“Claudette was more on board with the Crimson Key Society than you’d think, at least in the beginning,” Mark says, then immediately looks as if he wishes he could retract the words and possibly his entire existence, if not the last few years.
I blink at him with a stunned expression, like someone who’s just discovered their grandmother indeed had a secret career in exotic dancing. I hate it when Elodie is right. “Claudette? Traditional marriage valuesClaudette?”
“But then I had my affair, and she pulled the ripcord on everything—her friendship with Lavender, the lifestyle exploration, all of it.” Mark’s voice drops to barely above a whisper, as if speaking quietly might make the confession less devastating, or possibly erase it from reality through the power of wishful thinking. “Claudette basically reinvented herself overnight.”
The pieces of this murder puzzle start rearranging themselves in my brain like furniture in an earthquake. Claudette isn’t the innocent traditional wife she appears to be. She’s a woman with secrets worth killing for, a past worth burying, and apparently theacting skills to convince an entire cruise ship that she’s never met a lifestyle choice she didn’t disapprove of on moral grounds.
“So, she went into marriage counseling after that?” I prompt, trying to sound like someone making casual conversation instead of the fact that I’m mentally updating my suspect list and possibly planning intervention strategies that might require protective custody.
“She ventured into a successful traditional counseling career after that,” Mark confirms. “She’s giving me this chance not only because she loves me, but because it would be a tough sell if her own marriage couldn’t last.”
The irony is so thick I could cut it with a knife and serve it at the ship’s midnight buffet as a dessert course for people who enjoy their drama with a side of chocolate sauce.
A woman who once explored alternative relationship structures now makes her living preaching traditional marriage values, and her husband’s affair is both the catalyst for her career and the potential weapon for its destruction. It’s like watching someone’s entire life become a cautionary tale in real time.
“I won’t lie,” Mark continues with brutal honesty that probably violates at least six different NDAs his wife had him sign, “I’m not too upset about that pressure. I really do want to repair what we had, even if it means wearing my mistakes on my face for the rest of my natural life and possibly into the afterlife.”
“That must be incredibly stressful,” I venture with sympathy as I begin to wonder if this marriage is held together by more than love—it’s held together by mutual career interests and the kind of blackmail material that could destroy lives, “especially with Lavender being on the same cruise. All those old dynamics coming back up, all those buried secrets threatening to surface during formal dinner nights.”
Mark’s face goes pale enough to make his tattoo look like it’s been written in blood. “As much as I’d like to put it all in the past, it’s not time for that now.”
The way he says it makes me think the mysterious woman who just left might have delivered news that puts the past firmly in the present tense—with interest.
“The woman you were talking to earlier,” I press gently. “Did sheknow about your history with Lavender and Claudette? Was she part of that whole lifestyle scene?”
Mark’s head snaps up like I’ve just read his diary aloud to the tour group. “You saw that?”
“Hard to miss. She seemed... intense?”
“You can say that. That was Veronica. She used to run some of the Crimson Key events. I left my reading glasses in the main dining room and she was giving them back. She reminds me of that whole period,” he says carefully, like someone navigating a minefield while blindfolded. “I can’t believe we’re on the cruise with those people. Sometimes the past has a way of catching up with people when they least expect it.”
Before I can ask what exactly the past is threatening to catch up with, the sound of heels clicking against ancient stone interrupts our conversation like a marital smoke alarm.
“Mark! There you are!”
Claudette Sterling appears around the corner of the gift shop with the precision of a scorned wife who’s been tracking her husband’s movements with GPS accuracy. She looks absolutely radiant in her cream wool coat, like a woman who’s just spent the afternoon engaged in wholesome tourist activities instead of covering up potential homicidal tendencies.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she says, linking her arm through his with possessive affection that would seem sweet if I didn’t know about her secret past with alternative lifestyle exploration, or her husband’s propensity to wander.
“Just chatting with a fellow passenger,” Mark says with ease, as if he’s gotten very good at casual deception.
“How lovely.” Claudette’s smile could frost windows, but there’s something calculating in her eyes as she looks at me. “I hope Mark wasn’t boring you with too much talk about our marriage renovation project.”
“Not at all,” I reply, matching her artificial sweetness. “It’s inspiring to see couples working so hard to rebuild trust.”
The wordtrustmakes Claudette flinch her cheek as if I’ve just slapped her with a fish. Her grip on Mark’s arm tightens enough to cut off circulation, and I realize I’ve just witnesseda woman who’s spent years building a new identity only to have it threatened by a casual conversation with a nosy cruise passenger.
“Well, we should get back to the bus,” Claudette announces, quickly ending the conversation before it can do any more damage. “Lovely meeting you again, Trixie.”
They walk away with the careful coordination of people who’ve learned to present a united front even when their marriage is held together with permanent ink and professional necessity.
I watch them go, as my brain processes revelations that change everything about this case. Claudette isn’t just protecting her marriage—she’s protecting her entire career, built on the foundation of traditional values she once rejected. Lavender didn’t just represent ideological opposition—she represented the living embodiment of Claudette’s buried past.
“Did you get your postcards?” Candy appears at my elbow with timing that suggests she’s been watching the entire interaction.
“Something better,” I reply, still staring after the Sterlings. “I got the truth.”
“The truth about what?”
