Chapter 19 #3
“I didn’t know I could do that,” she admits, examining her ghostly hands with newfound respect. “Fifteen years of haunting, and I’ve been missing out on the good stuff!”
And by good stuff, I’m pretty sure she means assault.
Victor emerges from the pond like a drowned rat in designer clothing, his perfect hair plastered to his skull and his expression cycling rapidly through confusion, anger, and, most interestingly, fear.
“I felt something,” he sputters, allowing Bridge and Santino to help him onto dry land. “A hand—I swear I felt a hand push me!”
“It was probably just the wind,” Boomer says quickly, licking his finger and holding it up to the perfectly still air. “Or you lost your balance on the slippery rocks.”
“I know what I felt,” Victor insists, his eyes darting around wildly. “It was cold, like ice, and it felt familiar.”
“Perhaps Victoria’s ghost didn’t appreciate your tribute,” Harper suggests with a sly smile that makes me wonder exactly how much she knows—or how many ghosts she can see.
Victor’s face drains of all color. “That’s not funny.”
“I thought it was hilarious,” Marlie comments, performing a ghostly victory dance just above his head.
While Victor is escorted to a heated tent to dry off and have his hair restyled, Boomer decides to film some reaction shots with the trophy wives against the backdrop of the waterfalls. This proves to be its own special kind of disaster.
“Ransom,” Val calls, teetering dramatically on a perfectly stable section of the viewing platform and holding onto a rather sturdy railing. “I think I need assistance navigating this treacherous terrain!”
Before Ransom can respond, Beth clutches her chest. “I might need emergency medical attention. Detective Baxter, do you know mouth-to-mouth?”
I shoot her a lethal look.
Not to be outdone, Harper suddenly grabs the railing herself, holding it so tight her knuckles go white.
“Oh my goodness,” she gasps, swaying slightly. “I don’t know what’s happening. The height—I can’t—” She reaches out blindly, her hand landing on Ransom’s arm. “I need help getting down. I don’t think I can walk. You’ll have to carry me all the way down the trail.”
“Ladies,” Ransom says, his patience clearly born from dealing with far worse crises than theatrical trophy wives, “I’m here in a security capacity. If you’re experiencing medical concerns, we have a medic on staff.”
“But he’s not nearly as qualified as you,” Val purrs, somehow managing to trip over absolutely nothing and fall directly into Ransom’s reluctantly extended arms.
Their competitive fawning reaches a crescendo when all three trophy wives converge on Ransom at once, creating a designer-clad traffic jam that nearly sends me tumbling over the edge of the cliffside.
I would have taken an unplanned swim in the fjord if not for Ransom’s lightning-fast reflexes.
He somehow manages to catch my arm with one hand while still fending off Val with the other.
“CUT!” Boomer finally shouts, throwing his hands up in defeat. “Take fifteen, everyone! And please try not to drown, fall off a cliff, or develop any new medical conditions during the break!”
I’d like to push a few people off the cliff, but I keep that to myself for now. It’s petty, I know. I guess I really do fit in with these women.
The trophy wives reluctantly disperse, still arguing about who gets dibs on Ransom for the hike back to the tender boats.
Bess and Nettie corner Santino by the souvenir stand, apparently conducting an impromptu interview about his character’s seven marriages and four presumed deaths.
Honestly, I’d love to listen in, but I need a little alone time with the hot security hunk everyone is salivating over.
“Well, that was something,” I say to Ransom as we find a quiet spot away from the cameras.
“Just another day in paradise,” he replies dryly, his eyes scanning the area with professional attention before settling back on me, and he pulls me in close. “Trixie, are you okay? You nearly took a swan dive into the water back there.”
“I’m fine. Although I’m pretty sure Val would have volunteered to give you mouth-to-mouth if you’d jumped in after me.”
His frown makes it clear exactly what he thinks of that scenario. “I noticed something interesting during Dirk’s—Victor’s unplanned swimming lesson,” he says, lowering his voice. “The moment he hit the water, Beth was texting someone. And she looked relieved, not concerned.”
I follow his gaze to where Beth stands off to the side, her phone clutched in her hand like a lifeline. “Do you think it’s connected to Madison’s murder?”
“I think everything on this cruise is connected.” He hitches his head toward Victor, who’s emerged from the tent looking mostly dry but significantly grumpier. “Let’s say we double-team the widower and see what we can come up with.”
“Careful with that phrasing,” I tease, nudging his shoulder. “Last time you suggested double-teaming, we ended up with a very different kind of investigation.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up in that subtle smile that still makes my heart do all sorts of unsafe things. “That was a very satisfactory outcome, as I recall—for just the two of us.”
“Very,” I agree. “Let’s hope this one is just as revealing.”
We start toward Victor, who sits alone on a bench looking uncharacteristically subdued. Behind us, the Seven Sisters continue their eternal cascade, indifferent to the human drama unfolding on their doorstep.
Marlie’s ghost floats alongside us, rubbing her hands together with ghostly glee. “This is going to be good,” she says. “Victor always was a terrible liar when caught off guard. On the show, he had a script and five takes. Here? He’s got nothing.”
Like those waterfalls, secrets can only stay suspended for so long. Eventually, they all come crashing down.
Or at least, here’s hoping.