Chapter 14
Stockholm delivered in every single delicious way, and I do mean delicious.
Not only did Poppy provide some serious intel about Sienna and Freya, but those Swedish cookies were the stuff memories are made of.
Pastries that make you question every dessert decision you’ve made up until now.
I’ve decided to forgive all my previous desserts.
They didn’t know what they were up against.
Ransom missed dinner tonight because he’s up to his eyeballs in information from the coroner’s office.
And don’t think for a minute that I won’t be wrangling every last dirty detail out of him the second I get him alone, even if I have to deploy my womanly wiles to do it.
I’m not above a little creative persuasion when necessary.
Okay, fine—I’m not above seduction at any time with my devastatingly handsome husband, but I digress.
The wiles stay ready. That’s just good marriage maintenance.
Wes had to tend to the bridge, and Nettie was too sore to sit after her Viking-statue rodeo, so Bess, Marina, and I hit the Blue Water Café for dinner.
The theme tonight was Swedish Delights, and we piled our plates high and promptly understood why Scandinavians manage to look so happy while living in the dark half the year.
Gravlax with mustard-dill sauce. Swedish meatballs in a cream gravy capable of converting vegetarians.
Janssons frestelse, a potato-and-anchovy casserole that sounds like a dare and tastes like heaven. Yes. Really.
Crispy potato pancakes with lingonberry jam.
Pickled herring that I went back for twice, and I’d appreciate it if that stayed between us.
Beef Rydberg crowned with an egg yolk. And pytt i panna, which is basically fancy Swedish hash that I could eat every day for the rest of my life and twice on formal night.
We demolished all of it, and I regret nothing. If the ship starts listing to one side tomorrow, I’ll issue a formal apology.
Afterward, Bess headed off to babysit her bestie in case Nettie needed anything or broke anything. Both still very much on the table.
Marina and I decided to skip the evening show in favor of a good soak instead.
We find one of the smaller hot tubs tucked away on the starboard side, far from the main promenade deck chaos.
It’s a secret little spot that guests don’t usually discover, hidden behind a decorative wall, with a sliver of a view of the massive movie screen so you can see what’s playing without sitting in the middle of the crowd.
Tonight’s feature is some romantic comedy I don’t recognize, the dialogue drifting over on the night breeze along with the scent of popcorn and chlorine.
No sign of Magnus, either, which means my resident Viking is off haunting someone else’s evening for a change.
I’d send a thank-you note if I knew where to address it.
We sink into the steaming water with simultaneous groans of relief.
The contrast between the hot water and the icy night air borders on painful.
My body files zero complaints. My skin tingles as I settle onto the underwater bench and let the jets have their way with my back. And they do. Shamelessly.
Marina is in a simple black one-piece that manages to be both modest and elegant, her crimson hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun.
I’m wearing my favorite navy tankini. It’s practical, it’s supportive, and it doesn’t require constant adjustment, which is everything I ask of swimwear at this point in my life.
Twenty-five-year-old me wore string bikinis with zero structural support and even less shame.
Current me requires swimwear built with the engineering of a suspension bridge, and I’ve made my peace with it.
The suspension bridge and I are very happy together.
The hot tub glows blue from the underwater lights, and the steam curls up through the glow until the whole thing looks vaguely enchanted. Stars peek through gaps in the clouds above us, and the ocean stretches dark and endless beyond the ship’s railing.
“This is exactly what I needed.” Marina closes her eyes and tips her head back with a sigh.
“Right? After today’s excitement, I think we’ve earned it.”
She laughs. “Nettie riding that Viking statue is going to live in my memory forever.”
“Mine too. And probably on the internet for eternity.”
Bess has already threatened to write a strongly worded letter to whoever uploads it.
The woman doesn’t own a computer, but I have no doubt the letter will find its target.
Bess’ letters always find their target. Somewhere in Vermont there’s an entire filing cabinet of men who learned that the hard way.
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, the movie flickering in the background, someone on screen declaring their undying love while dramatic music swells.
And here the two of us soak in hot water on a ship where somebody recently ended a life.
Leave it to the Emerald Queen to program her own irony.
“So.” I nudge Marina’s foot with mine under the water. “How’s the new job treating you? Assistant cruise director seems like a lot.”
“It’s definitely a lot.” She shifts in the water to get a better angle on the jets. “Tinsley is…intense. But I’m learning. And honestly? It’s nice to have purpose again. To feel useful.”
“How is sharing a cabin with her?”
Marina’s face does this thing where she’s clearly trying not to laugh and losing the fight. “She has very strong opinions about closet organization. And bathroom counter space. And the acceptable volume for watching television after ten p.m.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes. She created a chart. With time slots. For everything.”
I nearly snort water. “A chart?”
“A color-coded laminated chart.”
“Oh geez.” I sink a little. “Somewhere on this ship, a laminating machine is putting in for hazard pay.”
Marina grins. “But she’s not actually that bad once you get past the clipboard and the organizational anxiety. She’s just particular.”
“That’s a generous way to put it.”
“I’m practicing generosity. It’s in the job description now.”
“Right under surviving Tinsley, I’d imagine. Ask for a raise.”
The movie transitions to a beach scene, and I catch the sound of the on-screen waves mixing with the waves below, a strange stereo effect that has me half-convinced the sea is auditioning for a part.
“So who do you think killed Astrid?” Marina opens her eyes, and her voice drops right along with the question.
“Your guess is as good as mine.” I watch the steam curl off the water between us while I think.
Marina’s ice-blue eyes reflect the hot-tub lights, and she’s chewing on something that isn’t dinner.
Curiosity, concern, and a third ingredient she’s not ready to name.
“You know what else is quite the mystery?” I say it carefully. “You.”
She goes very still.
I offer what I hope is a reassuring smile. “Marina, I know we’ve just met, but if there’s any danger you’re in, I want you to know that you’re safe here. With us. I mean that with my whole heart.”
Never mind that I’ve made this vow on a vessel currently harboring an active murderer. The universe is welcome to not test me on it.
Her throat works as she swallows. “I’m fine. Really.”
Really. In my experience, women only tack that word on when the fine is anything but. It’s the verbal equivalent of a smoke detector chirping. Everything’s okay, and also, please check the batteries.
“Bess, Nettie, Ransom, Wes—we all care about you. If something’s wrong—”
“Maybe one day,” she interrupts softly. Her gaze drops to the churning water. “When the time is right. But please don’t think less of me for not being ready to talk about it yet.”
“Never,” I say without missing a beat. “We’ve all got things we’re not ready to share. You tell us when you’re ready, or you don’t tell us at all. Either way, we’ve got your back.”
She looks up, and her eyes go glossy with tears she refuses to spill. “Thank you.”
Footsteps sound on the deck, headed straight for our tucked-away sanctuary. Marina glances over my shoulder, and a grin sneaks up one side of her face.
She sighs. “And I think this is my cue to leave. Have a great rest of the night, Trixie.” She gives a knowing smile. “It’s clear you’re about to.”
She’s out of the hot tub in one smooth motion. She grabs her towel and wraps it around herself.
“Marina, you don’t have to—”
“I absolutely do,” she says as she hurries past whoever’s approaching. “Good night!”
Subtle as a marching band, that one.
A towel drops onto the bench beside me. I look up, and the most handsome man I’ve ever met sinks into the water next to me while my brain files for a brief leave of absence. It’s not the first time he’s caused it, and my brain has accepted this as an occupational hazard.
Ransom is clad in navy swim trunks, his dark hair damp from the shower, and water droplets slide down his chest on a route that should probably be illegal.
Handsome Ransom, punctual as ever and dressed to distract. His eyes catch the underwater lights as he settles beside me, close enough that our legs touch.
“I didn’t mean to chase her off.” He wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me against his side. “I didn’t realize you two were alone.”
“You didn’t chase her off.” I twist to face him and press a kiss to his lips. “I did. I was asking about her past, and she’s not ready to talk about it yet.”
“Did you get any new information?”
“Just that she’s definitely running from something and definitely not ready to tell us what.” I settle back against him. His heart beats steady beneath my ear. “Did you get anything from the coroner?”
His arm tightens around me, and I feel him frown even though I can’t see his face. He stares out at the dark water and goes quiet. I know that pause. It’s the sound of a man deciding how much his wife will pry out of him later.
Answer? All of it. He knows it, I know it, and somewhere the coroner probably knows it too.
“It’s been confirmed,” he says finally. “Astrid Storm was poisoned. The blue cocktail was laced with enough toxin to kill her within minutes.”
Poisoned. The word lands in the steam between us and refuses to evaporate. Suddenly the hot water doesn’t feel quite so soothing.
“What kind of toxin?”
“How about we leave it at that,” he murmurs and presses a kiss to the top of my head. “I’ll give you the rest of the details in the morning. For now, let’s enjoy our night.”
Spoken like a man who knows exactly how tomorrow morning will go. Bless him for pretending otherwise. I’m already assembling my arsenal. Coffee, cinnamon rolls, and the aforementioned womanly wiles. The man doesn’t stand a chance, and the best part is, he doesn’t want one.
He tilts my chin up and kisses me properly, and I forget all about murders and ornery ghosts and mysterious new friends with secrets they’re not ready to share.
The movie plays on in the background, the bubbling jets massage away the tension of the day, and somewhere above us the stars are doing their thing.
And for now, wrapped in my husband’s arms with the sea stretching black and endless around us, it’s more than enough.
Tomorrow, the toxin.
Tonight, the man.