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Another pod of dolphins appears, followed by what looks like a whale spouting water high into the sky, and suddenly a crowd surges toward that end of the deck.
“Oh, I just love whales,” Becky Lee shouts as she jumps up with her phone in hand. “Please excuse me, ladies. But I just need to get a few pictures.”
“Wait,” I call out as she’s about to dart into the mob of bodies that have suddenly materialized. “Who did you hear that rumor from? Are they on the ship?”
“Reed Williams,” she tosses his name over her shoulder as she heads for the rail.
Duly noted.
Bess and Nettie join the whale-watching crowd, but as for me, I’m too busy calculating the fastest route to the infirmary.
Because nothing says honeymoon surprise quite like finding out that I’ve brought along more than my emotional baggage to my new marriage.
Sometimes solving a murder takes brains, sometimes it takes luck, and sometimes it takes a full panel of STD tests. Here’s hoping the ship’s doctor has a sense of humor—and maybe a rush option.
CHAPTER23
While Trixie’s Away, the Ship Will Play—The Elodie Edition
Ahoy, maritime-merry makers! While our newlyweds are busy testing the durability of their cabin furniture (and really, quality control is so important), let’s address today’s steamy question.
Dear Elodie,
I noticed there’s an adults only hot tub after dark. My wife thinks it sounds scandalous, but I’m intrigued. What’s the proper etiquette for late-night soaking?
Hot and Bothered
My bubbling beloved,
The after-hours hot tub is likeFight Club. What happens there stays there, and the first rule is don’t talk about what you saw in the hot tub. But unlikeFight Club, the only wrestling should be of therecreationalvariety.
The jets are positioned for maximum uh—relaxation, and underwater lighting is more forgiving than you’d think. Though I do recommend maintaining at least a minimal dress code. Those security cameras have surprisingly good resolution, and our hunky head of security has seen enough trauma lately.
Soaking seductively,
XOXO Elodie
Trixie
The ship’sinfirmary smells like every doctor’s office I’ve ever visited with that distinct mix of antiseptic and anxiety, although here there seems to be a dash of sea breeze thrown in for good measure.
Thankfully, the waiting room is empty with the exception of a potted plant that has seen better days and a stack of magazines old enough to be considered historical documents.
A sweet young man rises from his seat behind the desk as I belly up to the counter.
“I’m sorry, but the doctor stepped away for a moment,” he says as he adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses.
Marcus Chen, physician assistant according to his name tag, looks about twelve, but the credentials framed on the wall behind him suggest otherwise.
His pristine white coat makes me think of fresh fallen snow, but that’s probably my brain trying to convince itself that everything in here is inexplicably sterile.
I may have been married to a doctor of sorts, but that’s never made me a fan of being a patient. In fact, you might say I’m one of the worst. Case in point, my rather latent visit regarding the epiphany I just had regarding what my slime of an ex could have gifted me as a rather slimy parting gift.
“Please”—I lean over the counter and drop my voice to a whisper as if I had to—“I need a full panel STD test and I need it stat. Like,yesterdaystat.” I give a quick glance around the room as if sexually transmitted diseases might be lurking in the corners. And if Stanton was ever in the vicinity, they just might be. “I’ll do anything to speed it up. I’ll pay extra. I’lltipyou. How does a thousand bucks for rushed results sound?”
His eyebrows shoot up as if our conversation has taken a rather exciting turn—and for him it certainly has. I’m pretty sure the physician assistant is one of the few crew members who never receives a tip. But that cash-deficient tide is going to turn today. That is, if he cooperates.
He ticks his head to the side, and I can tell he’s considering my rather substantial offer. He’d be a fool not to.