Chapter 20
The clouds have darkened over the Seven Sisters waterfall, casting deep shadows that would terrify any soap opera lighting director.
The temperature has dropped several degrees, bringing with it the scent of impending rain and the earthy aroma of damp Norwegian soil.
Mist from the thundering falls creates a gossamer veil between the rest of the film crew and us, providing an almost supernatural privacy for our impromptu interrogation.
Dirk Rothschild, AKA Victor Darkmore, sits alone on a wooden bench, looking considerably less majestic than he did before his unexpected swim.
His designer hiking outfit has been replaced with Emerald Queen brand sweatpants and a hoodie that clearly pains him to be seen wearing.
His usually perfect hair has dried in rebellious directions, and he keeps running his fingers through it as if demanding it do his bidding.
“Ready to channel your inner FBI agent?” I ask Ransom as we approach.
“I never stopped,” he replies with a subtle wink that sends a swarm of butterflies fluttering inside of me.
Marlie’s ghost floats alongside us, rubbing her spectral hands together with glee, or anticipation, or revenge. “This is going to be better than the time I confronted him about his affair with my sister’s evil twin’s surrogate mother.”
Victor looks up as we approach, and his expression shifts from brooding introspection to practiced charm so quickly it’s like watching a channel change in real time.
“Ah, the ship’s security chief and his lovely wife.
Have you come to make sure I haven’t developed hypothermia?
I assure you, it would take more than a Norwegian fjord to bring down Victor Darkmore. ”
“Dirk Rothschild,” Marlie corrects with an eye roll. “Victor Darkmore is fictional, you narcissistic hack.”
I’m sort of with Victor on this one.
“Actually,” Ransom says, settling onto the bench beside him, “we wanted to check if you’re alright after that fall. It was quite the dramatic moment.”
“Drama follows me everywhere,” Victor sighs, gazing soulfully at the waterfall. “Thirty-eight years playing Victor Darkmore, and sometimes the line between character and reality blurs.”
“It must be difficult,” I say, taking a seat on his other side, effectively boxing him in. “Especially when life imitates art in such tragic ways.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “You mean with Madison.”
“She was your wife both on screen and off,” Ransom points out. “That’s a rare situation.”
Victor glances over his shoulder, a movement so quick I almost miss it. But I don’t miss the fact that his eyes land briefly on Beth Williams, who’s watching our conversation from the edge of the viewing platform while pretending to take photos of the waterfall.
“Madison understood the business,” Victor says as his voice drops into a lower, more theatrical register. “She knew the demands of fame, the sacrifices required on the altar of celebrity.”
“Did she also understand things about the other wives?” I ask innocently.
His head whips toward me. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, you know.” I wave vaguely. “We heard she was doing research on them. We heard about the files she was keeping. Rumor has it, she was about to pen a tell-all.”
His eyes bulge as he continues to glare at the viewing platform. His face performs a fascinating journey through surprise, alarm, and calculation before settling into feigned nonchalance. He’s good, I’ll give him that.
“Madison was thorough,” he admits, adjusting the cuffs of his loaner sweatshirt as if they were custom French couture. “She believed in preparation. A quality I admired in her, even if her methods were occasionally unorthodox.”
“Unorthodox how?” Ransom prompts.
Victor looks between us, then leans in slightly. “You didn’t hear this from me, but Madison was collecting material for the show, not for some tell-all. Real conflicts, real secrets—she believed they would generate authentic drama. The producers loved the concept.”
“So she was investigating the other trophy wives?” I clarify.
“She preferred the term background research,” Victor says, his fingers forming air quotes. “But yes. She had files on each of them. Digital, physical—Madison was nothing if not comprehensive.”
Marlie floats directly in front of him, studying his face with ghostly intensity. “He’s holding back. His left eyebrow always twitches when he’s lying. Thirty years of marriage teaches you these things.”
Sure enough, there’s a subtle movement in his left eyebrow that I would have missed if I wasn’t looking for it.
“That must have created tension,” Ransom says. “Finding out your dirty laundry might be aired on national television.”
“One can never predict how the uninitiated will react to the spotlight.” Victor sniffs, staring off into the middle distance. The effect is somewhat diminished by a drop of water falling from his hair onto his nose.
“The uninitiated?” I repeat, raising an eyebrow.
“Those who haven’t been forged in the crucible of daytime drama,” he explains, gesturing grandly. “Those who don’t understand that in the theater of life, every secret eventually takes center stage.”
“Oh my goodness,” Marlie groans, floating upside down in exasperation. “He’s quoting Victor’s monologue from season twenty-three! The one where he’s justifying why he exposed his brother’s illegitimate child at the Christmas gala!”
I know that scene!
Before I can stop myself, I find myself responding, “But secrets revealed too soon can trigger consequences that even the most careful playwright couldn’t anticipate.”
Victor’s eyes widen in surprise, and—is that respect?
“Exactly!” he exclaims, suddenly animated. “You understand! That’s what I told Madison, but she was convinced the truth would make for better television than fiction.”
“Victoria said that in episode 517,” Marlie informs me gleefully. “Right before she blackmailed the governor with photos of him dressed as Marie Antoinette!”
Ransom gives me a curious look, clearly wondering when I became fluent in soap opera dialogue. I give him a tiny shrug and press on.
“Was Madison particularly interested in any specific storylines?” I ask, trying to steer us back to relevant territory.
“Val’s charity work with the performing arts center caught her attention,” Victor says, lowering his voice. “Something about the numbers not adding up. And Beth—” he glances over his shoulder again, “—Beth has a past that Madison found intriguing.”
“Intriguing how?” Ransom asks.
Victor leans even closer. “Let’s just say that Lance Williams might not be her first soap star husband. There was someone before him—someone who met a rather unfortunate end.”
Ransom and I exchange a dark glance. We will definitely look into that dramatic exit.
“And Harper?” I ask with a shrug.
A shadow crosses Victor’s face. “Harper is complicated. Madison was convinced she had an agenda. Something personal against the soap world. Madison was close to figuring it out when—” He stops abruptly, swallowing hard.
“When she was murdered,” Ransom finishes for him.
“When her earthly contract was prematurely terminated,” Victor corrects, as if the euphemism somehow makes the reality less brutal.
Marlie floats before us as tiny gold stars spray all around her.
“And the man turns from the window, his eyes reflecting the lightning that illuminates the stormy night,” she narrates dramatically, floating behind Victor like a ghostly Grim Reaper.
“Could it be that the killer walks among us, wearing the mask of innocence?”
Okay, I’ll be the first to admit there is a level of absurdity in this investigation that we have never encountered before. But, being a fangirl of both the dead and the living, I am so here for every absurd moment. Bring on the bonbons.
I clear my throat as I look at Victor. “Do you know if Madison shared her discoveries with anyone else?” I ask.
Victor checks his watch as his expression grows increasingly anxious.
“Madison kept her cards close to her designer vest. But she did mention that she had secured her findings somewhere that even I couldn’t access them.
She was dramatic that way.” He pauses, then adds, “It takes one to know one, I suppose.”
A shrill whistle cuts through the mist, signaling it’s time to return to the tender boats.
“Saved by the bell,” Marlie comments as Victor practically jumps to his feet.
“I should change before the next segment,” he says, adjusting the sweatshirt he clearly despises.
“Boomer wants to film some reaction shots as we sail past the Suitor waterfall. It’s supposed to be the mythological lover of the Seven Sisters.
” He attempts a charming smile that looks more sinister in its delivery—and it takes talent to achieve that look, too.
“Even the waterfalls have romantic drama in Norway.”
Before we can ask another question, he’s striding away, his pace just shy of an outright sprint. He joins the group gathering near the path, positioning himself conspicuously far from Beth, who seems equally determined to maintain distance. And it does make me wonder.
“Well, that was informative,” Ransom says as we watch Victor take off.
“And theatrical,” I add. “I’m starting to think the line between his soap opera character and real life disappeared years ago.”
“He never stood a chance,” Marlie sighs, floating beside us. “Thirty-eight years playing the same character would make anyone lose touch with reality. I was lucky—Victoria was killed off three times before the final chandelier incident. It kept me grounded.”
Ransom’s phone buzzes, and he pulls it from his pocket.
“Here we go,” he says, his expression growing serious as he reads the message.
“What is it?” I ask, recognizing his this changes everything face.
He glances up, then back at his phone. “Toxicology flagged something they want me to look at in their report.” His eyes meet mine. “Madison Rothschild wasn’t just stabbed in the heart—she was poisoned.”
The Seven Sisters waterfall continues its eternal cascade behind us, but all I can hear is the roaring of questions in my mind.
Just like on The Restless and the Reckless, our mystery has taken a toxic turn—and somewhere on the Emerald Queen, a killer is watching their carefully scripted murder plot unravel one clue at a time.