Chapter 25
“Trixie! Ransom! Get up here right now!” Boomer’s voice cuts through the chaos like a director calling for his stars. “The cameras need you front and center!”
Before Ransom can share whatever urgent information he’s discovered, we find ourselves being ushered toward the stage area as the spotlights swing to illuminate us with unforgiving brightness.
The crowd parts like the Red Sea, their expressions a mixture of confusion, excitement, and the particular brand of voyeuristic thrill that comes from watching someone else’s disaster unfold in real time.
“Now this is what I call a season finale!” Marlie laughs while floating above us with her arms spread wide. “Though the lighting is all wrong. In The Bitter and the Beautiful, we always used amber lighting for dramatic revelations.”
Boomer puts his microphone to his lips, and his eyes are wild with the manic gleam of a producer who’s just realized his reality show has become far too real.
“Ladies and gentlemen, as you’ve just heard, our very own Dr. Luca Carrington Jr. has been hospitalized in a shocking twist that even our writers couldn’t have scripted!
” He swings around to us. “Trixie, Ransom—as the ship’s resident busybody and security chief—what can you tell us about this developing situation? ”
The camera zooms in so close I can practically count my pores. Ransom’s hand finds the small of my back, and the reassuring pressure grounds me despite the absurdity of the moment.
“I think,” I say slowly, “that before we discuss Dr. Luca, we should talk about Madison Rothschild.”
A collective gasp ripples through the audience. Even the camera operators seem to lean in.
“What about Madison?” Val demands, stepping forward in her scarlet gown, champagne sloshing dangerously close to the rim of her flute.
“Yes,” Beth echoes, her voice high and tight. “What about poor Madison?”
Ransom takes the microphone from Boomer, who’s too delighted by this unexpected drama to protest. “Madison Rothschild was investigating all of you,” he states with his voice far too calm for daytime television.
“She was collecting information and secrets that she planned to reveal on this very show.”
“Is this really the time?” Val huffs, although her hair seems to bristle with tension.
“I believe it’s exactly the time,” I interject. “Val, Madison discovered something about your charity, didn’t she?”
Val’s perfectly contoured face freezes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“And Beth,” I continue, turning to the trembling blonde in pink. “Madison found out about your past. Your real past.”
“It’s like watching amateurs try to recreate my courtroom confession scene from season twelve,” Marlie comments, floating cross-legged above Beth’s head. “However, I do appreciate the tension. Very nice buildup, Trixie.”
From the sidelines, I notice Wes typing furiously on his phone, his captain’s demeanor never wavering despite the drama unfolding before him. He’s contacting Quinn, I assume. And more than likely requesting reinforcements.
“This is ridiculous,” Val snaps, but her voice has lost its commanding edge. “You can’t possibly—”
“That urban performing art center,” I interrupt. “The one your charity supposedly funded. It doesn’t exist, does it?”
Another gasp from the audience, this one accompanied by several whispered hisses.
“And when Madison confronted you about it,” Ransom adds, his voice steady, “you realized your lifestyle was at risk. Everything you’ve built.”
“FINE!” Val suddenly shrieks, the word exploding from her like a champagne cork. “I had to stab her! My fingerprints were already on that knife!”
The room falls so silent you could hear a sequin drop. Even Boomer seems momentarily speechless as the cameras continue to roll with predatory focus.
I look to Ransom and gasp. I’ll admit, this feels like a tiny betrayal.
“It’s true,” he confirms with an apologetic glance my way. “The knife had Val’s prints. We’ve known for days.”
“But we already knew that,” I point out. “It was the same knife you used in the promotional shoot. Your fingerprints were literally documented in HD during the welcome party.” I turn to Val. “That wasn’t exactly criminal mastermind material.”
I cringe for a moment because clearly, Ransom was baiting her.
“She was going to ruin me,” Val continues, her composure cracking like cheap foundation. “Do you have any idea how expensive it is to maintain this lifestyle once the royalty checks start drying up? The charity was just—creative accounting.”
“She means embezzlement,” Marlie translates from above. “In soap opera terms, that’s basically a parking ticket.”
“But she was poisoned, too,” I say, my voice rising as I turn toward Beth. “And now Lance isn’t feeling well after being with you, Beth. Or should I say... Elizabeth Carmichael?”
Beth’s glass slips from her fingers, shattering against the floor for the second time tonight. The room collectively holds its breath.
“Fine!” Beth wails, her midwestern accent suddenly taking on a harder edge. “I did it! I poisoned her! She was going to expose everything—my past, private things about my marriage to Lance, all of it!”
“Wait, what?” someone in the audience asks, giving voice to the confusion evident on many faces.
“My real name is Elizabeth Carmichael,” Beth explains, her pink dress seeming to deflate along with her facade. “I was married before, to Winston Reed from Healing Hearts. He died of natural causes.” Her air quotes around natural causes are not subtle.
“By natural causes, she means oleander poisoning,” I clarify for the audience.
She gasps and glowers at me. “It’s not my fault men are so easily manipulated,” Beth continues, leaning into her confession now that the dam has broken.
“Lance was supposed to be my retirement plan. Fifty million in the prenup if he died while we were married. But Madison figured it out! She caught me taking oleander from the floral arrangements that night and put two and two together. She threatened to expose me on tonight’s episode! ”
“So, you poisoned her first,” Ransom concludes.
“The oleander was already in her system—she’d been snacking on the petals from the welcome party arrangements because she thought they matched her dress,” Beth explains with an eye roll.
“I just helped the process along by slipping a few crushed petals in her wine. But then she wouldn’t die!
The woman had the stamina of a cockroach!
So, I told Val that Madison was going to expose her charity fraud, too. ”
“And I took care of it,” Val finishes. “With the knife.”
“So it was a team effort,” Marlie comments dryly. “Now that’s a very modern approach to murder. In my day, villains took pride in doing the job themselves.”
The crowd murmurs in a mixture of horror and disturbingly with understanding nods, as if poisoning husbands and stabbing blackmailers are relatable life challenges.
“I didn’t do it,” Harper’s voice suddenly rings out from the edge of the stage. She steps forward, her black gown making her look like she’s gliding on shadows. “But I wish I had.”
All eyes swivel to her. Even the camera operators seem startled by this new development.
“I had a motive, too,” she continues, her pale face flushing with emotion. “Madison discovered my gallery was selling forgeries. She bought a fake Monet for three million dollars and was going to expose me tonight!” Her voice rises with each word. “But that wasn’t even my real secret!”
“There’s more?” Boomer whispers with delight as if Christmas has come early.
“My mother was Lydia Bailey,” Harper continues, tears now streaming down her perfect face. “She was a young actress on The Bitter and the Beautiful. Dirk Rothschild—Victor Darkmore—got her fired after she refused his advances, and she was pregnant with his child. Me!”
Victor, who has been watching the proceedings with theatrical shock, goes pale beneath his spray tan.
“She disappeared when I was ten,” Harper’s voice breaks. “I married into this world for revenge. I’ve been collecting dirt on all of you! Every scandal, every affair, every illicit prescription!”
With a primal scream that would guarantee an Emmy nomination on any soap opera, Harper suddenly lunges at the nearest table, upending the elaborate dessert display by pulling the tablecloth out from under it.
Chocolate in every pastry iteration, petit fours, and soufflés rain down like sugary shrapnel.
And oh no—the chocolate fountain tips just enough, and before I can blink, a brown tidal wave hits the floor.
“Not this again,” Bess grunts.
“This is practically my signature move now,” Nettie says with a dark laugh.
Only she’s not responsible for the mess for once.
“WHY!” Harper screams, now attacking the ice sculpture with a serving spoon. “WHY! WHY! WHY didn’t I kill her, too?”
“Now THAT’S how you do a breakdown scene!” Marlie applauds, swooping near Harper’s tantrum with marked approval. “Someone get this woman an Emmy!”
Val makes a break for the exit, and Ransom moves with the swift efficiency of someone who’s dealt with far more dangerous situations than dessert-flinging socialites.
Beth starts to dart through the crowd, and Wes intercepts her much less graceful escape attempt.
And within moments, Ransom produces handcuffs and secures both confessed killers to one another.
“This is INCREDIBLE!” Boomer shouts, dancing a jig. “Who knew Trixie and Ransom would be the power couple that would bolster this show into the stratosphere? We’re talking prime time, people! PRIME TIME!”
Val, ever the professional, somehow manages to look elegant even in handcuffs. “Before you take me away,” she announces to the room, “I’d like to say something.”
“Oh, here we go,” Marlie sighs. “The obligatory villain monologue.”