Chapter 4
The room erupts like a champagne cork at a divorce party—gasps ricocheting off crystal chandeliers while screams pierce the air like a foghorn in a library.
You know, I used to think Valentine’s Day was just about overpriced roses and uncomfortable lingerie. Turns out, it’s also about face-planting into chocolate fountains and taking down perfectly good dessert spreads. Who knew romance could be so deadly?
Me. That’s who.
Bess and Nettie unleash synchronized howls that would make professional mourners jealous.
“The chocolate! The chocolate!” Nettie wails, gesturing at the dessert carnage as if she’s witnessing the fall of Rome. “Look what’s happened to those beautiful truffles!”
Bess delivers a swift arm with the precision of a ninja. “Nettie, there’s a woman face-down in fondue, and you’re having a pastry crisis?”
“Those were imported Belgian truffles! Do you have any idea what the markup is on decent chocolate at sea? This is a maritime tragedy!”
Only Nettie would mourn chocolate harder than most people mourn another human. Although to be fair, those truffles probably cost more per ounce than my wedding ring, and that’s saying something. Ransom didn’t skimp out on this rock.
I would find this all amusing if I weren’t currently playing impromptu hostess to another uninvited corpse.
Poor Dr. Lavender Voss has transitioned from relationship expert to crime scene centerpiece in record time. The irony isn’t lost on me—a woman who specialized in opening marriages has just permanently closed hers to any future romantic entanglements.
Ransom appears at my side faster than bad news travels.
He’s all business, but with that special look he reserves for moments when I’ve accidentally stumbled into another homicide.
It’s become the marital equivalent of “we need to talk,” except with more crime scene tape and fewer opportunities for makeup sex afterward. Not that it hasn’t happened.
The man has perfected the art of the accusatory spouse stare. It’s a look that says, I love you, but seriously, what are the odds? I’m starting to think I should carry business cards that read, Trixie Baxter: Amateur Detective and Corpse Magnet. No appointment necessary—bodies will find me.
And I hate how true that last part is.
I offer my most innocent shrug his way.
What else can I do? Apologize for my apparent magnetic attraction to murder victims? Start wearing a warning label? Take out insurance against accidental homicide involvement? As if any underwriting team would approve that.
“I’ll tell you everything that I know,” I quickly volunteer.
“We’ll talk soon,” he says as his radio crackles to life. “Security to the Queen’s Theater. Code Seven. Secure the scene immediately.”
The cavalry arrives with impressive speed, transforming our romantic Valentine’s soirée into something that resembles a very upscale prison lockdown.
Yellow caution tape goes up faster than you can say, till death do us part, and suddenly our elegant party has all the charm of a maximum security facility with better canapés.
I have to admire the efficiency. These security officers could probably cordon off the entire ship in under ten minutes if necessary. Although at this rate, they might need to invest in bulk crime scene tape since I seem to be single-handedly keeping the maritime forensics industry in business.
Quinn Riddle marches over with her signature stride—part drill sergeant, part disappointed high school principal.
Her black hair is yanked back into a bun so severe it could be classified as a weapon, and her pasty expression suggests I’ve personally offended her ancestors and possibly several generations of law enforcement professionals.
Quinn would be Ransom’s partner in vessel security. Much like Tinsley, she’s not my biggest fan. In fact, if there were an anti-fan club, the two of them would be fighting over rights to be president.
“What happened this time?” She fixes me with a stare that could curdle champagne. “And before you start, I don’t want to hear about coincidences, bad luck, or cosmic alignment. I want facts.”
“Well, here’s what happened—” I begin, but Quinn cuts me off with a raised hand.
Ransom nods beside her with the solidarity of a husband who’s clearly had this conversation before. “I’d like to know the same thing.”
Et tu, Ransom? My own husband has joined the lynch mob.
I’m seriously considering starting a support group for amateur detectives who are clearly underappreciated by their families.
We could meet weekly and discuss the challenges of having spouses who think finding dead bodies is somehow our fault, when really it’s just an unfortunate coincidence that happens with the regularity of finding loose change in couch cushions.
And we are definitely not getting rich off of this.
“Look, I don’t go looking for trouble—” I try again, but Quinn’s expression suggests my explanation window has officially closed. Wes comes up and whispers something to the two of them, taking the spotlight off of me for a second.
It’s true. I don’t go looking for trouble.
Trouble seems to have my address programmed into its GPS and shows up uninvited like that relative who never calls first and always stays too long.
If I could turn off whatever beacon I’m apparently broadcasting to the universe’s homicidal elements, believe me, I would have done it by now.
I scan the room, cataloging the emotional wreckage like some demented party planner calculating damage costs.
Bess has attached herself to Nettie’s arm as if she’s afraid her friend might spontaneously combust, while Nettie keeps shooting wounded glances at the chocolate fountain as if it’s personally betrayed her trust in all things cocoa-based.
Jazz stands frozen by the wall, shaking like a chihuahua in a thunderstorm. Her bohemian jewelry creates a soft musical accompaniment to her trembling—wind chimes in an earthquake.
The retreat members huddle together like survivors of a particularly brutal group therapy session.
There’s something about the way Jazz is standing that gives me pause. She’s not just shocked—she’s terrified. Not just terrified—but terrified with a side of this is going to be a problem. I think this definitely warrants a friendly chat later.
The relationship seminar crowd has formed their own little circle of heated whispers near the exit, and I can’t help but wonder what kind of conversations happen during a crisis in alternative lifestyle circles.
Are they discussing alibis or just trying to figure out if the death puts a damper on tonight’s festivities?
Some questions are better left unanswered, but my brain files them away anyway.
A constellation of miniature red stars materializes near the chocolate fountain, and lo and behold, Cozy Sweater Guy materializes like the world’s most melancholy party crasher—except now he’s translucent and glowing, which definitely wasn’t part of his earlier look.
He gazes down at Lavender’s body with an expression that’s equal parts sorrow and what I’m pretty sure is relief—which is interesting, considering most spirits I’ve encountered are usually consumed with grief or righteous anger when someone they knew dies.
I’m not sure why, but that man looks as if he’s just been released from a particularly unpleasant prison sentence.
Our eyes meet for a heartbeat before he dissolves back into glittery nothingness, leaving me with the distinct impression that whatever connection he had to Lavender was complicated enough to require its own filing system.
“Trixie!” Elodie’s voice cuts through the chaos like a designer knife through butter.
She glides over with her usual predatory grace, somehow managing to look glamorous even in the middle of a crime scene.
That’s basically Elodie in a nutshell. “Consider this a warning. You need to keep your deadly mitts off the eligible bachelors. Some of us are still shopping, and you’re seriously depleting the merchandise. ”
I gag in the wake of a response. But then I clear my throat. “I’ll do my best to comply.” I lift my chin at the thought.
Only Elodie could turn a murder scene into a commentary on dating market economics. But then again, the woman has a gift for finding the romantic angle in any situation, even ones involving chocolate-covered corpses. I’d be impressed if I weren’t so concerned about her priorities.
Quinn’s eyebrow arches with mathematical precision. “Murder made to order?”
“I don’t take orders for murder—and I don’t order murders,” I protest. “They just seem to show up on my doorstep like unwanted pizza deliveries.”
“Right. And I suppose bodies just naturally gravitate toward you like cops to a donut shop?”
I make a face her way. Something tells me Quinn is craving a good jelly-filled donut right about now. And really, so am I.
My gaze shifts to the body once again, and I wince.
Honestly though, there has to be some universal conspiracy at play here. It’s as if I’m trapped in a very expensive episode of Murder, She Wrote, but with better catering. I came here to gain weight and lose inhibitions, not collect dead bodies as if they were macabre souvenirs.
Jazz suddenly breaks free from her statue impersonation and approaches Wes with the jerky movements of a marionette operated by a caffeinated puppeteer.
“Captain, I have to say, Lavender was complaining about chest pains during our afternoon session. And thinking about it now, maybe it was her heart. But I’m not a medical doctor—just a psychiatrist.”
Chest pains. Right. Because Dr. Lavender I’ll-Revolutionize-Your-Marriage-and- Maybe-Destroy-It Voss struck me as the type to have cardiac issues from natural causes. I don’t think so.
My supernatural radar is pinging harder than a smoke detector with a dying battery.