I’m about to respond with something appropriately seething and scandalous when someone taps me on the shoulder and I turn around to find Dr. Lavender Voss standing there, looking like she’s about to drop a bombshell or admit to blackmail.But her perfect composure has cracked, and she looks genuinely distressed for the first time tonight.
“I have to tell you something important,” she begins, her piercing blue eyes unfocused and glassy.
She staggers forward like someone just cut her puppet strings, and before any of us can react, she races for the buffet and face-plants directly into the chocolate fountain with the kind of spectacular precision that suggests she’s been practicing this maneuver for weeks. Newsflash: she hasn’t.
Chocolate explodes everywhere like a sweet, sticky volcano, strawberries go flying like fruity shrapnel, and the stunning ice sculpture crashes to the floor in an avalanche of shattered swan parts rolling across the granite like frozen evidence of romantic destruction.
The entire room falls silent except for the gentle drip-drip-drip of chocolate running off the buffet table and onto Lavender’s designer suit, which is most likely ruined beyond repair—though that’s likely the least of her concerns at this point.
“Well,” Elodie sidles up next to me with impeccable timing, “that’s one way to make a splash at a Valentine’s party.”
“Oh my goodness,” I say, looking down at Dr. Lavender Voss lying motionless in a pool of gourmet chocolate.
Wes quickly escapes his fan club and drops to her side, checking for a pulse with the efficiency of a captain who’s clearly dealt with medical emergencies a time or two before. After a moment, he looks up at me and shakes his head with a grim expression.
A thought crystallizes with terrifying clarity. This wasn’t an accident, and whatever she wanted to tell me just died with her.
Lavender won’t have to worry about social spats or relationship theories.
Dr. Lavender Voss is dead.
CHAPTER 4
The aroma of imported Belgian chocolate mingles with Chanel No. 5 and what I’m pretty sure is the metallic scent of impending doom as the Commodore’s Circle transforms from romantic paradise into the world’s fanciest crime scene.
The room erupts like a champagne cork at a divorce party—gasps ricocheting off crystal chandeliers while screams pierce the air like a foghorn in a library.
You know, I used to think Valentine’s Day was just about overpriced roses and uncomfortable lingerie. Turns out, it’s also about face-planting into chocolate fountains and taking down perfectly good dessert spreads. Who knew romance could be so deadly?
Me. That’s who.
Bess and Nettie unleash synchronized howls that would make professional mourners jealous.
“The chocolate! The chocolate!” Nettie wails, gesturing at the dessert carnage as if she’s witnessing the fall of Rome. “Look what’s happened to those beautiful truffles!”
Bess delivers a swift arm with the precision of a ninja. “Nettie, there’s a woman face-down in fondue, and you’re having a pastry crisis?”
“Those were imported Belgian truffles! Do you have any idea what the markup is on decent chocolate at sea? This is a maritime tragedy!”
Only Nettie would mourn chocolate harder than most people mourn another human. Although to be fair, those truffles probably cost more per ounce than my wedding ring, and that’s saying something. Ransom didn’t skimp out on this rock.
I would find this all amusing if I weren’t currently playing impromptu hostess to another uninvited corpse.
Poor Dr. Lavender Voss has transitioned from relationship expert to crime scene centerpiece in record time. The irony isn’t lost on me—a woman who specialized in opening marriages has just permanently closed hers to any future romantic entanglements.
Ransom appears at my side faster than bad news travels. He’s all business, but with that special look he reserves for moments when I’ve accidentally stumbled into another homicide. It’s become the marital equivalent of “we need to talk,” except with more crime scene tape and fewer opportunities for makeup sex afterward. Not that it hasn’t happened.
The man has perfected the art of the accusatory spouse stare. It’s a look that says,I love you, but seriously, what are the odds?I’m starting to think I should carry business cards that read,Trixie Baxter: Amateur Detective and Corpse Magnet. No appointment necessary—bodies will find me.
And I hate how true that last part is.
I offer my most innocent shrug his way.
What else can I do? Apologize for my apparent magnetic attraction to murder victims? Start wearing a warning label? Take out insurance against accidental homicide involvement? As if any underwriting team would approve that.
“I’ll tell you everything that I know,” I quickly volunteer.
“We’ll talk soon,” he says as his radio crackles to life. “Security to the Queen’s Theater. Code Seven. Secure the scene immediately.”
