“That’s right, I heard she owns a fancy gallery. But is a painting worth killing over?” I ask. “Unless it was painted with unicorn tears and the artist’s own blood, that seems extreme.”
“In our world, appearances are currency,” Beth says with a nod as if she’s trying to convince me. “That painting was going to be featured inArchitectural Digest’sspread on Harper’s Malibu home. Madison knew that and swooped in at the last minute just to spite her.”
“That’s a classic Madison move,” Marlie confirms, now perched on the railing beside our table, her ghostly legs dangling over the fjord like a teenager at a mall food court.
Oh, good grief. It’s terrifying to witness, despite the fact that she’s already dead.
“Madison pulled the same stunt with my Tiffany lamp collection,” Beth goes on. “I’d spent years tracking down the butterfly series, and sheaccidentallyoutbid me on the final piece the week before she died. Coincidence? I think not.”
Madison was clearly a pill.
“What about you?” I ask Beth directly. “Did Madison ever do anything to upset you?”
For a millisecond, something flickers behind Beth’s warm eyes—a shadow so brief, it’s like watching a shark fin in murky water.You’re not sure what you saw, but you’re definitely not going swimming.
“Me? Goodness, no,” she protests. “I’m probably the only one she didn’t antagonize. I was too unimportant in the hierarchy. My husband is the oldest of the soap stars, practically a relic. Dr. Luca Carrington Jr. has been around for a very long time. She didn’t care about him or me. Madison saved her competitive energy for bigger targets.”
The crowd around us gasps collectively as we round a bend in the fjord to reveal a waterfall that seems to drop straight from heaven’s bathtub. The mist creates a baby blue gossamer curtain that the sun transforms into diamonds.
Even Marlie pauses her commentary to admire the view. “Now that’s what I call a backdrop,” she says appreciatively. “We could have used this for Victoria’s breakdown scene in season twenty-three. Instead, we got a painted, cheap, flat background and a wind machine that kept blowing my wig sideways. I looked like I was having a nervous breakdown in a hurricane.”
I clamp my lips closed to prevent the giant grin wanting to break out on my face. I so remember that episode! And it was iconic.
“So, you were close to Madison?” I press on, returning to Beth.
“I wouldn’t say close,” Beth replies, finishing her chowder with the dedication of someone who doesn’t know when their next meal might arrive. I can’t blame her, it’s just that delicious. “But she did help me once when I really needed it. My foundation—Small Steps, Big Dreams—supports children with rare genetic disorders. Last year, we were struggling with funding, and Madison stepped in. She hosted a gala at her Aspen home that raised over two million dollars.”
“Two million? That’s amazing. And that was surprisingly generous of her,” I admit.
“Oh, she didn’t do it out of the goodness of her heart,” Bethclarifies with a knowing smile. “It was all about outshining Val’s performing arts charity. But the money helped dozens of children get experimental treatments they couldn’t otherwise afford, so I wasn’t about to question her motives.”
“Smart girl,” Marlie approves, nodding her ghostly head vigorously enough to make her spectral earrings jingle. “I like this one, Trixie. She understands how the game is played. Use the divas’ egos for good.”
I’m starting to agree with Marlie. Beth seems remarkably grounded for someone in her world. She’s genuine in a way the others aren’t. In fact, I can’t help but notice that her hands are slightly rough around the cuticles, not perfectly manicured like Val’s or Harper’s. Her face is fully moveable, and dare I say, she has the beginning of crow’s feet. She has a tiny chocolate stain on her cashmere sleeve that she either hasn’t noticed or doesn’t care about. All these little imperfections make her all the more real as the bread in my soup bowl.
“Can I tell you something strange?” Beth asks, leaning forward as if we’re at a slumber party about to share ghost stories—which, considering Marlie’s hovering presence, isn’t far off. “The night Madison died, I had this weird dream. I dreamed I was in the Golden Compass Lounge, watching Madison argue with someone. I couldn’t see who it was, just a shadow. But Madison was saying something aboutknowing the truthand how she was going tomake it public. Then there was just... red. Everywhere.”
“That is strange,” I agree, my amateur sleuth senses tingling like I’ve just stuck my finger into an electrical socket. Not that I give any credence to dreams, but a part of me wonders if she was dreaming at all. “Any idea what truth she might have been referring to?”
Beth shakes her head. “Madison collected secrets the way some women collect shoes. She knew something about everyone.” She glances toward where Val and Harper are now posing forBoomer’s cameras, using the fjord as their personal backdrop like they’re filmingNorway’sNext Top Trophy Wife. “I’d look closely at those two, if I were investigating this case. Val’s charity finances are pretty creative, from what I’ve heard. And Harper? Well, I’ve heard she has a past she’s desperate to keep buried.”
“Interesting choice of words,” Marlie comments dryly, and I gasp because I happen to agree.
“What about their husbands?” I ask. Andherhusband, but we’ll leave him out of the equation for now. “Could either of them have had a motive?”
“Their husbands?” Beth laughs again, though this time it has all the warmth of an Antarctic swimming pool. “They’re too busy competing with each other to notice what their wives are doing. Madison’s own husband, Dirk, was probably her biggest threat, though. She was planning to publish a memoir that would have exposed some of his less savory behind-the-scenes behaviors.”
Noted.
“And your husband? Lance—I mean, Luca?”
“Lance is a sweetheart,” Beth says with a soft laugh, although I detect a note of something else in her voice—not quite sadness, not quite resignation, more like the tone you use when describing someone who has seen their best days. “He lives more in his character’s world than reality as of late. Half the time he calls me Laurie—his character’s wife’s name on the show—even though I’ve never actually appeared onCriminal Hospital.”
“Sorry, but I kind of get it, though.” I wrinkle my nose as I say it. “Luca and Laurie were a pretty big deal as far as soap stars go. In fact, they’re right up there with Cad and Pixie as my all-time favorite soap power couples. And Layla and the guy with the patch.” I wince. “But still, that must be difficult.”
“You adapt,” she says with a small shrug that carries the weight of a thousand compromise-filled nights. “Marriage is aboutaccepting people as they are, not as you wish they were. Lance gave me a beautiful life, even if he sometimes forgets I’m part of it.”
Marlie studies Beth with newfound interest. “I have a feeling there’s more to Strawberry Shortcake here than meets the eye,” she says with a snarl. “But I like her. She reminds me of myself before I became Victoria Darkmore and forgot who Marlie Rothschild was supposed to be.”
