Page 20 of Transatlantic Terror Cruise

“Well, that sounds promising,” Bess mutters. “Although on this ship, the wordirresistibleusually segues into a homicide investigation.”

Nettie nods. “Desserts, a makeover, and murder. What more could a woman ask for?” She bumps her shoulder into Bess. “And here you were afraid a transatlantic cruise would be boring.”

“I would never say such a thing about an adventure on theEmerald Queen,” Bess corrects. “Not out loud anyway.”

“Eh, you were loaded to the hilt with truth serum when you said it,” Nettie explains.

I nod to Bess. “And that’s exactly why I don’t drink.”

The scent of something sugar-sweet layered with the scent of fruit intoxicates our senses and it mingles with the scent of expensive perfume, while Beethoven’s “Symphony No. 5” hums over the speakers.

Women in everything from sundresses to sequins mill about, examining the elaborate display tables with the kind of intensity usually reserved for crime scenes. Okay, so maybe I’m projecting, but it’s the exact intensity that I myself put into a crime scene.

What can I say? I’m dedicated to my craft.

Speaking of crime scenes, the buffet stretches along one wall like a pastel paradise brimming with towers of macarons in every shade of springtime, petit fours topped with flowers made of sugar, chocolate-dipped strawberries are nestled in edible glitter, and a row of smoothies is set out in citrine hues that would make a tropical sunset jealous.

“Twenty bucks says at least one of these desserts is poisoned,” Nettie whispers as we make our way toward the buffet line.

“What makes you say that?” I ask, stunned she’d tempt fate by verbalizing the nightmare scenario. Lord knows we have enough of those playing out as it is.

“We brought you, didn’t we?” She no sooner says the words than both she and Bess burst out with a laugh.

“Very funny, ladies.” I shoot a wry look to the rest of the room and spot Elvie Whipple dressed in a bright pink gown as she and a few other women load her products onto a table.

It’s nice to know my prime suspect won’t be going anywhere soon.

“Come on, girls,” Bess says, steering us to the left. “This buffet isn’t going to eat itself.”

We head on over and find Elodie already working her way through the spread, loading a sampler plate with everything in sight, and she even has a pink smoothie precariously balanced in her other hand.

“You,” I say, sharper than intended. Oh heck, who am I kidding? I very much intended it. “Here, let me help you,” I say, momentarily breaking faith with my ire to take the smoothie from her before it hits the floor.

“What about me?” Elodie winks and wiggles her shoulders in her crisp white blouse and navy pencil skirt that looks as if it were painted on. Easy for her to look business-casual—no one threw away her entire closet in the night.

“I have a bone to pick with you,” I say, still miffed about her wardrobe heist. “And you know exactly what it’s about.” I wiggle my own shoulders in an effort to exemplify the white fuzzy stole pinned over my shoulders.

“The only bones you should be picking are in your husband’s direction,” Nettie chimes in and earns an elbow to the ribs from Bess.

Elodie bubbles out a laugh. “Oh, Trixie, don’t be silly. Nettie is right. And stop being so dramatic. You look fabulous in that evening gown.”

“Maybe so, but it’s not yet noon,” I point out, adjusting my stole for the hundredth time. “I look like I got my formal night mixed up.”

“Oh hush.” Elodie snatches her smoothie from me. “Nothing saysBreakfast at Tiffany’slike full formal gear. And if you’re lucky, Ransom will shower you with diamonds because of it. It’s win-win.” She takes a quick sip of her drink. “And baubles aside, you’re the best-dressed woman in the room.” She nods to my rather regal attire. “By the way, that shade of navy really brings out the wicked witch in your eyes.”

“Better a wicked witch than a wardrobe thief,” I mutter, but that just makes her grin all that much more.

Bess and Nettie dissolve into cackles as they pile their plates with pastel confections, creating towers worthy of an anxiety-riddled Jenga game.

Elodie leans past me and her eyes light up like a kid spotting an ice cream truck. “Hold on to your wicked thoughts. I see Mrs. Whipple over there. I think I’ll go help her lay out the goods. She’s letting me sell whatever doesn’t move today in the ship’s boutique. And I’m already in love with her products.” She casts another glance my way. “I’ve sent up a basket filled with Luscious and Delicious lotions and potions to your room. Everything is edible and can be placed anywhere on the human body. Do I need to draw a map for you?”

“No,” I say in haste before she decides to do it anyway. “I think I can figure out the logistics.”

“Draw a map forme,” Nettie pipes up, but Elodie simply ignores her as she takes off.

“Drats.” Nettie snaps her fingers in dismay. “Just when we were getting to the good part.”

“Please.” Bess shakes her head. “You’ve got decades and a mile-long list of men on her. You should be the one drawing a map for Elodie. Besides, we’re here to question a suspect, not give a dissertation on what goes where in the bedroom.”

---