“What are we going to do now?” Richard asks, frustrated as our murder investigation hits another dead end.
“Look for Nettie,” I say, even though my brain is still processing Claudette’s revelations and calculating their implications. “You seemed pretty smitten with her earlier.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice.” Richard zooms ahead, and I follow along toward the buffet where I last saw my octogenarian friend conducting supernatural romance, but instead of Nettie Butterworth, I collide into Rob Stone like a philosophical freight train carrying hemp jewelry and cosmic justifications for less than traditional life choices.
“I’m so sorry!” he apologizes with that Zen smile of his. Something tells me he apologizes to furniture when he bumps into it. “I guess the universe must have wanted us to connect.”
“I guess it did,” I say with a laugh. “Actually, Rob, do you mind if I ask when this cruise was booked by your group?”
His easy grin widens as if I had asked about his favorite spiritual practice. “Less than six weeks ago.”
“Are you sure?” I press, as my brain does victory laps around the dance floor.
“I’m positive. My wife Jazz booked it herself. She said it was perfect timing for some kind of cosmic alignment she’d been planning.” He floats away toward another group of passengers who probably have no idea they’re about to be psychoanalyzed by someone with convenient access to dangerous medications.
Jazz.
Claudette booked a year in advance. Jazz booked six weeks ago. Someone orchestrated this collision of traditional marriagecounselors and progressive relationship revolutionaries, and it wasn’t the traditional marriage counselor.
Another thought strikes me with the force of an iceberg cutting through a ship’s hull, and I take off into the crowd to catch Rob before he disappears into the cosmic consciousness, but instead, I barrel directly into Bess and Rex, making out behind a giant red glitter heart like a couple of teenagers at a school dance with excellent taste in hiding places.
“Ooh, sorry!” I say, immediately closing my eyes because some things can never be unseen, no matter how much you wish they could. “But while I have you here, Rex, can I ask what Lavender might have been afraid someone would expose her for? That conversation we had about Claudette is still fresh in my mind.”
Rex pulls back from Bess with a reluctant expression. It’s safe to say he’s not thrilled to have his romantic activities interrupted by amateur detective work.
“Let’s see,” he sighs hard. “I did hear a lot of chatter from Lavender about some brilliant research she was assisting with. Said the work was so groundbreaking she was going to cut to the chase and publish it herself.”
I gasp as I look at Richard, the pieces of this murder puzzle finally arranging themselves into a pattern that makes terrible sense. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Before Richard can answer, Rex turns to Bess with renewed romantic intensity. “Yes, I think we need to find somewhere a little more private to continue with our business.”
“Oh honey, I agree.” Bess swoons as if all of her romantic fantasies are finally coming true.
Richard and I look out at the ballroom full of potential killers, relationship evangelists, and champagne-fueled confessions, while my brain processes the devastating realization that we’ve been investigating the wrong suspect for all the wrong reasons.
Because sometimes the most dangerous murderers aren’t the ones driven by passion or revenge—they’re the ones driven by the desperate need to reclaim what was stolen from them.
CHAPTER 29
Iscan the Royal Ballroom like a detective at a crime scene, which, given my track record, might be more accurate than I’d like to admit.
Jazz has vanished faster than common sense at a Vegas wedding, leaving me to navigate through couples getting far too frisky for public consumption.
“Good grief,” I mutter, dodging a pair engaged in what appears to be interpretive frisky romance near the ice sculpture. “Did someone announce this was a clothing-optional event? Because I missed that memo.”
The ballroom drowns in Valentine’s overkill—melting ice sculptures, cascading roses losing their petals in record time, and enough romantic atmosphere to choke on. Moody music plays while couples engage in PDA that definitely violates several maritime laws. People are acting as if this is theLove Boatsans a murder suspect in the mix. And I suppose I’d rather not have murder on my mind either.
Considering half these couples are probably married to other people, thanks to the Crimson Key Society’s flexible approach to commitment, the whole scene gives me serious ick factor. Nothing ruins a formal party quite like watching strangers explore their alternative lifestyle choices under crystal chandeliers.
Richard zooms around the room like a red rocket with a constellationof stars in his wake, moving with supernatural speed before returning to my side.
“She’s on the balcony,” he growls so loud the chandeliers above give a rattle. “Jazz is out there alone, and she’s more agitated than I’ve ever seen her. Her energy is practically crackling with nervous tension.”
“Perfect,” I say. “Because I’m about to have the most important conversation of this entire investigation. Time for a little heart-to-heart with our potential killer.”
The private balcony off the Royal Ballroom hits me with an ocean breeze that carries the salt tang of the Atlantic mixed with the distant sound of waves against the ship’s hull. Moody slow songs drift through the glass doors like romantic background noise, while the twinkle lights strung overhead create the kind of ambiance that’s either perfect for proposals or confessions that could destroy lives.
Jazz stands at the railing like a woman contemplating either the infinite beauty of the ocean or the finite nature of her freedom. Her bohemian dress flows in the sea breeze while her chunky jewelry catches the moonlight streaming down from a clear February night.
