By the looks of it, the production company has pulled out all the stops with the catering. Craft services has laid out a buffet that would make the chefs onboard theEmerald Queengreen with envy. There’s a carving station with herb-crusted prime rib, a pasta bar with three different sauces bubbling in copper pots, and a dessert spread featuring Norwegian specialties alongside chocolate creations that look more like art than food.
“I miss eating,” Marlie sighs, her ghostly hand passing through a particularly gorgeous tiramisu. “Especially the good stuff. My character was always on ridiculous diets. Victoria Darkmore sustained herself on champagne and revenge for twelve seasons straight.”
“Victoria,” I whisper, unable to stop myself from using her character name. “I can’t believe I’m actually talking to Victoria Darkmore!”
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the hint of a pleased smile. “My name is Marlie Rothschild. Victoria was just a character.”
“Right, right, of course.” I nod vigorously. “It’s just that... well, I grew up watching you. You were the reason I skipped algebra far too many times. My mother thought I had recurring stomachaches, but I was actually curled up on the couch in the family room watchingThe Bitter and the Beautiful.”
“You skipped school to watch me?” Her ghostly eyebrows arch with interest.
“You don’t understand,” I explain, trying not to sound like the world’s oldest fangirl. “When you put Blackthorne Manor up for auction just to spite Victor’s mother, then bought it yourself using his trust fund money? That was legendary. I tried to copy your hairstyle for my senior prom. My date said I looked like I’d been electrocuted, but what did he know about high fashion?”
Marlie—Victoria—floats a little higher, glowing at my admiration, literally. “That was a good storyline. I wrote half of it myself, you know. The writers were all men back then. They couldn’t fathom a woman being that deliciously vindictive without it being over a man.”
“You were ahead of your time,” I tell her. “And that’s why I had your poster on my wall,” I confess. “The one from theVengeance Wears Diamondspromotional shoot.”
“The one with the red dress with the dagger-shaped earrings?” She looks genuinely touched. “That was my favorite, too. Idesigned those earrings, you know. They actually appeared as evidence in three different murder trials on the show.”
“So impressive.” I swoon at the thought.
Behind us, the Nettie rescue operation has evolved into what appears to be an improvised medical drama. She’s now reclining on a makeshift bed of jackets while Ryker fans her with a menu and Bridge massages her temples. Luca has acquired a stethoscope from somewhere, heaven knows why he packed one for a Norwegian fjord excursion, and is listening gravely to her heart, while Santino recites what sounds suspiciously like dialogue from his soap opera rather than anything medically useful. It’s as if she’s starring in an episode ofAll My Husbands. That’s so like Nettie.
“Your friend is milking this for all it’s worth,” Marlie observes approvingly. “She’d have made a good soap actress.”
“Oh, Nettie doesn’t need a script to create drama,” I’m quick to tell her. “She generates it naturally, sort of the way plants produce oxygen.”
Marlie laughs the carefree laugh of the dead. “I like you, Trixie Troublefield. You’ve got spunk. Do you know how rare it is to find someone who can actually see and hear me? The last fifteen years have been incredibly boring. Not that Heaven is boring, but I do long for the drama that the planet has to offer.”
“Must be tough,” I sympathize. I don’t bother correcting her on my proper surname. I’ll be the first to admit, it can be a mouthful. I clear my throat. “Especially for someone used to having,what, three evil twins and six different husbands?”
“Seven,” she corrects. “Although husband number four was retroactively erased when we discovered he was actually just husband number two with extensive plastic surgery and amnesia.”
“So classic.” I nod appreciatively. “So what’s it like on the other side? Do you have, I don’t know, ghost friends? Ghost hobbies? Ghost happy hour?”
I’ve heard this and that from previous visitors, mostly that it’snormal, in a normal on steroids sort of way. But I have a feeling normal isn’t enough for someone larger than life like Marlie. No pun intended.
“Mostly I haunt my ex-husband,” she says matter-of-factly. “It’s not very productive, but it’s surprisingly satisfying to watch him search for his car keys when I’ve moved them to the refrigerator.”
“Classic,” I tell her. “Speaking of your ex,” I venture cautiously, “what can you tell me about Madison? I mean, before she...” I make a vague stabbing motion.
The temperature around us drops about ten degrees, and Marlie’s ghostly form flickers like bad reception.
“Madison,” she says, her voice dripping with more venom than at a cobra convention. “Oh, yes. Let’s talk about dear, sweet Madison, shall we? My personal assistant. The woman I trained, mentored, and mistakenly trusted. The woman who was comforting my husband before I left my body for the other side.”
“So, I take it you two weren’t close?” I wince as I ask the question.
Marlie gives me a look that could freeze fire solid. “Madison Rothschild was a social-climbing parasite with the moral compass of a great white shark. She saw my life and decided she wanted it—my role, my husband, my jewelry collection, even my signature perfume!”
“Ouch. That seems a bit excessive.”
“You think?” Marlie’s ghostly body grows slightly larger, glowing red with rage. “The chandelier that fell on me during that final scene? The one that was supposedly a tragic accident? She loosened the screws during the set’s lunch break. I saw her fiddling with it, but I thought she was just adjusting the lighting.”
I gasp, and my fingers fly to my lips. “Are you saying that Madison murdered you?”
Especially since earlier, she all but insisted that the chandelier fell on her. But then I guess she does specialize in plot twists.
“I’m saying that woman had more to hide than just her real nose and original hair color,” Marlie hisses. “And now someone has done to her exactly what she did to others. It’s nothing short of poetic justice, if you ask me.”
