“Oh please.” I laugh, reaching for a lemon tart that looks too perfect to eat but too delicious to resist. “You two were practically generating your own romantic soundtrack. I kept waiting for violins to start playing or for Cupid to show up with a mariachi band.”
“The only thing I was generating was a polite hello,” Bess insists as if she’s trying to convince herself more than us.
“Right,” Nettie says, selecting a chocolate-dipped strawberry. “And I suppose when he complimented your ‘stunning crimson ensemble’, he was just commenting on fabric quality?”
“Exactly!” Bess says, then catches herself. “I mean, he’s clearly a man who appreciates fine clothing craftsmanship.”
“Is that what we’re calling it now?” I grin. “BecauseI’ve never seen anyone appreciate craftsmanship that intensely while staring into someone’s eyes.”
Nettie leans forward, her brows already waggling. “Speaking of intense staring, what about that ghost you saw? The handsome one with the sad eyes who looked like he belonged in a cologne commercial for the recently deceased?”
I nod her way because she’s not wrong about that.
After we left what I’m pretty sure was a crime scene last night, I filled Bess and Nettie in on my new transparent companion.
I glance around the lounge, making sure we’re not being overheard by anyone who might question my sanity, my supernatural credentials, or my fitness for polite society. The last thing I need is rumors spreading that the woman who finds dead bodies also talks to them. Not that those rumors haven’t started before.
“You mean the cozy sweater guy?” I lower my voice to match hers.
Only a few people know about my supernatural quirk, and I plan on keeping it that way. Bess, Nettie, Wes, and Ransom comprise the entirety of my ghost-seeing support group on this ship, and that’s already four people too many for my comfort level and my sanity.
It turns out, I’m something called transmundane, further classified as supersensual, which means I can see the dead. Apparently, there’s an entire umbrella of supernatural talents, or curses as I like to think of them, ranging from reading minds to seeing straight into tomorrow. Somehow, I seem to have contracted the worst of it.
I didn’t always have this ghostly gig. In fact, it’s mostly Bess and Nettie’s fault that I have it at all. The day we met, these two women accidentally bonked me over the head with a vodka bottle they were warring over, and it’s been nothing but poltergeists and wraiths ever since. Well, technically, I only see the dead around the time a murder takes place, which is both a blessing and a curse depending on your perspective and your tolerance for supernatural drama.
And for reasons beyond my understanding, the rules state that the one who comes back from the other side to help me solve the case is the one the deceased loved most.
So whoever that tall, handsome specter is haunting this ship, Dr. Lavender Voss loved him the most.
“The fact that he looked relieved rather than devastated tells me everything I need to know about their connection,” I murmur, selecting a chocolate-dipped strawberry and wondering if it’s possible to overdose on refined sugar. “Most grieving loved ones don’t look like they’ve just been released from prison with time served for good behavior.”
“Maybe she was a difficult person to love,” Bess suggests with a little too much hope, because after witnessing the woman’s character for a few short hours, it’s like calling a tornado a gentle breeze.
“Difficult is an understatement,” Nettie adds, reaching for her third petit four with the enthusiasm of a woman who’s broken up with her bathroom scale permanently. “From what I’m hearing, that woman could start an argument in an empty room and probably did on a regular basis. I bet she criticized his breakfast choices, alphabetized his sock drawer, and had opinions about his breathing techniques.”
Before I can respond, a familiar voice cuts through our analysis like a stiletto through designer velvet.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite hussies gathered for high tea and low gossip.” Elodie glides over to our table with the satisfied swagger of a cat who’s not only gotten the cream but convinced the entire dairy farm to hand-deliver it with a bow on top. She settles into the empty chair next to me and wiggles her shoulders in a way that suggests she’s got news worth sharing.
“You’re in a good mood,” I observe, watching her practically glow with satisfaction. “Either you’ve discovered the fountain of youth or you’ve been up to something that would make your grandmother clutch her pearls.”
“Oh, it’s definitely the latter,” Elodie purrs, helping herself to a macaron because, let’s face it, she’s earned her carbohydrates through vigorous physical activity. Elodie chirps out a laugh. “I live to see that old bat wring her hands. I’m her least favorite grandchild. She once tried to make me wear a turtleneck to a school dance.” She averts her eyes. “That was the night I discovered bras make perfectly fine accouterments to be worn in public.” She pops a macaron into her mouth and promptly chomps it down. “For the record, Madonna stolethe look from me.”
If it were anyone else, I would be the one averting my eyes, but it’s Elodie. I fully believe her.
Nettie shakes her head knowingly at the woman. “She’s not only in a good mood, she’s downright glowing. You got lucky, didn’t you, Toots?”
Elodie’s grin could power the ship’s navigation system. “Let’s just say one of the studs from last night’s welcome party walked me to my room and provided some very thorough comfort in my time of grief. The man has healing hands and an impressive understanding of therapeutic massage techniques. Very therapeutic. He worked out all my tension—every last knot of it. Multiple times, in fact. The man believes in thorough treatment and repeat sessions for optimal results.”
“Therapeutic massage?” I raise an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“Oh yes, very therapeutic indeed.” Elodie fans herself with her napkin. “I may need several more therapy sessions before this cruise is over. For my emotional well-being, of course. It’s practically a medical necessity.”
“Of course,” I say, tossing another macaron her way. She did earn it.
“Good for you!” Nettie cackles with the enthusiasm of a granny who appreciates a good conquest story. “Nothing like a little medicinal male attention to cure what ails you.”
“Speaking of male attention,” Elodie turns her predatory gaze to Bess with the focus of a hawk spotting her prey, “how about you? That handsome silver fox who was practically undressing you with his eyes looked like he was ready to conduct his own private examination of your emotional well-being.”
