Before Ransom can respond, Beth clutches her chest. “I might need emergency medical attention. Detective Baxter, do you know mouth-to-mouth?”
I shoot her a lethal look.
Not to be outdone, Harper suddenly grabs the railing herself, holding it so tight her knuckles go white.
“Oh my goodness,” she gasps, swaying slightly. “I don’t know what’s happening. The height—I can’t—” She reaches out blindly, her hand landing on Ransom’s arm. “I need help getting down. I don’t think I can walk. You’ll have to carry me all the way down the trail.”
“Ladies,” Ransom says, his patience clearly born from dealing with far worse crises than theatrical trophy wives, “I’m here in a security capacity. If you’re experiencing medical concerns, we have a medic on staff.”
“But he’s not nearly as qualified as you,” Val purrs, somehow managing to trip over absolutely nothing and fall directly into Ransom’s reluctantly extended arms.
Their competitive fawning reaches a crescendo when all three trophy wives converge on Ransom at once, creating a designer-clad traffic jam that nearly sendsmetumbling over the edge of the cliffside. I would have taken an unplanned swim in the fjord if not for Ransom’s lightning-fast reflexes. He somehow manages tocatch my arm with one hand while still fending off Val with the other.
“CUT!” Boomer finally shouts, throwing his hands up in defeat. “Take fifteen, everyone! And please try not to drown, fall off a cliff, or develop any new medical conditions during the break!”
I’d like to push a few people off the cliff, but I keep that to myself for now. It’s petty, I know. I guess I really do fit in with these women.
The trophy wives reluctantly disperse, still arguing about who gets dibs on Ransom for the hike back to the tender boats. Bess and Nettie corner Santino by the souvenir stand, apparently conducting an impromptu interview about his character’s seven marriages and four presumed deaths. Honestly, I’d love to listen in, but I need a little alone time with the hot security hunk everyone is salivating over.
“Well, that was something,” I say to Ransom as we find a quiet spot away from the cameras.
“Just another day in paradise,” he replies dryly, his eyes scanning the area with professional attention before settling back on me, and he pulls me in close. “Trixie, are you okay? You nearly took a swan dive into the water back there.”
“I’m fine. Although I’m pretty sure Val would have volunteered to give you mouth-to-mouth if you’d jumped in after me.”
His frown makes it clear exactly what he thinks of that scenario. “I noticed something interesting during Dirk’s—Victor’s unplanned swimming lesson,” he says, lowering his voice. “The moment he hit the water, Beth was texting someone. And she looked relieved, not concerned.”
I follow his gaze to where Beth stands off to the side, her phone clutched in her hand like a lifeline. “Do you think it’s connected to Madison’s murder?”
“I think everything on this cruise is connected.” He hitches his head toward Victor, who’s emerged from the tent looking mostlydry but significantly grumpier. “Let’s say we double-team the widower and see what we can come up with.”
“Careful with that phrasing,” I tease, nudging his shoulder. “Last time you suggested double-teaming, we ended up with a very different kind of investigation.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up in that subtle smile that still makes my heart do all sorts of unsafe things. “That was a very satisfactory outcome, as I recall—for just the two of us.”
“Very,” I agree. “Let’s hope this one is just as revealing.”
We start toward Victor, who sits alone on a bench looking uncharacteristically subdued. Behind us, the Seven Sisters continue their eternal cascade, indifferent to the human drama unfolding on their doorstep.
Marlie’s ghost floats alongside us, rubbing her hands together with ghostly glee. “This is going to be good,” she says. “Victor always was a terrible liar when caught off guard. On the show, he had a script and five takes. Here? He’s got nothing.”
Like those waterfalls, secrets can only stay suspended for so long. Eventually, they all come crashing down.
Or at least, here’s hoping.
CHAPTER 20
The clouds have darkened over the Seven Sisters waterfall, casting deep shadows that would terrify any soap opera lighting director.
The temperature has dropped several degrees, bringing with it the scent of impending rain and the earthy aroma of damp Norwegian soil. Mist from the thundering falls creates a gossamer veil between the rest of the film crew and us, providing an almost supernatural privacy for our impromptu interrogation.
Dirk Rothschild, AKA Victor Darkmore, sits alone on a wooden bench, looking considerably less majestic than he did before his unexpected swim. His designer hiking outfit has been replaced withEmerald Queenbrand sweatpants and a hoodie that clearly pains him to be seen wearing. His usually perfect hair has dried in rebellious directions, and he keeps running his fingers through it as if demanding it do his bidding.
“Ready to channel your inner FBI agent?” I ask Ransom as we approach.
“I never stopped,” he replies with a subtle wink that sends a swarm of butterflies fluttering inside of me.
Marlie’s ghost floats alongside us, rubbing her spectral hands together with glee, or anticipation, orrevenge. “This is going to be better than the time I confronted him about his affair with my sister’s evil twin’s surrogate mother.”
