“Geez, how tragic was that?” Jazz shakes her head while stabbing her banana slices with unnecessary violence. “I didn’t sleep a wink last night. Kept thinking about what she might have wanted to tell you. Probably something about the conference, knowing Lavender. She was always obsessing over details most people wouldn’t even notice.”
She pauses her banana massacre to take what might be the world’s most defeated sip of coffee. “I came up here for caffeine that could wake the dead and possibly the most boring breakfast on the ship.” So, she is in touch with reality on some level. That’s actually how Bess, Nettie, and I describe the breakfast offerings around here, boring. “But to be honest, I didn’t have the energy to battle people at the buffet. And the last thing I wanted was to be seated with my colleagues and friends in the main dining room, pretending everything is normal when nothing will ever be normal again.”
I nod with sympathy. Heaven knows I’ve been there, done that, and bought the t-shirt that readsI Came for the Buffett, Stayed for the Body.
“You have a lot to process. Do you think you’ll be heading off the shipthis morning?”
“Not me.” She shudders. “I just signed up for everything the spa could give me—deep tissue massage, hot stone therapy, aromatherapy facial, reflexology, the works. I’ll be otherwise occupied until dinner, getting pampered into a state where I might actually function again instead of looking...” she gestures at herself, “...whatever this is.” She takes another sip of coffee and stares out at the harbor. “You’re right. I do have a lot to process.” She shrugs as if she’s suddenly indifferent. “I guess they’re removing Lavender this morning. I spoke with that gloriously hot security officer earlier. Have you seen him?” Jazz’s eyes take on a dreamy quality that suggests she’s thinking thoughts that would make her husband wonder about her grief counseling techniques.
“I’m familiar,” I say dryly, because familiar is putting it mildly when you share a bed and streaming passwords with the man in question.
“I’d love to get some comfort from a man that gorgeous—someone strong enough to make me forget about all this mess for a few hours, if you know what I mean.” She fans herself with her napkin. “Anyway, he said they’re going to do a complete autopsy on Lavender.” Another shudder runs through her. “I mean, she had a heart condition. You could call her mother, and she’d tell you Lavender complained of chest pains every day for the last three weeks. Her line of work was more stressful than people realize.”
“What exactly was her line of work?” I ask, because apparently, I’m incapable of having casual conversations without turning them into interrogations.
Jazz straightens up, transitioning into lecture mode. “Lavender was a pioneer in progressive relationship therapy. She helped couples expand their emotional and physical boundaries, and explore new dynamics in their partnerships. She wrote extensively about modern love, alternative relationship structures, polyamory, open marriages. She was years ahead of her time in understanding that traditional monogamy doesn’t work for everyone.”
Oh wow. That’s a lot. And I’m not entirely sure if all of that is legal.
She pauses to take another violent stab at her banana. “She ran seminars, workshops, retreats—anywhere couples wanted to learn about conscious uncoupling, ethical non-monogamy, or just how tocommunicate better about their needs. She was brilliant at helping people navigate complex relationship territories.”
“Sounds like important work,” I say, filing away her careful academic language for later translation into plain English. And when I said important, I meant morally debased. I was in an open marriage once—only I wasn’t in on the fact it was open until I saw a whole slew of naked women filing out of my bedroom.
“What about her personal life?” I continue, because subtlety has never been my strong suit.
Jazz’s entire demeanor shifts, her bohemian earth mother persona warming like she’s talking about her favorite saint. “Oh, Lavender was the sweetest, most generous person you’d ever meet. She’d give you the shirt off her back without thinking twice. She’s done so much for our community. The Crimson Key Society wouldn’t exist without her vision and dedication. She’s going to be so sorely missed.”
Her voice takes on a morbid fervor as if delivering a eulogy. “But thankfully, there are still plenty of speakers here for the conference. I just know Lavender wouldn’t want all her hard work to go to waste. She worked tirelessly organizing this trip, spent countless hours coordinating with the cruise line, arranging speakers, planning workshops. This Valentine’s cruise was going to be her masterpiece—a celebration of love in all its forms.”
“Was she married?” I ask. I mean, the woman was an expert on relationships, you’d think she had a few herself.
Jazz’s expression crumbles like a cookie someone forgot in the rain. “She was. Her husband Richard tragically took his own life less than six months ago.Pills. It was an absolute disaster—such a sweet, gentle soul who just couldn’t handle the pressures of modern life. It brought Lavender and me closer than ever, though. Grief has a way of bonding people, you know? She was like a sister to me.”
Her phone buzzes, and she glances at it with relief, grateful for any distraction from painful memories. “It’s from my husband. He’s headed to Stonehenge.” She quickly types into her phone, her thumbs dancing all over the screen. “I’m just wishing him a good time. He won’t be alone; he’s going with the rest of the group.”
She presses her lips together with the expressionof a girl who’s about to share gossip that’s too good to keep to herself. “I let that gorgeous detective know that Claudette would be there today. Someone should really keep an eye on her, you know? In case something in that autopsy reveals that Lavender’s heart was working just fine. That woman wanted Lavender dead. Everyone heard her threats. She made no secret of the fact she hated everything Lavender stood for.”
“Why do you think that is?” I ask, leaning forward like a therapist who charges by the revelation. And I really should.
“Heck if I know.” Jazz shrugs with the kind of bewilderment that suggests she’s genuinely mystified by traditional relationship values. “Some people are just threatened by progress, I guess. They’d rather cling to outdated models of partnership than embrace the beautiful complexity of human connection. It’s like they’re afraid that if other people find happiness in different ways, it somehow invalidates their choices.”
Her phone chirps again, and she glances at it with sudden excitement. “Oh! A slot just opened up for my deep tissue massage. They can take me earlier than expected. If you’ll excuse me, I need to go let someone work the knots out of my shoulders before I turn into a pretzel.”
She gathers her things with the kind of hurried efficiency that suggests spa appointments wait for no one, even grieving friends. She’s sort of right on that one.
“Have a wonderful day at Stonehenge!” she calls over her shoulder as she rushes off. “Just watch out for falling rocks and homicidal traditionalists!”
Well, I didn’t say I was going—but, let’s face it, she’s not wrong.
As Jazz rushes off to her therapeutic pampering, I sit back in the chichi bamboo chair and contemplate the morning’s revelations. Not only will I be checking out Stonehenge this afternoon, but I might just be checking out a potential killer who’s been hiding behind traditional marriage values and conservative sensibilities.
Because sometimes the most dangerous people are the ones who smile sweetest while sharpening their knives behind their backs, and Claudette Sterling just moved to the top of my suspect list faster than a tourist rushing to catch the last bus to an ancient monument.
And now I’m extra curious about thisprogressive relationship therapybusiness. Something tells me the Crimson Key Society wasn’t just teaching couples how to communicate better—it was unlocking doors that should have stayed locked, revealing truths that should have stayed buried. And whatever dark secret was hiding behind all that therapeutic double-speak, someone decided it was worth spilling blood to keep it from seeing daylight.
CHAPTER 8
The English countryside rolls past our tour bus windows like a living postcard painted by someone with unlimited access to every shade of green in existence. And it is such a verdant delight.
