Chapter 22
Cruise Ship Gossip Flash
HOT OFF THE PROMENADE PRESS
You didn’t hear it from me, but...
Last night’s impromptu hot tub scene for Trophy Wives of Paradise had to be reshot THREE times because Val kept accidentally splashing water on Beth’s freshly done hair extensions! The makeup team was furious, but Boomer kept the cameras rolling, calling it authentic tension.
Spotted: Dirk Rothschild dramatically removing his sunglasses before announcing, “This changes everything,” about a delayed poolside towel delivery.
The ice sculpture at last night’s gala mysteriously toppled right as Harper was giving her confessional about trusting your instincts.
Several passengers swear they felt a cold breeze pass through the room just before it happened, while others claim they heard faint laughter that sounded suspiciously like Marlie Rothschild’s famous villain cackle from season seventeen.
Word from the galley is that the head chef is refusing to prepare any more off-menu requests after Santino sent back his Norwegian salmon three times, each time requesting it less Norwegian.
Most suspicious behavior goes to Beth Williams who has been spotted taking extensive notes on the ship’s emergency evacuation procedures. Research for her next role or planning a quick getaway? The mystery deepens!
Until next time, keep your ears open and your champagne glasses full!
XOXO Trixie
Day 9: Bergen, Norway (Colorful Bryggen wharf, fish market, funicular to Mount Fl?yen)
Spoiler alert: Boomer decided to nix my interview altogether.
One of the soap villains was having a tantrum in the casino, and he thought it would behoove the ratings to get it all on tape, rather than pretend I had anything to say that anyone wanted to hear.
When I told Ransom, well, he was moved to tell Boomer a few things that Ransom thought he should hear, by way of his weapon.
I told him to save the bullets. We might need them.
The cheerful wooden buildings of Bryggen wharf welcome us to Bergen, our final Norwegian port before tomorrow’s farewell in Copenhagen.
I’ve already updated my blog with photos of yesterday’s fjord adventures, carefully omitting any mention of murder investigations or poisoned soap stars.
Breakfast today was a two-act culinary extravaganza per usual.
First up was a gargantuan spread at the Blue Water Café buffet with Bess and Nettie while Ransom briefed his security team.
We demolished plates piled with smoked salmon, fresh bagels, creamy Norwegian egg casserole, plump blueberries, and those adorable heart-shaped waffles with lingonberry jam that Nettie insists on calling Viking love cakes.
Not satisfied with merely stuffing ourselves senseless, we proceeded to second breakfast in the formal dining room (a day on land requires both carbs and caffeine in abundance), where we indulged in made-to-order eggs Benedict with Norwegian crab, and Bess charmed the chef into creating chocolate-stuffed French toast that wasn’t even on the menu.
I savored both that decadent creation and a delicate smoked fish omelet with dill cream, while Nettie somehow managed to put away both a Norwegian salmon hash and a stack of cloudberry pancakes despite insisting she could hardly eat a bite.
We finally waddle off the ship, which is directly docked rather than tendered, thank goodness—and we meet up with Ransom and Wes at the harbor entrance, both looking unfairly energetic and handsome for men who’d spent the morning coordinating security protocols for tonight’s potentially murderous formal dinner.
The rainbow-colored wooden buildings of Bryggen wharf stand shoulder to shoulder like cheerful frat buddies propping each other up after a long night on the town.
Reds, yellows, and earthy tones pop against the moody Norwegian sky, where patches of blue play hide-and-seek with thick, gray clouds.
These crooked structures have survived since the fourteenth century, and it is officially a UNESCO World Heritage site that’s seen more drama than a soap opera marathon—although probably with fewer evil twins and amnesia plots.
We’ve already roamed, shopped, and picked up lunch, and now we’re seated at a picnic table overlooking the harbor where we can see the Emerald Queen docked majestically in the distance, its white hull gleaming despite the temperamental sky.
The scent of fresh fish from the nearby market mingles with salt air and the enticing aroma of our Norwegian feast spread across the wooden table.
While the trophy wives are back on the ship getting pampered for tonight’s formal dinner finale, we’ve escaped for some local cuisine and much-needed murder investigation strategizing.
Okay, so I’d like to think that last part is going to happen.
A girl can dream. I can’t help it if homicide is my love language.
“I still can’t believe you pronounce it shuh-but-boller,” Nettie says, biting into her third fresh-baked cinnamon roll. “It looks nothing like that on paper.”
“Skillingsboller,” Wes corrects gently. “And you’re massacring it worse than Santino DiAngelo’s Bulgarian accent in season twenty-seven.”
“Ha!” I laugh at Wes’s expansive knowledge of all things soap. “I didn’t know you were a fan.”
Ransom nods. “That explains a lot.”
“Listen up, Captain.” Nettie wags a finger at him while holding the sweet treat tight. “I’ll have you know Santino spent three weeks with a dialect coach for that storyline,” she shoots back. “He told me so himself while I was helping ice his hamstrings.”
“I bet that’s not all you helped ice,” Bess mutters into her drink, a fruity concoction that has lots of berries and tea—and I’m pretty sure it has some aquavit in it too. The Norwegian spirit has systematically dismantled her already minimal filter.
Ransom surveys the spread of kj?ttboller—yummy meatballs, fresh salmon, and potato salad—with the focused attention he usually reserves for crime scenes. “The Norwegians certainly know their way around fish.”
“Is that your professional assessment, Agent Baxter?” Wes asks, spearing a piece of salmon as if he were harvesting it from the sea.
“Just an observation, Captain Crawford.” Ransom frowns at Wes for employing his proper moniker and thus making him respond in kind. “Although I have investigated three cases involving fish smuggling.”
“Only three?” Wes’s eyebrow arches with mock disappointment. “I’ve intercepted at least a dozen contraband seafood operations in the span of my career.”
“Seriously?” Bess shakes her head at the two of them. “The two of you are comparing fish arrest records?”
“It never ends,” I say.
“He started it.” Ransom’s lips curve in that wicked way that makes my heart skip ten beats. It’s so not safe.
“Speaking of fishy investigations,” I say, not one to let a good springboard to homicide pass me by. “How about we discuss a certain murderer on our cruise ship?”
“It’s time for the Suspect Circle,” Nettie says as she rubs her hands together with glee, as only someone who isn’t a suspect can.
“How about Murder Roundtable?” Ransom counters.
“How about Homicide Huddle?” Bess offers.
“Death Diamond,” Nettie contributes, to everyone’s confusion.
“Suspect Circle it is,” I declare before this can devolve further. “Let’s start with Val Pierce-Henderson.”
“Former Miss Venezuela, current Miss Charity Fraud,” Bess summarizes, the aquavit clearly doing the talking now.
“According to Elodie, Val’s charity for a performing arts center for underprivileged kids is basically a personal piggy bank,” I explain, lowering my voice though there’s no one within earshot except a couple of seagulls with judgmental expressions—mostly because they’re eyeing the amount of food we have and our unwillingness to share.
“Madison confronted her about it the day before she was murdered.”
“The charity angle gives her a solid motive,” Ransom notes. “Exposure would mean public humiliation, possible legal consequences, and the end of her funding stream.”
“Plus, she’s from Venezuela,” Nettie points out, as if this is significant evidence.
We all turn to stare at her.
“What?” she asks defensively. “They have tropical plants there. Probably oleander, too.”
“That’s not exactly compelling forensic evidence,” Ransom says before tipping his head as if reconsidering it.
Nettie leans in. “I once watched a documentary about poisonous plants in South America,” she insists. “Or maybe it was a Criminal Hospital episode where Dr. Ricardo poisoned the hospital board with rare Amazonian tree frogs.” She frowns. “It gets confusing at my age.”
“Moving on to Beth Williams,” Wes suggests, tactfully redirecting the conversation.
“Or should we say Elizabeth Carmichael?” I correct. “Former wife of soap star Winston Reed, who died mysteriously at fifty-two.” I already filled Ransom in last night at dinner, and Bess and Nettie by proxy.
“The woman’s collecting soap star husbands like I collect shot glasses,” Bess remarks, helping herself to more aquavit.
Bess Chatterley does not collect shot glasses. Unless, of course, this is a new development. Norway seems to be creating one plot twist after the next.
“Think we should cut her off?” Ransom whispers in my ear with his breath warm against my skin, and I shiver in a good way.
“And miss gems like that? Not a chance,” I whisper back. “But you can cuff me later,” I say, seemingly unprovoked, and give him a wink.
“Your wish is my command.” He lifts his drink my way.
Wes clears his throat as he frowns at the two of us. “I noticed that Beth is constantly checking her phone,” he points out. “And she seems particularly nervous around Victor, or whatever his name is.”
“I noticed that, too,” I agree. “There’s definitely something between them that goes beyond the usual trophy wife rivalry.”
“Maybe she’s blackmailing him?” Ransom shrugs at the thought.
“Or he could be blackmailing her,” Wes counters.