Chapter 14
“Well, would you look at this sugar rush stampede,” Nettie declares as we wade into the dessert frenzy right here in the Mermaid Lounge just as Dr. Jazz Stone announced it was time for an intermission to her steam session. “It’s like Black Friday, but with better shoes and more estrogen.”
“And the casualties will be purely diabetic,” Candy adds with a giggle that sounds like champagne bubbles having their own private New Year’s Eve celebration.
I nod. “Give it five minutes, and someone’s going to start throwing apple fritters. I can see the pastry aggression building in their eyes.”
The sound of designer heels clicking against marble mingles with the gentle clink of sterling silver against fine china as a hundred women descend upon the dessert buffet with the coordination of a SWAT team and the desperation of people who’ve just discovered chocolate is about to be outlawed.
We’re talking serious tactical dessert warfare here—elbows flying, plates stacking, and some serious strategic maneuvering.
The scent of vanilla bean and dark chocolate wages chemical warfare against expensive perfume and whatever eau de desperation is wafting from the woman next to me, who’s loading her plate as if she’s preparing for the zombie apocalypse, and dessert is the only currency that matters in the afterlife. And it just might be.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Atlantic stretches like liquid pewter under a sky that can’t decide if it wants to be romantic or ominous—much like this entire seminar, now that I think about it. Mother Nature apparently has commitment issues, too.
“Ladies, please!” Nettie waves her arms as if she’s directing traffic at a four-way intersection during rush hour. “There’s enough chocolate here to supply a small European nation. No need to hoard like we’re facing the great cocoa shortage of the decade.”
“Says the woman who just loaded her plate with enough truffles to open her own boutique candy store,” I point out, watching her balance what appears to be approximately seventeen underwater treasure truffles with the skill of a professional Jenga player.
“That’s not hoarding,” Nettie protests. “That’s strategic dessert allocation. There’s a scientific difference.”
“What’s the difference?” Candy asks, balancing a precarious tower of macarons on her plate as if she’s building edible architecture herself.
“Strategic dessert allocation involves careful planning and mathematical precision,” Nettie explains soberly as if defending a doctoral thesis. “Hoarding is just greedy grabbing.”
“And which category does taking a dozen underwater treasure truffles fall under?” I ask.
“Quality control,” Nettie shoots back without missing a beat. “Someone has to make sure they’re all equally delicious. It’s a public service, really.”
Candy bursts into a laugh that could power the ship’s navigation lights and probably several small coastal towns. “Oh my gosh, you two are freaking hilarious! I feel like I should be buying tickets to this comedy show and selling popcorn in the aisles.”
“Trust me,” I tell her, “the entertainment value never wears off. Though it occasionally results in emergency meetings with ship security.” And how I look forward to it.
“Only occasionally?” Nettie chuckles. “I’m losing my touch. I used to cause a good crisis on a weekly basis.”
“Try daily,” I mutter.
“Actually, speaking of entertainment,” Candy says, her bubbly demeanor shifting slightly. “I’ve been people-watching since we boarded, and let me tell you, this ship has more drama than a reality TV show.”
Something in her voice makes my sleuthing radar ping, but before I can probe deeper, she’s already bouncing toward a group of women near the champagne fountain.
“I should mingle!” she calls over her shoulder. “This is supposed to be about expanding our social circles, right? Not just our waistlines!”
She drifts away through the crowd like a pink-clad social butterfly, leaving Nettie and me standing there with our plates and the distinct impression that our new friend is hiding something under all that cotton candy sweetness.
“Did she just—” I start.
“Disappear like a magician in a sundress?” Nettie finishes. “Yep. That girl’s got more layers than one of those fancy French pastries.”
We load up our plates with enough sugar to require a medical intervention while the conversations around us create a cacophony of female bonding that’s equal parts therapeutic and terrifying.
Two women near the siren’s kiss macarons are discussing their lifestyle experiences with the kind of clinical detachment most people reserve for reading dishwasher manuals.
“And that’s when Danny and I realized we needed to explore our boundaries—”
“—the communication aspect is really the key to making it work—”
“—Lavender was so good at recruiting new members for the Crimson Key Society—”
My ears perk up like a bloodhound catching the scent of something that’s either evidence or really good bacon.
I edge closer to the conversation while pretending to be absolutely fascinated by the underwater treasure truffles because nothing says I’m not eavesdropping like intense dessert examination.
“She had such a gift for helping people see past their conventional limitations,” continues a woman with silver hair and enough diamonds to blind passing aircraft. “The after-hours gatherings she organized were absolutely transformative.”
“Such a shame about what happened,” her companion sighs. “But I have to say, I’m not entirely surprised. That woman from the traditional marriage group had it out for her from day one. The tension was thicker than this chocolate mousse.”
And the mousse is pretty thick.
I file this information away in my mental murder folder and spot Jazz standing alone near the front of the room, looking like the hippy version of a sea goddess contemplating the mysteries of the universe—or possibly calculating how many mimosas it would take to get through the rest of her presentation without losing her professional composure.
Time for a little reconnaissance mission that doesn’t involve chocolate theft.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Nettie, who’s currently conducting what appears to be a scientific study of the sea foam mousse’s structural engineering.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she calls after me with the authority of a woman who’s done pretty much everything at least twice.
“That leaves me with a lot of options,” I shoot back.
Jazz brightens like a Christmas tree plugged into the main power grid the moment she spots me approaching. “Trixie! I’m so happy to see you here. You know, I was just thinking you’d be perfect for our community.”
“Your community?”
“The lifestyle!” She practically radiates enthusiasm.
“You should totally consider joining us for our special Crimson Circle gathering tonight. One of our wealthier members rented the Emerald Suite—it’s this gorgeous two-story penthouse with a private hot tub and everything you could possibly need for. .. intimate gatherings.”
I recall that Ransom had a suite like that when I first met him, before they renovated the ship’s upper decks.
It was a stunner. I wouldn’t mind checking out another luxury suite, but the things that will be happening within those cabin walls is enough to make me want to disinfect my brain with industrial-strength bleach and possibly a lobotomy.
“You should bring your husband,” Jazz continues with the kind of breathless excitement usually reserved for pyramid schemes and cult recruitment—and a woman looking to sleep with my husband.
“I can tell just by looking at him that he’s so open to everything.
The lifestyle would be perfect for you two. You both have that adventurous energy.”
I try not to shiver with disgust while maintaining what I hope passes for polite interest instead of barely contained horror. “That’s... very generous of you.”
A constellation of tiny red stars materializes near the mermaid sculpture behind Jazz with all the subtlety of a fireworks display, and Richard appears looking like a man who’s just been forced to sit through his own funeral again, except this time with more uncomfortable relationship advice and fewer flowers. Again.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says to me, though only I can hear him, and honestly, that’s probably for the best. “But I’ve heard all this before, and I have absolutely no intention of hearing any of it again.
My afterlife has enough trauma without reliving Lavender’s sales pitches.
” He shoots Jazz a look that could flatten premium champagne.
“So, did she do it? Did she kill my wife? Because if not, I’m going to start haunting people at random just to feel productive. ”
I sigh internally because we didn’t get that far in our investigation, and having a ghost demanding answers while surrounded by women discussing flexible relationship arrangements is not exactly conducive to productive detective work.
It’s like trying to solve a crossword puzzle during a rock concert while someone’s juggling flaming torches nearby. That someone would be me.
“Jazz,” I venture carefully, “you knew Lavender pretty well. Tell me about her marriage to Richard. Were they happy? Or was it more like a business arrangement with occasional holiday cards?” I try my hardest not to give him a sideways glance.
Jazz’s expression turns appropriately mournful.
“As far as I knew, they were fine. Lavender rarely talked about personal stuff; she was very focused on helping others expand their horizons.” She pauses, then her eyes narrow slightly.
“But Claudette and her husband? That’s a different story entirely. ”
“What do you mean?”