Chapter 5
Ascream rips from my throat—not my most dignified moment, but finding a corpse tends to short-circuit the social graces.
Ransom yanks me to my feet with one hand while pulling out his phone with the other. He drops to his knees beside Gideon’s body, pressing two fingers against the man’s neck.
The corridor smells like expensive cologne and something distinctly like death that makes my stomach turn. Somewhere beyond the walls, the muffled cheer of the bon voyage party is still going strong, which feels like the universe’s idea of a cruel joke.
After what feels like an eternity but is probably only seconds, Ransom shakes his head at me before lifting his phone to his ear.
“This is Ransom Baxter. We have a deceased passenger on Deck Twelve, corridor inside the Opaline Royale Lounge. Send security and the ship’s doctor immediately.”
That last one won’t do any good, but I suppose someone has to pronounce him dead.
He stands and wraps his arms around me, pulling me tight against his chest. My heart hammers so hard I’m worried it might actually crack a rib, both mine and his.
I’ve found bodies before—more than I’d care to admit—but it never gets easier. Especially when you literally trip over them while making out with your husband.
As it turns out, romance is dead.
And so is Gideon Vale.
“Well, well, well.” Nettie’s voice cuts through my panic as she and Bess round the corner. “Looks like we caught you two in the middle of some serious hanky-panky for two!”
Bess squints into the dim corridor. “You mean three? Is that a man on the floor?”
She takes another step forward, and I watch in slow motion as her eyes land on the scarf wrapped around Gideon’s neck—that paisley scarf now twisted tight enough to leave deep purple grooves in his skin. His eyes gaze skyward—and, well, they’re staring at nothing.
Both Bess and Nettie scream at decibels that could probably be heard in Norway.
“Ladies!” Wes appears out of nowhere, running full tilt down the corridor. He skids to a stop, takes one look at the deceased, and groans. “Please tell me that’s not a body.”
“Wish I could,” Ransom says.
“Geez—” Wes groans, and I’ve never seen him look so defeated. He closes his eyes for exactly three seconds, which for him is basically a complete breakdown.
A crowd materializes behind us—because apparently, screaming is the universal signal for come see what disaster Trixie’s stumbled into now.
The music from the lounge still plays, some cheerful instrumental number about sailing away to paradise, which feels deeply inappropriate given the strangled man at our feet.
Nettie shakes her head at the poor man. “What do you think happened?”
“What do you think happened?” Bess swats her over the arm. “He met up with the working end of his own scarf.”
“Death by fashion choices.” Nettie nods as if she’s familiar with the concept. “It gives new meaning to the phrase dressed to kill.”
“Or be killed,” I point out.
“Or accessorized to death,” Nettie adds.
“Geez, Nettie,” Bess grunts. “Show some respect.”
“I am. I’m complimenting the scarf. It’s a beautiful scarf. It’s just also a murder weapon.”
She’s right on all counts.
Ransom doesn’t look too impressed by the analysis or the truth behind it.
I’m about to say something when Quinn Riddle shoves through the crowd with all the warmth of an ice storm in January.
Her dark hair is yanked back in a bun so tight it looks painful, and her pale face has gone an interesting shade of fury-red.
She’s wearing her security uniform pressed to within an inch of its life, and when her eyes land on me standing over the body, her nostrils flare hard enough to suck a seagull through them.
“Don’t you dare tell me you just happened to stumble upon another body,” she grouses right at me.
“Would you believe we were bird watching?” I try.
She doesn’t laugh.
“Stargazing?”
“Trixie,” she snips.
“Doing a little light redecorating?”
“Trixie.” Quinn looks worried for my mental health—as she probably should be.
Ransom clears his throat. “Actually, we both stumbled on him this time. Literally. I have the bruised tailbone to prove it.”
Quinn lets out a cry of frustration that startles several onlookers—I’m a little surprised she didn’t startle the corpse.
She points hard at Ransom. “You’re not any better than her!”
Ouch. I mean, she’s not wrong, but seriously, ouch.
She starts barking orders at her security squad—and I do mean barking, she’s giving full drill sergeant energy—and they immediately spring into action with yellow caution tape. Within minutes, the corridor is cordoned off and we’re all herded back into the lounge.
The crowd parts as Silas and Holland push through, both looking dazed. Holland’s honey highlighted hair has come slightly loose from its earlier perfect styling, and Silas looks as if he’s gone pale beneath his tan.
“Captain, what’s going on?” Silas asks with his voice tight.
“I’m afraid there’s been an incident.” Wes takes a breath—his shoulders back, his expression neutral, and his voice unreasonably calm. “Gideon Vale has been found dead.”
Holland’s hand flies to her mouth, but I catch the briefest flicker cross her face before shock settles in. She glances toward the cordoned corridor, and something about the set of her shoulders doesn’t quite match the horror in her gasp. She looks relieved.
Silas wraps an arm around her shoulders like the protective husband he is. “How did it happen?”
“We’re still determining that,” Wes says carefully, which is captain-speak for he was definitely murdered but I can’t say that out loud yet. And sadly, Wes has way too much experience with this as of late.
A commotion erupts near the entrance as Nicolette breaks through the crowd and nearly launches herself into the cordoned-off area. Two security officers catch her by the arms before she can contaminate the crime scene—not that Ransom and I didn’t beat her to it.
“Who did this to him?” Her voice climbs to a pitch that could shatter the windows. She squints into the corridor. “Was he strangled? By way of his very own scarf?”
Oh good, now everyone knows exactly how he died. Not that it was a mystery to begin with.
Her words echo through the lounge, and I watch the crowd’s reaction ripple outward—gasps, whispers, someone near the back actually faints. The medics are on it within seconds.
Nicolette begins to gag and gasp before belting out an ear-piercing scream.
“That poor woman,” I say. “What are we going to do?”
Ransom waves a few security guards over. “Help her to her cabin, please.”
The security officers immediately respond to his instruction, guiding a hysterical Nicolette toward the exit.
They still listen to him even without the badge, which I’m guessing will drive Quinn absolutely bonkers.
Speaking of Quinn, she stalks over to Ransom with her jaw set hard enough to crack walnuts.
“I’m just going to make one thing crystal clear.
This is MY investigation. The two of you are to steer clear, and if I get a whiff of you interfering, I’ll make sure to report it to the cruise line.
” She glances at Ransom, and her expression softens just a touch.
“I’m sorry. I’m just following protocol. ”
She wastes no time stalking off with her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor.
I shrug up at my husband. “Now you know how it feels to have someone say those words to you.”
He frowns right back. “When I tell you those things, it’s to keep you safe.” He glances in the direction Quinn disappeared. “When she tells me those things, it’s to annoy me.”
“Welcome to my world, Detective.”
“Not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“Trixie.”
“Fine. Zero percent funny. Moving on.”
I’m about to say something else—probably something snarky about protocol and power trips—when movement near the edge of the crowd catches my attention.
Marina stands alone, her emerald dress catching the light, her crimson hair still perfectly styled despite all the chaos. She’s staring at the cordoned corridor, at the spot where Gideon’s body lies just out of view.
Instantly, my internal alarm bells start clanging. Marina leans in and the edges of her lips curl upward a notch.
“What in the world?” I say, squinting over at her.
The corners of her mouth relax just slightly. Her shoulders drop half an inch.
It looks to me like it’s the posture of someone who just heard good news, not terrible news.
And by the looks of it, there seems to be satisfaction written all over her face—not shock, or horror, or even mild surprise.
Just pure, undiluted satisfaction, as if she’s watching karma deliver a particularly well-deserved smackdown.
Note to self: Marina Maxwell has secrets, and at least one of them involves not being upset in the least that Gideon Vale is dead.
Wes clears his throat, pulling me back to the present. “Ransom, why don’t you get Bess, Nettie, and Trixie back to their cabins?” He hitches his head toward Marina. “I’ll make sure Ms. Maxwell makes it to hers as well.”
He takes off toward Marina before any of us can respond, and I watch as he speaks quietly to her as his hand hovers protectively at the small of her back. She nods, then says something that we can’t hear, and they walk away together as passengers continue filing out in shocked clusters.
Nettie watches them go, and I can’t help but note the spark of mischief in her eyes despite the circumstances. “Well, look at the captain making his move with a dead body as his wingman. Now that’s bold strategy.”
“Nettie!” Bess balks at her bestie, and so do half the people within earshot.
“What?” Nettie balks right back. “It’s working for him.”
Bess swats her with her purse. “It’s a body, not a dating app.”
“Tell that to the captain.”
Ransom doesn’t look amused. “Let’s go.”
He guides us toward the exit, his hand firm on my lower back, and I can feel the tension radiating off him.
He’s in protective mode now, which means he’ll probably insist on checking under our beds for a killer.
And under the nightstand. And possibly the minibar.
I’ll let him. A girl doesn’t turn down a thorough husband.
We’re almost to the exit when something catches in my peripheral vision and makes me stop cold.
A blonde in a flowing white gown rises up from the remaining crowd, floating several feet above the passengers’ heads. Her hair whips around her face as if caught in a wind that doesn’t exist, and her beautiful features contort into something primal and terrifying.
Oh, for the love of lava cake. I haven’t even gotten to the dessert table yet. And at this rate, I’ll find myself in an involuntary calorie deficit before we get to the first port.
The dearly departed bombshell opens her mouth impossibly wide and lets out a roar that rattles through my skull. It’s a cry that’s filled with rage and fury and something darker that makes every hair on my body stand at attention. Then she explodes into a shower of tiny pink stars and vanishes.
Murder isn’t just afoot on this ship.
It’s moved in, unpacked its bags, and made itself comfortable for the entire voyage—and so has that ghost.