XOXO Trixie
P.S. If you happen to meet Nettie and Bess in the Crow’s Nest Bar, do NOT ask them about their collection of soap star memorabilia. That story requires more Norwegian aquavit than is medically advisable.
Day 3: Stavanger, Norway
It’s officiallyday three and my unexpected reality television career is well underway. We’ve docked in Stavanger, Norway, where the sun has decided to make a rare appearance amidst all the clouds, causing locals to stare skyward with the same bewildered expression I wore when Boomer Beaumont told me I’d be replacing a murdered woman on his show.
The little port town looks like it was designed by a committee of fairy-tale illustrators and maritime historians who couldn’t agree on a theme—outside of the fact that it’s downright cozy. Brightly colored wooden buildings line the harbor like a box of crayons that got caught in the rain. Cobblestone streets wind between them, worn smooth by centuries of Norwegian shoes and, more recently, cruise ship tourists hunting for adorable overpriced woolen sweaters.
The air smells of salt water, fresh pastries, and the distinctive scent of a television production going sideways—a potent blend of desperation, hairspray, and inflated egos. Our film crew hasattracted quite the crowd. Locals and tourists alike watch from a safe distance, wearing the bemused expressions reserved for low-stakes disasters—and well, high-stakes disasters, too. And after that dramatic homicide, ours is already in the latter category.
I still haven’t spoken to Marlie’s ghost, though I’ve spotted her floating around the ship periodically, usually hovering near her ex-husband Victor Darkmore, making faces behind his back that would earn her an Emmy if the dead could be nominated.
I’m hoping today will be my lucky day for a little ghostly heart-to-heart. Spirits tend to have strong opinions about murder, though they’re not always right. Being dead doesn’t automatically make you omniscient—just ask my last dozen plus spectral advisors.
“Places, everyone!” shouts Boomer, after his coffee consumption has reached levels that would alarm medical professionals. His hands shake so violently that he looks like he’s perpetually conducting an invisible orchestra during an earthquake. It must be so hard to stay focused after such a horrible tragedy took place, no sooner than we left port.
We’re filming at Pulpit Rock, a flat mountain plateau that dangles over the fjord like nature’s own diving board. It took less than an hour for the shuttle to land us here, then another two hours to hike the two miles to get to the top.
The almost two-thousand-foot drop offers breathtaking views and, apparently, irresistible opportunities for reality TV drama. I make the mistake of looking over the edge, and my stomach does a gymnastics routine I didn’t know it was capable of.
Hair and makeup have transformed Ransom and me into funhouse mirror versions of ourselves. My eyelashes are so thick they’ve become a workout for my eyelids just to keep them open, and my cheeks have been contoured to the point where my face looks like a topographical map of the Norwegian mountains we’re currently standing on.
Ransom, meanwhile, has been lightly dusted with guyliner and bronzer—just enough to suggest he’s been wintering somewhere tropical, not standing on the edge of a Norwegian cliff. The result is deeply unfair. But dear everything holy, this man is heart-stoppingly handsome. And the best part? He’s all mine.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“You’re wearing eyeliner. I’m appreciating the view.”
A smile tugs at his mouth. “The view off the cliff or...?”
“Definitely not the cliff.”
His hand finds mine. “With you around, I don’t notice the cliff either.”
“Remember,” Boomer swoops in, “you’re the exciting new additions to our cast. Trixie, you’re the plucky art teacher with a knack for finding bodies. Ransom, you’re the stoic security officer with a mysterious past.”
“So... we’re basically playing ourselves?” I ask.
“Yes, but more dramatic,” Boomer insists. “Think television dramatic.”
Nettie crops up. “Should she check under random rocks for corpses to really sell it?”
I shoot her a look. Both Bess and Nettie will be watching from the sidelines along with a cast of thousands. Who knew the people of Norway were such soap fans? Or maybe they just know a good car wreck when they see it.
Val Cruz-Henderson waltzes over wearing hiking boots with three-inch heels that look ripped straight from a runway in Milan. Her outdoorsy ensemble looks like it came straight from a Pinterest board titledHiking Fashion. “Is everyone ready for my mountain moment?” she asks, tossing her caramel-colored mane into the icy air.
Beth Williams follows, looking fresh and dewy despite the hike up, her strawberry-blonde locks somehow immune to the wind that’s assaulting everyone else’s hair. She’s carrying a tote bagemblazoned with her husband’s face. Merchandising knows no shame.
Harper Bailey completes the trophy wife trio as her designer glasses reflect the sunlight like she’s intentionally trying to blind the camera operators. She’s got a notebook tucked under one arm, probably calculating the precise angle needed to maximize her screen time while minimizing her association with the other wives. She’s all business all the time, and apparently, she doesn’t take a break.
“Ladies,” Boomer announces, “for this scene, I want you welcoming Trixie to your group while subtly competing for the best spot to look at the view. Val, you’ll mention how Madison would have loved this vista. Beth, you’ll tear up slightly at the mention of Madison’s name. Harper, you’ll make a cutting remark about the statistical likelihood of accidents at tourist spots.”
“How morbid,” Beth comments, already practicing her teary expression.
“It’s called ratings gold,” Boomer corrects.
The cameras start rolling, and suddenly everyone’s posture improves by fifty percent.
