Chapter 8
The Meridian Lounge is what happens when a cruise ship decides function matters more than glitz and glamour, which, on the Emerald Queen of the Seas, is a rare event in and of itself.
No crystal chandeliers here, no mother-of-pearl accents—just practical blue carpeting that hides stains, stackable chairs in tidy rows, and a small stage up front usually reserved for trivia nights and particularly enthusiastic bingo callers.
Gray water churns past the starboard windows, and the whole space smells like industrial-strength coffee and the faint vanilla of whatever air freshener the cleaning crew favors.
But what it lacks in glitz and glamour, it more than makes up for in floor-to-ceiling windows.
Who needs shiny things to dazzle the masses when you have the most dazzling sight of all in front of you—the sea in all her glory.
The Second Act Society has assembled in force, filling maybe three-quarters of the available seating. They cluster together in nervous groups, voices low and worried, and the energy in the room feels brittle—as if one wrong word could shatter whatever composure they’re maintaining.
I bet they’re right.
Quinn Riddle stands at the front, two security officers beside her, the whole arrangement giving off the unmistakable energy of bad news dressed up in a uniform.
And next to her stands Nicolette, divorce attorney extraordinaire, wearing elegant black slacks and a pale blue silk blouse. Her dark hair is pulled back, and her makeup is flawless despite the fact that she was hysterical last night.
Ransom spots me from across the room and gives me a look that clearly says this is going to be interesting. He’s positioned himself near the back wall, arms crossed, watching everything with those sharp ex-FBI eyes that miss nothing.
Bess and Nettie have somehow secured front-row seats and appear to have brought snacks from breakfast. Nettie’s clutching a cinnamon roll the size of her head—and how my heart aches to have a bite—and Bess has what looks like three chocolate croissants stacked on a napkin in her lap.
But according to the spread of donuts of every shape and size and the scent of freshly brewed coffee, we didn’t need to bring a thing.
A culinary good time is being provided for one and all.
And I’d swear on all that is holy there’s a chocolate covered cruller flirting with me.
“Are you planning to share those?” I slide into the seat beside them.
“Absolutely not.” Bess lifts a shoulder my way and shields her sweet treat with her body. “I have a long-standing rule about not sharing anything that’s been in my lap.”
“Bess,” I laugh.
“What? I was married to a dentist for thirty years. My lap has standards now, and they were earned the hard way. Stress eating is a valid coping mechanism and I am very stressed.”
Nettie narrows her eyes on her bestie. “You look relaxed, toots.”
“That’s because I’ve got three croissants in my lap and not one of them has disappointed me yet. Which is more than I can say for my ex.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out a pink donut with sprinkles. “Here’s something I don’t mind sharing.”
I take it from her despite its origin story.
Quinn clears her throat, and the room falls silent.
“Thank you all for gathering on such short notice. I’m Chief Security Officer Quinn Riddle, and I want to address the incident that occurred last night.”
“Incident?” Nettie mutters under her breath. “That’s one way to describe a situation requiring a body bag.”
Bess elbows her.
“As you know—” Quinn continues, her face about three shades lighter than yesterday and her lipstick twice as dark.
It’s an off-putting look on her. “We experienced an unfortunate event involving one of your group members, Mr. Gideon Vale. I want to assure you that our security team has been reinforced, and we’re doing everything in our power to ensure passenger safety. ”
“Is it true he was strangled?” someone calls from the back.
Quinn’s jaw tightens. “I’m not at liberty to discuss details of an ongoing investigation.
What I can tell you is that we’re taking this matter extremely seriously.
We ask that you remain vigilant, report anything suspicious to security immediately, and please,” she pauses, as if the next words pain her, “please enjoy the remainder of your cruise.”
“Enjoy?” A woman in the third row sounds incredulous. “There’s a killer on board!”
“Allegedly,” Quinn says quickly.
“Oh, I’m pretty sure it’s not alleged when there’s a dead body,” Nettie whispers a touch too loud, and the room breaks out in titters.
Quinn shoots her a look that could stop a storm in its tracks.
“We’re doing everything we can to keep you safe,” Quinn says to the group, her voice as firm as it can be. “Now, I’m going to turn things over to Ms. Devereaux, who has graciously volunteered to help coordinate your group’s activities moving forward.”
Nicolette steps forward, and I watch her transformation from grief-stricken mourner to poised leader happen in real time. Her shoulders go back, her chin lifts, and suddenly she’s radiating the confidence that comes from years of commanding courtrooms.
“Thank you, Officer Riddle.” Nicolette’s voice carries clearly across the room. “First, I want to say how devastated we all are by Gideon’s passing. He was a visionary, a mentor, and a friend to many of us.”
Her voice catches slightly on the last word, and I can’t tell if it’s genuine emotion or courtroom theatrics that she’s partaken in one too many times.
“However,” she goes on, “I know Gideon would want us to continue with the Second Act Society’s mission. We came on this cruise to reinvent ourselves, to embrace new possibilities, and to refuse to let age or circumstance define our futures.”
She gestures toward the table laden with coffee urns and pastries. “The ship has generously provided refreshments. All classes and events will proceed as scheduled, starting this evening. Please adhere to the previously published schedule.”
“What about safety?” someone asks.
“Security will be present at all events,” Nicolette assures them.
“But we can’t let fear paralyze us. Gideon wouldn’t want that.
” She pauses, her dark eyes scanning the crowd.
“He’d want us to live boldly, to seize our second acts with both hands, and to remember that life is too short for regrets. ”
A hesitant round of applause breaks out.
It’s a good speech.
Almost too good, considering her supposed beloved mentor died less than twenty-four hours ago.
“Please,” Nicolette concludes, “help yourselves to coffee and donuts, and try to enjoy your vacation. I’m certain that’s what Gideon would have wanted.”
The room begins to stir as people stand and migrate toward the refreshment table. Conversations resume in hushed tones, and I watch the group dynamics shift and realign—some people gravitating toward Nicolette for comfort, others clustering together in worried knots.
“That went well,” I say as Bess, Nettie, and I rise from our seats just in time to see Marina slip into the lounge, her crimson hair catching the light. She scans the room before her eyes land on me.
“Oh, there’s Marina.” I wave her over and she starts to approach, then seems to think better of it, hovering near the door as if she’s about to bolt.
“No, no,” I say, speeding in her direction, and Ransom, Bess, and Nettie follow in my wake.
“Marina,” I say quickly, “what you saw on the bridge was not at all what it looked like.”
Nettie perks up immediately. “What did it look like?”
I shoot her a look. “Like Wes and I were about to make out.”
Ransom inches back in horror, his blue eyes going wide. “Whoa.” He tilts his head my way as we all but encircle Marina so she can’t escape.
If I don’t clear this up, Wes will have a bullet in him before sunset.
I shake my head at my handsome hubby. “Which we weren’t.”
Marina’s lips twitch. “You were certainly locked in one another’s arms.”
Ransom lifts a brow at me, a look that strongly suggests that I speak now and spill it all.
“Because we were—” I flounder for a plausible explanation that doesn’t involve the supernatural. “Knocked into one another by a rogue wave? A deadly rogue wave.” Emphasis on the dead.
Nettie chortles. “We’re in the North Atlantic in early spring, not the Bermuda Triangle. Try again, Trixster.”
I shoot her a look for the nickname alone before leaning in close to my hot husband and whispering, “There was a ghost involved.”
He sighs, the sound of a man who’s heard this excuse more times than he’d like.
“That explains a lot. Give Wes a supernatural inch and he’ll take a corporal mile.
” He spots Quinn near the exit and straightens.
“Excuse me, ladies. I need to have a word with the temporary Chief of Security.” Emphasis on the temporary.
He stalks off, and I shake my head. “I can already tell this conversation is going to end with Quinn telling him to stay in his lane and Ransom politely ignoring her. Been there, done that, but it’s usually him and me.”
He really is getting a taste of his own medicine, so to speak and I have no doubt it tastes like bitter poison with a side of tough luck.
Marina leans in, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Did he say the word supernatural?”
I’m about to answer—or more accurately, about to deflect—when I spot Nicolette standing alone by that tower of chocolate-glazed crullers. She’s checking her phone, and her expression looks troubled, and for a moment, she loses that ultra confident appeal.
“Would you ladies excuse me?” I say. “I have a sudden craving for a chocolate-glazed cruller.”
Okay, so it’s not so sudden, but it’s still a good cover.
Nettie and Bess hook their arms through Marina’s before she can escape.
“Let’s talk about that hot captain over lattes,” Nettie says, steering Marina toward the coffee station.
“While noshing on a raspberry jelly-filled dream,” Bess adds, already eyeing the pastry table with predatory focus.
I’m sort of with her on that.
Marina glances back at me helplessly, but all I can do is shrug because we both know she’s no match for two octogenarians on a mission.
But I’m not headed for the lattes to dish about our hot-to-trot captain. Instead, I make my way toward Nicolette, weaving through clusters of Second Act Society members who are doing their best to pretend everything’s normal while openly discussing a homicide.
I grab a small plate, plop a chocolate-glazed cruller on it, and position myself close enough to Nicolette that it would be rude for her not to acknowledge me.
She looks up from her phone, and I watch her evaluate me in about two seconds flat—the way lawyers do when they’re deciding if you’re worth their time, or if you look like you have the funds to afford their nonstop fees.
“Trixie, right?” She slips her phone into her pocket. “The art instructor.”
“That’s me. Painting my way through the high seas, one watercolor at a time.”
I take a bite of my cruller and offer a smile.
Lucky, lucky me. I have my very first suspect all to myself.
But too bad for the killer, because their luck is about to run out.