“I’m going full adventurer with the bazaar bowl,” Nettie announces, studying her menu with the intensity of a scholar examining ancient texts. “Chilled labneh yogurt, beets, cucumber, almond, and homemade naan bread. It’s health food that’s been to finishing school.”
“Pan-seared scallops with cauliflower purée and pancetta for me,” Bess decides, closing her menu with the satisfaction of a woman who’s just made an excellent culinary choice. “Because if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”
“The Wagyu beef carpaccio with truffle oil and microgreens,” Ransom selects with the confidence of a man who knows good food when he sees it. And it’s always a steak.
“Wild mushroom tartlet with goat cheese mousse and herb oil,” Wes adds, proving that captains have excellent taste in more than just ships.
Wes clears his throat with the kind of authority that suggests we’re about to discuss something more serious than whether the wine pairs well with whatever culinary masterpiece we’re about to consume.
And here we go.
“So, Ransom,” he begins, and I can practically hear the shift in the conversation’s gears, “any updates on our situation?”
The temperature at our table drops faster thanmy blood sugar after a buffet binge. Ransom’s jaw does that tightening thing that means bad news is coming dressed up in professional terminology.
“The body gets transferred when we dock in Portland,” he says, keeping his voice low enough that neighboring tables can’t add our conversation to their dinner entertainment. “Scotland Yard is meeting us there.”
Bess tips her head like she’s considering a particularly interesting crossword challenge. “Just like last time.”
“And the cruise before that,” Nettie chirps with enthusiasm. “At this point, they should just assign us a permanent liaison. Maybe get matching jackets that sayFrequent Crime Scene Visitors.”
“TheEmerald QueenDeath Detection Squad,” Bess suggests with a mournful laugh. “You have to admit, it has a professional ring to it.”
Wes nearly aspirates his wine. “You’re talking about international law enforcement like they’re your bowling league.”
“Well, we do meet them with impressive regularity,” I point out, and Ransom shoots me a look that’s half amusement, half please don’t encourage them.
Our appetizers arrive looking like they belong in an art gallery instead of on dinner plates. My cold-smoked yellow tomato velouté looks like liquid sunshine decided to get fancy, while Nettie’s bazaar bowl resembles what would happen if a rainbow got a degree in nutrition. Bess’s pan-seared scallops sit like golden medallions on their cloud of cauliflower purée, Ransom’s Wagyu beef carpaccio is arranged like rose petals crafted from premium cattle, and Wes’s wild mushroom tartlet looks like something a fairy would serve at a very upscale dinner party. And that’s exactly what this is turning out to be.
“This is almost too pretty to destroy with my face,” I murmur, then immediately contradict myself by diving in with the enthusiasm of a woman who’s never met a soup she didn’t like.
“Almostbeing the keyword,” Bess agrees, attacking her scallops like they owe her money. “Sweet Neptune’s beard, these are incredible.”
“If food this good is wrong, I don’t want to be right,” Nettie declares around a mouthful of her rainbow bowl. And it does look as if she’s hit the end of the rainbow with that treasure.
Ransom turns to me with that careful expression he gets when he’s about to ask something he knows will start an argument. “Have you seen our ghostly friend again?”
I shake my head while savoring another spoonful of what might be the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth, and that’s saying something considering my relationship with food. I already let Ransom know about our disembodied friend last night when he came to bed. Suffice it to say, our pillow talk is out of this world.
“Not since the welcome party. He looked nice enough—cozy sweater, sad eyes, like he wanted to tell someone their house was on fire but couldn’t figure out how to work the phone.”
“And that’s how we know it’s murder.” Wes sighs with the resignation of a man who’s watched too many people die on his floating city.
“That and the fact Claudette and Lavender looked ready to duke it out with dessert spoons,” Nettie adds matter-of-factly. “The hostility between those two could’ve powered the ship’s engines.”
“About Claudette,” Ransom says in that gentle but firm voice he uses when he’s about to ruin my investigative fun. “I talked to her earlier. She’s pretty shaken up and feels awful about what happened. So I’m asking nicely—don’t interrogate her.”
I blink at him with the innocent expression I’ve been perfecting since childhood. “I wasn’t planning on interrogating anybody.”
The silence that follows lasts about three beats before Bess, Nettie, and Wes break out in a laugh.
Traitors.
“Don’t be such a buzzkill, Sexy,” Nettie gravels out while waving her fork at Ransom with the authority of an octogenarian who’s lived long enough to speak her mind freely. “The universe wants Trixie hunting down killers, and you know it. And it probably expects her to make them walk the plank when she’s done.”
Wes makes a noise like he’s contemplating career changes. “Please don’t joke about that.” He shoots me a look that saysno plank under any circumstances.
“Who’s joking?” Nettie’s eyes light up with glee. “I’m all for old-fashioned maritime justice. Feed ’em to the fishes andproblem solved.”
