“She had such a gift for helping people see past their conventional limitations,” continues a woman with silver hair and enough diamonds to blind passing aircraft. “The after-hours gatherings she organized were absolutely transformative.”
“Such a shame about what happened,” her companion sighs. “But I have to say, I’m not entirely surprised. That woman from the traditional marriage group had it out for her from day one. The tension was thicker than this chocolate mousse.”
And the mousse is pretty thick.
I file this information away in my mental murder folder and spot Jazz standing alone near the front of the room, looking like the hippy version of a sea goddess contemplating the mysteries of the universe—or possibly calculating how many mimosas it would take to get through the rest of her presentation without losing her professional composure.
Time for a little reconnaissance mission that doesn’t involve chocolate theft.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Nettie, who’s currently conducting what appears to be a scientific study of the sea foam mousse’s structural engineering.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she calls after me with the authority of a woman who’s done pretty much everything at least twice.
“That leaves me with a lot of options,” I shoot back.
Jazz brightens like a Christmas tree plugged into the main power grid the moment she spots me approaching. “Trixie! I’m so happy to see you here. You know, I was just thinking you’d be perfect for our community.”
“Your community?”
“The lifestyle!” She practically radiates enthusiasm. “You should totally consider joining us for our special Crimson Circle gathering tonight. One of our wealthier members rented the Emerald Suite—it’s this gorgeous two-story penthouse with a private hot tub and everything you could possibly need for... intimate gatherings.”
I recall that Ransom had a suite like that when I first met him, before they renovated the ship’s upper decks. It was a stunner. I wouldn’t mind checking out another luxury suite, but the things that will be happening within those cabin walls is enough to make me want to disinfect my brain with industrial-strength bleach and possiblya lobotomy.
“You should bring your husband,” Jazz continues with the kind of breathless excitement usually reserved for pyramid schemes and cult recruitment—and a woman looking to sleep with my husband. “I can tell just by looking at him that he’s so open to everything. The lifestyle would be perfect for you two. You both have that adventurous energy.”
I try not to shiver with disgust while maintaining what I hope passes for polite interest instead of barely contained horror. “That’s... very generous of you.”
A constellation of tiny red stars materializes near the mermaid sculpture behind Jazz with all the subtlety of a fireworks display, and Richard appears looking like a man who’s just been forced to sit through his own funeral again, except this time with more uncomfortable relationship advice and fewer flowers. Again.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says to me, though only I can hear him, and honestly, that’s probably for the best. “But I’ve heard all this before, and I have absolutely no intention of hearing any of it again. My afterlife has enough trauma without reliving Lavender’s sales pitches.” He shoots Jazz a look that could flatten premium champagne. “So, did she do it? Did she kill my wife? Because if not, I’m going to start haunting people at random just to feel productive.”
I sigh internally because we didn’t get that far in our investigation, and having a ghost demanding answers while surrounded by women discussing flexible relationship arrangements is not exactly conducive to productive detective work. It’s like trying to solve a crossword puzzle during a rock concert while someone’s juggling flaming torches nearby. That someone would be me.
“Jazz,” I venture carefully, “you knew Lavender pretty well. Tell me about her marriage to Richard. Were they happy? Or was it more like a business arrangement with occasional holiday cards?” I try my hardest not to give him a sideways glance.
Jazz’s expression turns appropriately mournful. “As far as I knew, they were fine. Lavender rarely talked about personal stuff; she was very focused on helping others expand their horizons.” She pauses, then her eyes narrow slightly. “But Claudette and her husband? That’s a different story entirely.”
“What do you mean?”
“They were far from fine. That’s why Mark painted his forehead withI’M MARRIEDin permanent ink.” She gestures dramatically, clearly enjoying having a captive audience for this piece of gossip. “Apparently, he’d been caught stepping out more than once, and Claudette told him he’d have to tattoo those words across his forehead before she’d even consider taking him back. And that’s exactly what the poor bastard did—permanent ink, professional tattoo artist, the whole nine yards.”
She pinches her lips together like she’s tasting something bitter, or possibly trying not to laugh at someone else’s misfortune. “You know, don’t you think it’s odd that Claudette chose this particular cruise to try to repair her marriage? She’s the leader of that traditional marriage cult, and she knew for a fact we would be here. It’s like bringing a vegetarian to a barbecue.”
I edge back slightly because Jazz’s intensity is starting to match the Valentine’s decorations in sheer overwhelming force. “She did? How do you know?”
“I’m a researcher,” Jazz says with pride as if she’s just announced they’ve discovered the cure for Monday mornings and possibly world hunger. “I spent a lot of time attending her marriage restoration meetings undercover. It’s part of the holistic research I do—understanding different approaches to relationship therapy. Know your enemy and all that. Plus, the coffee at those meetings was surprisingly good.”
“That is important,” I say with a shrug. “Though I have to wonder—with all this animosity between the groups, were there any other incidents? Any other deaths or suspicious circumstances involving members from either side? Maybe Lavender’s husband, Richard?”
Richard tosses his ghostly hands in the air with exasperation. “What’s your fascination with me? I’m dead! We’re here to solve Lavender’s murder, not mine.” He deflates like a punctured balloon. “I’ve already solved the mystery of my own death, and frankly, it’s not nearly as interesting as you’d think.”
I feel bad for the guy. Death is apparently no escape frommarital drama.
Someone taps Jazz on the shoulder—a woman with the kind of aggressive perkiness that suggests she’s been mainlining caffeine and positive affirmations since dawn. “It’s time to get back to it, Dr. Stone.”
“Of course,” Jazz says, but before she can escape, I grab her attention one more time. “Jazz, if this wasn’t a natural event—if someone wanted Lavender gone—who do you think would do it? Outside of Claudette, I mean.”
She closes her eyes for a moment, and when she opens them, there’s something almost sad in her expression. “I’m sorry, Trixie, but there isn’t anyone outside of Claudette who comes to mind.” She snaps her fingers. “In fact, you should talk to Rex Hartwell. He’ll attest to that. He knows all about Claudette’s threats, her passive-aggressive behavior, and her general hostility toward anything that challenges her worldview.”
