Chapter 27
As soon as dinner is through, Bess, Nettie, Ransom, and I head to tonight’s grand gala being hosted by the captain himself.
“Well, would you look at Cupid’s hostile takeover,” I tease as we step into the Royal Ballroom, where every surface of the Emerald Queen of the Seas has been attacked by hearts, roses, and enough pink to cause retinal damage.
“It’s like someone took every romantic cliché in existence and turned up the volume,” Bess observes, adjusting her elegant navy dress that makes her look like royalty who’s decided to grace us commoners with her presence.
“Good thing I wore my fancy underwear. You never know when romance or disaster will strike, and they’re basically the same thing at our age,” Nettie adds, practically shimmering in her hot pink cocktail dress that’s encrusted with enough sparkling rhinestones to make a Vegas showgirl jealous.
“This beats our usual evening entertainment of bingo riots and trivia night fistfights.”
True as gospel.
The Royal Ballroom hits me with sensory overload that would make the Vegas strip green with envy.
Crystal chandeliers cascade light like molten silver while red roses tumble from every available surface in waterfalls of romantic excess.
The scent of sweet chocolate pastries mingles with fresh coffee and whatever aphrodisiac the ship’s florists apparently bathe their flowers in, creating an olfactory assault that I wholeheartedly approve of.
Heart-shaped ice sculptures gleam under soft lighting, slowly melting into romantic puddles while soft rock music filters through the speakers. The gentle clink of crystal flutes mingles with bouts of laughter and the rustle of formal wear.
“I have to give it to Tinsley. She really outdid herself. This truly is the party of the year,” I say, smoothing my stunning red evening gown—the one Elodie smuggled into my closet and claimed was research equipment for romantic homicide investigations.
She’s not entirely wrong. Although she might be wrong about the heels she’s paired it with.
These four-inch wonders might be encrusted with rhinestones, but I’m silently cursing Elodie for the way they make my feet beg for mercy.
Ransom appears beside me in a black tuxedo that makes him look like James Bond’s more attractive brother. The man could probably commit crimes and get thank-you notes for his actions just by existing in formal wear.
“You look absolutely stunning,” he murmurs, sliding his arm around my waist with the confidence of a husband who knows he’s about to get lucky. And so am I.
“You clean up pretty well yourself,” I say, although pretty well is like calling the Eiffel Tower moderately tall. “Try not to break too many hearts tonight.”
“I’m only interested in one heart,” he says with that devastating smile that still makes my pulse quicken to unsafe levels after months of marriage. “And I promise to take very good care of it.”
We look out at the sea of people, and sure enough, all of the important players are here. Two camps with two very different values. Both groups mingle through the ballroom like opposing armies at a very civilized war.
The Valentine Renewal Couples’ Retreat occupies one corner in conservative elegance—traditional marriage advocates dressed like they’re attending a state dinner.
Meanwhile, the Crimson Key Society flows through the opposite side in sophisticated attire that suggests they’re planning to revolutionize romance one designer dress at a time.
“It’s like watching Republicans and Democrats at the same cocktail party,” Nettie points out, because she’s survived enough social warfare to qualify for diplomatic immunity. “Everyone’s being polite, but you can practically see the ideological daggers flying.”
Rex appears like the quintessential silver-haired romantic hero, his perfect tuxedo making him look like every distinguished gentleman fantasy come to life. He extends his arm to Bess like a perfect gentleman.
“Shall we explore the champagne situation?” he suggests with the kind of charm that probably makes most women reconsider their life choices and geographical preferences. I’m just not thrilled that Bess is one of them.
“Lead the way.” Bess practically floats away on his arm, leaving Nettie and me standing there like a couple of abandoned wedding guests.
“There goes our third musketeer again,” I mutter, watching my friend disappear into the crowd of romantic warriors.
“She’ll be back,” Nettie says with enough confidence that lets me know she’s watched enough relationship disasters to predict their trajectories. “Men like Rex are like expensive desserts—delicious for a while, but eventually you need something more substantial.”
I hate to break it to Nettie, but he seems substantial in addition to being as delicious as an expensive dessert. Face it, Bess is a goner.
Tinsley storms over like a cruise director with serious anger management issues, her formal dress doing nothing to hide the fact that she’s still carrying grudges about morning art classes and French tourism. At least the mustache and beard have vanished.
“There better not be a Valentine’s Day massacre, Trixie,” she announces with authority as if she’s personally responsible for maintaining romantic order on the high seas. “This is supposed to be about love, not body counts.”
“I’ll do my best to keep the carnage to a minimum,” I say with feigned innocence. Heck, I’ve learned that sincerity only encourages Tinsley’s dramatic tendencies.
She turns to Ransom and growls at him as if he were a potentially dangerous accomplice. “Keep your killer wife in check tonight. Some of us have reputations to maintain.”
“I will,” Ransom agrees with a wink that immediately gets him in trouble with approximately fifty percent of his marriage.
My mouth falls open and my eyes widen with mock outrage—okay, fine, not so mock—but my husband has just publicly agreed that I need adult supervision.
But before he can launch into damage control, Quinn Riddle materializes beside him like a security officer with serious timing issues and potentially case-breaking information.
“I’ve got a lead,” she announces with an urgency that suggests this could change everything. “We can’t discuss it here.”
She shoots me a look that suggests whatever she’s discovered doesn’t belong in civilian ears, even those civilian ears that happen to be married to the head of vessel security.
“I’m sorry.” Ransom sighs my way as if negotiating a cease-fire with an armed and beautiful adversary. “I’ll be back soon. Stay out of trouble?”
He kisses me with enough conviction to make the Valentine’s decorations blush, then disappears into the crowd like a tuxedoed ninja with important detective work and a wife who specializes in finding trouble whether she’s looking for it or not.
“Famous last words,” I call after him, but he’s already gone, leaving me alone in a ballroom full of potential killers, relationship evangelists, and champagne that’s making everyone overshare about their romantic philosophies.
I’m about to say something else when a spray of miniature red stars appears beside us like supernatural confetti, revealing Richard in all his dapper yet ghostly glory.
He materializes wearing what appears to be a glowing white dinner jacket, looking distinguished and instantly smitten as his gaze settles on Nettie.
I quickly grab her hand. “Your supernatural plus-one just showed up.”
“It’s about time, Hot Stuff,” she says, pecking her gaze somewhere near my left. “Ready to rumble and tumble and have a totally out-of-body experience?”
Richard belts out a belly laugh. “My dear woman,” he says with just enough ghostly charm to make supernatural romance seem perfectly reasonable. “You’re absolutely radiant this evening. I’ll have any kind of experience you want.”
“Why, thank you, you old charmer,” Nettie replies, her cheeks turning approximately the same shade as her rhinestone-encrusted dress. “I see death certainly hasn’t dimmed your appreciation for a well-dressed woman.”
“Would you care to join me at the buffet?” Richard asks with a suave formality that would make living men jealous. “I believe the champagne selection deserves proper appreciation, and I’d be honored to escort such a magnificent lady.”
“I’d be delighted.” Nettie practically glows with supernatural satisfaction, releasing my hand as she links her arm through Richard’s. “Trixie, honey, we’ll be at the buffet if you need us. Try not to track down any killers without proper backup!”
I make a face. Talk about your famous last words.
They head toward the elaborate food displays together, Nettie chatting animatedly with her invisible escort while other guests probably assume she’s having a very enthusiastic conversation with herself. And no one would fault her for it. The champs is flowing pretty freely tonight.
I’m about to hit the buffet myself and turn to find Elodie approaching in a silver gown that’s clearly been designed by people who understand how to weaponize fabric and have zero moral qualms about it.
“That old bat has finally lost it,” Elodie says, nodding to Nettie. Oddly enough, coming from Elodie, those words sounded more like terms of endearment.
“She’s just having a conversation,” I start with a grimace, “and the other participant is just difficult to see.”
“I get it. Honey, at our age, all the good men are either married, dead, or imaginary,” Elodie purrs with her special brand of wisdom as if she’s made peace with limited romantic options.
And really, does Elodie have limited options?
I think not. “At least the imaginary ones have excellent listening skills.”
She looks absolutely devastating in silver silk that moves like liquid metal designed to short-circuit the male brain, her blonde hair styled to perfection, and her smile suggests she’s already identified tonight’s romantic targets.
“You look incredible,” I tell her, and I mean it. “And I suspect that dress is going to cause traffic accidents among the waitstaff.”
“That’s the plan.” She grins with predatory satisfaction. “A girl’s got to have hobbies, and mine involves making men forget their own names while maintaining plausible deniability about my intentions.”
Before I can respond to this philosophy of romantic warfare, Dr. Jazz Stone glides over like a bohemian goddess in flowing emerald fabric designed by someone with advanced degrees in seduction.
“Trixie! Elodie!” She gushes as if she’s just spotted old friends at a party. And I’d like to think we are. “Thank you both so much for coming by the other night to our private gathering. It was absolutely wonderful having you there.”
I gasp as I look at Elodie with horror. Clearly, she’s been conducting independent research without proper supervision. “You were there?”
Elodie practically purrs with delight like a cat who’s been caught with cream and excellent gossip. “You were there? Now this is one story I’ve got to hear!”
Jazz laughs as if she finds us endlessly entertaining. “Oh, it was delightful! We had such meaningful conversations about expanding boundaries and exploring authentic connections.”
“Speaking of authentic connections,” I say to Jazz, trying to steer this conversation away from activities that would make Cupid blush, “I have to admit I could never share Ransom. The thought alone makes me want to hide him in a tower with a very sturdy lock. I know that’s not quite as progressive as you hoped I would be. ”
“I completely understand how it feels to have something precious stolen from you,” she says with a shrug. “When someone takes what’s rightfully yours, what you’ve worked for, what you’ve built... it’s devastating.”
Something in her tone sends my detective radar pinging, but before I can analyze her choice of words, she continues with renewed brightness.
“Well, I should mingle!” she announces, floating away toward another group of passengers who probably have no idea they’re about to be psychoanalyzed by someone with the intent to land them and their partners horizontally—in the naughtiest sense of all.
I turn to Elodie and swat her. “You’ve been conducting unauthorized romantic espionage. Elodie, you’re playing with married men!”
“Married men are playing with me,” she corrects, because obviously she’s perfected the art of technicalities. “There’s a significant difference in both initiative and legal liability.”
She scans the ballroom with predatory efficiency. “Speaking of which, I see one now who looks like he could use some therapeutic attention.”
Before I can warn her about the dangers of treating marriage like a competitive sport, she’s already gliding away toward her next romantic target as if on a mission from Cupid himself.
That leaves me standing alone in a ballroom full of potential killers, relationship revolutionaries, and champagne-fueled confessions, and I catch Claudette Sterling standing by herself near the windows, looking more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen her.
Mrs. Traditional Values appears to be having her own private moment of contemplation, staring out at the dark Atlantic as if she’s searching for answers in the endless expanse of ocean, and something about her isolation makes her seem less like a potential killer and more like a woman carrying the weight of secrets that could destroy everything she’s built.
I think it’s time for a little chat with someone who’s been living a lie so convincing she’s probably started believing it herself.
After all, parties like this are where secrets come to die, where champagne loosens tongues and formal wear provides the perfect camouflage for confessions that could change everything.