Chapter 6 #2
Ransom turns to me with that careful expression he gets when he’s about to ask something he knows will start an argument. “Have you seen our ghostly friend again?”
I shake my head while savoring another spoonful of what might be the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth, and that’s saying something considering my relationship with food.
I already let Ransom know about our disembodied friend last night when he came to bed.
Suffice it to say, our pillow talk is out of this world.
“Not since the welcome party. He looked nice enough—cozy sweater, sad eyes, like he wanted to tell someone their house was on fire but couldn’t figure out how to work the phone.”
“And that’s how we know it’s murder.” Wes sighs with the resignation of a man who’s watched too many people die on his floating city.
“That and the fact Claudette and Lavender looked ready to duke it out with dessert spoons,” Nettie adds matter-of-factly. “The hostility between those two could’ve powered the ship’s engines.”
“About Claudette,” Ransom says in that gentle but firm voice he uses when he’s about to ruin my investigative fun. “I talked to her earlier. She’s pretty shaken up and feels awful about what happened. So I’m asking nicely—don’t interrogate her.”
I blink at him with the innocent expression I’ve been perfecting since childhood. “I wasn’t planning on interrogating anybody.”
The silence that follows lasts about three beats before Bess, Nettie, and Wes break out in a laugh.
Traitors.
“Don’t be such a buzzkill, Sexy,” Nettie gravels out while waving her fork at Ransom with the authority of an octogenarian who’s lived long enough to speak her mind freely.
“The universe wants Trixie hunting down killers, and you know it. And it probably expects her to make them walk the plank when she’s done. ”
Wes makes a noise like he’s contemplating career changes. “Please don’t joke about that.” He shoots me a look that says no plank under any circumstances.
“Who’s joking?” Nettie’s eyes light up with glee. “I’m all for old-fashioned maritime justice. Feed ’em to the fishes and problem solved.”
“For once in her life, she’s making sense.” Bess nods sagely. “Though I seem to recall Nettie having some experience with making ex-husbands disappear. What was it, three of them met mysterious ends? And I’m betting there was a plank involved.”
“They weren’t mysterious,” Nettie protests. “Harold fell off that fishing boat fair and square. And Frank’s heart attack was completely natural. How was I supposed to know he’d have one when I told him about my credit card bills?”
“I’d love for my ex to walk the plank,” I admit wistfully. I take a moment to envision Stanton Troublefield pencil diving into the sea while a teeny smile plays on my lips.
Wes nods toward Ransom. “You’d better mind your p’s and q’s, buddy. Apparently, the women on this ship have a track record.”
“Noted,” Ransom says dryly. “But I figure as long as I keep bringing flowers and remembering anniversaries, I should be safe from any accidents at sea.” He gives a subtle wink my way, and I bite down a naughty smile.
This gorgeous man is going to walk the plank right into my bed in a few short hours.
His blue eyes darken to black as if he’s making his own naughty plans for the evening—and they most certainly involve me.
Lucky, lucky me.
“Speaking of exciting adventures,” Nettie continues with that wicked gleam that means someone is about to get roasted. “Bess here spent the afternoon giving the deluxe ship tour to a certain silver-haired gentleman who shall remain nameless but definitely rhymes with Sexy Rexy.”
Bess turns approximately the same color as the Valentine’s decorations scattered throughout the place. “Rex Hartwell was a perfect gentleman as I showed him the ship’s historical features and engineering marvels.”
“Did you sample the hooch? More to the point, did you smooch?” Nettie presses her bestie with all the subtlety of a marching band at a funeral.
“I don’t kiss and tell,” Bess replies with dignity, though she’s fighting a smile that suggests there might be some telling worth not doing.
Ransom and Wes exchange a loaded glance that probably involves years of security training and masculine telepathy.
“I’ll run a background check,” Ransom says in the tone that means Rex Hartwell is about to get investigated down to his dental records and elementary school report cards. If he was tagged without a hall pass, believe me, we’ll know about it.
We put in the orders for the rest of our meals, and I wait until the waitress leaves to lean in.
“While we’re investigating,” I jump in before anyone can change the subject, “I’d love to know more about those groups that boarded yesterday. The ones Lavender and Claudette belong to.”
Wes nods, his expression shifting into serious captain mode. “Lavender was part of the Red Key Society.”
“The Crimson Key Society,” Ransom corrects. “It’s a progressive relationship organization focused on alternative approaches to traditional partnership structures. They host seminars exploring expanded definitions of commitment.”
I file away his careful corporate-speak for later analysis. In my experience, when people start using phrases like alternative approaches and expanded definitions, they’re usually talking about something that would make church ladies reach for the smelling salts.
“Claudette belongs to the Valentine Renewal Couples’ Retreat,” Ransom continues. “She and her husband are trying to save their ten-year marriage. And yes, the tattoo is real. It’s the second time around for both of them, and they’re determined to make it stick.”
“Good for them,” I say, and I mean it. Despite Claudette’s apparent desire to turn Lavender into chum, there’s something admirable about fighting for your relationship—even if it involves permanently inking marital status on your spouse’s forehead.
I glance at Ransom’s perfect forehead and shake my head. It would be a shame to ruin that. But then, if he dared to stray…
He lifts a brow my way, then inches back once he realizes where my mind just wandered. He shakes his head as if to assure me it would never be necessary before picking up my hand and kissing the back of it.
Have I mentioned that I married a wise man this time around? A heck of a handsome one, too.
Stanton Troublefield can eat my dust—or waves, as it were.
Bess shakes her head with the kind of dismay usually reserved for natural root canals and jury duty. “That tattoo suggests they’re starting from a pretty deep hole.”
“I don’t know,” Nettie muses, twirling her fork as if she were determined to put out an eye. Hers. “There’s something refreshingly honest about advertising your unavailability in permanent ink. Saves everyone time and awkward conversations at singles bars.”
“It’s like truth in advertising,” Bess agrees. “Warning: contents include one dumb husband deep in the dog house. Handle with care and realistic expectations.”
“It’s like a reverse dating profile,” I point out. “Instead of listing his best qualities, he’s advertising his worst mistake in permanent marker.”
“From a security standpoint, I appreciate the transparency,” Ransom adds dryly. “It makes my job easier when the troublemakers come pre-labeled.”
Our entrées arrive with enough fanfare to announce visiting royalty. Ransom’s filet mignon and mini short rib Wellington looks like it should be in a museum, draped in bordelaise sauce and surrounded by vegetables arranged like tiny edible sculptures.
My slow-cooked halibut appears to have been arranged by someone with both culinary genius and an art degree from somewhere fancy, nestled on cracked wheat tabbouleh with pickled lemon that gleams like citrus jewelry.
Wes’s lobster risotto with saffron and microgreens looks like golden treasure scattered with emerald confetti, while Bess’s duck confit with some sort of cherry sauce resembles something a French chef would paint if they moonlighted as an artist.
Nettie’s lamb rack with rosemary crust and ratatouille sits like a crown surrounded by a rainbow of perfectly diced vegetables that probably required tweezers to arrange. They really are that small. We’ll be forced to hit the buffet afterward, but the company is worth it.
No sooner do we gobble down every last bite—there were about three—than dessert shows up as the grand finale to our culinary parade.
My Aztec chocolate tart with maple granola looks like it was crafted by pastry angels working overtime, while Nettie’s Meyer lemon tartlet practically glows with citrus perfection.
Everyone else got the chocolate mousse, because apparently, we’re all stress eating at this point.
“If I keel over tonight,” Nettie announces around a forkful of lemon heaven, “let the record show this meal was worth the cardiac risk.”
Wes looks up from his dessert as if he’s about to make a decision that will either solve digestive problems or create bigger ones. “Are you ladies planning the Stonehenge excursion tomorrow? It’s a popular trip. Both our feuding groups booked it.”
Ransom’s fork hits his plate like a gavel. “Wes, you’re practically gift-wrapping my wife for a killer.”
Wes meets his glare with the kind of steady confidence that probably helps him navigate hurricanes and homicides with equal skill. “I want this case solved, which is more than your security team’s managed so far. Trixie is the most effective detective on this ship.”
Nettie and Bess erupt in applause as if I’ve just won an Emmy for Outstanding Performance in Amateur Sleuthing with a Side of Accidental Corpse Discovery.
“It’s about time someone acknowledged your talent,” Nettie declares, raising her wine glass as if she’s toasting my Nobel Prize. “You’re like Hercule Poirot, but with better hair and more sarcasm.”
“Don’t worry, Ransom.” Bess lifts her glass with just as much confidence.
“Nettie and I will babysit her. I promise to keep her out of trouble and away from any suspicious chocolate fountains.” She gives Nettie the side-eye because, let’s face it, we can’t make any promises when it comes to our cantankerous gray-headed bestie.
Okay, fine. I, too, have a dicey history with chocolate fountains, although that’s mostly Nettie’s fault.
Ransom’s expression suggests he’s calculating the probability of disaster on an international scale. “I can’t decide what terrifies me more—my wife interrogating murder suspects or you three accidentally demolishing a UNESCO World Heritage Site.”
“Hey, I resemble that remark,” Nettie says with faux-wounded dignity.
It’s always her go-to answer when he says that. And it’s always true.
“Stonehenge doesn’t stand a chance,” Ransom mutters into his wine glass.
“Neither does our killer,” I announce, lifting my glass with the kind of confidence that either solves mysteries or lands me in international headlines with very unflattering photos.
Wes tips his head toward Ransom with tactful grace. “I’ll be chaperoning the excursion personally. All three ladies will return to the ship intact, no body bags required.”
Ransom growls in response. Something tells me he finds this promise less than comforting and possibly overly optimistic. Let’s be real, so do I.
“Though I can’t make any guarantees about the ancient monuments.” Wes’s mouth twitches with amusement. “Insurance doesn’t cover acts of Trixie.”
“Watch it,” I tease his way. “Rumor has it, there’s a plank on this ship of yours.”
“Mutiny already?” Wes chuckles. “We haven’t even left port yet.”
“Give her time,” Ransom says. “She’s just getting warmed up.”
“Think of it as early retirement,” Nettie adds.
Bess nods. “With a very dramatic exit strategy.”
As we toast tomorrow’s adventure, I can’t shake the feeling we’re about to discover that some stones are better left unturned—and some secrets are worth killing for.
Turns out, the real historical significance is the murder rate that follows my travel plans.