Days of Our Knives Cruise (Cruising Through Midlife: Cruise Ship Cozy Mysteries #14)

Chapter 1

Suddenly Hitched—What a Trip!

Hey there, mystery-loving readers!

Ready to join me aboard the Emerald Queen for the most dramatic—and potentially deadly—Norwegian fjords cruise ever?

I’ve packed my warmest sweaters, my waterproof boots, and enough chocolate bonbons to survive whatever soap opera chaos awaits!

From the towering cliffs of Stavanger to the breathtaking Geiranger fjord, I’m determined to soak up every drop of Nordic magic—along with plenty of aquavit and those divine Norwegian cinnamon buns that make life worth living.

Here’s to fjords, a little mystery, and hopefully keeping the body count to a minimum this time around. But I have a sinking feeling that this time, the drama won’t stay on the screen.

XOXO Trixie

Day 1: Departure from Greenwich, England

“I’m not looking at a single man on this entire cruise.

” Bess crosses her arms over her chest hard enough to crack a rib.

“Not one. I don’t care if he’s serving drinks, serving dinner, or serving time.

My eyes are staying firmly fixed on the horizon.

I’ve had it with men. Besides, dating at my age should be illegal. ”

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about cruise ship life, it’s that a woman can only swear off men until the next devastatingly handsome specimen walks by. Which, on the Emerald Queen of the Seas, happens approximately every seven minutes.

“Oh sure.” Nettie honks out a laugh that could wake the dead—which, considering my new talent, isn’t just a figure of speech anymore.

“Just like you swore off chocolate for breakfast, and I caught you inhaling six chocolate croissants from the buffet this morning like they might sprout legs and escape.”

“That was called emotional support pastries,” Bess shoots back, her red hair shaking with indignation. “Besides, we’re in England. It’s practically cultural immersion.”

We’re actually standing in the three-story atrium of the Emerald Queen of the Seas, surrounded by all nineteen decks of her glorious floating opulence.

Outside the Greenwich port terminal, the controlled chaos of embarkation day swirls with luggage carts rattling by like miniature freight trains, taxi drivers honking with glee, and seagulls conducting targeted bombing raids on anyone daring enough to carry exposed food.

Inside, the ship gleams with enough crystal chandeliers to make a Vegas casino feel underdressed.

Fresh orchids spill from Venetian glass vases, and there’s enough marble underfoot to impress Italy.

The entire ship holds the scent of fresh ocean air, expensive perfume, and that particular scent of anticipation that comes with a brand-new cruise on the horizon.

My name is Trixie Troublefield Baxter, and at forty-nine, I never expected to be living on a cruise ship.

But here I am—the ship’s art instructor no less—greeting passengers alongside my handsome husband, who makes other women walk into walls.

Literally. I’ve witnessed three collisions in the past hour alone.

Bess Chatterley stands to my left in a sensible blue cardigan and pressed slacks, looking every inch the retired home economics teacher she is.

An eighty-something redhead as sharp as a razor, she taught at Honey Hollow High for thirty years before her husband, the cheating dentist, traded her in for his secretary.

Now she lives on the cruise ship, systematically draining his bank account one shore excursion at a time.

It’s the kind of revenge that comes with complimentary turndown service, and I am here for it, especially since I’m doing the exact same thing.

Nettie Butterworth bounces beside her, wearing a rhinestone-bedazzled captain’s hat from the gift shop and a tropical print muumuu that could cause eye damage at fifty feet. Nettie is also in her eighties, she has wild gray curls, and a past that includes what she loosely calls farming in Vermont.

A little over a year ago, both of these wonderful women convinced me to make the Emerald Queen my permanent address after my ex decided our marriage vows were more or less helpful suggestions.

“Welcome aboard!” I chirp to the next wave of passengers, and my smile is starting to feel like it’s been stapled in place.

Ransom steps in close next to me, and I swear three women near the fountain just started fanning themselves with their boarding passes.

At fifty-four, Ransom Courtland Baxter, my far too handsome husband, is six feet plus of former FBI agent wrapped in a crisp black suit that makes his shoulders look impossibly broad.

His dark hair has just enough silver at the temples to make him look distinguished, and those blue eyes could melt polar ice caps—and I’m pretty sure they have.

The man’s jawline alone could slice hard cheese, and when he does smile, which is about as rare as a solar eclipse, it’s a devastating look that makes women forget their own names, and maybe the names of their friends and family, too.

Ransom just so happens to be the head of vessel security, and he’s not only intimidating, he’s the kind of hot that makes rational women make irrational decisions.

“That dress should be illegal, Mrs. Baxter,” he murmurs, moving close enough that his cologne, something woodsy and expensive, makes every last one of my neurons misfire.

I bite down a smile. “Too much cleavage for greeting duty?”

“Too much temptation for a working man.” His eyes do that slow sweep that makes me tingle from head to toe. “I’m supposed to be maintaining ship security, and yet here I am, fantasizing about the most beautiful woman on it.”

A tiny laugh bubbles from me. “That’s highly unprofessional, Detective.”

“Good thing I’ve never been accused of being professional.”

A woman glances our way, and as soon as she locks eyes on my handsome hubby, she walks straight into a potted plant the size of a wine barrel.

“Oh wow.” I tap my finger on his chest. “I think that’s number four today. I really should start keeping score.” I lick my lips and wink at him.

Wes clears his throat from his post to our left, looking dapper in his captain’s whites, his dimples flashing like they’re part of the uniform. With that dark hair and those green eyes, he’s basically maritime catnip.

He nods our way with a smile. “Perhaps we could save the shameless flirting for after hours?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Elodie pipes up next to him.

Elodie would be one of my on-ship besties.

She originally hails from South Africa and is a textbook man-eater.

With her blonde hair perfectly styled despite the sea air, those pale blue eyes that don’t miss a naughty thing, and twenty years of cruising experience under her belt, she’s essentially a predator in designer heels.

Lucky for her, she gets those heels at a steep discount since she manages the Queen’s Mall here on the ship.

“Loosen up, Captain. Some of us want to see the sparks fly before dinner.” She nods my way.

“Go ahead and devour him, Trixie. I’ll record every delicious minute of it on my phone for posterity—and for a few online sites that would pay the big bucks for this. ”

Tinsley doesn’t even look up from her clipboard.

“I don’t care if you show cleavage from your boobs or your toes, Trixie,” she says, finally giving my cobalt blue dress a once-over, “but I had better not see a dead body this time around. We’re still arguing with insurance about the last one.

” She taps her watch as her chestnut hair falls in a glossy wave over one shoulder.

“And as fascinating as this mating ritual is, some of us have actual work to do.” Tinsley would be our resident cruise director and president of the I Do Not Care for Trixie Troublefield Baxter Fan Club.

“Some of us need to get under a man now and again,” Nettie whispers loud enough for the crew in the engine room to hear and earns a scandalized gasp from Tinsley.

“What?” Nettie squawks. “At my age, you take your thrills where you can find them. My grandmother always said, ‘If you can’t run with the big dogs, at least try to sniff their behinds.’”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how that saying goes,” Bess grunts. “Speaking of trouble on the horizon,” she says, nodding toward the gangway, “here it comes with designer luggage.”

Three women are attempting to board simultaneously through the narrow gangway entrance, which is working about as well as trying to fit three cruise ships through a cat door.

“I specifically requested priority boarding,” the platinum blonde in the middle announces to anyone within earshot. She has that yoga-sculpted body that screams personal trainer at dawn, green juice by eight, and I admire her for it, too.

“The producers promised me a suite upgrade,” says the stunning woman to her left with caramel highlights framing a face that looks like it’s used to getting exactly what it asks for.

“Could we please just get onto the ship?” the third woman shouts. This one is a pretty strawberry blonde, and her wrist is adorned with enough understated gold that screams old money. “The cameras arrive in twenty minutes.”

“Did she say cameras?” I whisper to Ransom, and he nods with a sigh as if he were already resigned to the incoming chaos.

The moment those women spot Wes in his captain’s whites, it’s like watching sharks smell blood in the water.

“You must be the charming captain of this gorgeous vessel!” the platinum blonde purrs at him while extending a manicured hand. “I’m Madison Rothschild. You probably know my husband. He plays Victor Darkmore on The Bitter and the Beautiful.”

“What?” Bess gasps, as do Nettie and I.