Page 5

CHAPTER 5

I nside, the Neptune Lounge has been transformed from a nautical haven to a true crime shrine.

Rows of chairs have been set out, all facing front for what I’m guessing will be a welcome presentation. To the left, there’s a refreshment table brimming with donuts of every shape, size, and color, along with a coffee bar whose scent is quickly putting me into a hypnotic trance.

Displays of authentic serial killer memorabilia line the tables near the front and Bess, Nettie, and I quickly migrate in that direction.

The tables are laden with letters, photographs, and what appears to be a vintage microphone cord labeled The Strangler’s Choice, circa 1962 . There’s also a hunter’s knife with a jagged serrated edge that looks as if it could do some real damage with not much effort. And judging by the fact it’s on that table, I think it already has. There’s a note next to it that suggests it was a part of the Butcher of Baker Street’s private collection of weaponry.

“ Geez .” I clutch at my chest as we inspect the killer goods. “Morbid much?”

“Says the woman who chats with ghosts,” Bess whispers my way along with a wink.

A stocky woman with prematurely gray hair bumps into me, juggling her knitting needles and a stack of true crime-themed tote bags. The one on top reads My Favorite Hobby is Murder... Podcasts in elegant script. It’s then I note her long purple knit cardigan and recognize her as the woman handing out the drinks earlier.

“Oh! I’m so sorry,” she says with a mournful laugh. “I didn’t mean to attack you. These bags have a mind of their own.” She juggles her supplies as if to prove her point. “I’m Becky Lee Darling—I do some of the merchandise for the show. I was just setting these out for display. You must be Trixie. I heard Tinsley mention that you’re a detective of sorts yourself.”

“More like an accidental sleuth,” I’m slow to admit. “Things just tend to, well, happen around me.”

And the things that happen just so happen to have a deadly ring to them.

Speaking of rings, my thumb twirls that rock on my finger and I cast a quick glance at the door.

Where is that handsome husband of mine, anyway? I was hoping he’d pop in regardless of the fact he’s on duty once again.

I sigh at the thought. Leave it to Quinn to find some way to take down our honeymoon. If I wasn’t sure if she had it out for me before, I’m positive of it now.

“Things just tend to happen around you?” Becky Lee gives a little laugh at the thought. “Well, sometimes those are the best kind of mysteries,” she says with a shrug. “The ones you least expect.”

The lights flicker again, and this time everyone finds their seats. Brad Whipple waves in an effort to garner everyone’s attention as he stands near the front next to the makeshift stage with a set of crimson velvet curtains hanging on either side of the slightly raised platform.

“Welcome, my fellow murder aficionados,” he calls out, commanding the room with a confidence that looks as if it comes far too easy for him. “Before we dive into tonight’s gruesome tales, I want to thank you all for joining Whispers of the Wicked on this grand oceanic adventure aboard the Emerald Queen of the Seas . I look forward to getting to know each and every one of you. But before we get to know each other, or even a few serial killers a little better, I’d like to thank my amazing team.” He grins with more than a little killer charm. “First, I’d like to thank my partner in crime—pun intended—my business partner in what I like to call my real-world job. He’s a true friend—my best friend, Reed Williams.” He points to a man standing near the bar with dark hair and deep dimples as he toasts Brad with the drink in his hand. “Without him, our haunted house empire would be just another real estate venture.”

A polite applause circles the room as the two men exchange looks that seem more loaded than friendly, and I can’t help but think that Reed’s smile seems a touch manufactured.

I lean in toward Bess and Nettie who are seated to my right. “Did he say haunted house empire?”

Nettie nods. “And you can bet I’m going to find out all of the haunted deets. If I can’t find me a good man in this life, I’m determined to find him in the next—and I’m going to do it while I’ve still got breath in my lungs, too.”

Bess grunts. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

Nettie elbows her bestie. “Who says I was talking to you? I’m talking to Trixie. She can vet the ghosts for me and give me the 411 on who’s a hottie and who’s extra naughty.” She nods my way. “I’m especially interested in the latter.”

Bess ticks her head to the side. “Knowing the type of dead men you’re interested in, I’d venture to say they’re all feeling a little hot right about now, especially considering which holding tank they’re stuck in.”

The microphone squeals and our attention is relegated to the front once again.

“I would also like to thank the technical wizards among us.” Brad points to a man in the corner who raises his hand briefly. “The man who makes me sound much smarter than I am. And, of course, sweet Becky Lee Darling, whose crafty hands have bestowed endless treasures upon us.” His voice softens as he says her name, and to my surprise, it’s the woman in the purple knit cardigan he’s looking at. “And lastly, my wife Elvie, who”—he pauses for a moment—“well, let’s just say she’s given me endless material for future episodes. Some might even say she’s killing it in the cosmetics game.”

A bout of awkward laughter filters through the room.

At least he’s consistent with highlighting the tension in his marriage.

Soon enough, Brad launches into his greatest hits collection of cold cases, and the room lights up as if it’s story time at a particularly murderous family reunion.

“And who remembers the Bakery Butcher of ’92?” he asks, and hands shoot up faster than alibis at a police lineup. The crowd trades theories and timelines with the cozy enthusiasm of a book club—if your book club happens to specialize in blood spatter analysis and suspicious insurance claims.

Brad begins to cough, slow and subtle at first before it picks up to something that garners far more of his attention. He downs the rest of his drink then holds up a hand.

“How about a quick break?” he calls out. His cheeks are flushed and beads of sweat line his forehead.

“Donuts are in the back,” Reed announces, coming to the aid of his friend. “And we all know donuts are tantamount to a true crime junkie’s daily bread. Please indulge.”

“Don’t forget the coffee,” someone shouts. “We need to keep the armchair detectives in us happy—and awake for those three a.m. research sessions.”

A laugh rumbles through the room as the crowd disperses into clusters as everyone begins mingling at once.

We stretch our legs and turn our attention to the donut buffet set up along the back wall as well as a table housing enough coffee to keep the entire state of New York awake for a year.

“Speaking of keeping ourselves happy”—Nettie links arms with Bess—“those maple bars are calling our names. Come on, girls. Let’s get the goods while the goods are still there to get.”

“ Ooh ”—Bess moans—“I hope they have one with caramel and sea salt sprinkled on top.”

“You would,” Nettie grouses. “Because you’re a weirdo.”

“Yeah, but I’m your weirdo,” Bess shoots back. “Come on, Trixie. You, of all people, need to refuel with sugar and carbs.”

“Amen to that, sister,” I mutter just as Tinsley cuts in front of me.

“No donuts for me,” Tinsley announces as she scuttles past us. “I’m making a beeline for Brad.” She nods toward the bar and I spot him speaking with his friend Reed, the older man with adorable dimples. “Here’s hoping they have room for one more in that haunted conversation.”

Elodie snorts as Tinsley takes off. “Now there’s your classic Tinsley move. Nothing says one-night stand like throwing yourself at married men with money—and apparently haunted houses, too.”

“How do you know Reed is married?” I ask.

Elodie sucks in a quick breath. “My goodness, if that man is single, he’ll be landing in my bed tonight.” She speeds in their direction like a bullet train in heels and somehow manages to beat Tinsley to the punch by a naughty nautical mile.

But in no time, Bess, Nettie, and I are at the donut buffet and I load my plate with an assortment of deadly sins—maple bars, chocolate-filled eclairs, and one suspiciously pink-frosted creation that screams murder by sugar rush. And it’s one that I wouldn’t mind dying for.

“Hey, look,” Bess says, nodding to the pink wonder on her plate—it’s one of three. “I got one of those pink treats, too. It’s got death by sprinkles written all over it.”

“And what a way to go,” I say, taking a bite and moaning. “At least we’ll die happy.”

Nettie snorts. “You’ll be happy and in heaven as soon as Handsome Ransom ravishes you in that honeymoon suite once again.”

“How about we check out that killer collection again before we lose Trixie?” Bess suggests, eyeing the display at the front of the room. “I’m really interested in learning more about that morbid microphone.”

“I’m interested in the knife,” Nettie says. “You know what they say, keep your friends close and your knives closer or you might end up with one in your back.”

My phone buzzes and I pull it out of my purse. It’s a text.

“Speaking of the handsome devil,” I say, wagging my phone their way. “Why don’t you two go on ahead. I’ll meet up with you in a second.”

They take off and I step to the side to look at the message my brand-new husband sent.

Ransom: Quinn broke her arm chasing a pickpocket. She needs surgery. I’ll have to arrange for her to be medevacked off the ship.

“Oh no.” I groan hard just reading it.

I text right back

Trixie: I’m so sorry. How long will you be tied up?

Ransom: Not to worry. Unless catastrophe strikes, the crew can handle things. We will resume our honeymoon protocol shortly.

A light laugh escapes me at the naughty thought.

I quickly scan the room, and as I’m about to step into the crowd, Becky Lee darts past as if she’s being chased by her own shadow with that knitting bag of hers clutched tight to her chest.

“ Geez ,” I say with a laugh caught in my throat, feeling pretty lucky that I wasn’t scalped by a knitting needle in the process.

I step into the flow of the crowd and spot Brad and Elvie just shy of the bar. I’m about to pass them by but slow down a notch once I notice they seem to be having what looks like a nuclear-grade argument as both of their faces turn a shade of red that matches the curtains next to them.

“I know what you’ve been doing,” Elvie hisses the words and they carry right to my ears. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

“Not stupid, honey,” Brad gravels out. “Just convenient.”

Convenient? I balk at the odd and potentially awful comeback.

What is that supposed to mean?

I drift toward the table laden with memorabilia, losing myself in the macabre display.

Twenty minutes disappear like smoke until I decide it’s time to find my favorite wayward octogenarians once again.

I scour the front of the lounge and all along the nooks and crannies, but they’re nowhere to be found.

The makeshift stage catches my eye. It’s just a wooden stage on the same level as the rest of the room, but those floor-to-ceiling crimson curtains on either side afford at least ten feet of clearance on either side behind them.

We’ve had performances in this lounge before and the cast and crew have utilized the space behind the curtains as a dressing area and staging area for any and everything. I check behind the curtains on the right side and come upon a couple making out hot and heavy.

I won’t lie, I’m a bit envious.

But there’s no sign of Bess and Nettie.

I head for the opposite side of the stage and delve into the dimly lit expanse.

“Bess? Nettie ?” I call out and my voice sounds muffled by all the fabric hanging before me. I wouldn’t put it past Nettie to head back here in hopes of trying out that knife she had her eye on. And, well, Bess would definitely try to stop her. Or more to the point, strangle her bestie with that ominous microphone cord. It’s been used as a weapon of destruction before, thus the cord’s entry into the morbid display in the first place.

But there’s no sign of them here either. And for that, I’m much relieved.

My foot catches on something soft and I stumble, catching myself on a chair before turning to see what tripped me.

It looks like a discarded coat.

I pull out my phone, point the flashlight at the ground, and gasp.

It’s not a discarded coat.

It’s the guest of honor, sprawled on the ground, lying on his stomach with his eyes staring vacantly to the side.

And judging by that knife sticking out of his back—Brad Whipple is dead.