrug their way. It’s not my fault I’m the lucky one here.
As we pull away from the wreckage, I’m reminded just how delicate civilization really is.
One dead body and the whole glittering illusion collapsed faster than a bad spray tan in a hot tub.
Beneath the sequins and cufflinks, there’s not much more than panic, paranoia, and an impressive lack of table manners.
On The Young and the Breathless, chaos is carefully scripted, and everyone knows where the cameras are. On The Bold and the Bombastic, the gloves come off, the lobster claws come out, and if you’re not careful, you might end up as the evening’s entertainment.