“Yes, we can all see how hard you’re working to get Boomer’s attention,” Nettie points out the obvious. “That top button seems to have worked itself loose again.”
More like the top three.
Tinsley’s hand flies to her neckline, and she glares at Nettie with the intensity of a thousand scandalized cruise directors.
As we head toward the famous Flam Railway station, I can’t shake the feeling that this excursion is going to be about more than just scenic views. Harper’s mysterious phone call, her constant note-taking, the way she keeps glancing at the other trophy wives when she thinks no one is looking—something doesn’t add up, and for once, it’s not just my suspicions running wild.
“Trixie,” Boomer says, falling into step beside me. “Try to get Harper talking about Madison. She’s been the least forthcoming about their relationship, and viewers love a good ice queen meltdown.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I reply. “I’m pretty sure Harper would need a blowtorch and a miracle to melt. The woman sort of is made of ice, and, well, far too much knowledge of statistics.” Did I just say that out loud? I’m really becoming one with the fold, aren’t I?
“That’s why we paired you two,” he says with a laugh. “Oil and water make for excellent television.”
As our little group approaches the historic railway station, with its quaint wooden architecture and backdrop of towering mountains, I steel myself for what promises to be an interesting ride.
In my experience, ascending mountains often leads to unexpected revelations—and when you’re investigating murder, the higher you climb, the further there is to fall.
The Flam Railway awaits, its tracks winding up the mountainside like a metal snake. Somewhere in those twisting tunnels and breathtaking vistas, I suspect Harper Bailey is planning to reveal something—whether it’s to me oraboutme remains to be seen.
And I know one thing for sure—it’s hard to admire the scenery when you’re sharing a train car with a possible killer.
CHAPTER 15
The Flam Railway station looks like it was plucked straight from a tourism brochure about quaint European train travel. The red wooden building with its charming gingerbread trim could double as Santa’s Norwegian headquarters during the off-season.
Inside, ancient wooden benches gleam with the polished patina that comes from a century of tourist posteriors, and the station master sports a mustache so impressive it probably has its own passport.
Our little production crew creates a stir among the regular tourists, who seem unsure whether to photograph the fjords or the camera-wielding entourage following two overdressed women through a train station. Harper and I are positioned at the front of our group, with Bess, Nettie, Tinsley, and Elodie arranged behind us like backup singers waiting for their cue.
“Remember,” Boomer instructs, hovering at my elbow. “This is supposed to be a bonding moment between the calculating analyst and the relatable everywoman. Try to find common ground. Preferably while arguing dramatically about something trivial.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I mutter, eyeing Harper, who is currently documenting the precise time of our train’s departure in her ever-present notebook. Finding common ground with Harper Bailey seems about as likely as finding a beach umbrella at the North Pole.
“The grade is pretty steep for a train, and most of the tunnels were carved by hand. It’s impressive.” Harper informs me as we board. “We’ll pass through twenty tunnels, most of which were excavated by hand.”
“Fascinating,” I reply, wondering if she swallowed a guidebook for breakfast. “Do you always memorize transport statistics before your morning coffee?” I’m teasing, but I know for a fact it makes for good television.
“Knowledge is power,” she says without a hint of irony. “Madison never understood that. She thought social capital was the only currency worth accumulating.”
I perk up at the mention of our deceased castmate. “You and Madison weren’t close, then?”
“We had different methodologies,” Harper says cryptically, sliding into a window seat with perfect posture.
I take the seat beside her, while our entourage distributes itself throughout the carriage. Bess and Nettie claim seats directly behind us, and their expressions suggest they’re prepared for a double feature of entertainment—the spectacular Norwegian scenery outside and whatever drama unfolds between Harper and me inside.
Speaking of the inside, it’s flocked with red velvet and laden with mahogany tables, and looks every bit like the perfect place to set a mystery. I’m not sure Ransom would approve. But as long as I don’t come back with a dead body, I’m sure he’ll be happy.
The train whistle blows, and with a gentle lurch, we begin our ascent into the mountains. Through the window, the quaint village of Flam recedes as the fjord stretches out like a blue-green ribbonagainst the rocky landscape. The view is so stunning it almost distracts me from the fact that I’m trapped in a train car with a woman who treats human interaction like a scientific experiment gone wrong.
“So,” I begin casually as the cameras zoom in closer, “what exactly are you always writing in that notebook?”
Harper’s pen pauses mid-stroke with the leather menace in her hand. “Observations.”
“Oh? About...?”
“Everything.” She turns a page, revealing columns of what appear to be times, dates, and cryptic notations. “I find that patterns emerge when you pay attention.”
Marlie’s ghost materializes in the empty seat across from us, her ’80s power suit clashing magnificently with the traditional Norwegian decor of the train car.
