My supernatural radar is pinging harder than a smoke detector with a dying battery.
Wes nods with the gravity of a captain who’s had to handle more maritime disasters than anyone should reasonably expect. “There will be a thorough investigation.”
Poor Wes. The man signed up to navigate ships through storms and tropical ports, not referee relationship therapists that end up dead in dessert displays. Being a cruise ship captain used to be about icebergs and rough weather. Now it’s about managing floating crime scenes and keeping passengers from murdering each other over philosophical differences about marriage. If indeed that’s what happened here.
And I can’t help but sigh. Wes never had to deal with any of this until I set foot on the ship. How I hate that I’m the common denominator when it comes to homicide.
“Trixie.” Ransom comes over and wraps his arms around me before fixing me with The Look—the one that suggests my amateur detective days might be heading for early retirement. “My department will handle this, along with the coroner. If this is indeed a homicide, we don’t need you speaking to any living suspects. Please.” He brushes a kiss across my cheek that somehow manages to convey both marital affection and professional warning. “Help get Bess and Nettie out of the room, would you?”
There it is—the gentle but firm husband dismissal. I recognize this tactic. It’s thehoney, why don’t you go powder your nose while the grownups handle the scary stuffapproach. Normally, I’d be offended, but given my track record, I suppose I can’t blame him for wanting me at a safe distance from the evidence.
He takes off before I can negotiate the terms of this evacuation, and Tinsley materializes like a perfectly groomed harbinger of doom. “Leave it to you to turn Valentine’s Day into a wake, Trixie. You’re like the Grim Reaper’s cruise director!”
Ironic since she’s the cruise director around here. I just teach a few art classes here and there—and sleep with the head of security on a nightly basis. I never said I wasn’t lucky.
“Trust me,” I tell her. “If I were running the afterlife’s entertainment division, the accommodations would be far less deadly and there’d be an open bar.”
But back to Tinsley Thornton, cruise director and professional pain in my posterior. The woman has elevated pointing out my flaws to an art form. If there were Olympic medals for passive-aggressive commentary, she’d have a trophy case. She’s pretty in an overstated way, lots of long chestnut-colored locks, perpetual tan, perpetual scowl, and a propensity to try to get me thrown overboard. Something tells me she’d love to make sure it happens herself.
Bess speeds over and unleashes a glare at Tinsley that could melt polar ice caps. “At least Trixie doesn’t spend her time polishing deck chairs while passengers jump overboard.”
“That’s theTitanic,” Nettie chimes in, bouncing next to her bestie. “Different ship, same level of customer service complaints.”
“Thank you for that,” I all but whisper their way. I think.
Heaven bless these two women. They’ve appointed themselves my personal defense attorneys against all critics, armed with nothing but sharp tongues and decades of accumulated sass. I don’t deserve friends this loyal, especially when my hobbies include accidentally discovering corpses at formal events. A part of me thinks they’re doing all they can to stay on my good side.
Tinsley’s smile could freeze margaritas. “The only reason you two defend her is because she lets you play in her deadly sandbox. Wake up, ladies. Wherever Trixie goes, the body count goes up.”
“Better than going up in dress sizes,” Bess fires back, giving Tinsley’s outfit a once-over that suggests it failed inspection.
It didn’t. But it’s the thought that counts.
I watch this verbal warfare with a level of appreciation because heaven knows I’ve witnessed many battles between these particular combatants. Tinsley always goes for the jugular, but she’s never prepared for the tag-team response of octogenarian wit. It’s like watching a shark encounter a pair of particularly clever dolphins armed with decades of experience and zero patiencefor nonsense.
“This isn’t over, Trixie Troublefield!” Tinsley storms off in a huff of indignation and designer perfume—and most importantly, she neglected to include my shiny new surname. I’m not surprised. She’s still pretty ticked that Ransom chose me over her—and that Wes still chooses me over her despite the fact I’m off the roster.
I start herding Bess and Nettie toward the exit like a shepherd managing particularly opinionated sheep. The chocolate fountain continues its cheerful gurgling, blissfully unaware it’s now starring in a homicide investigation.
“Those truffles never saw it coming,” Nettie grunts as we navigate around crime scene tape like mourners at a funeral.
“You can’t murder chocolate, Nettie,” Bess shoots back.
“Someone just did. Look at that carnage. It’s a crime against confectionery.”
She’s not wrong.
Even in evacuation mode, Nettie maintains her priorities. I have to admire her commitment to the important things in life—namely, quality confections and their untimely demise at the hands of falling relationship experts.
Near the door, Elodie has somehow managed to acquire a broad-shouldered consolation prize from the relationship seminar delegation. She catches my eye over his impressively muscled shoulder and winks—a clear signal that the investigation continues, preferably with attractive male assistance. Albeit, the only thing Elodie is investigating is who will end up in her bed next.
Trust Elodie to turn a murder scene into a networking opportunity. The woman could find romantic potential in a funeral home. Although I have to admit, if I were going to conduct undercover investigations, having a built-in excuse to get close to suspects wouldn’t be the worst strategy.
As we escape what used to be Valentine’s paradise and is now a chocolate-splattered crime scene, one thing becomes crystal clear—Dr. Lavender Voss won’t be expanding anyone’s relationship horizons anymore.
But something tells me her death is about to open up a whole new world of deadly possibilities, and I have the sinking suspicionthat someone just turned “till death do us part” from a vow into a very literal business plan.
Ransom says that his department has everything handled—that they don’t need me speaking to any living suspects—but he said nothing about the dead.
