Chapter 21 #2
“You’d have to fight me for him,” Nettie counters. “I’ve been practicing saying, ‘Luca, take me to the Riviera and ruin my reputation!’ in the mirror for thirty years. I’m prepared.”
“Ruin?” Bess murmurs. “That ship sailed in 1964.”
The room titters again.
“Nettie, you’ve been practicing for thirty years?” Boomer asks, clearly enjoying this spontaneous fan interaction.
“That’s right.” Nettie stands as she claims her stake. “Ever since episode 247, when he performed emergency surgery using only a butter knife and his devastatingly handsome instincts.”
I nod to Elodie. “And, after that, I never looked at a butter knife the same.”
Beth’s brittle smile cracks slightly, becoming something far more genuine. “You two are adorable.” She laughs. “And terrifying. But mostly adorable.”
“She got the terrifying part right,” Elodie quips.
“Harper Bailey is up next,” Boomer says as he welcomes her to the stage, and a light applause breaks out. “Wife to legendary Bridge Blackthorne from The Young and the Heartless and successful art gallery owner.”
Elodie sighs. “What I wouldn’t do to be Bridge Blackthorne’s wife for a day.”
“Et tu, Elodie?” I tease.
Boomer starts in, and soon Harper’s confessional takes a darker turn. Dressed in sleek black like an elegant grim reaper, she speaks in careful, measured tones that nonetheless carry an undercurrent of something dark and dangerous.
“Why did I marry Charles?” she repeats the question back to Boomer. “Let’s call it research.” She laughs it off, but there’s no sweetness in her tone. “Every good story needs a satisfying third act, don’t you think? Especially when the first two acts involved so much injustice.”
“Injustice?” I shake my head as I look at Elodie.
“She’s been planning something,” Marlie’s ghost comments, floating over to hover next to me. “I’ve seen that look before. Victoria wore it for an entire season before she destroyed Blackthorne Industries and framed Victor’s illegitimate son for tax evasion.”
My curiosity is piqued, that’s for sure.
The confessionals continue, and I lean into Elodie. “You gave us some great intel at dinner the other night regarding these divas,” I say quietly. “Anything new since then?”
Elodie glances around before leaning in close. “Rich women often forget that service people exist as actual humans with ears. When you’re pinning a hemline or adjusting a necklace, you become invisible. You’re basically just a couple of hands performing a function.”
“I can’t believe they talk so freely in front of you.”
“Talk? Honey, they practically dictate their memoirs.” Elodie gives a quiet laugh.
“Val’s charity is a shell game. The performing arts center she supposedly funded?
It basically doesn’t exist. She’s been siphoning money for years to maintain her lifestyle since Santino’s residual checks started shrinking. ”
My eyebrows hike a notch. “How do you know this?”
“She left her charity statements on my counter during a fitting, then took a call from her accountant about restructuring the donation allocations. It wasn’t hard to piece together.” Elodie examines her perfect manicure—French with red tips. It’s an off-putting look.
“I bet Madison figured it out, too,” I gasp as I say the words. I feel a chill that has nothing to do with the theater’s air conditioning. “And Beth?”
“Beth Williams isn’t her real name. It’s Elizabeth Carmichael.
She was married to another soap star years ago—Winston Reed from Healing Hearts.
He died suddenly of natural causes at fifty-two.
” Elodie makes air quotes around natural causes.
“She reinvented herself and set her sights on Lance Williams a year later. Dr. Luca never knew what hit him.”
“Most men don’t.” I think about this for a moment. “And Harper?”
Elodie shakes her head. “Harper is the real mystery. She never lets anything slip during fittings—she’s too controlled.”
“The woman is a robot,” I nod.
Elodie squints at the stage. “But I did see something interesting in her cabin when I was delivering some accessories.”
“You were in her cabin?”
“It’s part of the service.” Elodie shrugs. “She has a photo hidden in her jewelry case—a young actress from the ’90s standing next to a much younger Victor Darkmore. The actress’s face was circled in red marker.”
“Did you recognize her?”
“No, but Harper had written something on the back, Justice for Lydia.” Elodie frowns. “Madison had been asking questions about old soap opera scandals, especially ones involving Victor. I think she stumbled onto whatever Harper’s been planning.”
My mind races, trying to connect these revelations to the homicide. Madison was investigating all of them, collecting secrets, planning dramatic on-camera confrontations, any one of which could have motivated murder.
“Trixie Troublefield!” Boomer’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “You’re up next!”
I blink in surprise, and everything in me freezes. The confessional chair sits empty on stage with the spotlight warming it.
“Here goes nothing,” I pant as I rise from my seat.
I make my way to the steps just as Boomer checks his watch and frowns. “Actually, I’m starving. Let’s break for lunch. We can do Trixie’s segment later. It’s not like the boring housewife has any real dirt on anyone anyway.”
I frown his way. I’ll admit, the dismissal stings a bit, but I nod and smile as Boomer dismisses the audience. If he only knew that I now have enough dirt to bury someone six feet under. The question is, which of our suspects deserves the burial?
Val with her charity fraud? Beth with her mysterious first husband, who died under suspicious circumstances?
Harper with her apparent vendetta against Victor Darkmore?
Or someone else entirely? If this were truly a soap opera, there would be a killer twist. Like maybe I was the killer.
Only I don’t have enough evidence to bury myself, yet.
Like the shocking mid-season twist on The Guiding Lies, I have all the pieces but can’t quite see the full picture.
And on the Emerald Queen, missing the final clue could mean becoming the killer’s next victim.