Ransom’s jaw is clenched so tight I fear for his dental work. “This is ridiculous,” he mutters to me. “That was a genuine safety hazard.”
“Welcome to reality TV,” I whisper back. “Where near-death experiences are great for business.”
When we finally wrap for the day, Bess and Nettie rush over and tackle us with enthusiasm.
“You were fabulous!” Bess gushes, hugging me so tightly, I can feel my vertebrae pop.
“You’re both natural stars!” Nettie agrees. “We’ve been watching from behind the snack table.”
“And schmoozing with the soap hunks while the trophy wives were distracted,” Bess adds with a wink. “Bridge Blackthorne told me all about his feud with Victor Darkmore. Apparently, it started over a parking space at the studio twenty years ago!”
Ransom ticks his head to the side. “Some men really know how to hold a grudge.”
“And Dr. Luca Carrington Jr. signed my guidebook,” Nettie says, proudly displaying a Norwegian travel guide with a soap star’s signature across a picture of a fjord. “He thought I was a producer at first, so I didn’t correct him until after he’d spilled some very interesting gossip about our dearly departed Madison.”
“Do tell,” I encourage.
Ransom leans in.
“Apparently,” Nettie starts as she lowers her voice, “Madison really was getting the dirt on everyone for a tell-all book. Just like Beth mentioned this morning. And I mean everyone—soap stars, trophy wives, even the networkexecutives.”
Bess nods. “Someone offered Madison a quarter million dollars to kill the book project. She turned them down flat. She said the story was worth way more than that.”
“Ooh.” I lift my eyes to Ransom. “That’s a lot of money.”
He nods. “And that would certainly provide motive for multiple people to want her silenced permanently.”
Across the way, I spot Val standing alone near the edge, staring out at the fjord with an expression that doesn’t match her usual camera-ready smile. There’s something about her posture that suggests a woman carrying a heavy burden. And I can’t help but wonder if that burden has to do with a certain steak knife plunged into someone’s chest.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Bess and Nettie. “Speaking of distracted, this is a perfect time to speak to my first suspect.”
Ransom clears his throat, and I straighten.
“I mean, myhusband’sfirst suspect,” I correct myself rather smoothly, if I do say so myself.
Together, Ransom and I head toward Val, whose secrets seem as deep as the fjord she’s currently looking down at. I’m betting that behind her designer sunglasses and perfectly highlighted hair lurks a woman who might know exactly why Madison Rothschild ended up with a knife in her chest.
In Norway, the cliffs aren’t the only things with dangerous edges.
CHAPTER 8
Ransom and I head for Val as the sheer drop of Pulpit Rock looms behind her, and I unload a rapid-fire summary that would make the FBI take notes.
“Valentina Cruz-Henderson,” I whisper. “Forty-four going on thirty-six, thanks to what I’m guessing is an expensive relationship with Switzerland’s finest surgeons. Former Miss Venezuela who still maintains her pageant posture even on windy cliffsides. Runs the Cruz Foundation for Performing Arts—supposedly helps underprivileged kids learn theater and dance. Madison wanted to feature it on the show, but Val shut that down fast.”
“So, she’s suspicious,” Ransom says with his eyes fixed on our target.
“Let’s just say if she were a tax return, the IRS would be sending love letters.”
Val stands at the edge of the cliff with her caramel-colored hair somehow resisting the Norwegian wind’s best efforts to muss it. Her hiking outfit—if you can call designer cargo pants and a silk blouse proper hiking attire—still manages to look impeccable despite the trek over. The sky is cloudy, the wind is icy, andthe entire plateau around us is brimming with bodies, all hoping to catch a glimpse of the daytime villains and their diva wives on set.
“Her husband is Santino Henderson, silver fox extraordinaire,” I continue. “Plays Santino DiAngelo onDays of Our Nights. His character has died and come back to life more times than a cat with extra lives. He’s sixty-eight years old with a toupee that’s been with him longer than any of his wives and a forehead smoother than a baby’s bottom, thanks to enough Botox to paralyze a small country.”
Ransom nods slightly, absorbing the information. “How should we approach this?”
“Gentle but direct,” I recommend. “She’s skittish. Watch her eyes—they’ll tell you more than her mouth.”
Ransom nods. “You’re a little too good at this, Mrs. Baxter.”
