Chapter 23
Night has fallen on our final evening in Bergen, transforming the harbor lights into a glittering necklace around the dark waters.
After a day of exploring Norway’s most colorful port city, the Emerald Queen has come alive with anticipation for tonight’s grand finale.
Passengers have traded hiking boots and sweaters for formal wear, and the corridors buzz with excitement about the closing episode of Trophy Wives of Paradise—Soap Opera Stars Edition!
And believe me, no one is as excited as I am.
I make the final adjustments to my outfit, a sky-blue cocktail dress with a neckline to there and a side slit, that as Nettie put it, shows off my pins.
I secure a pearl hairpin behind my left ear, and admire the look that Elodie sent up this morning.
I can’t help but wonder if we’ll be toasting the end of another successful cruise or finally unmasking a killer before the night is through. Hopefully both.
Bess and Nettie have risen to the occasion with gusto.
Bess dazzles in a midnight-blue sequined gown that throws light with every move, while Nettie goes full vintage glamour in emerald, straight out of a 1950s Hollywood premiere—elbow-length gloves included, which she keeps threatening to remove when things get serious.
Ransom is already on patrolling duty, so Bess, Nettie, and I boot-scoot our way over to the Golden Compass Lounge and gasp as we spot the once familiar room. The lounge has undergone one serious transformation for tonight’s finale.
Gone is the casual elegance of our welcome party, replaced by an atmosphere of pure Hollywood glamour.
Crystal chandeliers have been dimmed to a flattering golden glow that makes everyone look ten years younger and much more mysterious.
White linen-covered tables adorned with centerpieces of white roses and orchids dot the perimeter of the room, while the middle of the room has been cleared for mingling and the inevitable dramatic confrontations that define both reality TV and murder investigations.
It’s dimly lit, the bodies are thick, the atmosphere is jovial, and the air is electric.
Here’s hoping no one gets electrocuted.
And to top it all off, the scent of all things delicious ignites my senses.
“Hubba hubba,” Bess sighs.
“The men do look delicious,” Nettie says, licking her lips as if she’s ready to take a bite out of the first man she sees.
“I was talking about the buffet,” Bess is quick to correct while taking in the culinary delights surrounding us.
The food spread is enough to make even the most jaded cruiser’s jaw drop.
A towering seafood display featuring Norwegian salmon, king crab legs, oysters, and three kinds of caviar anchors one end of the room.
Carving stations offering prime rib and rack of lamb are attended by chefs in tall white hats.
An international cheese and charcuterie display curves along one wall, artfully arranged to resemble a world map if you squint and have had enough champagne.
Speaking of which, waiters in tuxedos glide through the crowd with silver trays of bubbling flutes, ensuring no guest suffers the indignity of an empty hand.
And the dessert buffet? Well, it might actually be illegal in several countries, but thankfully not on this ship.
A chocolate fountain cascades next to platters of petit fours, individual soufflés, and something involving spun sugar that looks too artistic to eat.
Not that this will stop Nettie from sampling one of everything for quality control purposes. It won’t stop me either, for that fact.
But the pièce de résistance is the ice sculpture dominating the center of the room—a life-sized rendering of Madison and Marlie with linked arms and impressively large angel wings that span toward the ceiling, their frozen faces bearing serene expressions that neither woman likely ever wore in real life.
The irony of Madison being immortalized in a substance designed to melt away is not lost on me.
And Marlie? Well, I bet Marlie herself will have a thing or two to say about these things.
From hidden speakers, instrumental versions of soap opera theme songs provide the soundtrack for the evening—dramatic piano with occasional swelling strings that make even the act of selecting an appetizer feel momentous.
Ransom and Wes stride over, looking devastatingly handsome, both wearing their formal best.
“Ladies.” Ransom gives a slight bow. “You all look stunning.” He lands a heated kiss on my lips as if to drive the point home.
Speaking of being stunned, Ransom looks absolutely devastating in his dark suit. The phrase licensed to kill comes to mind, though in his case, it’s more licensed to make my knees weak.
Next to him, Wes makes an equally lethal impression in his formal naval captain’s uniform, with enough brass to start a band and enough medals to set off airport security systems worldwide.
“So, what do you think?” Wes asks as he fans an arm out at the lively crowd, laughing and chattering away as if there had never been a dead body on this ship.
“It looks amazing,” I say and mean it. “I half expect someone to slap me and reveal they’re my evil twin.”
“The night is young,” Ransom replies with a look that says he’s ready for anything.
“The ice sculpture is a bit much, don’t you think?” Bess remarks, eyeing the frozen Madison-Marlie hybrid. “But I guess it’s appropriate—both women were certainly cold enough in real life.” She gasps and ducks. “Marlie didn’t hear me say that, did she?”
“Nope,” I tell her. “I won’t tell her you said it, either. But Madison and Marlie aren’t the only ones with cold hearts in this room.”
Dramatic music stuns the room into submission, and we all turn collectively to the entrance to see three of the most decorated divas in the northern hemisphere.
Across the room, the trophy wives make their entrances with a level of drama that reeks of Emmy gold.
Val arrives in a scarlet gown cut so low that there is no mystery as to what bra size she wears—or more importantly, doesn’t wear.
Beth floats in wearing a pale pink number that emphasizes her delicate features, though her nervous fidgeting with her Hermès bracelets undercuts the serene image.
She really should cut back on the coffee.
Harper makes the most dramatic entrance in a conservative black dress with ruby jewelry that matches her precisely painted lips, looking like she’s auditioning for the role of gorgeous villain in a spy thriller—or an art dealer who deals in forgeries.
She’s not showing an ounce of flesh, and yet that makes the men leer all that much more.
“They all clean up nice for a bunch of potential killers,” Bess whispers my way.
“Speaking of cleaning up nice,” comes a voice from behind as Tinsley approaches, looking resplendent in an emerald green gown that matches both the ship’s name and her greedy ambitions.
Her chestnut hair is swept up into an elaborate updo that probably required copious amounts of shellac, and her makeup is flawless.
“I’m surprised you found time to get dressed with all the bodies you’ve been finding lately, Trixie. ”
I can’t help but frown at her. “Murder investigations pair surprisingly well with formal wear,” I reply smoothly. “How’s your evening going? Making any headway with our illustrious producer? Or is Elodie still getting in your way?”
Tinsley’s face lights up with triumph. “Let’s just say I’m going to land that plane tonight.
” She glances over her shoulder to where Boomer stands directing camera operators, his tuxedo slightly too tight across the shoulders.
“He’s finally seeing that I’m the whole package—cruise director, potential reality star, and woman who knows exactly what she wants. Namely him.”
“Landing the plane, you say?” Nettie waggles her brows. “Make sure your runway is properly illuminated. Men his age need help with the approach.”
“And check your landing gear,” Bess adds. “Nothing ruins the mood like equipment failure.”
I shake my head. “I’m not sure I know what that meant, or if I want to.”
“What?” Bess looks innocent. “I’m just offering aviation advice.”
“You might want to reconsider your flight plan,” Wes interjects. He sounds casual enough, but his eyes are dead serious. “We still don’t know who the killer is. Getting too close to anyone connected to this production could be dangerous.”
Tinsley waves off the idea of a killer. “Please. You’re just worried he’ll steal your thunder as the ship’s most eligible bachelor.” She taps his chest with one perfectly manicured finger. “Too late, Captain. I’ve set my navigation to a new destination.”
It’s true. Tinsley had the hots for both Ransom and Wes long before I ever entered the picture.
Before Wes can respond, Quinn appears at our little gathering, the only person in the room not dressed formally. Her security uniform looks almost severe amongst the evening wear, but her expression is what catches my attention—focused, urgent, professional, and darn right mean.
“Ransom,” she says without preamble. “We need to talk.”
He nods, immediately shifting into chief of security mode. He leans my way and lands a quick kiss to my cheek. “Stay out of trouble.”
“Trouble?” I ask innocently. “I don’t know her.”
Some might say I am her, but that’s neither here nor there.
He raises a brow, and it speaks volumes. “Wes, I charge you to watch over my wife,” he says to the captain, only half-joking.
“I won’t let her out of my arms,” Wes replies with a grin.
“I didn’t say touch,” Ransom counters.
Both men offer an amicable nod before Ransom follows Quinn toward the exit.
“Ooh, Santino is by the dance floor,” Nettie cries as she elbows Bess. “And he’s wearing his formal toupee!”
“And Bridge is at the champagne fountain,” Bess adds, dreamily, already gathering her sequined skirts. “I think it’s time we made our move.”
“Remember what happened the last time the two of you tried to tango,” I caution. “Your hip was out of commission for a week.”
“And it was worth it,” Nettie says with a cheer, already moving toward her target with remarkable speed for an octogenarian. Bess follows, leaving Wes and me alone at the edge of the increasingly crowded room.
“Well, Trixie Troublefield, you clean up pretty well,” he says with an appraising glance at my sky-blue cocktail dress. “I mean, Mrs. Baxter.”
“Troublefield Baxter,” I tell him. “You weren’t far off.”
He steps in close until we’re shoulder to shoulder, looking out at the room.
“You clean up pretty well yourself, Captain,” I say, bumping my arm to his.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were flirting with me,” he says, and I bubble with laughter. “There you go again.”
I’m about to correct him when Boomer’s voice echoes across the lounge.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the grand finale of Trophy Wives of Paradise: Soap Opera Stars Edition!” He gestures expansively, every inch the showman in his slightly too tight tuxedo.
“Tonight, each of our fabulous couples will take the stage for a champagne toast, revealing something intimate about their relationship that viewers at home have never heard before! Drama, secrets, scandals—we want it all!”
The crowd applauds enthusiastically, particularly the contest winners who’ve been invited to witness the filming.
Soon enough, the trophy wives and their soap star husbands begin assembling near the small stage area with champagne flutes in hand, and expressions ranging from eager (Val) to terrified (Beth) to carefully composed (Harper).
“Is it just me,” Wes murmurs close to my ear, “or does Beth look like she’s about to bolt?”
He’s right. Despite her perfect appearance, Beth’s hands are visibly trembling as she clutches her champagne flute, and she keeps glancing toward the exit as if calculating her escape route.
“Something is definitely up,” I agree. “And where is her husband? I don’t see our resident Dr. Luca with the other husbands.”
Wes’s expression grows concerned. “I don’t like this. Ransom should be here.”
“We can handle it,” I assure him, though my own pulse has quickened. “Besides, how much trouble can happen in a room full of witnesses and cameras?”
The words hardly leave my mouth when the lights dim even further, plunging us into near darkness, leaving only the stage illuminated. It’s the perfect dramatic staging for reality TV—and equally perfect for any mayhem someone might want to cause in the shadows.
“Keep your eyes open,” Wes whispers, his hand resting lightly at the small of my back. “I have a feeling we’re about to witness the final act of this soap opera, and I’m not sure everyone is going to make it to the credits.”
Marlie’s ghost materializes beside her ice sculpture doppelg?nger, looking both amused and perturbed.
“Things are about to get interesting,” she announces to me.
“And in my experience, interesting usually involves someone getting pushed off a balcony or discovering their presumed-dead husband in the wine cellar.”
As Boomer calls the first couple to the stage—Santino and Val, naturally claiming the premier spot—I can’t help but feel we’re perched on the edge of something explosive.
The stage is set, the players are in position, and somewhere in this glittering crowd, a killer is preparing for their final scene.
Let’s just hope I’m not cast as the next victim.