Chapter 22
“Well, this is awkward,” I announce as Ransom and I step into the captain’s exclusive private dining quarters, where the romantic ambiance hits us like a tidal wave of rose petals and champagne delusions.
To be fair, Wes and I were the winners, and we were both more than gracious to let Ransom tag along.
I jest, mostly.
The intimate lounge screams romance louder than a teenager at a boy band concert—plush burgundy velvet seating arranged around a table clearly designed for two people, not three, crystal chandeliers casting soft light that makes everyone look like they’re starring in their own romantic movie, and floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the dark Atlantic like nature’s own screensaver for lovers.
A private balcony extends beyond French doors, where a table set for two has been hastily adjusted to accommodate our unusual dinner party dynamics.
The scent of roses mingles with expensive wine and whatever culinary masterpiece is about to make this evening even more complicated, while soft jazz drifts from hidden speakers like the soundtrack to the world’s most uncomfortable romantic triangle.
Candles flicker on every surface, Valentine’s touches drape the space, and everything about this room suggests intimate conversation and romantic confessions, not security briefings with competing love interests.
“This is what happens when you win romantic prizes,” Ransom growls as he surveys the candlelit paradise. “You get stuck in rooms designed for people who actually like each other.”
“The three of us like each other,” Wes points out with a curt nod, but there’s something in his eyes that suggests he’s enjoying this situation far more than he should. “We’re just navigating a few complex dynamics.”
“Complex dynamics,” I repeat, settling into the velvet seating while trying to pretend this isn’t the most romantically charged room on the ship. “That’s one way to describe whatever psychological warfare you two are about to conduct over dinner.”
A crew member shows up with our prize menu, handling it like it’s evidence in a murder trial. And with the way Ransom is glaring at Wes, there might be a murder trial pending.
“Your victory dinner,” she announces with professional calm, even though I catch her glancing between the three of us with barely concealed curiosity.
“Oysters Rockefeller with champagne foam, truffle-infused foie gras with brioche points, and caviar service with traditional accompaniments to start.”
The appetizers arrive looking like edible jewelry designed by someone with serious artistic training and easy access to expensive ingredients.
The oysters glisten under champagne foam, while the foie gras sits on brioche points like a luxury spread designed to bankrupt nations.
The caviar service includes all the traditional accompaniments arranged like a still life painting you want to devour—buttery blinis fanned across the plate, clouds of crème fra?che, and tiny mountains of chopped egg that practically glow against the caviar itself.
“Nice technique in the kitchen today, Captain,” Ransom says as he attacks his oyster with the enthusiasm of someone channeling aggression into mollusks. “Very hands-on approach to instruction.”
“To quote our instructor, ‘Teamwork makes the dream work,’” Wes replies with the hint of a grin that probably makes territorial husbands consider violence. “My wife is an excellent student.” He winks with the dig.
It’s all I can do not to gasp.
“My wife,” Ransom emphasizes with the subtlety of a jackhammer at dawn, “has many hidden talents.”
I nearly choke on my caviar. “Could we possibly get through one course without you two marking your territory like wolves in designer suits? Because I’m starting to feel like a fancy bone you’re both ready to bury in the backyard.”
“I wasn’t aware we were being territorial,” Wes says with the innocent expression that lets me know he definitely knows exactly what he’s doing. “I was merely complimenting your culinary skills.”
“Oh please.” I laugh, reaching for my wine and feeling a lot like I’m trapped in a romantic comedy written by someone with a twisted sense of humor. “You two are practically peeing on the furniture. If this gets any more territorial, I’m going to need a referee and possibly a spray bottle.”
“Your husband started it,” Wes points out with the maturity of a seventh grader, although his grin suggests he’s having the time of his life.
“I started nothing,” Ransom protests, which might be the most obviously false statement since someone claimed the Titanic was unsinkable. “I was merely observing that some people seem very comfortable with close collaboration.”
“Close collaboration?” I repeat, nearly choking on my drink. “We made risotto, not porn. Although admittedly, watching you two right now is more uncomfortable than accidentally walking in on my parents when I was twelve.”
“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Detective,” Wes says coolly.
“Nor does desperation suit you, but here we are,” Ransom shoots back.
The silence that follows is stony. But thankfully, the main courses arrive before either man can respond—Wagyu beef tenderloin with burgundy reduction that looks like culinary perfection personified, lobster thermidor with saffron rice arranged like edible architecture, and Chilean sea bass with miso glaze that gleams like liquid gold under the candlelight.
The sides include lobster mac and cheese with chunks of butter-poached claw meat, asparagus with hollandaise and actual gold leaf, and potato gratin with aged gruyere that probably costs more per ounce than precious metals.
“This food is incredible,” I say, taking a bite of the Wagyu that practically melts on my tongue like butter made of happiness and expensive cattle. “Can we focus on appreciating culinary artistry instead of whatever alpha male competition you’re conducting?”
“I’m not competing,” Wes says mildly, though the way he cuts his lobster suggests he’s imagining it’s something else entirely—possibly Ransom’s head. “I’m simply enjoying dinner with friends.”
“Friends,” Ransom repeats with the kind of loaded emphasis that could put a bullet in the chamber all on its own.
“Right. Friends who win romantic cooking competitions together and then celebrate with candlelit dinners that look like a Valentine’s Day card.
” He gives a short-lived smile to Wes before outright glowering at him.
“It was just food preparation.” I swing my fork between them, loaded with lobster mac and cheese as if to prove a point.
“Food preparation that involved a lot of close collaboration,” Ransom observes, his knife working through the sea bass with surgical precision that suggests he’s imagining other targets—specifically certain ship captains who shall remain nameless but rhyme with mess.
A mess with Wes, now that has a ring to it. A truthful ring.
The dessert spread arrives like the grand finale to a very expensive and very complicated evening—chocolate soufflé with raspberry coulis that rises like edible clouds, a crème br?lée trio in vanilla bean, lavender, and espresso flavors arranged like a sweet rainbow, profiteroles with dark chocolate ganache, macarons in Valentine’s colors arranged like pastel sweethearts, and fresh berries with champagne custard sauce that sparkles like liquid diamonds.
“Gentlemen,” I announce, reaching for the chocolate soufflé with the determination of a woman who’s decided sugar is the answer to romantic tension.
“I’m about to focus entirely on dessert, which means you have exactly five minutes to get whatever territorial posturing out of your systems before I start throwing pastries. ”
Ransom’s expression shifts from jealous husband to professional security officer.
“Speaking of getting things out of our systems,” he says, setting down his fork with a certain gravity. And why do I get the feeling he’s about to deliver news that changes everything? “I’ve been sitting on some information that you both need to hear.”
Wes and I exchange a glance.
“The emergency that pulled me away from the cooking competition,” Ransom continues, his voice taking on the clinical tone he uses for official business—and, well, everything else, “was a call from the coroner’s office.”
The temperature in the dining room drops approximately twenty degrees.
“They found elevated levels of digoxin in Lavender’s system.” He raises a brow my way as if I may know something about this. “Along with lorazepam. The combination was most likely designed to mimic a heart attack.”
“Digoxin?” I ask, my brain shifting into high gear despite the romantic ambiance and sugar overload that’s making me feel like I could either solve crimes or take a very long nap.
“What exactly is that again?” I’m pretty sure I’ve encountered it, but honestly, with so many bodies piling up, it’s tough to remember where, when, and who the victim was—which probably says something disturbing about my new lifestyle.
“Heart medication,” Ransom explains with professional tact that somehow makes him even more attractive, which is really unfair given the circumstances.
“Derived from foxglove plants. In therapeutic doses, it treats heart conditions. In high doses, especially combined with lorazepam, it causes heart failure that looks completely natural.”
“How would someone get access to it?” Wes asks, and I can tell he’s already calculating the implications for his ship and passengers while probably also wondering if his insurance covers murder investigations.
It doesn’t. The people from Royal Lineage have already contacted me and asked me to knock it off, in not so many words.
“It’s a prescription medication, but it’s also found in certain plants,” Ransom replies.
“The amount found in her system was definitely not therapeutic. Someone poisoned her deliberately with the kind of planning that suggests either medical knowledge or access to the internet and a disturbing lack of conscience. It’s officially a murder investigation. ”
“It was official to me the moment Trixie saw that ghost,” Wes observes with dry humor that doesn’t quite mask the seriousness of the situation. “Nothing says murder like supernatural witnesses.”
“Speaking of the ghost,” I say, suddenly remembering my conversation with Rex, “I think I have some information that’s going to complicate this case even more.”
Both men turn their attention to me with the kind of focused intensity usually reserved for emergency situations or really good gossip.
“Rex told me that Claudette and Richard were having an affair,” I announce, watching their expressions shift from surprise to calculation.
And the silence that follows feels as if I’ve inadvertently hit the mute button on reality.
“Richard didn’t deny it,” I continue, remembering the ghost’s explosive reaction. “In fact, he turned red-hot with rage and disappeared. I haven’t seen him since, which might be for the best given that angry ghosts are probably worse than angry living people.”
“So, our primary suspect was having an affair with the victim’s husband,” Ransom says slowly, processing the implications as if he were solving a very complicated equation—and a deadly equation at that. “That changes her motive from professional rivalry to deeply personal betrayal.”
“The traditional marriage counselor was living a lie,” Wes adds with the kind of irony that would be funny if it weren’t so potentially murderous. “Her entire career is built on values she was actively violating.”
“Which gives her both professional and personal reasons to want Lavender dead,” I observe, reaching for my wine with a newfound need. Face it, my life has just become a heck of a lot more complicated.
My phone buzzes and I quickly turn it over.
It’s a text from Jazz that reads like an invitation to activities that would make my pastor add me to the prayer list.
Hi Trixie! Hope you and your husband will be interested in joining our closed-door session tonight. The group would love to have you both. Very intimate gathering, very discreet. Let me know! XOXO Jazz
I stare at the screen, frozen, having just been invited to participate in activities that definitely aren’t covered in standard etiquette manuals.
“What is it?” Ransom asks with a growl.
“I think we just got invited to swing,” I say, waving the phone at them like it might bite.
Another bout of silence hits us, this time involving all three of us—and boy, have we swung way out of the realm of reality.
Wes starts laughing first—a low chuckle that builds into full-blown amusement at the absurdity of our situation.
“Let me get this straight. We’re investigating a murder involving swingers, and they just invited the detective’s wife and the ship’s head of security to join their activities?
This is like an adult-themed episode of Scooby-Doo. ”
“No way,” Ransom doesn’t hesitate. “Absolutely not happening,” he states with finality as if Wes had just suggested we volunteer for experimental surgery. And well, he sort of did.
“The investigative value would be incredible,” Wes teases. “A perfect way to get inside information about group dynamics, relationships, and potential motives. Very hands-on research.”
“Hell no,” Ransom growls. “Pick another strategy.”
“The personal cost would be damning,” I say.
“Not to mention the relationship implications,” Wes adds, glancing between Ransom and me with something that might be amusement or concern.
We sit in the candlelit romance of the captain’s private dining quarters, surrounded by the remnants of our victory dinner and the weight of decisions that could either solve a murder case or destroy everything we thought we knew about ourselves and each other.
Sometimes the most dangerous invitations aren’t the ones that threaten your life—they’re the ones that threaten to reveal exactly who you are when nobody is watching.