“I’m not a trophy wife,” I remind her. “I’m a stand-in for a murdered trophy wife. There’s a difference.”
“Still better than being labeled a trophy corpse-finder,” Bess says with a shrug.
“And you’ll have more time to spend with Victoria Darkmore!” Nettie adds, her eyes lighting up. “Think of all the soap opera secrets she can share! Does Bridge Blackthorne wear a hairpiece? Does Dr. Luca Carrington Jr. actually have amnesia, or does he just forget his lines? Does Victor Darkmore have a stunt double for love scenes?”
“I’m not spending my suspension gossiping with ghosts,” I say, even though the idea holds more appeal than I care to admit. “And she prefers to be called Marlie.”
“You’re absolutely spending your suspension gossiping with ghosts,” Ransom says with a small smile. “I’ve seen how you light up when she’s around.”
“Besides,” Nettie continues, “this frees you up to spend quality time with all those hunky soap stars! Did you see Santino DiAngelo in those hiking boots yesterday? For a man pushing seventy, he’s got calves you could crack walnuts on.”
“Nettie!” Bess scolds. “However, I will say Bridge Blackthornefilled out those khakis in a way that should be illegal in several Nordic countries.”
“I’m married,” I remind them, pointing my dripping cone at Ransom. “To him. The non-fictional, very real security officer currently suspending me.”
“It’s not me suspending you,” Ransom clarifies. “It’s the cruise line. I’m just the messenger they sent because they thought you might take it better coming from me.”
“How’s that working out for them?” I ask sweetly.
“About as well as expected,” he admits, finally reaching for his spoon. “Which is why I brought reinforcements.” He nods toward Wes.
“This is just a formality, Trixie,” Wes assures me, his captain’s voice slipping into that soothing tone he probably uses when announcing slight delays due to icebergs. “They’ll clear you this time, just like they did last time. Meanwhile, I’ve asked Tinsley to run your art classes.” He winces. “And if you want, I’ll let you assist,” he adds, as if offering me the keys to the kingdom instead of permission to be bossed around by a woman who considers me the human equivalent of a stubborn stain.
“I’d rather drink bleach,” I reply, licking my ice cream with a vengeance.
“Not advisable,” Ransom says. “Bleach would definitely violate your employment contract’s wellness clause.”
“So would murder, but that’s not stopping me from considering it right now,” I mutter. “Kidding, sort of.”
“Speaking of murder,” Wes says, quickly changing the subject, “Boomer has asked permission to film in the formal dining room tonight. It’s the ship’s first formal night, and they want all the glitz and glamour they can get. I’ve approved it, of course.”
“Formal night!” Bess and Nettie exclaim in unison, exchanging glances that can only be described as dangerously gleeful.
“Get ready to flip a table,” Nettie says to me, patting my arm. “Nothing saysI’m innocentlike creating a scene that will definitely be used in the season trailer.”
“I’m not flipping tables,” I say firmly. “I’m going to be dignified and mature about this whole situation.” But, boy, how I would love to flip a table right about now.
“Boring,” Nettie sings. “Well, at least wear something low-cut. If you’re going to be accused of murder, you might as well look fabulous doing it.”
“Ransom will be there in his tux,” Bess points out, waggling her eyebrows. “That alone is worth the price of admission.”
“I don’t wear a tux,” Ransom corrects her. “I wear the formal security uniform.”
“Which looks exactly like a tux, but with more authority,” I translate for Bess and Nettie. “And does it ever work for him.” I offer a meager smile his way.
“And we all know the captain here cleans up nicely, too,” Nettie says with an exaggerated wink at Wes, who has the good grace to look simultaneously flattered and terrified.
“I’ll be wearing my formal whites,” Wes confirms. “As will all the senior officers.”
“So many men in uniform,” Bess sighs dreamily. “It’s likeOfficers and Gentlemen: The Cruise Ship Edition.”
“Except we’ll be surrounded by soap stars who think they’re actual royalty,” I point out. “Victor Darkmore once demanded that the staff at the Beverly Hills Hotel address him as Your Excellency during a Daytime Emmy after-party.”
“How do you know that?” Ransom looks a touch surprised by my vast soapy knowledge.
“Daytime Drama Digest. I had a yearly subscription for years,” I admit. “But I bet Marlie has way better dirt on her ex-husband than what makes it into the magazines.”
“I bet she does,” Nettie says, finishing her cone with a satisfied crunch. “The ghosts always know where the bodies are buried. Sometimes literally.”
