The ship’s horn sounds, a noise so loud it probably sent small Norwegian wildlife running for cover. The crowd surges toward the starboard side with their cameras at the ready like they’re preparing for a paparazzi ambush.
“We should probably join the fjord fanatics,” Beth suggests as she stands. “Boomer will want footage of us looking appropriately awed by nature.”
She’s not wrong.
We quickly gather our empty bread bowls, and Beth gives my arm a quick tap. “I’m glad you’re on the show, Trixie. It’s nice having someone real to talk to. Most people in this world are playing a part so long they forget who they really are.”
“Some of us are better actresses than others,” Marlie comments as she floats alongside us, her ’80s power suit somehow looking oddly at home in another era entirely.
We make our way to the railing, squeezing our way in among passengers who’ve apparently never seen rocks and water before, judging by their enthusiasm. The cliffs tower above us, casting long shadows across the deck like nature’s sundial. In the distance, a small village clings to the mountainside, its red and white buildings as bright against the gray stone like crimson lipstick against winter skin.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Beth says with a sigh. “It makes you realize how small we really are. All our dramas and secrets seem so insignificant compared to all this majesty.”
“Yet all the drama and secrets still get people killed.” I can’t help but point out.
Beth’s expression shifts, like a cloud passing across the sun. “Yes,” she agrees. “They certainly do.”
I study her profile against the majestic backdrop, trying to reconcile this thoughtful, seemingly kind woman with someone who might have plunged a knife into Madison Rothschild’s chest. Either Beth Williams deserves an Emmy for this performance or I need to look elsewhere for my killer.
In the land of fjords and fiction, the deepest waters might just hide the darkest secrets.
I’m about to ask the woman another question when my phone chirps, and it’s a text from Ransom.We need to talk.
Ransom’s message hovers on my screen like the season finale ofAs the Ship Turns, leaving me to wonder who or what has been written out of our investigation script now.
CHAPTER 12
Shockingly, the suspect written out of our investigation script was me.
“What do you mean I’ve been suspended?” I gawk at both Wes and Ransom as we sit inside the Sprinkle & Scoop Spectacular—a name that promises both excess and joy while delivering an ice cream parlor that looks like a unicorn exploded inside a 1950s diner. Bess, Nettie, and I each clutch waffle cones that are threatening to drip faster than tears at a soap opera wedding.
I’d chosen a flavor called ooey gooey pineapple—vanilla ice cream studded with chunks of caramelized pineapple upside-down cake, the edges crystallized with brown sugar that crunches between your teeth like sweet little promises. My second scoop, nestled precariously atop the first, is their bread pudding custard surprise, which features hunks of buttery croissants soaked in vanilla custard until they’re practically melting into the ice cream itself. The surprise appears to be pockets of caramel that ambush you just when you think you’re safe.
When Ransom texted asking where I’d like to meet, I wasalready daydreaming about dessert after staring at fjords for the past few hours. The clam chowder did its hearty job, but everyone knows a sweet treat comes after a good meal. It seemed like this was the perfect location for whatever news he had to share. We waited until filming wrapped for the day, then Bess, Nettie, and I made a beeline down here, giggling like schoolgirls playing hooky.
However, the giggling stopped abruptly when we spotted Wes in his crisp captain’s whites already seated at a corner booth. Captain’s uniforms should never be seen in ice cream parlors—it’s like spotting your high school principal at a keg party. Something is fundamentally wrong with the universe when that happens.
“Quinn filed a formal complaint with Royal Lineage Cruise Lines,” Ransom explains, his own untouched chocolate chunk melting sadly in its dish. He hasn’t even picked up his spoon. That’s how I know this is serious. “Corporate has to investigate.”
“Again?” This isn’t the first time someone has turned the white-hot spotlight on me.
“And since you’re technically an employee,” Wes adds, his expression a perfect blend of professional concern and personal discomfort, “they need to suspend you while they investigate the matter.”
I nearly choke on a piece of pineapple. “But they already suspended me back in October!” I protest, waving my cone dangerously close to Ransom’s immaculate white shirt. “That was because Tinsley filed a complaint claiming I was spooking the passengers. She might have been right, but those charges were dropped, and I was able to resume my position!”
“This involves murder,” Ransom says gently, as if that single word explains everything. And I suppose it does. Dead bodies tend to complicate employment situations.
“A murder that I didn’t commit!” I point out, feeling ice cream drip onto my knuckles. “I merely discovered it. There’s a difference!”
“Quinn is suggesting that your...history... with corpses makes you a person of interest,” Wes explains delicately. “She’s demanding a full investigation into your past incidents.”
“Incidents?” I sputter. “Is that what we’re calling solving murders now? Incidents?”
“Technically, you do solve them,” Bess interjects helpfully. “You just also find the bodies and then meddle until someone confesses or tries to kill you.”
“Thank you for that clarification, Bess,” I mutter.
“Look on the bright side,” Nettie chimes in, attacking her triple chocolate explosion with alarming enthusiasm. “Now you can devote yourself full-time to your new career as a trophy wife!”
