“I must see pictures,” Bess demands. “Please tell me you have photographic evidence of this magnificent tribute.”
I offer another somber smile to the trophy wife among us. “I was just telling them I styled my hair in the Victoria Darkmore flip throughout most of the ’80s,” I say, establishing common ground. Also, that just so happens to be true as gospel—well, the hair flip anyway. “My friends and I went through so much hairspray, we could’ve weatherproofed a small barn.”
Beth laughs, and I can see her relaxing slightly. “I had her poster on my wall growing up. When I met Lance, I nearly fainted realizing he’d worked with her. Small world, right?”
“I’m so sorry for the sudden loss of your friend last night,” I say, steering the conversation toward Madison.
Beth’s smile falters. “She’ll forever be missed.”
“Do you have any idea what could have happened?” I ask, trying to sound casually concerned rather than actively investigating. Also, let’s be honest, we all know which direction I just tossed the investigative dice in.
“Madison was...” Beth pauses as if selecting her words carefully. “Complicated. I mean, she was brilliant at what she did, but she could be a pill to most people. Let’s just say she had a talent for finding people’s weak spots and pressing on them just to see what would happen.”
“That doesn’t sound very friendly,” Bess points out.
“She wasn’t looking for friends,” Beth says, fidgeting with one of the gold bangles on her wrist. “She was looking for ratings. Did you know she’d been shopping around a tell-all book about soap opera wives? I think it was calledBehind the Scenes of Scripted Livesor something equally dramatic.”
“Wow, I had no idea,” I say, mentally making a note of this. “So you weren’t that close?”
She shakes her head. “No, but Val was pretty close to Madison these past few weeks. Or at least it seemed. They kept whispering among themselves. I got the feeling they were working on something explosive—something that would rocket them beyond the usual trophy wife territory and into genuine celebrity status. That was the orbit they were hoping to land in.”
A shadow falls over our table, and I look up to find Boomer Beaumont looming over us like an expensive thundercloud. His designer silver stubble looks freshly trimmed, and his casual outfit has the stamp of a pricy Parisian fashion house printed all over it.
“You,” he points directly at me, “you tripped over Madison’s body.”
Not exactly how I prefer to be identified, but accurate, nonetheless.
“We need to fill a gap in the show,” he announces, as if bestowing a royal proclamation. “You and your husband are going to star in it.”
“Oh, I don’t think my husband would want to—” I begin.
“Perfect, we got the lethal blonde,” he cuts me off, turning to the crew gathering behind him with cameras and lights. “We’ll work on the husband.”
Tinsley appears at his elbow, giving me a look that could land a few more people in the ship’s morgue. Her cruise director uniform has somehow been tailored to suggest a cocktail dress rather than a professional outfit. She’s really on the hunt this time around. Or maybe she’s looking for stardom? I have no idea what Tinsley’s hopes and dreams are, but I do know that whatever they entail, they include her cleavage.
“We’ll start shooting again tomorrow,” Boomer declares.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re taking a day to mourn,” Bess says, sounding impressed by his sensitivity.
“No, we’re taking a day to gorge on the buffet,” he corrects. “We’ll need our sustenance to get through the week. And I’ve got another blonde to hunt down.”
I have no doubt that he’s talking about Elodie.
“She’s in the gift shop,” I’m quick to tell him.
Tinsley growls at me before plastering on a smile that looks decidedly angry. “I’ll escort you there myself,” she offers, taking Boomer’s arm and leading him in precisely the opposite direction of the gift shop.
Figures.
Beth takes this as her cue to rise out of her seat. “I’m getting hungry, but it was nice chatting with you ladies. I’m so glad you’re in the show, Trixie. I guess I’ll see you around.”
No sooner does she leave than Bess and Nettie swoop in close.
“Are you really going to do the show?” Nettie asks with a look of unmitigated glee in her eyes.
“I can’t think of a better way to put myself in the path of a killer,” I reply. “Besides, if I’m going to trip over bodies, I might as well get some screen time out of it.”
Fame, murder, and Norwegian fjords—just another chapter inThe Bold and the Buried.
