Chapter 18
Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over crisp white tablecloths, while floor-to-ceiling windows frame the Norwegian fjords like living paintings.
Twilight has settled over the water, turning the towering cliffs into dramatic silhouettes against the darkening purple sky.
The mountains seem to watch over us like ancient, patient guards that have seen a thousand ships come and go, and they have.
The restaurant hums with quiet conversation and the delicate clink of fine china.
A pianist in the corner plays something classical that I can’t identify but sounds ritzy.
The aroma of fresh-baked bread mingles with hints of garlic, butter, and the unmistakable briny scent of premium seafood—a culinary preview of the delicious things to come.
Bess and Nettie declined my dinner invitation, claiming they had important business at the Champagne Bar.
By which they meant entertaining the soap opera hunks with Nettie’s famous Norwegian handshake that she invented this morning after reading a pamphlet about Viking greetings.
Last I heard, she was teaching Santino DiAngelo how to properly pronounce fjord while Bess kept score using an elaborate point system that somehow involved shots of aquavit. I’m only mildly concerned.
“This is quite the upgrade from the Blue Water Café,” Ransom says, as we settle into the plush chairs at our corner table—the one with the best view, naturally.
“It’s gorgeous,” I say, nodding to Wes. “And thank you for the seating upgrade.” The captain has his privileges, and apparently, they extend to premium restaurant reservations.
Wes nods my way. “I figured we all deserved something special after that spectacle on the promenade deck,” he replies before looking at Ransom. “Good effort, Baxter.” He gives a grin that says he doesn’t mind pushing my husband’s buttons when given the chance. “Better luck next time.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it. I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of all the ladies,” Ransom says with a wink. “However, I could have done without Val’s running commentary on my core strength.”
I laugh at the thought. “I think she was angling for a private demonstration.”
“Not happening. I have standards and a wife who’s on a first-name basis with the Grim Reaper.” Ransom blinks a smile my way, making me choke on my water.
Our server arrives with a bottle of wine that Wes insisted on ordering, something French with a label I can’t pronounce and a price tag I don’t want to contemplate.
After the ceremonial tasting and pouring, we place our dinner orders—butter-poached Maine lobster with fresh herbs for me, a perfectly seared filet mignon for Ransom, and Norwegian salmon with dill sauce for Wes.
“To surviving reality television,” Wes proposes as he raises his glass.
“And to three ties in a row,” I add with a laugh, clinking my glass against both of theirs.
“Speaking of which,” Wes says, leaning back in his chair, “I think we all know who would have won if Boomer hadn’t called time on that plank competition.”
Ransom’s brows lift slightly. “I believe the record clearly shows I was just getting started.”
“Is that what that tremor in your left arm was?” Wes laughs. “Getting started?”
Ransom growls. “That wasn’t a tremor. That was me considering whether to do one-armed push-ups just to keep things interesting.”
“My arms were shaking like I was operating a jackhammer,” Wes shoots back.
I lift my drink their way. “Nothing says masculinity quite like two grown men comparing whose muscles betrayed them first.”
“You know,” Wes swirls his wine while frowning at Ransom, “I’ve been doing ship fitness challenges since you were still filling out FBI paperwork in triplicate.”
“Fascinating.” Ransom’s voice is dry as sandpaper. “I’ve been taking down international crime syndicates since you were learning port from starboard. Clearly, the more dangerous profession. Though I’m sure steering is very challenging.”
“You two are a riot,” I say without a hint of a smile.
The server arrives with fresh bread and herb butter, momentarily pausing the verbal sparring.
“So, Trixie.” Wes looks my way after buttering a slice. “I heard from Boomer that your train ride with Harper yesterday was quite the dramatic episode. His words, not mine.”
I nod, thankful for the change of subject. “I think Harper is definitely hiding something.”
“She claimed a USB drive was missing,” Ransom adds. “Something about audio interviews conducted by Madison, and photos from a charity gala that she wanted to show the production team.”
“I filled Ransom in last night,” I explain to Wes. “Suffice it to say, we have interesting pillow talk.”
Ransom’s mouth rises at the corners with a beginning of a devilish grin, but he doesn’t dare give it. He’s deliciously stubborn that way. He still makes my pulse skip after all this time.
“And she thinks someone on the ship took it?” Wes asks, his captain’s concern evident.
“Someone on the train,” I reply. “Worse yet, me.”
Our appetizers arrive on cue—seared scallops for me and beef carpaccio for Ransom and Wes. The presentation is so artistic, I almost feel guilty eating it. Almost.
Between bites of perfectly cooked scallop, I decide to broach the subject that’s been weighing on me. “So... has there been any update on my reinstatement with the cruise line?” I’m hopeful, if only for a moment.
Wes and Ransom exchange a dark glance.
“I’m sorry, Trix. These things take time,” Wes says gently. “Corporate has to follow procedure.”
“But you’re both advocating for me, right?” I ask with just a niggle of hope left.
“Of course,” Ransom pats my hand. “You’ve solved more crimes on this ship than most port authorities manage in a year.” He winces. “And that has caused some suspicion among the staff reviewing your case.”
I gasp hard. “They think I’m a serial killer, don’t they!”
Wes and Ransom exchange another dark look.
“What my head of security meant to say,” Wes growls at Ransom, “is that your track record speaks for itself. I’ve personally sent three emails to the board this week alone.
We’re still advocating for you. Any indications that you might be a serial slayer will soon be wiped off the table. ” He pauses for a beat. “I hope.”
My eyes close involuntarily for a moment. “I appreciate your efforts, but all this uncertainty is really gnawing at me.” I take a deep breath while forcing a smile at the two men before me.
I’ve built a life on this ship trying to find purpose, friendship, and even love after my world imploded with Stanton’s betrayal. The thought of losing it all because I got tangled up in a murder investigation that wasn’t even my fault makes my stomach churn.
“Well,” I say, forcing myself to brighten, “at least being suspended gives me more time to solve Madison’s murder. I guess there’s a silver lining in just about everything.”
Ransom raises a brow my way.
“I mean us,” I’m quick to correct. “It gives us more time to solve Madison’s murder.”
Before I can shove my foot into my mouth any further, Elodie materializes before us with a glass of something amber in her hand. She’s traded her shop manager uniform for a slinky black dress that looks tattooed onto her flesh.
“Elodie,” I practically sing her name just as another familiar face crops up beside her. “And Tinsley,” I say with far less enthusiasm.
“Good evening, boys and girls,” Elodie purrs, ignoring Tinsley’s glare. “Mind if we join you?”
“Please do,” Wes says as Tinsley pulls out the chair beside him.
“I was just telling Tinsley about my meeting with Boomer,” Elodie continues, sliding in next to me. “He has some fascinating ideas for tomorrow’s filming.”
“Yes,” Tinsley says it curtly as she frowns at my blonde bestie. “MY Boomer is quite the creative genius.”
I nearly choke on my wine at the possessive pronoun.
Tinsley and Boomer have known each other for all of three days, and she’s already staking her claim like a prospector in the gold rush.
And what exactly can’t she see about the way the man looks at Elodie?
There is no competition here. That man has clearly given away his heart, or more to the point, every last ounce of his lust.
“Your Boomer?” Elodie takes a casual sip of her drink.
“That’s what I said,” Tinsley says crisply. “He has everything a woman could want in a man.”
I catch the shift in her tone—no possessiveness this time. She’s already adjusting her strategy.
“He certainly has stamina,” Elodie says with a knowing smile. “The man can go all night when he’s excited about a project.”
Tinsley seethes at my blonde bestie, “I’m sure his creative process is very demanding.”
“Oh, it is.” Elodie takes another leisurely sip of her drink. “He was in my cabin until 3 A.M. last night, working through some very physical concepts. And the night before that. The man is thorough, I’ll give him that.”
The temperature at our table drops about twenty degrees.
“How generous of you to assist with his vision,” Tinsley says each word like a threat. “I’m sure he appreciates volunteers willing to help with the grunt work.”
“Grunt work?” Elodie laughs. “That’s one way to describe it. Though he seemed quite satisfied with the results both times.”
Tinsley narrows her eyes and growls. “Twice must be so flattering for you. Like being asked back for a second audition when they haven’t found anyone better yet.”
“Tinsley.” Wes shakes his head at her.
“The lobster bisque here is divine,” Elodie continues as if she hadn’t just dropped a relationship bomb at our table. “Have you tried it?”
“Speaking of food, our entrées are arriving.” Wes holds up a finger just as a small army of waiters arrives.
Tinsley stands and smooths her dress. “Well, this has been enlightening. I should go check on tomorrow’s schedule.” She looks directly at Elodie. “Some of us have actual responsibilities on this ship beyond recreational activities.”
“And some of us know how to have fun while being responsible,” Elodie shoots back, completely unfazed. “Life is all about balance. Sort of the way Trixie finds corpses and still manages to teach art classes.”
Both Wes and Ransom’s eyes enlarge. That was sort of an eye-popping statement, even if it is mostly true.
But I can’t help but frown, considering I’m not allowed to do either of those things right now. Although technically, I’m never on the hunt for a corpse. But a killer? Now that’s a different story.
“Enjoy your dinner,” Tinsley says to the table. “I’m sure you all have a lot to digest.” She pauses beside Elodie’s chair. “By the way, your shop’s inventory audit is scheduled for tomorrow morning. 8 A.M. sharp. I do hope you kept good records.”
With that parting shot, she storms out of the restaurant, nearly colliding with our server, who performs an impressive sidestep to save someone’s dinner.
“She’s such a drama queen,” Elodie grunts, casually plucking a piece of bread from my plate. “She acts like sleeping with Boomer is some prize. Trust me, it’s more of a community service.” She leans over and spears a piece of my lobster and takes a bite before moaning. “Now this is excellent.”
I’m still trying to process the entire exchange to even protest the theft of my food, not that I’m above sharing with Elodie. Come to think of it, this is sort of a common occurrence when it comes to sharing my meals with her.
“So,” Elodie continues while enjoying my meal, “I hear you’re investigating Madison’s murder. Any suspects yet?”
And just like that, we’ve gone from soap opera dramatics to an actual murder investigation in the span of a bread basket. I glance at Ransom, whose expression remains neutral as ever despite the conversational whiplash.
“We’re exploring several possibilities,” he tells her.
“Well, if you need any dirt on the trophy wives, I’m your girl,” Elodie offers. “You wouldn’t believe what people will confess to when they’re in my shop.”
“We’re all ears,” Ransom says, his detective instincts clearly piqued.
Elodie leans in. “Day two of the cruise, Val came in trying to buy a scarf. It was two thousand dollars, and her credit card was declined—twice. The woman runs a charity, but can’t afford cashmere? It looks to me, she’s the one in need of charity.”
“Interesting,” Wes murmurs.
“And Beth?” Elodie continues. “She came in yesterday, bought a Hermès bag. Fourteen thousand dollars in cash. Fresh hundred-dollar bills.” She raises an eyebrow. “For someone playing the sweet homemaker, she’s carrying serious money.”
Her husband is loaded, but still. That’s a lot of cash to be slinging in the day and age of credit cards.
“What about Harper?” I ask.
“That glacier in designer heels parading around as an art collector? She hardly looked at the merchandise. Instead, she spent twenty minutes on her phone arguing with someone about authentication paperwork for a painting. Something about important records and forgery detection.” Elodie smirks.
“It was a very heated conversation for someone supposedly on vacation.”
“Forgeries?” I glance at Ransom and he tips his head.
“Well, goodnight, loves.” Elodie rises as suddenly as she sat down.
“Enjoy your dinner. I should go make sure Tinsley isn’t rewriting the ship’s manifest to assign me to a lifeboat drill at four in the morning.
” She winks at me. “She really shouldn’t throw around threats so casually. People might get the wrong idea.”
She sashays away, and I turn back to Wes and Ransom.
“Well,” Wes says after a moment, “Elodie certainly knows how to make an exit.”
“And how to gather intelligence,” Ransom adds with a pointed look. “That was more useful than three formal interrogations.”
I cut into my lobster with my mind racing. “Three women with three very different secrets—all of them worth killing to protect.” I blow out a breath. “We’re getting closer.”
Ransom nods. “We are.”
“Just another day on the Emerald Queen,” Wes observes with a slight smile. “Where dinner comes with a side of conspiracy.”
I raise my glass. “To solving murders between courses.”
“And to hoping dessert doesn’t come with another body,” Ransom adds dryly.
We clink glasses, and for a moment, it’s almost peaceful. Just three people enjoying excellent food and decent company.
Tomorrow we dock in Geiranger. And somewhere on this ship, a killer is watching.
But tonight? Tonight, we enjoy fine dining and plan our next move.