Chapter 17
The Norwegian sky has brightened to a pearly gray as afternoon settles over the Emerald Queen.
The fjord waters reflect the towering cliffs like a perfect mirror, creating the illusion that our ship is suspended between two identical worlds.
The smell of hot chocolate and fresh pastries from the nearby snack bar mingles with the crisp mountain air, making me wonder if calories consumed in such breathtaking surroundings actually count.
The crowd on the promenade deck has doubled in size since the obstacle course ended, with passengers abandoning their books and naps to witness what Boomer is dramatically calling The Ultimate Test of Manhood.
The cover band has switched to something with a pounding beat that matches my pulse as I watch Ransom and Wes approach the center of the improvised arena.
With a gracious nod to Boomer, Ransom and Wes make their way to the center of the deck.
I can’t help but notice the contrast between them—Wes with his easy charm and captain’s confidence, Ransom with his steely intensity and focused demeanor.
They’re both impressively fit for their early fifties and impressively handsome.
“First up in our Norwegian Strongman Challenge,” Boomer announces, “push-ups with a glass of water balanced on the back! Last man with dry shoulders wins!”
Crew members place small glasses of water on the backs of each competitor—Wes, Ransom, and the three soap husbands who’ve volunteered (or been volunteered by their wives). Victor Darkmore adjusts his position, causing his water to slosh dangerously close to the edge of the glass.
“On your mark, get set... GO!”
The men begin their push-ups, moving with careful precision to avoid spilling the water.
Bridge Blackthorne drops out almost immediately, with water cascading down his back after just three push-ups, much to Harper’s chagrin.
He rises with exaggerated dignity, announcing to no one in particular, “I’m saving my strength for the next challenge. ”
“Sure, you are, darling,” Harper calls from the sidelines, not bothering to hide her eye roll.
Lance, AKA Dr. Luca Carrington Jr., maintains a steady rhythm for about fifteen push-ups before his arms begin to shake.
The water on his back jiggles precariously before finally splashing down his side.
“My wrist!” he cries out, clutching it with all the drama he can afford.
“It’s an old injury from when I had to hang off that cliff for seven episodes straight! ”
“That was twenty years ago, Lance,” Beth says dryly. “And it was a green screen!”
Santino DiAngelo surprises everyone by completing thirty push-ups before his water finally spills. He stands up, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulders, and takes a theatrical bow. “I’ve been doing one-armed push-ups since season three when my character was trapped in that Bulgarian prison.”
This leaves just Wes and Ransom, both moving with steady, controlled motions, the glasses on their backs hardly rippling.
“Forty push-ups and counting!” Boomer announces with genuine excitement in his voice. “These gentlemen are putting our soap stars to shame!”
I spot Tinsley watching from the sidelines with her eyes fixed on Wes with an intensity that could melt an iceberg. Behind her, Marlie’s ghost has materialized, hovering cross-legged in the air, and even she is watching the showdown with interest.
“This is better than sweeps week.” She laughs. “Though they should really add some dramatic music. Maybe a thunderstorm. Victoria once did push-ups in a hurricane while wearing a ball gown.”
I bite my lip to keep from responding. The last thing I need is to be caught talking to thin air while the cameras are roving. But, oh, how I would love to discuss that episode. Every time a hurricane was mentioned in the news, I thought of her.
“Fifty push-ups!” Boomer calls out. “We’re witnessing maritime history, folks!”
Boomer glances at his watch and looks as if he’s about to make a snap decision. “Due to our tight filming schedule, we’ll have to declare this round a tie!” he announces. “Both Captain Crawford and Security Chief Baxter move on to the next challenge!”
Ransom and Wes rise to their feet, neither having spilled a drop. They nod to each other as a silent acknowledgment of mutual respect. But that look in their eyes suggests they’re planning on finishing one another off in the next round.
“Next up,” Boomer continues, “the arm-wrestling championship!”
A small table is brought to the center of the deck, with two chairs positioned on either side. The trophy wives gather close, their interest noticeably heightened now that the competition has narrowed to the two fittest men on the ship.
“This will be interesting,” Val says, sidling up beside me. “My money is on the security chief. He’s got that dangerous edge to him.”
“Yes, but the captain has hidden strength,” Beth counters. “You can see it in his forearms.”
I resist the urge to chime in. Instead, I focus on watching Ransom and Wes take their positions at the table, clasping hands the way men do when pride is officially on the line.
“On three!” Boomer calls. “One... two... THREE!”
The struggle begins immediately, neither man giving an inch. Wes’s face remains remarkably composed, while a muscle ticks in Ransom’s jaw—the only outward sign of exertion. And boy, is it hotter than anything. Their conjoined hands remain perfectly vertical, neither tipping toward victory.
“Impressive,” Santino comments, studying the match with an intensity only a soap star can bring. “I had to train for three months with a professional arm wrestler for my role as Two-Fisted Tommy in season twenty-seven.”
“I remember that storyline,” Nettie pipes up. “Wasn’t that when your character was pretending to be his own evil twin?”
“Good memory!” Santino beams at her. “Most people forget about the evil twin angle. I played both parts, of course.”
“Of course,” Bess agrees, patting his arm. “The eye patch was the only way viewers could tell you apart. It was a very subtle acting choice.”
Meanwhile, the arm-wrestling match continues with both men locked in a stalemate. Sweat beads on Wes’s forehead, while Ransom’s knuckles have turned white from his grip.
“Two minutes in!” Boomer announces. “This is unprecedented!”
Marlie’s ghost floats around the table, studying both men like only a woman can. “The captain is weakening,” she informs me. “See how his left eye twitches? It’s a classic sign of impending defeat. Victoria used to look for that in poker scenes.”
She’s right—I can see a slight tremor in Wes’s arm now, though he’s fighting valiantly to hide it. Ransom, sensing the shift, increases his pressure ever so slightly.
Just as it seems Ransom might claim the victory, a loud crash from the nearby buffet table distracts everyone. One of the ice sculptures—a majestic swan—has toppled over, sending ice shards and seafood platters flying.
In that split second of distraction, Wes regains his strength and pushes back. The momentary advantage shifts back and forth several times until Boomer checks his watch again.
“Another tie!” Boomer declares. “These gentlemen are too evenly matched! We’ll have to settle this with our final challenge—the Norwegian Plank-Off!”
The crowd shouts with excitement as crew members clear the table and lay out exercise mats. The trophy wives press closer, their designer workout gear glinting in the fjord sunlight that has finally broken through the clouds.
“The rules are simple,” Boomer explains. “Both competitors will hold a plank position. Last man holding the position wins!”
Ransom and Wes take their positions on the mats, both dropping into perfect planks with military precision—forearms on the mats, bodies straight as boards, toes balanced on the deck.
“And... begin!”
The minutes tick by, neither man showing any sign of fatigue. The soap husbands watch with a mixture of admiration and relief that they’re no longer competing.
“Two minutes!” Boomer calls out.
“This is nothing,” Victor scoffs. “I once had to hold a plank for an entire commercial break while the set was on fire.”
“That was a body double,” Harper mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.
“Three minutes!”
Bess and Nettie have started a betting pool among the passengers, with odds slightly favoring Ransom due to his mysterious FBI background as Nettie keeps reminding the crowd.
“Four minutes!”
A fine sheen of sweat now covers both men, but neither shows any sign of breaking. Wes’s face has taken on an unruly red hue, while Ransom’s expression remains impassive, although I can see the concentration in his eyes.
“Five minutes!”
The trophy wives have formed a semi-circle around the mats. Their designer sunglasses might be hiding their expressions but not their interest. Val keeps checking her phone, but her gaze keeps returning to Ransom with alarming frequency.
“Six minutes!”
I notice Beth slip away from the group with her phone pressed to her ear as she moves toward the ship’s railing. She seems agitated, casting furtive glances back at the competition.
Marlie’s ghost follows my gaze. “That looks suspicious,” she declares. “Very suspicious. I say we follow her!”
But before I can decide whether to listen to my otherworldly advisor, a collective gasp draws my attention back to the competition. Both Wes and Ransom are starting to shake, their muscles pushed beyond any endurance they might have.
“Seven minutes!”
“They need to end this before someone pulls something,” I whisper to Marlie, genuinely concerned now. Both men are far too competitive for their own good.
Boomer checks his watch and nods.
“And that’s time!” Boomer announces. “After an unprecedented seven-minute plank, we declare this competition... a TIE! Ladies and gentlemen, let’s hear it for Captain Crawford and Security Chief Baxter!”
At precisely the same moment, both Wes and Ransom collapse onto the deck, breathing hard but maintaining their dignity.
The crowd goes wild, especially the trophy wives, who seem to have forgotten all about their soap star husbands in favor of these newer, less surgically enhanced specimens.
“And that concludes our official filming for today!” Boomer adds. “Tomorrow, we move on to Geiranger, where our trophy wives will compete in the Seven Sisters waterfall challenge!”
As the crowd disperses, the trophy wives descend upon Wes and Ransom like designer-clad vultures.
Val practically drapes herself over Ransom, who maintains a polite but professional demeanor despite the fact that she’s all but massaged every nook and cranny that his muscular body has to offer.
And I do mean all, while Harper corners Wes with what appears to be a very intense conversation about his energy.
Bess and Nettie, meanwhile, have appointed themselves as the official ice-pack attendants for the soap hunks, with Nettie paying particular attention to Santino’s delicate hamstrings.
What can I say? Those women work fast.
“Well, that was quite the spectacle,” Tinsley sneers as she steps in close. I’ll admit, she looks flawless as always in a tailored blue dress that exactly matches the water from the fjord. “Our men really showed those soap stars how it’s done.”
“They certainly did,” I say. “I’m impressed they tied. They’re both fiercely competitive.”
Something tells me this isn’t over. I wouldn’t be shocked to find them arm wrestling over the bread basket before dessert.
Tinsley follows my gaze to where Ransom is now trying to politely extract himself from Val’s clutches.
“Speaking of competition...” Tinsley shakes out her chestnut locks. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to discuss some ship business with Boomer.”
She sashays away, making a beeline for the producer, who’s currently reviewing footage, and promptly inserts herself into the conversation, touching Boomer’s arm and laughing at something that probably isn’t even funny.
I survey the scene—the aging soap stars being tended to by octogenarian groupies, the trophy wives circling fresh meat, the production crew capturing every awkward moment for posterity—and make an executive decision.
I weave through the crowd until I reach Ransom, who’s still listening to Val chatter on about her charity work.
“Excuse me,” I interrupt as I bat my lashes up at my handsome plus-one, “but I was wondering if you’d like to join me for dinner at the Blue Crab tonight? After such an impressive performance, you must be starving.”
Val scowls my way. “Why, I would love—”
“That sounds perfect,” Ransom says quickly, and the relief is more than evident in his eyes. “Thank you, Trixie.”
“Wonderful!” I turn to Val. “Unfortunately, they only had a table for two, but I’m sure we’ll see you at tomorrow’s event.”
Val openly scowls at me. “Of course. Another time,” she says while stalking off.
I nod toward Wes, who’s still cornered by Harper. “Should we rescue the captain, too?”
“Only because I’m feeling generous,” Ransom grunts, and together we make our way over.
“Captain Crawford,” I say with a bright smile. “I hope you haven’t forgotten our dinner reservation at Blue Crab? I’ve just invited Ransom to join us after that impressive tie.”
Relief floods Wes’s features. “I wouldn’t miss it, Trixie.” He nods to the others. “Ladies, if you’ll excuse me—duty calls.”
Together, the three of us make our escape, leaving behind a deck full of disappointed trophy wives and their oblivious husbands.
The Norwegian fjords glide past—towering, silent, and impossible to read. A lot like this case.
Still, with Ransom and Wes beside me, I’m not worried.
We’ll get to the truth.
Even if we have to survive a few more soap-star showdowns, and possibly a killer, to do it.