Chapter 3 #2
I suck in a quick breath because I can practically feel the temperature drop, and my murder-magnet senses are starting to tingle. Here’s hoping I’m wrong.
“So, Lavender.” I press my lips tight while frantically searching my brain for anything to say that might defuse this social bomb before it explodes.
“Your name—it’s so very beautiful.” And I mean it.
“Lavender has always been one of my favorite flowers, and as an artist, it’s also one of my favorite hues. ”
“Thank you,” she replies with a smile that’s all teeth and no warmth, like a shark who’s just spotted an injured seal.
“My mother believed in naming children after things that appear peaceful on the surface but can be quite potent when properly concentrated. Lavender oil can be soothing... or toxic, depending on the dosage.”
Well, that’s not strange, ominous, or potentially prophetic at all.
Wes and I exchange a brief glance.
“And your organization?” I continue, because apparently, I enjoy walking into conversational minefields. “It sounds fascinating.”
Wes gives a hesitant nod but looks as if he’s not sure he agrees.
“Oh, we’re simply exploring the boundaries of traditional relationship structures,” she says with an evasion that feels far too practiced.
“But rather than bore you with academic theory, I should mention I’ve written extensively on the subject.
My book, Love Without Limits, has been quite revolutionary in certain circles. ”
She leans in, waving a perfectly manicured hand. “In fact, I’m hosting a seminar series right here on the ship. You should attend. I think you’d find it... well, enlightening. We’re discussing how modern couples can expand their horizons beyond society’s rather narrow definitions of partnership.”
The way she says expand their horizons makes it sound like she’s talking about exotic travel instead of whatever relationship philosophy she’s peddling. Her eyes drift over to Mark and his unfortunate forehead decoration.
“What’s happening here?” she asks with barely concealed delight, like she’s discovered a particularly juicy piece of gossip.
Claudette rolls her eyes hard—better that than rolling out punches. “Not that it’s any of your business, but my husband wanted to make sure no one could ever question his marital status again—including airport security, customs officials, and apparently random idiots at parties.”
Both Wes and I suck in a breath in tandem.
Did she just call Dr. Voss an idiot?
“Talk about wear your heart on your sleeve and your marriage certificate on your forehead.” Lavender winces at the odd sight.
“How delightfully insecure,” she continues with the kind of clinical detachment that makes an execution order sound like a casual observation.
“Nothing says healthy relationship quite like branding your spouse like cattle. Although I suppose desperate times call for desperate measures when trust is just a four-letter word that’s been surgically removed from your vocabulary. ”
The temperature in the room drops approximately twenty degrees, and I can practically see the frost forming on Claudette’s perfectly applied lipstick. But hey, Lavender is right; Claudette all but admitted it before the woman arrived.
“You stay away from me and my marriage,” Claudette hisses with enough venom to poison a small village. “I could just kill you for what you’ve done to couples like us.”
“And I could land you six feet under for accusing me of such.”
With that charming threat hanging in the perfumed air, the Sterlings storm off toward the buffet like refugees fleeing a war zone. I can’t blame them. I’d rather nosh on cake than have the obvious thrust into my face by what looks to be a nemesis.
“That escalated quickly,” I mutter, wondering if ship security has a protocol for handling homicidal marriage counselors or if this is a first.
I’m about to excuse myself to find Ransom and possibly witness protection when the vivacious woman we met earlier swoops in like a bohemian peace treaty in flowing fabric, her wild curly hair bouncing with each step.
“Please excuse them,” Dr. Jazz Stone says to Wes and me, waving her hands in mystical calming gestures that look like she’s trying to hypnotize us into forgetting what we just witnessed.
And how I wish she could. “That woman has had it out for Lavender since the dawn of time, and over exactly what, well, there’s quite the mystery there. ”
Lavender gives a brief nod of appreciation to the woman.
“No one can solve a mystery better than Trixie here,” Wes says before tensing as if he regretted the words for more than one reason. “Not even her husband, and he’s head of security.” He mutters that last part mostly to himself.
He’s not wrong, but still.
We all laugh because apparently that’s what you do when someone casually threatens murder at a Valentine’s party, and I’m starting to wonder if this cruise will come with a higher body count than advertised.
“You’re too kind,” I say to Wes, though my amateur detective instincts are already cataloging every suspicious glance and thinly veiled threat for future reference and possible police reports.
“Some mysteries are better left buried, don’t you think, Jazz?” Lavender says with a smile that could freeze champagne mid-bubble.
Jazz laughs it off as if she’s had plenty of practice deflecting Lavender’s verbal grenades—quasi-friendly or otherwise. “Ancient history, honey. Shall we indulge in this magnificent spread before it gets cold?”
Before anyone can answer, a group of women surrounds Wes like paparazzi spotting a celebrity at a coffee shop (and, let’s face it, the captain is as big of a celebrity as you can get on a cruise ship), and before we know it, he’s lost in a flurry of fluttering eyelashes and requests for selfies.
The poor man disappears into a sea of Valentine’s red lipstick and strategic cleavage, while I stand here trying to figure out if I should take notes or call for backup.
I quickly scope out the rest of the room dynamics with the fascination of an anthropologist studying mating rituals in the wild.
And what fascinating rituals they are. Across the room, Lavender is having what appears to be an intense argument with the silver fox who made Bess’s knees wobble earlier. Their body language screams unfinished business in about twelve different languages, none of them particularly friendly.
Once that disbands, I watch as Lavender pulls Mark Sterling aside for a heated whispered conversation that looks about as comfortable as a root canal performed by a vengeful ex.
Whatever she’s saying is making him shake his head repeatedly while glancing nervously in the direction of his wife. I’m betting he does that a lot.
Right on cue, Claudette returns and gets right in Lavender’s face, saying something that looks vicious enough to strip paint from the ship’s hull. The whole scene plays out like a bad family reunion where everyone has been drinking since noon—and they all have some serious anger management issues.
I finally spot Bess and Nettie at the buffet, loading their plates with enough canapés to feed a small army or one very determined cruise passenger.
They’re working their way through smoked salmon on blinis, bacon-wrapped scallops that look like little pieces of heaven, miniature beef wellington bites that probably require an engineering degree to construct properly, and champagne-infused strawberries that sparkle like edible jewelry.
“Ladies,” I say, joining their culinary crusade. “I see you’ve found the good stuff.”
“The scallops alone are worth the price of admission,” Bess declares, popping another one into her mouth with more than a little satisfaction. “I might be in love.”
“Speaking of being in love,” I continue with a grin that probably qualifies as mischievous, “Bess, I spotted that silver fox you have the hots for. He’s right here in this room having what looks like a very dramatic argument with our new friend, Dr. Death Threats.”
Bess nearly chokes on her scallop, her cheeks turning approximately the same shade as the Valentine’s decorations. “I do not have the hots for anyone!”
“Honey, you were practically drooling earlier,” Nettie chimes in, selecting a chocolate-covered strawberry with the precision of a jeweler choosing diamonds. “Nothing wrong with wanting to polish a silver fox’s... credentials.”
“Nettie!” Bess gasps, although she does seem to be fighting a smile.
“What? I’m talking about his résumé,” Nettie says with the kind of innocence that wouldn’t fool a five-year-old. “His very impressive, very experienced résumé.”
“Very gold,” I point out in reference to those chains adorning his neck. “Very seventies.”
“The seventies happened to be one of my favorite eras,” Bess shoots back.
I’m about to respond with something appropriately seething and scandalous when someone taps me on the shoulder and I turn around to find Dr. Lavender Voss standing there, looking like she’s about to drop a bombshell or admit to blackmail.
But her perfect composure has cracked, and she looks genuinely distressed for the first time tonight.
“I have to tell you something important,” she begins, her piercing blue eyes unfocused and glassy.
She staggers forward like someone just cut her puppet strings, and before any of us can react, she races for the buffet and face-plants directly into the chocolate fountain with the kind of spectacular precision that suggests she’s been practicing this maneuver for weeks. Newsflash: she hasn’t.
Chocolate explodes everywhere like a sweet, sticky volcano, strawberries go flying like fruity shrapnel, and the stunning ice sculpture crashes to the floor in an avalanche of shattered swan parts rolling across the granite like frozen evidence of romantic destruction.
The entire room falls silent except for the gentle drip-drip-drip of chocolate running off the buffet table and onto Lavender’s designer suit, which is most likely ruined beyond repair—though that’s likely the least of her concerns at this point.
“Well,” Elodie sidles up next to me with impeccable timing, “that’s one way to make a splash at a Valentine’s party.”
“Oh my goodness,” I say, looking down at Dr. Lavender Voss lying motionless in a pool of gourmet chocolate.
Wes quickly escapes his fan club and drops to her side, checking for a pulse with the efficiency of a captain who’s clearly dealt with medical emergencies a time or two before. After a moment, he looks up at me and shakes his head with a grim expression.
A thought crystallizes with terrifying clarity. This wasn’t an accident, and whatever she wanted to tell me just died with her.
Lavender won’t have to worry about social spats or relationship theories.
Dr. Lavender Voss is dead.