The temperature in the room drops approximately twenty degrees, and I can practically see the frost forming on Claudette’s perfectly applied lipstick. But hey, Lavender is right; Claudette all but admitted it before the woman arrived.
“You stay away from me and my marriage,” Claudette hisses with enough venom to poison a small village. “I could just kill you for what you’ve done to couples like us.”
“And I could land you six feet under for accusing me of such.”
With that charming threat hanging in the perfumed air, the Sterlings storm off toward the buffet like refugees fleeing a war zone. I can’t blame them. I’d rather nosh on cake than have the obvious thrust into my face by what looks to be a nemesis.
“That escalated quickly,” I mutter, wondering if ship security has a protocol for handling homicidal marriage counselors or if this is a first.
I’m about to excuse myself to find Ransom and possibly witness protection when the vivacious woman we met earlier swoops in like a bohemian peace treaty in flowing fabric, her wild curly hair bouncing with each step.
“Please excuse them,” Dr. Jazz Stone says to Wes and me, waving her hands in mystical calming gestures that look like she’s trying to hypnotize us into forgetting what we just witnessed. And how I wish she could. “That woman has had it out for Lavender since the dawn of time, and over exactly what, well, there’s quite the mystery there.”
Lavender gives a brief nod of appreciation to the woman.
“No one can solve a mystery better than Trixie here,” Wes says before tensing as if he regretted the words for more than one reason. “Not even her husband, and he’s head of security.” He mutters that last part mostly to himself.
He’s not wrong, but still.
We all laugh because apparently that’swhat you do when someone casually threatens murder at a Valentine’s party, and I’m starting to wonder if this cruise will come with a higher body count than advertised.
“You’re too kind,” I say to Wes, though my amateur detective instincts are already cataloging every suspicious glance and thinly veiled threat for future reference and possible police reports.
“Some mysteries are better left buried, don’t you think, Jazz?” Lavender says with a smile that could freeze champagne mid-bubble.
Jazz laughs it off as if she’s had plenty of practice deflecting Lavender’s verbal grenades—quasi-friendly or otherwise. “Ancient history, honey. Shall we indulge in this magnificent spread before it gets cold?”
Before anyone can answer, a group of women surrounds Wes like paparazzi spotting a celebrity at a coffee shop (and, let’s face it, the captain is as big of a celebrity as you can get on a cruise ship), and before we know it, he’s lost in a flurry of fluttering eyelashes and requests for selfies.
The poor man disappears into a sea of Valentine’s red lipstick and strategic cleavage, while I stand here trying to figure out if I should take notes or call for backup.
I quickly scope out the rest of the room dynamics with the fascination of an anthropologist studying mating rituals in the wild.
And what fascinating rituals they are. Across the room, Lavender is having what appears to be an intense argument with the silver fox who made Bess’s knees wobble earlier. Their body language screams unfinished business in about twelve different languages, none of them particularly friendly.
Once that disbands, I watch as Lavender pulls Mark Sterling aside for a heated whispered conversation that looks about as comfortable as a root canal performed by a vengeful ex. Whatever she’s saying is making him shake his head repeatedly while glancing nervously in the direction of his wife. I’m betting he does that a lot.
Right on cue, Claudette returns and gets right in Lavender’s face, saying something that looks vicious enough to strip paint from the ship’s hull. The whole scene plays out like a bad family reunion where everyone has been drinking since noon—and they all have some serious anger management issues.
I finally spot Bess and Nettie at the buffet, loading their plates with enough canapés to feed a small army or one very determined cruise passenger. They’re working their way through smoked salmon on blinis, bacon-wrapped scallops that look like little pieces of heaven, miniature beef wellington bites that probably require an engineering degree to construct properly, and champagne-infused strawberries that sparkle like edible jewelry.
“Ladies,” I say, joining their culinary crusade. “I see you’ve found the good stuff.”
“The scallops alone are worth the price of admission,” Bess declares, popping another one into her mouth with more than a little satisfaction. “I might be in love.”
“Speaking of being in love,” I continue with a grin that probably qualifies as mischievous, “Bess, I spotted that silver fox you have the hots for. He’s right here in this room having what looks like a very dramatic argument with our new friend, Dr. Death Threats.”
Bess nearly chokes on her scallop, her cheeks turning approximately the same shade as the Valentine’s decorations. “I do not have the hots for anyone!”
“Honey, you were practically drooling earlier,” Nettie chimes in, selecting a chocolate-covered strawberry with the precision of a jeweler choosing diamonds. “Nothing wrong with wanting to polish a silver fox’s...credentials.”
“Nettie!” Bess gasps, although she does seem to be fighting a smile.
“What? I’m talking about his résumé,” Nettie says with the kind of innocence that wouldn’t fool a five-year-old. “His very impressive, veryexperiencedrésumé.”
“Very gold,” I point out in reference to those chains adorning his neck. “Very seventies.”
“The seventies happened to be one of my favorite eras,” Bess shoots back.
