Chapter 24 #2
“Says the woman who ditched us for a silver fox,” Nettie fires back. “At least my man can walk through walls—talk about convenient.”
I nod to Richard for him to continue.
“Claudette and I,” Richard gives a heavy sigh, his voice taking on the weight of a confession, “we were both betrayed spouses seeking comfort. It wasn’t love—it was survival. Two people watching their marriages dissolve into something unrecognizable.”
“So you found solace in each other’s arms,” Bess says with understanding because she’s recently discovered the complications of midlife romance herself.
“Until Lavender found out,” Richard says, his expression darkening. “That’s when things became dangerous.”
Before he can elaborate, a familiar voice cuts through our supernatural conversation like a thunder through a storm.
“There’s my beautiful Bessie!”
Rex Hartwell appears beside our table like a romantic hero who’s been personally delivered by central casting, his silver hair catching the Parisian afternoon light as he extends his hand to Bess in a gallant manner.
“Rex!” Bess practically levitates from her chair, and just like that, our ghostly conversation is immediately forgotten in favor of flesh-and-blood romantic possibilities.
“I finished my business early,” he says with a laugh. “How about if I steal you away for a private tour of the city?”
“I’ll see you back on the ship!” Bess calls over her shoulder as Rex escorts her away from our table like a pirate absconding with treasure. And Bess floats down the sidewalk without so much as a backward glance at our murder investigation.
“Well,” Nettie observes, watching our friend disappear into the Parisian crowd. “There goes our third musketeer again.”
She turns to Richard with bold confidence that would make women half her age jealous. “Richard, would you mind being my date? I’d love a ghost’s perspective on old Paris—even if I can’t hear a word you’re saying. I always did have a hankering for the strong, silent type.”
“My dear woman,” Richard replies with a gallantry of his own that somehow makes supernatural romance seem perfectly reasonable, “I would be honored to escort such a magnificent lady through the streets of the most romantic city in the world.”
“Catch you back on the Queen!” Nettie announces, linking arms with our resident spirit like she’s done this sort of supernatural thing before. They disappear into the crowd together—an eighty-something American tourist talking to her dead sort of boyfriend as they head off to see the sights.
“It’s going to get awkward when people start asking questions,” I say.
“Nettie will figure it out. She always does,” Ransom says with a curve of his lips as he reaches across the table and picks up my hand. “Looks like it’s just my beautiful bride and me. And I have ideas.”
“Whatever did you have in mind, Detective?” I ask, though the gleam in his eyes suggests I already know the answer.
The afternoon unfolds like a romantic montage as we walk hand-in-hand along the Seine, the river reflecting afternoon sunlight like liquid stars while street musicians provide a rhythm to our impromptu dance lessons on ancient cobblestones.
The Louvre visit captivates me more than I expected—I find myself pulling Ransom from painting to painting, explaining brushwork techniques and composition while he watches me with more interest than he’s showing the Mona Lisa.
We lose ourselves in the art for hours, though I suspect he’s mostly just enjoying my enthusiasm.
Lunch at a sidewalk bistro means sharing French onion soup that’s basically cheese held together by good intentions, and conversation that reminds me why I married this man in the first place.
And then there’s the shopping. I buy myself perfume from a tiny boutique, macarons that won’t survive the afternoon, a scarf that makes me feel impossibly French, and some lacy underthings from a shop that would make Elodie stand up and applaud.
As the sun begins to set, we return to the Eiffel Tower like moths drawn to iron flames, taking the elevator to the top for what Ransom promises will be the romantic climax of our Parisian adventure.
“This,” he says as we reach the observation deck with Paris spreading below us in a glittering display of lights and history, “is why they call it the City of Light.”
He pulls me into his arms like he’s been planning this all day, and when his lips meet mine, the entire city disappears.
The kiss starts gentle and quickly escalates into something that would make the French approve of our commitment to romance, passion, and public displays of affection that definitely earn us some appreciative whistles.
When we finally come up for air, both breathless and slightly dizzy from altitude and attraction, I realize something that makes my blood turn to ice water.
“Oh my goodness,” I gasp, fumbling for my phone with hands that suddenly won’t cooperate. “What time is it?”
The screen shows 4:47 P.M., and our ship was scheduled to sail at 6:00.
“We have minutes to spare.” Ransom winces before glaring at the horizon.
“Can we make it?”
“Not unless we can teleport,” he replies, already calculating the distance between the Eiffel Tower and Le Havre’s port—approximately two hours by human transportation methods.
We race down the elevator like our lives depend on it, which they might, considering we’re about to be stranded in France while a murderer roams free on our floating home.
The taxi ride becomes an exercise in international diplomacy as we attempt to explain our emergency to a French driver who speaks approximately three words of English, none of which are helpful in maritime crisis situations.
By the time we reach Le Havre’s port, sprinting through streets with shopping bags and the desperation of people who’ve just realized they’ve made a catastrophic miscalculation, it’s 6:15 P.M.
The Emerald Queen of the Seas sits majestically in the harbor, her lights twinkling like a floating city of romance and potential homicide.
But she’s moving away from the dock with the inevitable grace of departure schedules that wait for no one, not even passengers who’ve been solving murders and conducting supernatural investigations in foreign countries.
We stand on the dock like romantic refugees, watching our home disappear into the distance while carrying our friends, our belongings, and most importantly, a killer who’s now beyond our reach.
“Tinsley knows exactly who’s missing from the passenger manifest,” Ransom says with a resigned sigh. He understands cruise ship protocols all too well. “She had to clear our absence with Wes.”
The implications hit me like French pastry to the face—Wes sailed without us deliberately, leaving us stranded in Le Havre while a killer continues to roam free among our friends and fellow passengers.