Before I can ask what Rex Hartwell has to do with any of this, Jazz takes off toward the makeshift stage with determination because, let’s face it, she’s got a room full of women waiting for enlightenment about flexible relationship arrangements.
I’m about to head to my seat when a commotion breaks out.
The sound starts as a gentle tinkle—like wind chimes having a nervous breakdown—and escalates quickly into what can only be described as a pastry avalanche of epic proportions. I turn to see Nettie, surrounded by what used to be an artfully arranged display of coral reef cheesecake bites, looking like the epicenter of a dessert earthquake.
“I just wanted to see if they were hollow!” she protests to the rapidly approaching crew member, her heart-shaped sunglasses askew and her pink sweater now decorated with passion fruit drizzle that wasn’t there five minutes ago.
I make a face. It’s the same excuse she gave at Stonehenge. Although I’ll admit, it’s a good go-to.
“Ma’am, you need to step away from the dessert display,” the crew member says with the patience of a person who’s dealt with Nettie-level chaos before. Many, many times before.
“But I’m conducting a quality control assessment!” Nettie argues. “These cheesecakes could be a serious safety hazard! What ifsomeone gets injured by improperly layered pastry? The lawsuits alone could sink this ship!”
Something tells me that Nettie is going to sink this ship someday.
“Ma’am—”
“Fine, fine.” Nettie raises her hands in surrender, though she still eyes the remaining desserts with the expression of a scientist whose experiment has been rudely interrupted. “But mark my words, you need to investigate the engineering specifications of these pastries before someone gets hurt.”
The crew member escorts her toward the exit with the kind of gentle firmness usually reserved for removing intoxicated passengers from the karaoke lounge. As they pass me, Nettie calls out, “I regret nothing!”
Despite her eviction, I find myself a seat next to where Candy had been, but she’s disappeared into the crowd like smoke in a hurricane. Jazz has managed to garner the attention of the room again, her voice cutting through the dessert chaos with ease.
“Ladies, let’s continue our discussion about opening hearts and expanding horizons,” she announces, but I’m barely listening because Richard has reappeared next to my chair, looking more agitated than I’ve ever seen a ghost look.
“You need to be careful,” he says, his voice carrying an urgency as if he were trying to prevent a disaster. “This isn’t just about alternative lifestyles and relationship therapy with a side of chocolate. There’s money involved—lots of it. The kind of money that makes people do stupid things and kill each other over it.”
Before I can ask what he means by lots of money or whether we’re talking yacht money or small-country money, he vanishes in a spray of angry red stars that look like they’re having their own temper tantrum, leaving me surrounded by a room full of women discussing the finer points of ethical non-monogamy while my brain tries to process the growing list of secrets, lies, and potential motives floating around this ship like toxic confetti at the world’s least romantic party.
When your friendly neighborhood ghost starts warning you about money, murder, and lifestyle choices that would make your grandmother clutch her pearls hard enough to breakthe string, you know you’re dealing with more than just relationship counseling gone wrong—you’re dealing with a floating crime scene disguised as a Valentine’s Day love-fest, and someone is about to discover that some secrets are worth killing for even when surrounded by chocolate.
CHAPTER 15
After spending the afternoon with Jazz and her lifestyle-exploring friends—an experience that left me questioning everything I thought I knew about modern relationships and the integrity of my own moral compass—Ransom and I met up and decided we needed to fill Wes in together about the nefarious naughty dealings going on behind his back and behind closed doors right here on theEmerald Queen of the Sea.
“Well, this is about as romantic as a tax audit,” I mutter as Ransom and I stroll through the ship’s corridors toward Deck 17, Valentine’s decorations draped around us like crime scene tape designed by Cupid’s overly enthusiastic intern.
We asked to meet up to discuss something important that deals with the ship and its passengers, but wouldn’t say more over the text, mostly because announcing, “Hey Captain, your ship is hosting a floating swinger convention,” seemed like the kind of conversation that required face-to-face delivery and possibly medical supervision. So, he invited us to a Chinese restaurant on board that recently underwent a renovation and probably has no idea it’s about to witness the most uncomfortable dinner conversation in maritime history.
Heart-shaped balloons bob against the ceiling like floating accusations of romance, while red and pink streamers twist through thebrass railings with the determination of party planners who clearly never heard the phrase “less is more.”
The scent of roses mingles with whatever industrial-strength aphrodisiac the cleaning crew apparently uses in their spray bottles, creating an olfactory assault that screamsLOVE IS IN THE AIRlouder than a fire alarm during Sunday service.
“At least the decorations match the scandal we’re about to discuss,” Ransom points out, his security officer instincts on high alert as we navigate past passengers who look as if they’ve been dipped in Valentine’s Day and rolled in glitter.
I’m about to say something and stop abruptly as something catches my eye. Something is off. There are dozens of small crimson key magnets discreetly attached to certain cabin doors like tiny beacons of biblical proportions. My brain, which apparently majored in Innocent Bystander Studies, suddenly connects the dots with all the grace of a freight train hitting a brick wall.
“Oh, sweet mother of maritime activities that violate several terms of service,” I breathe, stopping dead in my tracks. “Those aren’t just decorative magnets, are they?”
Ransom’s jaw tightens as his brain shifts into high gear, mentally cataloging door numbers with the efficiency of a detective who’s about to have a very uncomfortable conversation with the captain. “I have a feeling it’s their version of the upside-down pineapple—their own special swinging signal.”
“Ransom, we’ve been walking past these signals for days,” I whisper, feeling simultaneously naive and like I need a shower with industrial-strength soap. “I thought they were just really committed to the Valentine’s theme. I even complimented one couple on their festive door spirit!”
“Sometimes ignorance really is bliss,” Ransom mutters, though I bet he’s making mental notes like a man preparing for the world’s most awkward security briefing. “And sometimes it prevents you from accidentally becoming an unwitting participant in lifestyle recruitment.”
We share a moment of mutual horror that could power the ship’s navigation system—parthow did we miss this?and partdo we really want to know the answer?
The corridor echoes with soft jazz drifting from hidden speakers, punctuated by the distant clink of crystal glasses and whatever sounds people make when they’re having questionably therapeutic conversations behind closed doors. I decide not to analyze those particular sound effects too closely.
