I scan the crowd for signs of Bess, but she’s safely ensconced at the spa getting what she described as extensive treatments that will apparently take most of the afternoon. Translation: she’s avoiding this romantic circus while I conduct surveillance on her potential Montana relocation specialist.
“Where’s your third partner in crime?” Elodie asks, following my gaze.
“Hiding at the spa,” I reply. “Probably getting seaweed wraps and pretending she’s not planning to abandon us for wide open spaces and questionable internet connectivity.”
“Smart woman,” Tinsley declares. “Though honestly, some of these connections are surprisingly genuine. I’ve seen people fall in love in elevator rides, bathroom lines, and buffet queues. Seven minutes is practically a lifetime in cruise ship romance—long enough to exchange life stories and discover whether someone is willing to share dessert.”
Leave it to Tinsley to find romance in a bathroom line.
The sound of a bell chimes across the deck, signaling rotation time, and passengers shuffle between stations like romantic livestock being herded towardtheir destiny.
Nettie waves at us from her new station before diving into what appears to be an intense conversation with a gentleman wearing enough cologne to asphyxiate passing seagulls.
“She’s certainly throwing herself into the experience,” Elodie observes with something approaching admiration.
“Nettie approaches everything with the enthusiasm of a woman who’s never met a bad idea she wouldn’t try twice,” I reply, the creamy chowder steaming in the afternoon air while providing the perfect cover for my surveillance activities.
“Speaking of bad ideas,” Elodie continues, “I’m conducting some field research of my own today. These men are sharing their deepest romantic desires in seven-minute increments. It’s like psychological profiling with better buffet food.”
“You’re absolutely terrifying and should probably come with a warning label,” Tinsley declares with what sounds suspiciously like admiration mixed with healthy fear.
“Thank you,” Elodie preens. “I’ve been working on my technique.”
That’s when I spot him—Rex Hartwell, silver-haired and distinguished, standing near the ship’s railing in what appears to be an intense conversation with Rob Stone, Jazz’s hippie husband with the sandy hair and Zen vibe who looks like he’s been practicing meditation since Woodstock ended and never quite came back to reality.
Their conversation looks anything but casual. Rob’s hemp jewelry catches the afternoon light as he gestures with the kind of animated urgency that suggests he’s discussing something more pressing than cosmic relationship dynamics. And well, Rex’s usual confident demeanor seems strained, his silver hair ruffled by the sea breeze as he leans in to catch every word.
Perfect. My target is finally away from Bess and engaged in what appears to be a very revealing conversation with someone connected to our murder victim.
“Well, ladies, this has been absolutely riveting,” I announce, gobbling up my chowder at an alarming pace, because if I’ve learned one thing, it’s to eat quickly between criminal investigations. “But I see someone I need to chat with.”
“Ooh, mysterious,” Elodie purrs. “Anyone I know?”
“Just another passenger,” I say, trying to sound casual, eventhough my detecting instincts are practically vibrating with anticipation.
“Well, I’m off to judge the Love Song Karaoke Challenge,” Tinsley says while consulting her clipboard like she was coordinating international peace negotiations. “Someone needs to ensure these people don’t traumatize each other with their musical interpretations of romance.”
“And I have a date with destiny,” Elodie announces, her gaze locked on a distinguished gentleman who’s just finished explaining his ideal romantic evening to someone who appears to be taking notes. “Or at least a date with someone who might be able to explain why men think discussing their ex-wives constitutes romantic conversation. Because nothing gets the motor running like hearing about someone else’s romantic failures.”
“That’s not foreplay, that’s forensics,” I call out after her, but she’s already gone.
Tinsley and Elodie drift away toward their respective romantic disasters, leaving me free to execute my surveillance mission. I watch as Rob Stone’s conversation with Rex reaches some kind of conclusion as the hippie massage therapist patting Rex on the shoulder with the kind of meaningful gesture that suggests he’s just delivered either very good news or very bad advice.
Rob heads back toward the speed dating chaos, probably to find Jazz and report on whatever cosmic relationship wisdom he’s just shared. Rex remains by the railing, staring out at the ocean, looking as if he’s processing information that’s either changed his life or confirmed his worst fears.
Time to find out which.
I cross the deck, throwing my shoulders back in confidence as if to say I’m definitely not about to interrogate a potential murder suspect, my empty chowder bowl providing the perfect excuse for wandering in his direction.
Rex’s charm and Rob’s hippy-dippy attitude is hiding something darker than the ship’s shadows, and I have a feeling their secret alliance is about to prove that murder makes the strangest bedfellow.
Here’s hoping I can get Sexy Rexy to tell me everything.
CHAPTER 20
“Mind if I join you?” I ask as I approach, settling into the chair across from him with ease—I’ve made a career out of appearing harmless right before asking uncomfortable questions about people’s connection to dead bodies and swinger societies.
Rex looks up from his contemplation of the Atlantic Ocean with the panic usually reserved for husbands caught deleting their browser history.
