Chapter 22 #2
“Or they could be having an affair,” Bess announces, loud enough to startle a nearby seagull.
“That would certainly complicate things,” I admit. “But would it lead to murder?”
“Honey, on The Bitter and the Beautiful, affairs have led to at least thirty-seven murders, twelve kidnappings, and one alien abduction,” Nettie informs us with authority.
And, actually, I can vouch for all of the above.
“I’m pretty sure the alien abduction was a dream sequence,” Bess argues.
She’s right, but it was still intoxicating to watch.
“It was ambiguous!” Nettie insists. “They never explicitly said Victor wasn’t probed!”
“Can we please not discuss Victor Darkmore being probed while I’m eating?” Wes pleads.
“Fine,” Nettie huffs. “Let’s talk about Harper instead.”
I take a sip of water as I gather my thoughts.
“Harper is the most mysterious of the three. I mean, she has her art gallery, and yet we haven’t had a minute to sit down and discuss our shared love.
” I lean in. “Elodie may have found a photo in her cabin—a young actress standing next to Victor, with the actress’s face circled in red.
Harper had written ‘Justice for Lydia’ on the back. ”
Wes inches back. “Please tell me that Ellodie isn’t snooping in our guests’ cabins.”
“Only when necessary,” Bess says, outing the blonde cutie.
“Revenge is a powerful motive,” Ransom says with a sigh. “Those are often the most dangerous because they’re driven by emotion rather than logic.”
“Maybe Harper’s art gallery is a front?” I continue. “And Madison was apparently digging into old soap opera scandals right before she died.”
“Old scandals, you say?” Bess perks up, suddenly a little too alert at the scent of potential gossip. “What kind?”
“I don’t know the details,” I admit. “But it had something to do with Victor specifically.”
“That man has more skeletons in his closet than a Halloween supply store,” Nettie grouses. “Remember when he was accused of getting that young actress fired from The Bitter and the Beautiful back in the ’90s? The one who was supposedly having an affair with him?”
“Wait.” I sit up straighter. “What actress?”
“Oh heavens, what was her name?” Nettie taps her chin. “Lillian or something like that. Lovely girl, played a nurse for about half a season before she was suddenly written off. There were rumors she was pregnant with Victor’s baby.”
“I bet it was Lydia,” I say, the pieces clicking together. “As in ‘Justice for Lydia’?”
“Could Harper be related to her?” Wes wonders.
“Or could she be Lydia, after extensive plastic surgery?” Nettie suggests dramatically.
“That seems a bit far-fetched,” Ransom says with a slow blink.
“Says the man who’s never watched a single soap opera in his life,” Nettie retorts. “Identity reveals after plastic surgery are practically a once-a-week event on daytime television.”
“Which brings us to Victor himself,” I steer us back on track. “He seems genuinely upset about Madison’s death, but he’s also an actor who’s been playing the same role for thirty-eight years.”
“The man cries on cue,” Bess points out. “I’ve seen him shed a single tear while ordering coffee.”
“He also has the most extensive knowledge of poisons,” Wes adds. “Victor Darkmore has poisoned at least eight people on the show.”
I inch back and examine him as my mouth falls open. “Wes! You are a fount of sudsy knowledge!”
He shrugs. “I was doing research for the case.”
“Over the last thirty years?” Ransom counters, and I think he got him.
“He poisoned nine people on the show,” Nettie corrects automatically. “You’re forgetting the Christmas gala massacre of 2011.”
“That was a dream sequence, too!” Bess protests.
“It was NOT!” Nettie cries out with such passion, that about ten different tourists run for cover.
As they bicker away, Ransom leans in close to my ear. “You know, for all their soap opera obsession, those two have surprisingly good observational skills.”
“Don’t let the crochet hooks and orthopedic shoes fool you,” I whisper back. “We both know they’re sharper than they look.”
“Speaking of sharp,” Ransom says, his voice dropping, “have I mentioned how particularly beautiful you look with Bergen as your backdrop?”
“You are a smooth talker, Ransom Baxter,” I tease as a surge of heat creeps up my neck.
“I mean it,” he insists, his fingers finding mine under the table. “Even surrounded by UNESCO-recognized historic architecture, you’re still the most captivating sight in Norway.”
Wes clears his throat once again. “Are you two going to keep making googly eyes at each other, or can we finish discussing our murder suspects?” he interrupts, though there’s amusement in his tone.
“Jealousy doesn’t become you, Captain,” Ransom replies mildly.
“Neither does modesty, Security Chief,” Wes counters with a grin.
“Are we back to that again?” I tease. “You boys and your name-calling. You better watch it, or I’m going to put both of you on a time-out.”
Bess and Nettie howl out a laugh, and the picnic table vibrates beneath us.
“If you boys need to go measure your anchor chains, we can wait,” Bess says, causing Nettie to choke on her skillingsboller.
I laugh despite myself. “Okay, before this devolves any further, and way before the anchor chain comparison can begin, what’s our plan for tonight’s formal dinner?”
Ransom scowls in the direction of the ship. “I’ve arranged for additional security personnel to be present and discreetly positioned throughout the dining room. We’re not taking any chances.”
“And I’ve instructed the kitchen staff to prepare all food and drinks under direct supervision,” Wes adds. “No chance of additional poisoning attempts. I hope.”
“Nettie and I can provide a distraction if needed,” Bess volunteers. “I’ve been working on my fainting spell. Want to see?”
“Maybe save it for tonight,” I suggest quickly before she can demonstrate. I’d hate for life to imitate art.
“I still can’t believe we’re heading to Copenhagen tomorrow,” Nettie sighs. “The cruise will be over. Our last day. If we don’t catch the killer tonight...”
“We will,” Ransom says with quiet confidence. “We have everything we need.”
As if on cue, the sky darkens overhead, and a light drizzle begins to fall. Bergen, apparently, is famous for its rain, a fact the tourism brochures conveniently minimize.
“Perfect timing,” Wes says, squinting up at the clouds. “How about we head back to the ship?”
We gather our things in haste, with Bess needing slightly more assistance than usual, thanks to her aquavit appreciation.
As we trek along the harbor toward the Emerald Queen, I can’t help but marvel at the contrast—the cheerful, crooked buildings of Bryggen with their bright facades hiding centuries of secrets, not unlike our suspects with their carefully maintained veneers concealing darker truths.
I’m hoping that tonight, at the formal dinner, someone’s carefully constructed facade will finally crumble. And I hope by then we know exactly which one that is.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Ransom says, his arm warm around my shoulders as we walk.
“I was just thinking that people are like these buildings,” I reply, gesturing to Bryggen. “Colorful exteriors hiding centuries of history. Some of it good, some of it, not so much.”
“That’s surprisingly poetic for someone who just ate their weight in Norwegian meatballs,” he teases.
“I contain multitudes of layers,” I say with a laugh. “And excellent taste in Scandinavian cuisine.”
“And husbands,” he adds with a smile that still makes my heart skip.
“That, too,” I say. “But only this husband.” I hike on my toes and steal a kiss from him, right here in the heart of all of this beauty.
We make our way back to the ship where, in just a few hours, our final act will play out like the season finale of All My Suspects—complete with revelations, confrontations, and hopefully, justice for Madison Rothschild.