I wrinkle my nose. “I’d rather not discuss buried bodies while I’m on suspension for finding an unburied one.”
“Fine,” Nettie agrees reluctantly. “But you’re wearing my sapphire cocktail dress tonight. If you’re going down for murder, you’re going down sparkling.”
“I’m not going down for murder. I hope.” I shrug at Ransom. “I’m just temporarily relieved of my art instructor duties while the investigation takes its sweet time.”
“That’s the spirit,” Wes says as he lifts his cone my way. “It’ll all blow over soon. In the meantime, think of it as a paid vacation.”
“A paid vacation where I’m a murder suspect who’s still required to appear on a reality TV show with the victim’s friends and possibly a killer,” I clarify with a forced smile. “It sounds perfectly relaxing.”
“At least the fjords are pretty,” Bess offers.
“And the ice cream is excellent,” Nettie adds.
“And you’re not alone.” Ransom covers his hand over mine.
I sigh, feeling my righteous indignation melting faster than the ice cream dripping down my wrist. “Fine. But I’m not assisting Tinsley, I’m not flipping tables, and I’m definitely not wearing anything low-cut to formal night.”
“Two out of three isn’t bad,” Nettie concedes, eyeing my neckline critically. “Though we’ll revisit the third point when you see the dress.”
As we finish our ice cream and prepare to head back to our cabins to get ready for what I’m betting will be the most dramatic formal night ever, I can’t help but feel the injustice of it all. I find a body and get suspended. Quinn files a ridiculous complaint and gets to keep her job. The actual killer walks free and probably gets invited to the captain’s table.
In the daytime drama of my life, the innocent get punished while the guilty order the lobster special—proving once again that onThe Bitter and the Beautiful, justice is just another plot twist before the commercial break.
CHAPTER 13
If the Golden Compass Lounge was impressive, theEmerald Queen’sformal dining room is positively celestial. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling like frozen waterfalls, splintering the light into rainbows across the white tablecloths. The china is so fine you can practically see through it, and there are more forks on the table than I’ve used in the past month.
The captain’s table sits on a slightly elevated platform in the center of the room, ensuring that everyone can witness the spectacle of important people eating scrumptious food with excessive cutlery. It’s positioned directly beneath the grandest chandelier, as if to suggest that the occupants themselves emit a special kind of light.
Cameras surround us like mechanical predators with their lenses gleaming hungrily. Boomer stalks around them, periodically barking instructions to his crew with the urgency of a man directing emergency surgery rather than a reality show about wealthy women arguing over dinner.
The seating arrangement appears to have been designed bysomeone with a PhD in conflict generation. I’m wedged between Ransom—looking criminally handsome in his formal security uniform—and Dirk Rothschild, who insists on being addressed as Victor Darkmore even when cameras aren’t rolling. Across from me sits Beth Williams, who seems uncharacteristically tense in her pale blue gown that matches her eyes so perfectly it’s almost suspicious.
Val Cruz-Henderson has somehow secured the seat with the best camera angles, wearing a red dress so tight it might technically qualify as external organ compression. I’m fearing for her ribcage, too. Her diamond earrings catch the light with every toss of her caramel-highlighted hair, making her look like she’s constantly being photographed with a flash. And how I’d love to get my hands on a pair like that.
Harper Bailey sits at the far end with her designer glasses reflecting the candlelight as she observes everyone with the clinical detachment of a scientist watching bacteria multiply in a petri dish. Her black gown is architectural in its precision, probably tailored to within a millimeter of its life. And yet, ironically, it’s her I have the most in common with since we’re both lovers of fine art. In fact, I can’t wait to speak to her for that reason alone.
The soap husbands fill the remaining seats, each one taking up more space than physics should allow, with their egos expanding to fill any available vacuum—not a theory, more like a scientific fact. They’re all in tuxedos that look identical to my untrained eye, though I’m sure they’d be horrified to hear me say so.
At a nearby table, Bess and Nettie have positioned themselves for optimal viewing, like front-row spectators at a gladiatorial match. Bess is elegant in emerald, while Nettie has opted for a sequined ensemble that’s basically its own light source. They offer up an enthusiastic wave when they catch my eye, and I give a little wave back.
Tinsley hovers near Boomer, adjusting her neckline downwardevery time he glances in her direction. Thegirlsare really out and about tonight. Her formal uniform has been mysteriously altered to include a plunging neckline not seen in any official cruise line handbook. And I’m the one who’s suspended?
Elodie flits around the room like a social butterfly on stimulants, somehow managing to touch the arm of every male present within the first five minutes, and her laughter carries across the dining room like champagne being poured into crystal. She’s clearly working the room—or more accurately, assembling her rotation.
“And...action!” Boomer calls out, and instantly everyone’s posture straightens—including mine.
The first course arrives with synchronized precision as the waitstaff lifts silver domes simultaneously to reveal what I can only describe as artistic suggestions of food.
“The appetizer this evening,” announces the head server with the gravity usually reserved for royal proclamations, “is Norwegian king crab with cucumber espuma, citrus caviar, and micro-herbs.”
“Harvested at dawn by blind monks,” I add. Okay, so I may have embellished that last part, but the presentation suggests it’s not far off. I’m not sure what’s going on with the food this evening, but I have a feeling the production team asked the galley to glam up the offerings. And by glam up, I mean scale down. A lot.
“I’ll just have a salad,” Val announces before the server can offer the main course options. “Dressing on the side. No croutons, no cheese, nothing that has ever been within fifty feet of a carbohydrate.”
“The same,” Harper says without looking up from her phone, where she appears to be scanning through auction catalogs even during filming.
“Me, too,” Beth adds, lifting a finger.
