Page 69 of Transatlantic Terror Cruise

“Yeah,” Sassy says, affronted by the fact she was killed at all—as she should be. “How did the weasel land me toes up in the morgue?” She straightens for a moment. “More like, how did he launch me into Paradise where I’m living my best life—even if it is my afterlife.”

I shrug her way. It’s nice to know she’s having a good time.

“Oh, you won’t believe it,” Becky Lee pants, glancing around at a manic pace. “He put peanut oil in her lip gloss!”

Sassy gasps. “But I’mallergicto peanuts.”

I shoot her a look and she gasps twice as hard.

“That arrogant—” An entire litany of expletives rips from her as the lights flicker in the room and something akin to a jag of lightning goes off overhead.

The crowd screams, then quickly reverts tooohsandahhs. Obviously, they think it’s a part of the evening’s dramatics.

“He knew about her allergy,” Becky Lee insists. “Elvie made sure everyone knew to keep peanuts away from her. Brad figured it was the perfect way to make her death look like an accident.”

“That lying, cheating, murdering—” Sassy’s rage makes every chandelier in the room shiver and quiver. “I knew something was off about those accounts, but I never imagined he’d go this far to cover it up.”

“I made sure Brad didn’t tell anyone our dirty little secrets.” Becky Lee lunges suddenly, snatching a knife from the table behind her. A butter knife, but still. I’m assuming it could do enough damage in the wrong hands. Namely hers. “And I can’t let you tell anyone either.”

“Watch out!” Sassy screams as Becky Lee slashes her way toward me. I do my best to jump out of the line of fire just as Sassy bulldozes her way right through Becky Lee, and oddly enough it causes her to stumble.

“What was that?” Becky Lee grunts as she regains her footing and darts off into the crowd. I take off after her with my heels clicking against the floor like thunder.

“Stop her,” I shout as she barrels toward the buffet, and what few people manage to hear me turn in my direction.

Thankfully, Bess and Nettie happen to be noshing on a couple of chocolate eclairs right next to that mountain of donuts as Becky Lee zooms past them.

“We’re on it,” Bess shouts, chucking her eclair into the air and trying to cut Becky Lee off at the pass. But Becky Lee veers sideways, sending a rather stunning tower of donuts flying to the ceiling.

“Not on my watch,” Nettie howls as she dives to save a chocolate-glazed cruller and causes a chain reaction that sends everything from the Felon’s Feast filet mignon to that Evidence in Cold Storage shrimp platter flying.

But it’s the fact it’s raining donuts that seems to have captured the crowd’s attention. And knowing this crowd, I completely understand why.

“My precious crullers,” Nettie wails as the deep-fried pastries roll across the floor like sugary tumbleweeds.

More screams ignite, and shrieks of terror fill the room as Wes tries to call everyone to order.

Becky Lee races past the chocolate fountain, knocking it sideways, and sends a wave of liquid chocolate splashing across the floor. And just like that, an impromptu slip-and-slide is born that sends several guests spinning—and, well, licking, too.

Becky Lee races toward the exit, but Wes blocks her path. Then in an acrobatic feat worthy of the circus, she hops onto the buffet table and traverses platters of antipasto and mac and cheese alike before attempting to dive right through the massive ice sculpture fashioned to look like handcuffs.

But she doesn’t dive right through them. Instead, she divespartiallythrough them as her rear end lodges through one of the frozen cuffs.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she squawks, stuck halfway through the icy restraints like a cork in a champagne bottle. Her legs kick uselessly behind her, while the front half of her dangles through the sculpture.

The room goes from terrified screams to rip-roaring laughter in three seconds flat.

“Well”—Nettie says, out of breath, as she staggers up next to me with a donut in each hand—“I guess you could say she put herself on ice.”

A loud snap goes off as the icy handcuff gives way, sending Becky Lee sliding down the buffet table face-first, before landing in the chocolate river as she bobsleds her way toward the exit and right into Ransom Baxter’s shiny black Italian leather shoes.

“She did it,” I shout as I dart that way. “She confessed to killing Brad,” I say and the room lights up with gasps.

“What?” Elvie stomps her way over and growls at the woman covered in chocolate on the floor. “How could you? That man adored you!”

“I’m sorry,” I say to Elvie. “But he adored her so much he made her his mistress.”

More gasps ensue, the loudest of which is coming from Patrick Darling, Becky Lee’s donkey of a husband.

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