Chapter 6
“Tell me how he dipped you again.” Bess is sighing into the last of her lobster bisque, and we’ve barely made it to the entrées.
It’s the very same night, and the Main Dining Room is doing its level best to make me feel underdressed, which is impressive considering I’m wearing my best outfit.
Tonight that happens to be a navy wrap dress Elodie talked me into during a weak moment at the Queen’s Mall.
And by weak moment, I mean she stood between me and the exit until my credit card surrendered.
The dining room itself is a three-story spectacle of black granite floors and peach velvet chairs circled around tables draped in white linen, all of it glowing beneath artsy light fixtures that resemble melted gold.
The drama and glamour are considerable, and honestly?
After the day I’ve had, what with dead Vikings and unscheduled ceiling time, I’ll take every drop of fancy this ship is willing to pour on me.
Our table sits tucked into an alcove with a view of the ocean through floor-to-ceiling windows, black water meeting blacker sky. The scent of garlic and butter drifts from the kitchen, mingling with expensive perfume and a thread of salt air sneaking in from the promenade.
I’m here with Bess, Nettie, and Marina, and I’ve just finished giving them the full report on the airborne portion of my encounter with Magnus Darkwater. The dip. The hover. The drop. I left nothing out, and now I’m being asked for an encore.
The reactions are everything I expected, which is to say nobody at this table is the least bit concerned for my safety. Not one single person. I could announce I’d been carried off by a kraken, and these three would ask what it was wearing.
“And how he tried to nibble on your neck,” Nettie adds, leaning forward so far the beads of her necklace nearly baptize themselves in her water glass. “Over and over. Don’t leave out the neck nibbling.”
“There was no neck nibbling.” I cut into my chicken cordon bleu, the knife gliding through it like it had nothing left to prove. “There was hovering. Menacing, seven-foot, dead-Viking hovering. Yes, there was mood music. No, it did not help.”
“But there could have been nibbling,” Nettie insists.
“The man has been dead for centuries, Nettie. He’s fresh out of nibble.”
“For once, I’m siding with Nettie.” Bess dabs her mouth, poised to say something she shouldn’t. “If a Viking is going to haunt you, the least he can do is be thorough about it.”
Nettie aims her fork at Bess. “See? Even the schoolteacher agrees. And they say I’m the bad influence.”
“You are the bad influence,” Bess tells her. “I’m simply the quality control.”
I lift my wineglass to the pair of them. “And that is exactly why I don’t take either of you anywhere with a chandelier.” On second thought, there’s not an inch on this ship that isn’t covered by the light of a chandelier.
Marina shakes her head, her crimson hair catching the light. “And he dropped you from the ceiling?” The teasing empties right out of her voice. “Trixie, this ghost sounds dangerous.”
“Oh, she’s seen worse,” Bess assures her, spearing a roasted Brussels sprout. “Much worse. Remember the ghost who threw furniture, Trixie?”
“That was a fun week,” I say. “I still flinch at ottomans.”
“Magnus is harmless,” I tell Marina, and I mean it. “Dramatic, vain, and a menace to load-bearing ceilings, but harmless. Besides, irritating or not, that ghost is the best lead I’ve got. When the dead talk, I listen. Even when they’re dipping me at the time.”
I glance toward the entrance.
Ransom was called away before dinner to coordinate with the Swedish authorities and comb through security footage, and Wes is presumably up on the bridge steering the ship, or charting a course, or doing whatever it is captains do when they’re not eating dinner with attractive redheads.
I miss my husband with a low-grade ache I’ve decided not to examine, mostly because examining it won’t bring him to this table, and partly because at some point tonight I’ll have to explain tomorrow’s plans to him.
I’m saving my strength for that performance.
There may be interpretive hand gestures.
Which means for now it’s just us women, fancy comfort food, and murder talk. My favorite combination. I’d get it tattooed somewhere if I weren’t terrified of needles and commitment to fonts.
My plate deserves its own gallery wall. Chicken cordon bleu that melts in your mouth, scalloped potatoes with enough cream to alarm a medical professional, buttered rolls still warm from the oven, and macaroni and cheese with crispy edges that people would fight over at a family reunion.
Luckily, no medical professionals are present. I checked.
Bess has the beef tenderloin with garlic butter, and it smells so good I’m reconsidering every decision that led me to chicken.
Nettie is working on a lobster mac and cheese rich enough to require next-of-kin paperwork.
And Marina picked the seared salmon with dill cream sauce, which manages to look virtuous and delicious at the same time.
That feels unfair. Salmon shouldn’t get to have it all.
“So,” I say, taking a sip of my wine. “Magnus told me a few interesting things about Astrid before Ransom burst in and the ghost turned theatrical.”
“His name is Magnus.” Nettie swoons. Actually swoons, hand fluttering to her chest, the full production. “Magnus. Does it get any better than that?”
“Magnus Darkwater,” I confirm. “Full name. And did I mention he has abs for days?”
More swooning from Nettie. A little from Bess, too, though she’s hiding hers behind her wineglass and failing at a professional level.
“I heard nothing,” Bess announces to the table. “And I’d like to hear it again.”
Marina laughs, warm and genuine. “You two are a riot.”
“Thank you.” Nettie accepts the title with a regal nod. “One woman on her own is only a disturbance,” she says, hooking a thumb at Bess. “It takes the pair of us to qualify as a riot. We checked.”
“There was paperwork,” Bess adds.
I can neither confirm nor deny that I notarized it.
“What did Magnus tell you?” Bess asks, steering us back on course, because somebody at this table has to hold the wheel, and heaven knows it won’t be Nettie.
I set down my fork. “Astrid was a retired hospital administrator. She founded the Velvet Viking Book Club twelve years ago. She was independently wealthy thanks to her late husband’s inheritance—”
“Was the husband hot?” Nettie cuts in.
“He’s deceased, Nettie.”
“That’s not a no.”
“So is Magnus,” Bess points out, “and look how well that’s working out for him.”
“As I was saying,” I press on, “according to Magnus, Astrid used every dime of that inheritance to keep the club under her thumb. She funded the cruises, but she demanded absolute loyalty in return.”
“Sounds like a peach,” Marina observes.
“A peach with a pit the size of a cannonball,” I say.
“That’s a woman with enemies,” Bess adds.
“And get this.” I lean in. “Magnus claims her perfect marriage was a lie.”
“A lie how?” Marina asks.
“He didn’t get the chance to finish before Ransom came through the door and Magnus decided the ceiling needed me more than the conversation did.” I shrug. “But it’s worth digging into.”
I know a thing or two about perfect marriages that turn out to be shams. Stanton made sure I got the full course. Also the lab, the pop quizzes, and all three of his teaching assistants.
Bess sets down her wineglass with a click that means business. “All right, so who’s up first?”
“Yeah,” Nettie says, excavating her mac and cheese as if the answer might be buried under the lobster. I somehow missed the fact she’s currently working on two different dinner plates. “Who are we shaking down, and can we make them confess by way of ice sculpture? I feel it’s only fitting.”
“Poetic justice,” Bess agrees.
“I still think she was poisoned,” I say. “The ice sculpture was simply dramatic punctuation.”
“Agreed.” Marina dabs her mouth with her napkin. “That blue cocktail was the murder weapon. The Viking finished the job.”
I nod. “Ransom says toxicology is already on it.”
“So we need to figure out who had access to her drink,” Bess says.
“Which was everyone at that party,” I point out. “Not exactly narrowing the field.”
Marina pulls out her phone and swipes through something. “The Velvet Vikings canceled all their events today. Everyone was too traumatized to discuss romance novels.” She glances up. “But they’re still signed up for the Swedish Sweet Stroll tomorrow when we dock in Gothenburg.”
I lean in. “Tell me everything, starting with the word sweet.”
“A walking excursion through the city. It stops at local bakeries, chocolate shops, candy stores. Very cozy. Very Swedish. And very popular with the book club crowd.”
“Pastries and murder suspects,” Bess says. “Nothing pairs better.” She says it the way other people suggest a nice red with the tenderloin.
“If the killer’s on that tour, I bet she eats her weight in cinnamon buns out of pure guilt,” Nettie declares. “How’s that for justice?”
“That’s not justice, Nettie. That’s my average Monday.”
“It’s a start,” she says. “A pastry crawl with a built-in suspect list.”
I raise my glass. “I’ve solved cases on less, and I’ve never once turned down a cinnamon bun. Two birds, one very buttery stone.”
Marina tips her glass in a mock toast. “Sounds delicious.”
Across the dining room, I spot a tight bun and a tighter expression weaving between the tables.
Quinn Riddle, running her evening security sweep with all the warmth of a Baltic headwind.
Her eyes find mine over the sea of white linen, and she holds the look a half second longer than strictly necessary before moving along.
Noted, Bun Head. I see you seeing me.
A shadow falls over our table, and I look up to find Wes standing there in his crisp captain’s whites, annoyingly dapper. His dark hair is combed into submission, his eyes are sharp, and they linger on Marina a beat too long—just as I knew they would.
“Ladies,” he says with a nod.
“Captain,” we chorus back.
“What are we discussing tonight?” His tone is casual, but concern runs underneath it. The man has known me too long to hope for the best.
“We’re getting our nets ready to catch ourselves a killer,” Nettie announces with far too much cheer, and I wince on behalf of everyone involved.
Wes’ easy smile drops clean off his face. “Absolutely not.”
“But—” Nettie starts.
“No.”
Poor Wes. He’s pleading, and pleading with this table is a lost cause. He knows it. We know it. The lobster in Nettie’s bowl knows it.
Nettie’s fork hangs midair, a lobster casualty dangling off the end of it.
“I don’t want any of you getting hurt,” Wes continues, and his voice carries all the weight of those four stripes on his shoulders.
“If Astrid was murdered, and the Swedish authorities seem to think she was, then there’s a dangerous person on this ship.
The last place I want any of you is anywhere near them.
” He looks straight at me. “Trixie, promise me you won’t pursue this. ”
I press a hand to my chest, wounded to my core, or at least to my appetizer. “Why in the world are you singling me out?”
“Because you’re the ringleader,” he says without a blink of hesitation.
He does know me.
Laughter erupts around the table. Even Marina giggles into her wineglass. I’d be offended, but the man isn’t wrong, and we both know it.
I don’t run a circus so much as the circus elected me. The vote was unanimous. Nettie demanded a recount, but only because she wanted to vote twice.
The music shifts to something moodier, strings and piano built for candlelight and questionable decisions. Wes glances at Marina again, and this time it’s unmistakable.
“I’m making my rounds,” he says. “But I hope to see you ladies later this evening. Steer clear of danger. Please.”
He nods at Marina specifically, and her cheeks go pink before he’s taken a step. He heads off toward another table, and Bess and Nettie immediately lean in like schoolgirls.
“Ooh,” Bess sings.
“He likes you,” Nettie tells Marina, grinning wide and showing off her molars.
“He’s being friendly,” Marina protests, but her face stays pink.
“Sure, he is,” I say. “That’s why he looked at you the way Nettie looks at lava cake.”
“He did,” Nettie confirms. “I recognized the hunger.”
“He absolutely did,” Bess seconds. “And I’ve been alive long enough to know the difference between friendly and smitten. Friendly remembers your name. Smitten forgets his own.”
“Ask him what it is next time,” Nettie says. “I dare you. The man will have to consult his nametag.”
Marina drops her face into her hands. “This is mortifying.”
“This is adorable,” Nettie corrects.
“This is dinner theater,” I say, “and I didn’t even have to tip.”
Marina looks up, and the giggle drains right out of her. “But what are we going to do? You heard him. Captain’s orders. We’re to steer clear of danger.”
I give her the wry smile, the one Ransom claims means I’m about to do something he won’t approve of. He has never once been wrong about it, and I’ve never once let that stop me.
“We will absolutely steer clear of danger,” I say.
“Danger won’t get so much as a wave from us.
But nothing in the captain’s orders prevents four law-abiding women from enjoying a highly popular, family-friendly pastry excursion tomorrow.
If a killer happens to be strolling the same sweet stroll, well, that’s Sweden’s problem. ”
“Swedish Sweet Stroll, here we come,” Bess says, raising her wineglass.
Nettie nods with enthusiasm. “Somebody warn Gothenburg. And somebody tell that hot dead Viking he’s welcome to tag along. I’ll even share my cinnamon bun.”
“You’ve never shared a cinnamon bun in your life,” Bess says.
“For him, I’d learn.”
Marina lifts her glass, shaking her head but smiling. “To terrible ideas and even worse decisions.”
She says it lightly, but her knuckles have gone white around the stem, and that’s a lot of grip for a woman making a joke. It makes me wonder which terrible ideas she’s toasting tonight. Something tells me they’re not all sitting at this table.
Whatever Marina Maxwell is carrying, she carries it beautifully, and I’ve already decided I’ll be right here whenever she’s ready to set it down. Until then, I plan to feed her dessert. It’s not a cure, but in my experience, it’s a solid down payment.
We clink glasses, and I catch the glint of determination on all three faces. A killer may be loose on this ship, and the captain may have issued direct orders to stay out of trouble. But pastries and murder suspects wait for no one.
Fortunately, neither do I.