“Digoxin?” I ask, my brain shifting into high gear despite the romantic ambiance and sugar overload that’s making me feel like I could either solve crimes or take a very long nap. “What exactly is that again?” I’m pretty sure I’ve encountered it, but honestly, with so many bodies piling up, it’s tough to remember where, when, and who the victim was—which probably says something disturbing about my new lifestyle.
“Heart medication,” Ransom explains with professional tact that somehow makes him even more attractive, which is really unfair given the circumstances. “Derived from foxglove plants. In therapeutic doses, it treats heart conditions. In high doses, especially combined with lorazepam, it causes heart failure that looks completely natural.”
“How would someone get access to it?” Wes asks, and I can tell he’s already calculating the implications for his ship and passengers while probably also wondering if his insurance covers murder investigations. It doesn’t. The people from Royal Lineage have already contacted me and asked me to knock it off, in not so many words.
“It’s a prescription medication, but it’s also found in certain plants,” Ransom replies. “The amount found in her system was definitely not therapeutic. Someone poisoned her deliberately with the kind of planning that suggests either medical knowledgeor access to the internet and a disturbing lack of conscience. It’s officially a murder investigation.”
“It was official to me the moment Trixie saw that ghost,” Wes observes with dry humor that doesn’t quite mask the seriousness of the situation. “Nothing says murder like supernatural witnesses.”
“Speaking of the ghost,” I say, suddenly remembering my conversation with Rex, “I think I have some information that’s going to complicate this case even more.”
Both men turn their attention to me with the kind of focused intensity usually reserved for emergency situations or really good gossip.
“Rex told me that Claudette and Richard were having an affair,” I announce, watching their expressions shift from surprise to calculation.
And the silence that follows feels as if I’ve inadvertently hit the mute button on reality.
“Richard didn’t deny it,” I continue, remembering the ghost’s explosive reaction. “In fact, he turned red-hot with rage and disappeared. I haven’t seen him since, which might be for the best given that angry ghosts are probably worse than angry living people.”
“So, our primary suspect was having an affair with the victim’s husband,” Ransom says slowly, processing the implications as if he were solving a very complicated equation—and a deadly equation at that. “That changes her motive from professional rivalry to deeply personal betrayal.”
“The traditional marriage counselor was living a lie,” Wes adds with the kind of irony that would be funny if it weren’t so potentially murderous. “Her entire career is built on values she was actively violating.”
“Which gives her both professional and personal reasons to want Lavender dead,” I observe, reaching for my wine with a newfound need. Face it, my life has just become a heck of a lot more complicated.
My phone buzzes and I quickly turn it over.
It’s a text from Jazz that reads like an invitation to activities that would make my pastor add me to the prayer list.
Hi Trixie! Hope you and your husband will be interested in joining our closed-door session tonight. The group would love to have you both. Very intimate gathering, very discreet. Let me know! XOXO Jazz
I stare at the screen, frozen, having just been invited to participate in activities that definitely aren’t covered in standard etiquette manuals.
“What is it?” Ransom asks with a growl.
“I think we just got invited to swing,” I say, waving the phone at them like it might bite.
Another bout of silence hits us, this time involving all three of us—and boy, have we swung way out of the realm of reality.
Wes starts laughing first—a low chuckle that builds into full-blown amusement at the absurdity of our situation. “Let me get this straight. We’re investigating a murder involving swingers, and they just invited the detective’s wife and the ship’s head of security to join their activities? This is like an adult-themed episode ofScooby-Doo.”
“No way,” Ransom doesn’t hesitate. “Absolutely not happening,” he states with finality as if Wes had just suggested we volunteer for experimental surgery. And well, he sort of did.
“The investigative value would be incredible,” Wes teases. “A perfect way to get inside information about group dynamics, relationships, and potential motives. Very hands-on research.”
“Hell no,” Ransom growls. “Pick another strategy.”
“The personal cost would be damning,” I say.
“Not to mention the relationship implications,” Wes adds, glancing between Ransom and me with something that might be amusement or concern.
We sit in the candlelit romance of the captain’s private dining quarters, surrounded by the remnants of our victory dinner and the weight of decisions that could either solve a murder case or destroy everything we thought we knew about ourselves and each other.
Sometimes the most dangerous invitations aren’t the ones that threaten your life—they’re the ones that threaten to reveal exactly who you are when nobody is watching.
CHAPTER 23
“This is all Weston Crawford’s fault,” Ransom grumbles as we navigate the ship’s corridors toward what might be the most questionable decision of our marriage. “I should have known better than to listen to a man who thinks investigative value is a valid excuse for attending activities that would make our grandmothers spontaneously combust.”
