Chapter 14 #2
“They were far from fine. That’s why Mark painted his forehead with I’M MARRIED in permanent ink.
” She gestures dramatically, clearly enjoying having a captive audience for this piece of gossip.
“Apparently, he’d been caught stepping out more than once, and Claudette told him he’d have to tattoo those words across his forehead before she’d even consider taking him back.
And that’s exactly what the poor bastard did—permanent ink, professional tattoo artist, the whole nine yards. ”
She pinches her lips together like she’s tasting something bitter, or possibly trying not to laugh at someone else’s misfortune.
“You know, don’t you think it’s odd that Claudette chose this particular cruise to try to repair her marriage?
She’s the leader of that traditional marriage cult, and she knew for a fact we would be here.
It’s like bringing a vegetarian to a barbecue. ”
I edge back slightly because Jazz’s intensity is starting to match the Valentine’s decorations in sheer overwhelming force. “She did? How do you know?”
“I’m a researcher,” Jazz says with pride as if she’s just announced they’ve discovered the cure for Monday mornings and possibly world hunger.
“I spent a lot of time attending her marriage restoration meetings undercover. It’s part of the holistic research I do—understanding different approaches to relationship therapy.
Know your enemy and all that. Plus, the coffee at those meetings was surprisingly good. ”
“That is important,” I say with a shrug. “Though I have to wonder—with all this animosity between the groups, were there any other incidents? Any other deaths or suspicious circumstances involving members from either side? Maybe Lavender’s husband, Richard?”
Richard tosses his ghostly hands in the air with exasperation.
“What’s your fascination with me? I’m dead!
We’re here to solve Lavender’s murder, not mine.
” He deflates like a punctured balloon. “I’ve already solved the mystery of my own death, and frankly, it’s not nearly as interesting as you’d think. ”
I feel bad for the guy. Death is apparently no escape from marital drama.
Someone taps Jazz on the shoulder—a woman with the kind of aggressive perkiness that suggests she’s been mainlining caffeine and positive affirmations since dawn. “It’s time to get back to it, Dr. Stone.”
“Of course,” Jazz says, but before she can escape, I grab her attention one more time. “Jazz, if this wasn’t a natural event—if someone wanted Lavender gone—who do you think would do it? Outside of Claudette, I mean.”
She closes her eyes for a moment, and when she opens them, there’s something almost sad in her expression.
“I’m sorry, Trixie, but there isn’t anyone outside of Claudette who comes to mind.
” She snaps her fingers. “In fact, you should talk to Rex Hartwell. He’ll attest to that.
He knows all about Claudette’s threats, her passive-aggressive behavior, and her general hostility toward anything that challenges her worldview. ”
Before I can ask what Rex Hartwell has to do with any of this, Jazz takes off toward the makeshift stage with determination because, let’s face it, she’s got a room full of women waiting for enlightenment about flexible relationship arrangements.
I’m about to head to my seat when a commotion breaks out.
The sound starts as a gentle tinkle—like wind chimes having a nervous breakdown—and escalates quickly into what can only be described as a pastry avalanche of epic proportions.
I turn to see Nettie, surrounded by what used to be an artfully arranged display of coral reef cheesecake bites, looking like the epicenter of a dessert earthquake.
“I just wanted to see if they were hollow!” she protests to the rapidly approaching crew member, her heart-shaped sunglasses askew and her pink sweater now decorated with passion fruit drizzle that wasn’t there five minutes ago.
I make a face. It’s the same excuse she gave at Stonehenge. Although I’ll admit, it’s a good go-to.
“Ma’am, you need to step away from the dessert display,” the crew member says with the patience of a person who’s dealt with Nettie-level chaos before. Many, many times before.
“But I’m conducting a quality control assessment!” Nettie argues. “These cheesecakes could be a serious safety hazard! What if someone gets injured by improperly layered pastry? The lawsuits alone could sink this ship!”
Something tells me that Nettie is going to sink this ship someday.
“Ma’am—”
“Fine, fine.” Nettie raises her hands in surrender, though she still eyes the remaining desserts with the expression of a scientist whose experiment has been rudely interrupted. “But mark my words, you need to investigate the engineering specifications of these pastries before someone gets hurt.”
The crew member escorts her toward the exit with the kind of gentle firmness usually reserved for removing intoxicated passengers from the karaoke lounge. As they pass me, Nettie calls out, “I regret nothing!”
Despite her eviction, I find myself a seat next to where Candy had been, but she’s disappeared into the crowd like smoke in a hurricane. Jazz has managed to garner the attention of the room again, her voice cutting through the dessert chaos with ease.
“Ladies, let’s continue our discussion about opening hearts and expanding horizons,” she announces, but I’m barely listening because Richard has reappeared next to my chair, looking more agitated than I’ve ever seen a ghost look.
“You need to be careful,” he says, his voice carrying an urgency as if he were trying to prevent a disaster.
“This isn’t just about alternative lifestyles and relationship therapy with a side of chocolate.
There’s money involved—lots of it. The kind of money that makes people do stupid things and kill each other over it. ”
Before I can ask what he means by lots of money or whether we’re talking yacht money or small-country money, he vanishes in a spray of angry red stars that look like they’re having their own temper tantrum, leaving me surrounded by a room full of women discussing the finer points of ethical non-monogamy while my brain tries to process the growing list of secrets, lies, and potential motives floating around this ship like toxic confetti at the world’s least romantic party.
When your friendly neighborhood ghost starts warning you about money, murder, and lifestyle choices that would make your grandmother clutch her pearls hard enough to break the string, you know you’re dealing with more than just relationship counseling gone wrong—you’re dealing with a floating crime scene disguised as a Valentine’s Day love-fest, and someone is about to discover that some secrets are worth killing for even when surrounded by chocolate.