Chapter 7
Iblow into the bridge with all the grace of a category-five hurricane.
Wes looks up from whatever captain-y thing he was doing—probably plotting our course or calculating exactly how long before I bring him another body—his green eyes widen with concern.
The bridge crew consists of three officers in crisp whites, all of whom turn to stare at the wild woman who just burst through their sacred space as if she’s being chased by invisible demons.
Which, technically, I am—or in this case I’m the one doing the chasing.
“Everyone out,” Wes doesn’t hesitate to shout, his voice carrying that commanding tone that makes people move without question. “Now.”
The officers exchange glances—probably wondering if their captain has finally cracked under the pressure of managing a floating hotel filled with people who keep dropping dead—but they don’t argue.
Within thirty seconds, the bridge is empty except for me, Wes, and one very dead blonde bombshell currently perched on the ship’s wheel as if it’s a throne designed specifically for her ethereal rear end.
The bridge itself is all sleek technology and floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views of the churning gray North Atlantic.
Screens display navigation charts, weather patterns, and enough data to make my head spin.
The captain’s chair sits empty, and the whole space hums with the quiet efficiency of a well-run ship.
“There’s a blonde bombshell sitting on the wheel,” I say breathlessly, pointing at the apparition currently examining her ghostly manicure.
Wes looks at the wheel, sees nothing but air and polished brass, and turns back to me with that expression he gets when dealing with my particular brand of chaos.
“I’m guessing she’s not alive.”
“Very dead. Very blonde. Very much making herself comfortable on your navigation equipment,” I say in quick succession. “Oh, here, hold my hand.”
It turns out I’m a conduit when it comes to hearing what the dead have to say.
Wes can’t see this blonde beauty on his own, but if he holds my hand, he’ll be able to hear her.
It’s worked before with other ghosts, and lucky for us, it seems to be a reliable party trick—though not one I’d put on a resume.
I grab his hand, our fingers lacing together, and the connection snaps into place. It feels like completing a circuit, a little zing of energy that runs from him through me to the ghost and back again.
The ghost looks and her entire demeanor shifts from bored to predatory in half a second. She adjusts her white gown so her cleavage shows off to maximum effect—which is saying something considering she’s translucent and glowing a brilliant shade of blue.
She’s stunning, even in death. Platinum blonde hair cascades past her shoulders in perfect waves that catch non-existent light, her heart-shaped face is all delicate features and full lips painted a pouty red, and her figure would make a vintage Hollywood starlet envious.
She looks to be in her early thirties, though who knows how long she’s actually been dead.
The white gown hugs every curve before flowing out in gauzy layers, and she’s got the posture of a woman who knows exactly how good she looks.
“Well, hello there, handsome.” Her voice comes through clear as a bell, smoky and seductive with a hint of old-money East Coast accent.
She’s staring directly at Wes with the hungry expression of a woman on a very serious dry spell.
“Please tell me you’re single and looking for a good time.
Or a bad time. I’m flexible,” she purrs out those last two words.
I make a face because clearly she has a lot in common with Elodie, and Nettie now, that I think about it.
Wes clears his throat. “I’m the captain of this vessel.”
“Even better,” she trills with a laugh. “I’ve always had a thing for men in uniform.” She slides off the wheel and floats closer before circling him slowly. “And you, Captain Gorgeous, are exactly my type. Tall, dark, and breathing.”
“Who exactly are you?” I ask, cutting straight to business before this turns into a supernatural seduction. “And how did you know Gideon Vale?”
She drags her gaze away from Wes, looking mildly annoyed at the interruption.
“I’m Celeste Moreau.” She says it firmly as if we should recognize the name, and when we clearly don’t, she huffs.
“Gideon was my first and only true love. We met at university—he was studying business, I was studying art history and how to break hearts.” She takes a moment to glare out at the horizon.
“We were supposed to run away together, build a life, all that romantic nonsense people do when they’re young and stupid enough to believe in fairy tales. ”
“What happened?” Wes asks.
Celeste’s expression darkens. “Life happened. His parents happened. Money happened. He chose the safe path, the corporate ladder, the sensible marriage to the sensible woman.” She spits out the word sensible as if it were poison.
“And I chose to drive too fast on a rainy night after one too many martinis at a party celebrating his engagement to someone else.”
“Oh no,” I moan just hearing it.
Well, that’s heartbreaking and also explains the whole dead thing.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, and I mean it.
She waves a dismissive hand. “It’s ancient history. Literally. I’ve been dead for thirty-two years, give or take a decade. Time gets fuzzy on the other side.”
I glance at Wes. “It makes sense. Only the ghost that the deceased loved most comes back to help with the case. He must have had a love in his heart for you still.”
Celeste perks up, her sulky expression transforming into something hopeful. “You mean the sooner I help track down his killer, the faster I can get back to paradise with my Giddy Bear?”
Giddy Bear? I bite down on my lip to keep from giggling.
“That’s right,” I tell her.
“Perfect!” She claps her hands together, and little pink sparkles shoot off her fingers.
“I’ve been stuck in this annoying limbo for far too many hours waiting for someone to notice I’m here.
Do you have any idea how boring it is being invisible?
I tried haunting the casino, but nobody screams anymore—at least not at me.
It was very disappointing. I showed up the moment Giddy boarded in Copenhagen.
We’re cosmically connected. Where he goes, I go.
Or went. Past tense is a bit confusing when you’re no longer bound by things like time.
” She floats over to the window, staring out at the churning sea.
“I watched him give his little speeches, saw him schmoozing all those middle-aged people desperate for their second chances. I even watched him get murdered, which was quite dramatic, by the way.”
Wes and I exchange a look.
“You saw who killed him?” Wes asks with his eyes bulging at the thought.
“I sure did. In fact, I had a front row seat to the whole nightmare.”
“Well, who did it?” I ask.
“Isn’t that the million-dollar question,” she says, pulling her gaze from the sea and focuses in on us.
“But where’s the fun in just telling you?
” she belts out a hearty belly laugh and the sound echoes off the walls and vibrates deep down into my chest. “Honey, I’ve got nothing but time, and I’d like to enjoy myself a little before I’m sent packing once again. ”
“Celeste—”
“Trixie.” She mimics my tone with a tinkling little laugh.
“Do you know how long I’ve been dead? Thirty-two years of nothing.
Thirty-two years of watching Giddy Bear live his sensible little life with his sensible little wife while I sat around being beautiful and incorporeal. I think I’ve earned a vacation.”
“A vacation?” I balk at the thought. “This is a murder investigation, not a spa week.”
“Says the woman who was just eating a cinnamon roll on the lido deck. Don’t think I didn’t see that.”
“You were watching me eat?”
“Who wouldn’t look? You had frosting on your chin and a look in your eye I can only describe as devotion.”
I shrug over at Wes. “It was a very good cinnamon roll.”
“Oh, I could tell,” Celeste muses. “The cinnamon roll was getting more attention than most husbands.”
Not my husband, but I think better of saying that in front of Wes.
She zips over to Wes and trails one ghostly finger down the front of his uniform. “Speaking of enjoying myself, what do you say we grab a drink? Or you grab a drink while I watch you drink. I’m not picky about the details.”
I quickly remove her hand from Wes’s chest, my fingers passing through her cold, tingly essence. “He’s taken.” By Tinsley, apparently, but I leave that detail out.
“Taken?” Celeste begins to pout, her lower lip pushes out in a way that I’m pretty sure is a move she’s used before. “By you?”
“No. By someone else.”
Wes takes a moment to frown at me and I mouth the word sorry.
Celeste shakes her head, her glowing boobs practically jumping out of her dress. “Then what’s the problem?”
“The problem is he’s not looking to hook-up with anyone right now, dead or alive, and we have a murder to solve.”
She sighs dramatically and about a dozen tiny pink stars emit from her head. “You’re no fun at all, are you?”
“Not even a little,” I don’t hesitate with that truth bomb. Okay, so I’m some fun, but not getting-drunk-in-a-bar-with-a-ghost fun.
“Fine.” She openly glares right at me and her entire countenance turns a brilliant shade of red.
“But I’ve never been good at following rules.
My mother said it would be the death of me, and she was absolutely right.
” She brightens another notch. “But there are thousands of other handsome men on this ship, and lucky for me, it seems I’m coming along for the ride.
I’ve got a whole buffet of man candy to sample, and I intend to make the most of my unexpected vacation. ”
She blows Wes a kiss before turning to me. “I’ll see you around, Trixie Troublemaker. And Captain Delicious, if you change your mind about that drink, you know where to find me. I’ll be wherever the handsome men are congregating.”
She glides straight through the bridge window—because walls and physics mean very little to the dead—and vanishes into the gray morning like a wisp of expensive perfume.
I let out a breath, and suddenly the bridge feels far too quiet.
“Come here.” Wes pulls me into a strong hug, his arms wrapping around me with fierce protectiveness.
His cologne surrounds me—woodsy and clean and familiar—and I let myself lean into him for a moment.
He’s solid and warm and alive, which feels important after talking to someone who’s none of those things.
He pulls back just enough that we’re nose to nose, his green eyes searching mine with that intensity that makes my stomach flip despite the fact I’m very happily married.
“Are you okay?”
I nod, though I’m not entirely sure it’s true.
“It never gets easier, Wes. Talking to dead people, I mean. You’d think after a year of this I’d be used to it, but every time it happens I’m reminded that someone was murdered.
Not to mention, someone loved them enough to come back to help hunt down the killer.
And I’m standing here acting as a translator between the living and the dead because I got hit in the head with a vodka bottle. ”
“You didn’t ask for this ability.”
“No, I didn’t. But I’ve got it anyway, and I don’t know why I keep finding these bodies.
I must have really upset someone Upstairs, and now they’re making me work off some cosmic debt one murder at a time.
” I look up at him, and I can feel the tears threatening.
“What if this never stops? What if I’m just doomed to stumble over corpses for the rest of my life? ”
“Then you’ll solve murders for the rest of your life,” he says simply. “And you’ll have people who love you helping every step of the way.”
“That’s a terrible retirement plan.”
“It could be worse. You could be stuck doing it alone.”
I sigh at the thought. “You’ve got a point.”
The bridge door opens with a soft whoosh, and Marina stumbles in mid-sentence.
“—thank you so much for the directions—” she says to someone before turning our way and stops dead—unfortunate choice of words—her eyes going wide as she takes in the scene: Wes and me, tangled in each other’s arms, our faces inches apart, looking for all the world like we’re about to share a steamy kiss.
Her expression shifts from eager to shocked to something that looks suspiciously like hurt, all in the span of two seconds.
“Sorry.” She gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. “I didn’t realize I was interrupting something.”
“Marina, wait—” I try to step back, to explain, but she’s already spinning on her heel.
“No, it’s fine. I should’ve knocked. I just thought—never mind what I thought.” Her cheeks flush bright red, and she’s backing toward the door as if we might chase her. “I’ll just—I’ll come back later. Or never. Never is good, too.”
And just like that, she bolts.
“Marina, wait!” Wes releases me and takes off after her, but she’s surprisingly fast for someone in ankle boots. “It’s not what it looks like!”
Which is exactly what guilty people say, when it’s exactly what it looks like.
Except in our case. And in our defense, we had a ghost at the helm of that comedown session.
Their footsteps fade down the corridor, and I’m left standing alone on the bridge, surrounded by expensive navigation equipment, blinking screens, and the lingering scent of Wes’s cologne mixing with the salt air coming through the door.
I walk over to the captain’s chair and drop into it, letting my head fall back against the leather.
Through the windows, the North Atlantic stretches out in every direction—endless gray water meeting endless gray sky, and somewhere out there, Iceland is waiting with its volcanoes and glaciers and hopefully fewer dead bodies.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I fish it out.
It’s a text from Ransom.
Ransom: Where are you? Bess said you took off after breakfast like your hair was on fire.
I type back.
Trixie: On the bridge. Long story. Involves a flirtatious ghost and a misunderstanding that’s definitely going to come back to haunt me.
Ransom: The Second Act Society just called an emergency meeting in the Meridian Lounge. Quinn is allowing it, but security will be present. Thought you’d want to know.
Trixie: I’ll be right down.
I stand up and take one last look around the bridge—this nerve center where Wes makes all his important captain decisions and apparently creates enough misunderstandings to sink a smaller, redheaded vessel.
The killer thinks they’re safe. They think they’ve gotten away with murder while the rest of us are too busy sorting out romantic entanglements and flirtatious ghosts to notice.
They’re dead wrong.