This produces a collective sigh from around the table, with the women all leaning his way like flowers toward the sun.
“But back to our sweet Madison,” I say, trying to keep this suspect train on track.
“Madison had such a presence,” Harper adds, adjusting her glasses.
“She was one of a kind,” Beth offers, her expression unreadable.
“To Madison,” Victor Darkmore says, raising his glass. “May she rest in peace, unlike on my show, where death is merely a temporary inconvenience.”
Everyone drinks solemnly, except for Marlie, who makes gagging noises behind Victor that only I can hear.
“Madison is probably rolling in her grave right now,” Marlie comments. “Or she would be, if she weren’t currently being stored in the ship’s morgue freezer next to the premium ice cream.”
I nearly choke on my water. I thought she would have been removed by now.
“You okay there, Trixie?” Wes asks with concern.
“Fine,” I manage. “Just remembering Madison’s unique... personality.”
I lean toward Ransom and whisper, “Why is Madison still on the ship?”
His lips pull to the side. “The authorities asked us to drop her off when we arrive in Flam.”
I nod and exhale, considering it’s our next port of call. I guess she’s enjoying the cruise after all, in a roundabout way.
The main courses arrive—enormous plates for the men, sad little salads for the trophy wives, and my glorious lobster that arrives with enough butter to send my cholesterol into the stratosphere, and I can’t help but smile.
“Cut!” Boomer shouts again. “Trixie, could you look a little more guilty about eating when the other wives are dieting? We’re trying to establish you as the outsider here.”
“I don’t think that needs establishing,” I mutter, but dutifully adopt a slightly shamefaced expression when cameras resume rolling. It’s one that my ex, Stanton, would approve of, I’m sure.
“So, Val,” Boomer prompts from behind the camera, “tell us how you’re coping with Madison’s death.”
Val dabs at the corner of her eye with a napkin, careful not todisturb her makeup. “It’s been devastating. We were so close. Like sisters, really.”
“Sisters who hated each other,” Marlie snorts. “The only thing they shared was a plastic surgeon and a vindictive streak.”
“Harper, your thoughts?” Boomer continues.
“Statistically speaking, when a woman in her demographic is murdered, it’s usually by someone she knows well,” Harper says clinically. “I’ve been analyzing the variables and?—”
“Cut!” Boomer interrupts. “Harper, we’re going forsad friend, nothuman calculator. Try again with some real emotions this time.”
Clearly, Harper turns into a robot when she’s nervous. And maybe when she’s not.
Harper’s expression doesn’t change, but something cold flashes behind her glasses. “I’ll see what human emotions I can access for you,” she says flatly.
The dinner progresses with increasing tension. Between takes, the trophy wives snipe at each other with claws out, each comment designed to slip between ribs and puncture vital organs.
“Val, darling, is that dress new?” Beth asks innocently. “I could have sworn I saw something similar at a consignment shop last season.”
Val’s smile could freeze mercury. “Beth, sweetheart, your foundation is creasing under your eyes. Do you need a touch-up? I know how difficult aging can be.”
By the time dessert menus are presented, the atmosphere could be cut with one of the many unused butter knives. I order the chocolate lava cake with extra ice cream, while the trophy wives request herbal tea with lemon. “No honey, no sugar, nothing resembling joy,” as Marlie puts it.
“For the next segment,” Boomer announces, “I want you ladies to discuss your favorite memories of Madison.”
“She had exquisite taste in jewelry,” Val offers, fingering herown pricey-looking necklace. Red rubies laced with enough diamonds to fill a coffee cup.
