Chapter 29
Iscan the Royal Ballroom like a detective at a crime scene, which, given my track record, might be more accurate than I’d like to admit.
Jazz has vanished faster than common sense at a Vegas wedding, leaving me to navigate through couples getting far too frisky for public consumption.
“Good grief,” I mutter, dodging a pair engaged in what appears to be interpretive frisky romance near the ice sculpture. “Did someone announce this was a clothing-optional event? Because I missed that memo.”
The ballroom drowns in Valentine’s overkill—melting ice sculptures, cascading roses losing their petals in record time, and enough romantic atmosphere to choke on.
Moody music plays while couples engage in PDA that definitely violates several maritime laws.
People are acting as if this is the Love Boat sans a murder suspect in the mix.
And I suppose I’d rather not have murder on my mind either.
Considering half these couples are probably married to other people, thanks to the Crimson Key Society’s flexible approach to commitment, the whole scene gives me serious ick factor.
Nothing ruins a formal party quite like watching strangers explore their alternative lifestyle choices under crystal chandeliers.
Richard zooms around the room like a red rocket with a constellation of stars in his wake, moving with supernatural speed before returning to my side.
“She’s on the balcony,” he growls so loud the chandeliers above give a rattle. “Jazz is out there alone, and she’s more agitated than I’ve ever seen her. Her energy is practically crackling with nervous tension.”
“Perfect,” I say. “Because I’m about to have the most important conversation of this entire investigation. Time for a little heart-to-heart with our potential killer.”
The private balcony off the Royal Ballroom hits me with an ocean breeze that carries the salt tang of the Atlantic mixed with the distant sound of waves against the ship’s hull.
Moody slow songs drift through the glass doors like romantic background noise, while the twinkle lights strung overhead create the kind of ambiance that’s either perfect for proposals or confessions that could destroy lives.
Jazz stands at the railing like a woman contemplating either the infinite beauty of the ocean or the finite nature of her freedom. Her bohemian dress flows in the sea breeze while her chunky jewelry catches the moonlight streaming down from a clear February night.
“Mind if I join you?” I ask, stepping onto the balcony next to her. “It’s getting a bit intense in there.”
Jazz startles for a moment. “Oh! Trixie. Of course. The party is overwhelming, isn’t it?”
“Overwhelming is one word for it,” I agree, settling beside her at the railing while trying to look like someone enjoying romantic ocean views instead of someone calculating escape routes. “But, hey, the view out here is incredible.”
“Yes,” Jazz says with a sigh, looking distracted with more pressing matters than scenic appreciation. “There’s something calming about the endless expanse of water. Makes our problems seem smaller somehow.”
“Or makes them seem more urgent,” I say, noting how her hands grip the railing with enough tension to leave fingerprints in the metal. “I guess it depends on the nature of the problems.”
Jazz belts out a short-lived laugh, but she looks forlorn still the same. “You’re very perceptive, Trixie. I can see why Ransom finds you so intriguing.”
Richard materializes beside us with the timing of a ghost who’s been waiting for exactly this moment. “She’s terrified,” he observes as he inspects the woman. “Her entire composure is cracking like ice in hot water.”
I completely agree.
“As a psychiatrist,” I begin as I lean her way, “you’d have easy access to both lorazepam and digoxin, wouldn’t you?”
A gasp escapes her. The woman’s entire body freezes solid as her confidence evaporates like mist over the ocean.
She gags in response. “I’m not sure what you’re implying,” she says with careful composure, but she can’t quite mask the panic creeping into her voice.
“Those are common medications in psychiatric and cardiac care. Why would you bring them up?” She looks at me unblinking because she knows exactly why I brought them up.
“I guess they are common,” I agree without raising my voice one octave. I’ve learned that the best confessions come from people who talk themselves into corners. “And easily obtainable through legitimate channels when you know the right people.”
Richard nods with confirmation. “She was always asking Lavender about her heart condition, claiming it was for research on stress-related cardiac issues. Lavender gave the woman her complete medical history.”
“But then you’re able to write prescriptions yourself, aren’t you? I bet if I did a little digging, I could confirm the fact that you were in possession of them.”
“It was for research,” Jazz says quickly, seizing on the explanation like grabbing a life preserver. “I was conducting studies on drug interactions. Particularly, how cardiac medications affect psychiatric treatment outcomes in elderly patients.” She gives a curt smile as if to say she’s bested me.
“Interesting research,” I say, just a hint louder than the roaring wind. “Especially when combined with inside knowledge about a specific patient’s medical vulnerabilities.”
Jazz’s professional facade crumbles in an instant. “I don’t know what you’re suggesting, but I resent the implication that I would misuse my medical knowledge.”
“Lavender didn’t steal your research,” I announce as all the dots finally connect. “You stole hers.”
She turns her head so fast you’d think I struck her.
“That’s ridiculous,” she protests with a fake laugh, but her voice carries enough desperation to let me know her well-constructed lies are collapsing in real time. “Lavender and I were partners. We collaborated on everything.”
“You were partners until she discovered you were planning to publish her work under your own name,” I continue. “Years of research on therapeutic polyamory and mental health outcomes—research that was worth millions in publishing deals and speaking engagements.”
Richard’s countenance glows a brilliant shade of blue against the dark sky. “That’s why she was so secretive toward the end. She’d figured out what Jazz was planning.”
“She confronted you, didn’t she?” I press, watching Jazz’s face cycle through emotions like someone experiencing all five stages of grief simultaneously. “Lavender discovered your plan to steal her life’s work and present it as your own.”
“It was MY work!” Jazz explodes with fury. “I did the research! I conducted the interviews! I analyzed the data! Lavender just provided the funding and the publicity connections! Geez, the woman was nothing but a walking, talking ego!”
“So you decided to eliminate the problem,” I say with a grim satisfaction. “You orchestrated this entire cruise scenario, didn’t you? You booked it six weeks ago and manipulated Lavender into joining you?”
Jazz barks out a bitter laugh. “It was brilliant, actually. I told her it would be perfect for recruiting new participants for our research. She never suspected I was planning to frame that sanctimonious Claudette for her murder.”
“Frame Claudette,” I repeat. And there you have it. “Because a traditional marriage counselor with a history of threats against Lavender would make the perfect suspect.”
“Exactly,” Jazz practically purrs with professional pride. “Everyone knew about their rivalry. Mark’s affair with Lavender, Claudette’s affair with Richard—Claudette’s career was built on hypocrisy, her desperate need to eliminate anyone who threatened her reputation. She is the obvious suspect.”
Richard grows rigid with anger, and his aura takes on a red-hot hue. “She used our affair against Claudette. Turned our moment of comfort into a weapon for her murder plot.”
“The digoxin and lorazepam combination was particularly clever,” I continue, keeping Jazz talking while my brain processes how to land her in handcuffs.
“Using Lavender’s own heart condition against her, combined with your professional knowledge of psychiatric medications.
You said yourself you researched the topic.
It’s clear you gleaned a deadly thing or two. ”
“That’s right.” Jazz bleeds a black smile.
“I knew exactly what would trigger a fatal episode,” she admits with clinical detachment, as if discussing a successful experiment.
And she is. “The beauty of it was that it would look completely natural—a stressed woman with a heart condition having a cardiac event during an emotionally charged confrontation.”
“Except it wasn’t natural,” I point out. “It was calculated murder using your medical expertise to commit what you were hoping would be the perfect crime.”
“It wasn’t until you showed up.” Jazz’s expression shifts from pride to something approaching desperation as she realizes how much she’s just revealed.
It’s funny what a little night magic and roaring waves could do to a person.
“You can’t prove any of this. It’s all speculation and circumstantial evidence.
I’m a doctor. They’ll believe my word over yours. ”
“Actually, I think I can prove quite a bit,” I say, after all I’ve just witnessed a full confession. “Starting with your admission that you orchestrated this entire cruise scenario specifically to murder Dr. Lavender Voss.”
“Yes, I killed her!” Jazz screams with the fury of a woman who’s finally tired of pretending to be the victim. “She deserved to die for what she took from me! Years of my life, my research, my career—she was going to destroy everything I’d worked for!”
“So you destroyed her instead?”
“She ruined my career, stole my life’s work,” Jazz continues with the desperate justification of someone who’s convinced herself that murder was reasonable. “Not the other way around, Trixie. I had every right to take back what was mine!”