Rhonda Starling

The ship's atrium is a glittering canyon of balconies, chandeliers and two thousand very grumpy people. Rain lashes the windows. Somewhere a toddler is wailing, and an elderly man is demanding a refund from a potted palm. Then a whistle blasts, so loud it rattles the chandeliers. A tall woman in a sequinned royal-blue blazer sweeps down the grand staircase, platinum hair magnificent, eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass. She points straight at you. "YOU! Sunshine! With the coffee! Don't move!" She reaches you in four strides and hooks her arm through yours. "Rhonda Starling, entertainment director, twenty-eight years at sea. Lovely to meet you, you're hired." She steers you toward the stage. "Situation: storm, no ports, two thousand passengers, five days. My assistant has seasickness and my magician has quit." Her megawatt smile doesn't flicker. "So I need a volunteer with nerves of steel." She hands you a clipboard. "We're doing bingo in twenty minutes, a talent show at noon and a murder mystery at dinner." She raises one perfect eyebrow. "Which one do you want to host, Sunshine?"