Page 15 of Transatlantic Terror Cruise

XOXO Elodie

P.S. If you’re worried about your dress being too revealing, just remember what I always say—the best accessories are confidence and perhaps a strategically placed napkin.

Trixie

The honeymoon suitewelcomes me back with the scent of fresh roses and vanilla.

And much to my delight, housekeeping has transformed the space into a virtual romantic paradise.

A white coverlet strewn with pink and red petals is arranged in a perfect heart, and two swans fashioned out of towels sit with their necks intertwined while perched in the center of the bed like a couple of love-struck teenagers.

The room would be perfect if I wasn’t still haunted by the image of Brad Whipple face-down in the Neptune Lounge.

I hop over to my closet, ready to swap my murder-scene sweatsuit for one of the many honeymoon negligées Elodie gifted me. But when I swing open the doors, I can’t help but notice something odd. And once I realize I’m not hallucinating, I freeze solid. Every last one of my comfy clothes has vanished, replaced by—I pluck at a hanger—an entire litany of jewel-toned cocktail dresses?

“Well played, Elodie Abernathy. Well played.” I glance down at my current wardrobe choices and wince. “I guess she wasn’t kidding when she said I was taking my newly minted marriage to heck in aschlubbyhandbasket.”

This is what I get for crossing the self-proclaimed queen of ship fashion.

I’m about to send her a playful yet quasi-threatening text when I hear what sounds like someone clearing their throat from behind.

I spin so fast on my heels, my feet feel as if they’re drilling into the carpet.

Two thoughts cross my mind. Either there’s still a member of housekeeping in the room with me or a killer is in the vicinity—within backstabbing distance no less!

But I don’t see a living soul.

Someone giggles—someone who is decidedly not me— and I turn my head toward the right where the sound is coming from and gasp.

A scream gets locked in my throat as I spot the uninvited guest—a luminescent redhead lounging in the velvet desk chair as if she’s posing for a 1940s pin-up calendar. And she would be dressed for that occasion, too, in a short red and white polka-dotted dress, along with black fishnet stockings. Her heart-shaped face is framed with a perfect victory roll sitting over her forehead, and her bow-tie lips are colored in with bright red lipstick. Not to mention that her entire countenance glows with the luminosity of a dying flashlight. Emphasis on thedyingconsidering the fact she’s most likely long since done that.

I belt out a scream.

Shebelts out a scream.

And then we sort of belt out a unifying scream in perfect harmony.

“You’re a ghost,” I hiss as I step closer, while my heart does its best to turn me into a ghost as well. “Oh my goodness! I knew it! You’re the woman I saw in the window! And then I saw you again in the casino earlier this evening.”

“That would be me.” She gives a cheeky wink as she says it. “So where is that handsome hubby of yours, anyway?” She cranes her neck toward the door. “I was rather enjoying the naughty show earlier.”

I gasp and gag all at once, grabbing the nearest throw pillow and hurling it right through her head. “You may not hover around the vicinity when I’m—whenwe’re—when you knowwhatis happening. That’s not why you’re here.”

“Speaking of why I’m here.” She leans forward and her eyes sparkle like a gossip columnist who just found dirt on the mayor. I’d say the captain, but I know for a fact there’s no dirt to be had on Wes. “Who bit the big one? Was it Elvie?” She gives an eager nod and that alone makes me wince.

“No. And why would you be so happy if she bit the big one? That’s downright wicked.”

She makes a face. “It’s not wicked. IloveElvie. I was her personal assistant way back when she was just starting out with Luscious and Delicious. In fact, I was one of her first testers. We were the best of friends. Oh, how I miss her.” She sags and nearly melts right out of the chair. “And that’s exactly why I can’t wait to hang out with her again in Paradise. The shopping is divine, the spa treatments are heavenly—literally—and don’t get me started on the eternal happy hour. It’s one long wonderful party. They don’t call it Paradise for nothing.”

“Well, that’s nice that the two of you were so close. But it was actually her husband Brad who passed away—rather unexpectedly.”

“Oh.” She inches back in her chair. “That’s odd. I thought I heard that the person who perished was someone who loved the ghost that was sent back to help more than they loved anyone.”

As confusing as it sounds, she hit it on the ghostly money.

I step back. “You’re right. Were you having an affair with him?”

I’m not usually so point-blank, but this seems to warrant it. Besides, Ransom could walk through that door any minute now and we have other things to tend to. Far more important things than dissecting the latest ship homicide seven ways to Sunday.

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