Chapter 8
The English countryside rolls past our tour bus windows like a living postcard painted by someone with unlimited access to every shade of green in existence. And it is such a verdant delight.
Sheep dot the hillsides like scattered fluffy cotton balls, while ancient stone walls weave through the landscape with precision that puts modern construction to shame.
The scent of diesel and excitement mingles with the faint aroma of packed lunches and whatever cologne half the passengers bathed in this morning.
Okay, so I wasn’t expecting to bump into Dr. Jazz Stone on my way to grab a quick smoothie.
Just like I wasn’t expecting to bump into Bess and Nettie at the Blue Water Café afterward—although let’s be honest, I would have called out a search party if I hadn’t found those two within sniffing distance of the breakfast buffet by eight A.M.
We quickly stocked up on chocolate-stuffed croissants that were so rich they practically came with their own trust fund, Belgian waffle towers drowning in strawberries and whipped cream, a Spanish omelet that deserves its own spontaneous applause, glazed crullers with edible rainbow sprinkles, smoked salmon bagels which were a siren song all on their own too strong for me to resist, artisanal cheese platters arranged like museum exhibits, miniature quiches that burst with flavor like tiny explosions of creamy culinary perfection, wrapped in a buttery pastry, and bacon so perfectly crispy it tastes like I’ve died and gone to smokey heaven.
Then we hightailed it to the main dining room where we gobbled down lobster and chive omelets that made angels sing soprano and French toast stuffed with strawberry mascarpone that could convert the Keto crowd to the church of carbohydrates, before boarding a bus along with Wes and heading out on a two-and-a-half-hour drive through the most ridiculously gorgeous English countryside this side of a romance novel cover.
And I certainly wasn’t expecting to see Claudette and her husband Mark climb off the bus along with us once we arrived at our otherworldly destination—the one and only Stonehenge. But I was hoping.
“Would you look at this place?” Nettie gawks at the stone wonder rising before us like ancient giants frozen mid-conversation about really important prehistoric topics.
Stonehenge sprawls across the Salisbury Plain like a prehistoric puzzle someone forgot to finish, its massive trilithons reaching toward pewter skies with the confidence of monuments that have outlasted empires and will probably outlast us all.
The trilithons are two massive vertical stones topped by a horizontal one and they loom over us like a giant stone doorway to nowhere.
The enormous sarsen stones stand in their eternal circle like silent bouncers who have worked the same club for thousands of years, while smaller bluestones huddle between them like children seeking protection from their granite elders.
The whole site pulses with an energy that makes your eyes hungry to take it all in and your phone battery mysteriously drain faster than usual after snaping nonstop pictures.
“Nettie Butterworth,” Bess threatens with the authority of a bestie who’s witnessed enough destruction to qualify for disaster relief training.
“You steer clear of those stones. I don’t want them falling like dominoes now that Hurricane Nettie has made landfall.
Work your destructive black magic somewhere else—preferably somewhere that doesn’t have UNESCO protection and international news coverage. ”
“I resent that accusation,” Nettie huffs with wounded dignity that would impress an acting coach. “I’ve never knocked over anything that couldn’t be replaced with a credit card and a sincere apology. Plus, insurance coverage.”
This may be true, but let’s just say she’s tested the limits of her credit cards and the patience of just about every nationality this world has to offer.
“What about that chandelier in Monaco?” Bess reminds her.
“That was an accident involving champagne and questionable architectural choices,” Nettie defends herself. “I was merely testing the structural integrity of the ceiling fixtures.”
“And the fountain in Rome?”
“Gravity malfunction. Completely beyond my control.”
“The entire display of Waterford crystal in Dublin?”
“Mass hysteria among glassware. I was just an innocent bystander holding a very enthusiastic umbrella.”
Elodie sidles up to us like a serpent in designer boots, and I gasp at her sudden appearance. “Were you on the bus with us all along? I didn’t see you anywhere during the ride.”
My South African bestie looks as if she’s ready to seduce ancient monuments as her blonde hair catches the English sunlight like spun gold, her ruby red lips could probably be seen from the gates of Hell, and her skintight leather outfit suggests she’s ready to either explore historical sites or star in a very classy adult film.
“That’s because I was in the back row canoodling with a happy-to-see-me looker whose blue eyes could arrest every woman here and probably half the men, too,” she purrs, adjusting her coat with the satisfied expression of a fashionista who collects both billionaires and one-night stands.
“You mean the man from the other night?” I ask, shocked that Elodie is going back for seconds when she usually treats men like a tasting menu—one bite and move on to the next course before anyone gets emotional attachments or phone numbers—and possibly names.
“That cad?” She winks with the kind of mischief that usually precedes international incidents. “You know I’m not a double-dipper, not when there are so many eligible bachelors around waiting to be gobbled up like Christmas cookies fresh from the oven.”
I thought so.
Wes steps up and shakes his head with an expression that suggests he’s either contemplating early retirement or possibly a career change to lighthouse keeping, where there are fewer people and significantly less drama.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear a single syllable of this conversation.
You know how Royal Lineage feels about employees mingling with guests in that particular manner. ”
“It sure didn’t stop you from trying to land Trixie horizontal,” Nettie points out, and both Elodie and Bess are quick to agree.
I sort of agree, too.
“Face it, Captain, you’ve been chasing her since day one,” Elodie adds with a wink. “Though I’ll give you credit for persistence in the face of matrimonial obstacles.”
We all share a laugh—sans Wes, that is.
Wes sighs like a man carrying the weight of his poor life choices that led to this career path.
“And to your point, that’s exactly why I should have fired Ransom the moment he set foot on my ship.
It would have solved multiple problems simultaneously.
” He nods my way. “And you would be married to the captain of the ship.”
“And I would have loved it,” I say with a little laugh. We both know it’s true. The only thing standing between Wes and me was Ransom. Here’s hoping Ransom survives the revelation.
Nettie lifts a finger. “That’s because Handsome Ransom had a way of hitting the sheets with women before they exchanged hellos.”
I bite back a laugh. “I’ll have you know that Ransom didn’t land me horizontal until our wedding night, thank you very much.”
“I can attest to that travesty,” Elodie says, rolling her eyes with exasperation.
It’s true, she tried all of her best naughty tricks to land me beneath Ransom far before I was ready to get there.
“I was half convinced you didn’t know what to do with a naked man if he came with an instruction manual and helpful diagrams.”
“Oh, trust me, they’re making up for lost time now.
” Bess laughs. “On the last trip, my cabin was right next door to them. I got more sleep when my children were newborns. In fact, I paid extra to upgrade down the hall right next to the elevator—and believe me, there’s less grunting and shouting all the way around. ”
I gasp her way. Good grief. We’re not that bad, are we? A few carnal scenes play out in my mind and—oh, wow, we are exactly that bad.
“Bess!” Rex’s voice cuts through our conversation like a silver-tongued hot knife through well-buttered Bess, and the aforementioned octogenarian practically levitates once again with excitement.
She trots off without so much as a goodbye wave, leaving us standing there, abandoned wedding guests at a reception where the bride and groom just eloped.
I notice a pretty blonde from the other night watching them with the kind of interest that suggests she’s either writing a romance novel or plotting a murder. Possibly both.
“Speaking of making up for lost time.” Wes tips his head toward the departing lovebirds. “Should I be concerned about Bess and her new gentleman friend? He seems rather enthusiastic.”
“If Bess follows the tips I gave her,” Nettie says with a wicked grin that suggests she’s shared some very specific advice, “they’ll be harder to find than Jimmy Hoffa’s vacation photos.
I told her the key to keeping a man interested is to always leave him wanting more—preferably while he’s still recovering from wanting what he just got. ”
“Wonderful,” I mutter.
“Wonderful, indeed,” Elodie purrs like a tigress.
“Speaking of men,” Nettie continues, spotting a fresh bus disgorging its cargo of testosterone and tourist cameras. “I see reinforcements have arrived. Time to self-appoint myself as the welcome committee and possibly the entertainment director.”
She trots off like a woman on a destructive mission, leaving Wes to get mobbed by passengers wielding cameras and questions about stone circles.
Our tour guide, an enthusiastic woman named Margaret who looks like she could personally vouch for every stone’s historical accuracy, gathers the crowd with the prowess of a master magician.
“Welcome to Stonehenge, one of the world’s most famous prehistoric monuments!
Built in several stages between 3100 and 1600 BCE, this stone circle has puzzled archaeologists and inspired countless theories about its purpose— astronomical calendar, healing temple, burial ground, ancient nightclub, or perhaps all four! ”
She gestures toward the massive trilithons with the reverence usually reserved for religious experiences.
“The largest stones, called sarsens, weigh up to 50 tons each and were somehow transported from the Marlborough Downs, twenty miles away. The smaller bluestones traveled even farther—240 miles from Wales! How our Neolithic ancestors accomplished this feat remains one of archaeology’s greatest mysteries, though current theories include aliens, really dedicated moving companies, and prehistoric CrossFit enthusiasts. ”
“I bet they used Uber,” Elodie whispers. “Though the surge pricing must have been astronomical.”
A small laugh titters through the vicinity, and as the crowd disperses to explore the monument, I notice Claudette Sterling standing apart from the group, admiring the ancient stones with the kind of peaceful expression that makes you forget she recently threatened to murder someone with dessert at the welcome party.
Okay, so the dessert thing sort of just happened to poor Lavender, but I bet Claudette didn’t mind the fact either.
Elodie gasps and points as she spots her prey across the crowd—a distinguished gentleman who’s probably wondering how his quiet historical tour turned into an episode of Housewives of the High Seas: Prehistoric Edition.
She turns to me with a predatory grin that could probably be registered as a lethal weapon.
“Darling, see that silver fox by the information plaque?” she mewls.
“He’s been stealing glances at me since we arrived, and I do believe it’s time to put him out of his misery.
” She adjusts her coat—AKA enhancing his view of her cleavage.
“Wish me luck—though let’s be honest, I won’t need it.
I could seduce a monk at a monastery convention. And I have.”
I don’t doubt it.
“Elodie, try not to scandalize the poor man in front of a World Heritage Site,” I warn her. “We’re already probably on some kind of international watch list after Nettie’s previous travel incidents.”
Hand to God.
“Oh please,” she purrs, already moving toward her target with predatory grace that would make a leopard take note.
“If these stones could talk, they’d have far steamier stories than anything I could conjure up.
Besides, a little romance never hurt anyone—it’s murder that tends to complicate vacation photos.
Perhaps you should be the one to behave.
” She sheds a dark smile that lets me know she jests.
Elodie isn’t opposed to a murder or two so long as it lands a handsome steed in her bed. Come to think of it, that woman owes me a thank you.
And speaking of murder, time to find out if the woman who wants to save traditional marriages is traditional enough to commit traditional homicide with traditional motives. And if she is, here’s to a traditional arrest.