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I quickly text Tinsley for an explanation and she texts right back.
Talk to the captain. Bon voyage, Trixie Troublefield. It was nice knowing you.
“Well, that’s cryptic,” I murmur to myself.
I take Tinsley up on her suggestion and text Wes right away.
It takes a few moments before he responds.
Sorry, Trixie. I’m stuck in staff meetings all day long. I’ll be at the dance party this evening on the promenade deck. If you’ll be there, I’d love to speak then. Try not to let this ruin your day.
“Ruin my day?”
My heart sinks. What in the world is going on?
That conversation we had on Hanalei comes back to me. Wes was trying to tell me something when Bess suggested that I do an open-air class in Alaska. But he opted not to. I wonder if the two are connected?
Anyway. It looks as if I have the afternoon off. There’s still plenty of time before tonight’s big event. And that means there’s still plenty of time to do a little digging on each of my suspects.
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, a digging I shall go.
But in truth, I’d rather paint.
* * *
Evening shows up faster than a babysitter’s boyfriend once the car pulls away. I’ve caught a few babysitters in the midst of sexual shenanigans back when my kids were little. Thankfully, none involved my ex, but I’m not convinced he didn’t take notes in the endeavor. Stanton was notorious for calling in his side pieces once my car pulled out of the driveway.
I push all thoughts of my thorny, horny ex out of my mind and take in the sights before me.
The promenade deck is thumping and pumping under a navy sky with nary a moonbeam to illuminate it. But the twinkle lights strung overhead, the glowing cocktails, and the bevy of glowing bracelets and necklaces that the ship provides have the luminosity covered.
But that’s not what steals the electric show. It turns out, every black light on the deck has been turned on and pointed in this direction, causing anything with a stitch of white to flash like lightning. And that also explains why just about everyone here is sporting a glowing Cheshire cat grin with their teeth tinted a funny shade of lavender.
Bodies upon bodies are pressed up against one another as thoracic thumping rock music from the seventies belts through the speakers. And it just so happens that everyone here is dressed to the nines—or at least they would be if we were still in that groovy decade.
The Cancel Culture Club is the culprit who coordinated this mass fashion disaster, which would explain why Bess and I have donned bell bottom jeans and peasant tops—courtesy of Elodie.
Bess shakes her head at Nettie. “Why in the world didn’t you dress up? You live for these ridiculous things.”
Nettie glances down at her neon yellow and pink muumuu, and so does Sparky by proxy.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nettie says. “I wore this dress once a day and six times on Sunday, all throughout the seventies.”
Bess moans, “A person can’t wear a dress six times on Sunday. You either have it on or you take it off.”
Nettie makes a face at Sparky who sits upright on her left arm. “You’re right, kid. She really is a dummy.” She looks at Bess. “That means I took it off six times, or let’s just say I had someone take it off for me.”
Bess averts her eyes. “Not only does this story involve one too many people, but it sinfully takes place on the Lord’s day. I think I’ve heard enough.” She turns my way. “How’s the case going?”
“Which one?” I ask. “My art class was canceled this afternoon via Tinsley. I asked Wes what was going on and he said he’d speak to me tonight.”
“Maybe he’s getting ready to give you a promotion?” Nettie suggests.
Sparky gives a maniacal chuckle. “Maybe he’s getting ready to toss her overboard.”
Bess snorts. “I vote we throw you overboard,” she tells the wooden minion.
Sparky jerks and spins his head in a circle before his mouth falls open. “That’s it, missy. I’ve had it with you. Tonight’s the night when I exact my revenge.”
