Three separate women just threatened Madison within twenty minutes. If this were a game of Clue, I’d be placing my bets.
However, I am definitely not interested in playing any mystery game, let alone Clue, but if that ghost I saw is any indication, then I’m already starring in that game whether I like it or not.
The party rages around me as bodies swarm near the buffet. Both Bess and Nettie are melting in a puddle before soap royalty. And as much as I’d love to join them, I have a handsome hubby to hunt down. For all I know, he’s been detained by an entire gaggle of trophy wives. Newsflash: he’s already got one. Me.
I drift through the crowd for at least twenty minutes before I decide to make my way back to the buffet, but I’m starting to feel like a salmon swimming upstream with all of these bodies pressing against me. Try as I might, I can’t seem to get around a crowd of women swarming some newfangled soap stud I don’t even recognize. I’ll admit, I’m a little rusty when it comes to daytime drama.
Instead, I decide to trek around the crowd and land somewhere behind all of the equipment here to shoot the teaser.
The lighting is dimmer back here, and the sounds of the party are muffled. I take a few steps forward, and my foot hitches on something before I go sailing through the air and landing over something soft yet not so friendly to my stomach.
I look down and wince.
Are those legs? I landed on a couple of legs?
Oh, please tell me they belong to some ridiculous prop mannequin. I pull back and get a better look at the human-shaped landing strip I’ve found myself on and gasp.
Madison stares at the ceiling with her eyes wide open and hermouth locked in a scream. A knife—the same knife from the promo—protrudes from her chest as the handle gleams under the ambient light.
Madison won’t be posting any social media updates tonight.
Madison Rothschild is dead.
CHAPTER 4
Igasp so hard I nearly swallow my pearl earring, and the scream that follows could shatter crystal in three counties. The Waterford in the room should definitely take cover.
Madison Rothschild—lifestyle curator extraordinaire, Instagram queen, wife of one of the hottest soap stars around, and self-appointed hashtag inventor—lies sprawled on the floor behind the production equipment with a knife sticking out of her chest as if she’s decided to accessorize with murder. A knife that looks much like the one that Val was just wielding for their promo shoot now serves as the world’s most dramatic accessory to her white designer dress. Her eyes stare at the ceiling in frozen horror, her mouth locked in a perfect O that her plastic surgeon is probably still billing her for.
“Would you pipe down over there?” Bess’s voice cuts through my horror. “We’re in the middle of something crucial.”
“Yes, it’s deeply important business,” Nettie adds, neither of them looking my way as they round the corner.
“I’m positive he was Steele Montgomery inPassion’s Embracebefore he took over as Bridge Blackthorne,” Bess argues, waving acocktail napkin for emphasis. “The man has portrayed two separate coma patients who both woke up with British accents. He deserves respect!”
“That doesn’t give you automatic dibs,” Nettie growls. “Besides, I’ve been watching him a lot longer than you have. I was there when he pushed his first wife off that yacht in ’82. I say this calls for a duel.”
“For once, I think you’re right,” Bess says, finally turning toward me. “Trixie, what are you doing on the—oh sweet stars above!”
Nettie peers around Bess, and her jaw drops faster than the ship’s anchor. “Is that a real corpse, or are they filming another promo? Because, honey, that’s commitment to the craft.”
“It’s real!” I’m quick to assure them.
Bess and Nettie’s screams harmonize with mine in a trio that would earn a standing ovation in any opera house. Or a mental institution. And at the rate the bodies have been dropping around here, I know exactly which direction we’re headed.
“What’s going on?” Ransom materializes from the crowd like a security mirage, followed closely by Wes.
They spot the body before their eyes lock in that testosterone-fueled way that makes me think they’re about to have a duel themselves.
Ransom kneels beside Madison, pressing two fingers to her neck, and after a moment, he looks up at me and shakes his head. He pulls his radio from his belt and speaks in that low, authoritative voice that usually makes my knees wobble but currently just makes my stomach churn.
“Security to the Golden Compass Lounge. We have a situation. Another unfortunate situation.”
Wes extends his hand to help me up, which is when I realize I’m still sprawled awkwardly on the floor near Madison’s designer shoes.
“Trixie, what happened?” His eyes search mine with concern that’s both professional and something decidedly not.
“I was just trying to get to the buffet,” I explain, my voice higher than a soprano on helium. “The crowd was blocking the direct route, so I went behind the equipment and... well, I tripped over her.”
