Page 32

CHAPTER 32

While Trixie’s Away, the Ship Will Play—The Elodie Edition

W elcome, wayward wanderers! While our newlyweds are busy testing the room service staff’s discretion—and really, who knew breakfast in bed could be such an athletic event?—let’s unpack today’s tantalizing question.

Dear Elodie,

I noticed the ship offers a couples mixology class in an intimate setting. The brochure mentions hands-on instruction and exotic ingredients. Is this worth the splurge?

Cocktail Curious

My thirsty thrill seeker,

Intimate is putting it mildly. That private bar setup is like a playground for grown-ups with all those fresh fruits to squeeze, spirits to sample, and ice to properly handle. And don’t get me started on the proper technique for shaking versus stirring.

The bartender’s counter is surprisingly comfortable (ask me how I know), and those barstools are engineered for more than just sitting. Though I do recommend pacing your taste testing . Last week, a couple got a bit too creative with the garnish tray, and the lime wedges may never recover.

Pro tip: Book the last session of the evening. The mood lighting is better, and the bartender knows when to become conveniently nearsighted. Plus, those cocktail shakers are an excellent way to cover up sound.

Mixing with mischief,

XOXO Elodie

It takes less than two minutes for Bess, Nettie, Tinsley, Wes, and me to boot scoot to the big midnight shindig we’ve not-so-patiently been waiting for. And it seems as if the rest of the folks who are here for the podcast cruise have shown up in spades as well.

The formal dining room has transformed into something caught between an elegant soirée and a crime scene—if crime scenes came with ice sculptures and chocolate fountains. Bright yellow caution tape is strewn up all around, and there are even several chalk outlines that lie over the black granite floors, making it look as if a massacre has already occurred.

There’s even a murder merch table set up to the side with what looks like every available mug, T-shirt, and tote bag on the planet vying for our attention.

Moody soft rock music mingles with the murmur of conversation and the clink of crystal, while the dim lighting casts shadows across the room that make everyone look either sinister or gorgeous. Sometimes both.

“Would you look at this spread?” Bess says, still riding on the high of that thousand-dollar win. “Good thing I’ve got an appetite.”

“Yeah, you would,” Nettie grouses. “And just as I managed to lose mine.”

Suffice it to say, as inflated as Bess is, Nettie is deflated equally as much if not more.

“I’m so sorry, Nettie,” I say, giving her a quick hug. “If you want, I’ll help you organize a class action lawsuit against the ship’s casino.”

Wes nearly snaps his neck as he turns my way.

“I’m kidding,” I say with a little laugh, and Nettie growls in response.

“Face it.” Nettie moans. “I’m a loser.”

“ Nettie , no, that’s not true,” I protest her way.

“Don’t you worry about her, Trixie,” Bess says while taking Nettie by the hand. “Come on, hot shot, the only losers around here will be the people who get in line after us at the buffet. Let’s get over there and show them what we’re made of—and how much we can put away. I’m thinking we go in hard and start off with two plates each.”

“I’m starting with three,” Nettie shoots back.

“But you’ve only got two hands,” Bess cries.

“The devil is in the details. I’ve also got two feet,” she grouses back before eyeing a tower of donuts labeled Ring of Evidence . “Donuts! Heaven help my diet.”

“I think your diet was pronounced dead on arrival,” Bess says, already plotting her approach to the Killer Canapés .

The midnight buffet sprawls across several stations, each one more cleverly themed than the last. The Smoking Gun Grill features perfectly seared steaks and flame-kissed seafood—both of which have already arrested my olfactory senses.

It’s the dessert display labeled The Evidence Locker that stops me in my tracks. Elegant black boxes lined with gold trim showcase what might be the most criminally delicious collection of fudge I’ve ever seen.

“Would you look at that?” Bess says, pointing to it. “Each cute little fudge bite has its own clever name and look at those yummy descriptions!”

“Breaking & Entering Fudge with chunks of crushed toffee lurking in dark chocolate,” Nettie reads. “Grand Theft Chocolate with a gooey caramel center that should be illegal in at least three different states.”

We share a quick laugh.

“First Degree Fudge,” I read. “Oh, look, it actually comes with a warning label about the ghost pepper kick it has.”

“ Mmm .” Bess moans. “Premeditated Peanut Butter with swirls of chocolate that permeate like a guilty conscience.” We share another laugh before she reads another one. “Conspiracy to Caramel and Double Indictment—loaded with espresso.”

“I’m in,” I say, picking up one from a platter labeled Criminal Intent with a marbled white and dark chocolate pattern.

We nosh on and nibble them all, but it’s the Beyond a Reasonable Doubt Fudge that truly lives up to its name with five different types of chocolate layered into one perfect bite, topped with gold leaf because apparently even felonious fudge deserves to dress up for formal night.

The table at the center of the scene of the crime, aka the mile-long buffet table is called the Cold Case Collection . It presents an array of chilled delicacies including a massive ice sculpture of handcuffs that’s already drawing the attention of every amateur photographer in the room. But it’s the Death by Chocolate dessert station that’s stealing the show—complete with chalk outline gingerbread cookies and red velvet blood-spattered cupcakes.

The crowd sparkles under the crystal chandeliers in a sea of jewel-toned evening wear while holding champagne flutes close to the vest.

Through the sea of shifting bodies, I spot Elvie and Reed by the Lethal Libations bar. And I can’t help but notice that he has his arm around her waist with practiced familiarity as they laugh with another couple.

The champagne in Elvie’s glass rivals her bubbling laughter. She looks lovely in a floor-length burgundy gown. Not quite the weeping widow effect, but it looks understated and elegant, as she should. Especially considering the fact her deceased husband had a wandering eye—among other wandering body parts.

I’m guessing she really needed that liquid courage to get through this evening, and perhaps the rest of the cruise. If something happened to Ransom, I couldn’t see myself leaving my cabin, let alone entertaining the masses.

Elvie Whipple is a stronger woman than I could ever be in that department.

“Well, it looks to me as if the food is calling.” Wes pats his stomach as he looks longingly at the buffet table that seems to stretch from one end of the ship to the other.

“ Captain! Captain! ” a group of excited passengers call out as they wave and head this way.

Tinsley sniffs. “It looks as if more than the food is calling. You know what you need to do.”

“Yup.” He gives a mournful sigh at the dessert table. “I know exactly what’s expected of me and it’s not a donut.”

“You can always find a way to involve a donut,” I say just as he’s mobbed with a crowd of captain-hungry passengers ready to take their selfie game to the next level.

And in a move that I think I’m responsible for, he leads them to the donut display, and soon the entire mob is posing with the captain and a donut. As if women didn’t already find Wes delicious enough.

“And just like that, the cheese stands alone,” I muse to myself while scanning the room for my suspects.

“Not tonight, it doesn’t,” Tinsley says as she stands shoulder to shoulder with me. “I’m not leaving your side.”

“Just my luck.”

Becky Lee glides past us in an emerald silk gown, towing a distinguished-looking man who has a scowl that could sink a lifeboat—or a marriage.

“Trixie! Tinsley!” She gives a cheery wave as she makes her way over with the sourpuss in tow. “Hello, ladies,” she says sweetly. Her hair is pulled up into a messy bun and she’s donned a pink rhinestone brooch in the shape of a flamingo that stands out against the verdant color of her frock. “This is my husband, Patrick.” She nods to the man by her side and he offers a staged smile.

“Charmed to meet you,” he says in a tone that suggests anything but. “Come on, Beck. The buffet is getting cold. Do you want to play the part of a social butterfly or stuff your face?” He steers her away and his fingers dig into her arm enough to leave white impressions against her flesh.

“Well, he’s delightful,” Tinsley mutters.

“Like a root canal without anesthetic,” I add. “Did you see how he grabbed her?”

She nods. “I bet it’s not the first time he’s done that.”

“Or sadly the last,” I say grimly. I’m about to suggest we hit the buffet ourselves and help Bess and Nettie put a dent in that thing when a blonde hurricane nearly knocks right into us.

“Girls.” Elodie materializes before us in a swirl of pink chiffon. “I see we all survived another formal night. And now it’s time to make some questionable decisions with questionable company.”

“Speaking of questionable decisions.” My shoulders do a little shimmy. “How was your haunted house inspection?”

She waves me off with a perfectly manicured hand. “It never happened. Apparently, he’s taken. And happily so.” She rolls her eyes at the thought of anyone finding happiness without her. “Now where’s the vodka? I’m off the clock and demand to get properly pickled. Besides, there has to be another mysterious stranger here somewhere, looking for a close encounter of the horizontal kind.” She darts off just as pink and red stars explode overhead and Sassy materializes in her wake.

“ Ooh .” Sassy shimmies her shoulders as well as she inspects the ample buffet, already being replenished by the waitstaff. “Oh, how I miss chocolate fountains.” She sighs. “Although not as much as I miss that leather-clad ghost hunter.” She sighs twice as hard in the leather-clad ghost hunter’s direction.

“What do you mean miss?” I practically mouth the words as she glides down next to me. “I thought you were stalking Reed,” I whisper, but Tinsley catches it anyway.

“Why would I do that?” Tinsley snips as she rocks back on her heels to get a better look at me. “He’s so not my type. Besides, you heard the blonde bimbo in pink.” She nods in the direction Elodie took off in. “He’s happily taken.”

“Tell me about it.” Sassy blows out an exasperated breath and releases a galaxy worth of stars in her wake.

“Taken by whom?” I ask, not bothering to lower my voice this time. I squint in his direction and he still has an arm wrapped around Elvie’s waist as if they were the couple in question.

“By the woman of the hour,” Sassy growls in their direction, and the chandeliers tremble ominously in response.

“What?” I shake my head in disbelief.

We watch as Reed whispers something in Elvie’s ear, before his lips brush against her cheek in what could easily be mistaken for a kiss. He steps away and melts into the crowd as Elvie drifts toward the observation windows all by her lonesome.

Her champagne glass may be empty, but her expression is chock-full of secrets.

I make my beeline toward her with Tinsley and my invisible sparkler of a ghost in tow.

After all, nothing says Midnight Murder Mingle quite like confronting a widow about her new romance—especially when that romance might have started before her husband stopped breathing.