Chapter 16
Iweave through the crowd of velvet-clad women toward the windows where Freya stands alone, staring out at the Baltic as if she’s weighing a swim she wouldn’t come back from.
Magnus drifts beside me, his silver stars barely visible in the afternoon light.
Behind us, the Observation Lounge hums with the Velvet Viking Book Club making the most of their fifteen-minute break from our discussion of morally gray characters, which mostly involves storming the refreshment table and topping off mimosas in preparation for the dramatic read-aloud portion of the program.
Fifty women, one steamy chapter, and accents nobody licensed. The countdown is on.
I detour past the refreshment table just long enough to liberate a smoked salmon pinwheel. A woman shouldn’t interrogate on an empty stomach. That’s not in any detective handbook, but it should be.
“The raven-haired beauty,” Magnus purrs. “Shall we see what secrets she’s hiding? I do hope they require unlacing.”
“We shall,” I mutter under my breath. To anyone watching, I’m a woman having a heartfelt chat with a window. The crew stopped noticing months ago. I hear there’s a betting pool on my sanity, and frankly, I’d like in on it. The odds can’t be good.
Freya is even more striking up close. She’s easily five-nine, with waist-length black hair woven into braids so intricate they must have taken an hour and a blood oath.
Heavy black eyeliner, bold red lipstick, silver hoops climbing up both ears.
She’s wearing black leather pants and a dramatic cape that billows in the air-conditioning, along with enough silver jewelry to fund a modest Viking raid.
She’s what every woman in this room thinks she looks like in Viking costume.
And she’s somehow found the one air vent in the room that doubles as a personal wind machine.
The sunset photo shoot doesn’t know what it’s missing.
I won’t lie, I’m a little jealous.
“How are you doing?” I ask, stopping beside her. “I’m Trixie. I think we met briefly on embarkation day.”
She turns, and her whole face brightens. “The art teacher! Yes, I remember. You teach on the ship, right?”
“I do. Acrylics, watercolors, the occasional disaster with oil paints.”
“I teach high school art,” she says, and her demeanor shifts, less dramatic Viking queen, more exhausted educator who has seen one too many teenagers eat paste. “Freshmen through seniors. It’s exactly as chaotic as it sounds.”
“Oh my goodness, high schoolers? You’re braver than I am.”
“Or more desperate for a paycheck.” She grins, and it transforms her face from intimidating to downright approachable. “But I love it. Most days. When they’re not using the pottery wheels as drum sets.”
I like her already. This keeps happening with my suspects. It’s beginning to be a problem. One of these days I’m going to end up exchanging Christmas cards with a killer, and I’ll probably compliment the stationery.
Magnus circles her slowly, studying her with open appreciation. “She wears armor even when she’s vulnerable. Fascinating. Armor is only interesting for what’s underneath.”
I shoot him a look that says down, boy. I lean against the window frame and pay attention to the suspect at hand. “So how are you really holding up? With everything that’s happened?”
Freya’s smile drops away. “You mean Astrid?”
“Yeah.”
She falls silent for a moment, her fingers spinning one of her silver rings. “It’s surreal. One minute she was making a toast, the next she was gone. I keep expecting her to walk into these events and start bossing everyone around.”
“Were you two close?”
“Not really. Astrid and I clashed a lot.” She laughs without a drop of humor in it. “I don’t do well with people who need to be in charge, and Astrid needed to be in charge the way the rest of us need oxygen.”
“I noticed something at the Queen declarations,” I say. “The second someone mentioned loyalty, you took a step back. Sometimes our feet vote before the rest of us do. You seemed put off by the idea.”
Her eyes sharpen as she sizes me up. “You’re observant.”
“It’s sort of an occupational hazard.”
“Because you’re married to the head of security or because you’re an art teacher?”
“Both. We notice details other people miss.”
She turns back to the ocean, and I can see her weighing something, deciding how much to share, if anything. I keep my mouth shut and let the silence do the fishing. Silence is criminally underrated as an interrogation tool. It’s free, it’s legal, and it pairs beautifully with a salmon pinwheel.
“Look,” she says finally. “I’m not going to pretend I liked Astrid. I didn’t. She was controlling and judgmental, and she had this way of making you feel you were never quite good enough for her precious book club.”
“But?” I prompt.
“But I didn’t kill her.” Freya’s voice is firm. “Even though I’m pretty sure half the club thinks I did.”
“Why would they think that?”
She laughs, and there’s an edge to it. “Because I had a screaming match with her two hours before she died. In front of about a dozen witnesses. I guess you could say I wasn’t exactly subtle.”
Magnus leans in. “She confesses freely. Either she’s innocent or she’s very clever. I’ve always found clever far more attractive. And far more dangerous. Ideally both, and in leather.”
I don’t even glance his way. But I happen to agree with him—on most of it at least.
“What were you arguing about?” I ask gently.
Freya goes quiet for so long I think she’s decided against answering. Then she pulls in a shaky breath.
“I’ve been having an affair,” she says quietly, staring at the water. “With another book club member’s husband. For two years.”
I open my mouth and absolutely nothing comes out. Honestly, she just knocked me over with a cheating feather. And I once caught my ex-husband mid-buffet with a feast of women, so my feathers don’t knock easy.
“And not just any member,” she continues, her voice dropping a notch. “My best friend in the group. The woman who helped me through my divorce. Who loaned me money when I couldn’t make rent. Who showed up at my apartment with wine and Chinese food every time I fell apart.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.” She wipes at her eyes, careful not to smudge that dramatic eyeliner.
“I’m a terrible person. I know I am. But I didn’t mean for it to happen.
Her husband and I were working on a Renaissance faire project together, and we just...
connected. And then it kept happening. And I kept lying to her face.
She was my best friend. She helped me through my darkest hours and I did the unthinkable.
He was warm and funny and, well, he was a jerk too, because apparently he didn’t mind cheating on his wife, who happens to be an amazing human being.
But I was vulnerable, and I was addicted to the attention he was giving me.
She knew something was wrong. She’s not here, by the way.
She’s in the process of moving to another state with the sorry idiot. ”
“I don’t know what to say.” I shudder at what a horrible situation this is.
Freya sniffs as silent tears fall. “I’ve already decided that when we get home, I’m going to call her and confess everything. She deserves to know. And I deserve whatever wrath she has in store for me.”
Wrath. Considering how this cruise is going, I’d schedule that phone call for dry land. Possibly from behind something sturdy.
“How did Astrid find out?”
“Someone saw us. They told Astrid. And Astrid confronted me two hours before she died.” Freya’s voice cracks.
“She said she was going to expose me at the upcoming costume gala. She was going to make an announcement in front of everyone. And word would get back to my best friend in the most humiliating way possible. Because word always gets back. It’s the one delivery service that never loses a package. ”
“That’s cruel.”
“Astrid said I’d violated the club’s values.
That I was a disgrace to the sisterhood we’d built.
” Freya’s hands grip the window ledge. “She was going to kick me out. This club is the only place I feel like I belong, you know? I do cosplay at Renaissance faires, but those people think I’m weird for being so into Viking stuff.
I teach high school, but I can’t exactly discuss steamy romance novels with my students.
The Velvet Vikings are my people. Were my people. ”
“She threatened to take away her sanctuary,” Magnus murmurs. “I understand that rage. Fury and passion share a bed, and neither one sleeps.”
I’ve been there. And I have to agree, he’s right.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, and I mean it.
Whatever she’s done, this woman is drowning in it, and my heart goes out to her whether she deserves it or not. That’s the thing about hearts. They’re terrible at background checks.
“That’s how the screaming match started.
” Freya turns to face me fully, tears streaming down her face.
“I told her she was a tyrant. That she had no right to judge me. That she was going to ruin my life over a mistake I’d already made and couldn’t take back.
” She gives a harsh laugh. “And then someone poisoned her, and now everyone’s going to think I did it. ”
“Did you?”
“No.” She meets my eyes without a flinch. “I swear to you, I didn’t. I wanted to. I thought about it. But I didn’t actually do it.”
We stand in silence for a moment, the ocean rolling past, the murmur of book club chatter carrying on behind us.
“For what it’s worth,” I say carefully, “I believe you.”
“Why?”
“Because if you’d killed her, you wouldn’t be telling me all this. You’d be keeping your mouth closed and playing innocent.”
She laughs, a real one this time. “That’s probably true. I’m terrible at keeping secrets. Hence the affair everyone eventually finds out about.”
“Your friend, does she know yet?”
“No. Part of me still wants to let it die with Astrid.” Freya wipes her eyes again. “What would you do?”
“Honestly? I have no idea. That’s a nightmare situation either way.”