Chapter 5
Suddenly Hitched—What a Trip!
Hello, Trixie!
I’m in a bit of a predicament on my Norwegian fjords cruise.
I recently discovered that my cabin steward is actually my long-lost identical twin who was separated at birth (his distinctive birthmark gave him away).
Meanwhile, my husband’s ex-wife is onboard with her new husband, who happens to be my husband’s previously presumed-dead business partner!
To complicate matters further, I found a mysterious USB drive hidden in our cabin’s air vent containing what appears to be plans for hijacking the ship’s casino.
Should I confront everyone at the captain’s formal dinner or wait until the glacier excursion, where there are fewer witnesses?
The all-you-can-eat buffet closes at nine, and I’d hate to miss the chocolate fountain.
Dear Dramatically Confused,
First, take a deep breath—and maybe grab a plate from that chocolate fountain before making any decisions. Timing is everything!
While the captain’s dinner provides the perfect backdrop for shocking revelations (the lighting is particularly flattering for gasps of horror), I’d recommend the glacier excursion for your confrontation.
The echo effect when you shout, “You’re my brother!
” will add that special theatrical quality, and the blue ice makes an excellent backdrop for the inevitable tearful reunion.
As for the USB drive, hand it directly to the ship’s security chief—preferably NOT at the moment when your husband is discovering his not-so-dead business partner.
Space out your dramatic reveals for maximum impact.
Remember, on a cruise ship, you’re guaranteed a captive audience for at least several more days.
One word of caution: if your cabin steward starts mentioning headaches and memory gaps, be prepared for the possibility that he’s your triplet with amnesia, not your twin. It happens more often than you’d think on Norwegian cruises packed with soap stars.
And whatever you do, save room for the midnight dessert buffet. Nothing soothes family drama like a good tiramisu.
XOXO Trixie
P.S. Check your safe deposit box. In my experience, there’s always a mysterious will or paternity test results hidden there.
Day 2: At Sea
The next morning arrives wrapped in fjord fog and the faint, unmistakable hint of murder in the air.
The Emerald Queen glides through the misty waters like a debutante trying to pretend she didn’t just witness a homicide at her coming-out party.
The crew smiles with manic brightness, as if extra teeth might distract from the fact that one of their passengers permanently checked out last night.
Meanwhile, the remaining passengers huddle in whispering clusters, their eyes darting around as though the killer might leap out from behind the lido deck dessert table.
And really, anything is possible at this point.
I’ve already written on my blog and taught one art class this morning—an acrylic painting lesson featuring the fjords in all their moody splendor.
Twenty passengers armed with brushes managed to transform majestic natural wonders into what looked like blue mashed potatoes trapped between brown mountains.
Still, they seemed thrilled with their creations, which is all that matters when it comes to cruise ship art.
A fjord, in case you’ve never had the pleasure, is what happens when a glacier throws a tantrum and carves a monument out of the earth.
It’s a long, narrow stretch of sea wedged between mountains so tall they make you reconsider your posture.
The water is impossibly blue-green, like it has its own lighting crew, and the cliffs rise straight up into the sky as if they were installed rather than formed.
It’s dramatic. It’s excessive. It’s basically Norway showing off.
And sailing through one feels a little like being escorted down nature’s most exclusive stone hallway—quiet, echoing, and just intimidating enough to make you whisper without meaning to.
Ransom is holed up in the security office, splitting his time between hunting a killer and trying to keep his partner Quinn from filing paperwork that would officially classify me as a public nuisance—of the deadly variety.
I appreciate the effort, though my track record with corpses doesn’t exactly help my case.
“Pass the maple syrup, would you, Toots?” Nettie asks, already drowning her triple stack of pancakes in enough sugar to put a hummingbird into a coma.
The Blue Water Café, AKA the ship’s buffet, has outdone itself this morning.
Our table groans under the weight of enough breakfast fare to feed a small nation—golden waffles with butter melting into every perfect square, cinnamon buns dripping with glossy icing, chocolate croissants flaking delicate evidence all over our clothes, and omelets stuffed with everything but the kitchen sink.
My maple pecan latte steams invitingly, promising the caffeine hit I desperately need after a night of tossing and turning and wondering which trophy wife stabbed another trophy wife. That is, if it was a woman at all who did the stabbing.
“I still can’t believe Bridge Blackthorne was enamored with me,” Bess sighs, dunking her donut into her coffee and holding it under. “He said my questions about his third coma were refreshingly specific.”
“That’s because nobody else remembers season twenty-seven,” Nettie counters, waving her fork for emphasis. “I told Dr. Luca Carrington Jr. that I’ve been watching since he pushed his first wife down that elevator shaft, and he actually blushed.”
“You realize these aren’t their real names, right?” I remind them, cutting into my waffle with the focus only a delicious breakfast can bring.
“Of course they are,” Bess sniffs. “Those other names on their driver’s licenses are just aliases to throw off obsessed fans.”
“Speaking of being thrown off of things,” Nettie leans forward, “remember when Victoria Darkmore’s ghost haunted the Blackthorne estate for an entire season? They never did explain how she came back from the dead for the fifth time in season thirty.”
Bess nods. “That’s because soaps have plot holes large enough to sail this cruise ship through. And we couldn’t care less.”
Nettie gasps suddenly, nearly choking on her pancake. “Trixie! Have you seen a ghost? Is there one floating around already?”
“Please tell me it’s a hot ghost like last time,” Bess adds. “Handsome in that classic silver screen way, not the modern pretty boy nonsense. I like my men to look like they have testosterone running through their bodies.”
Nettie nods. “And if he is hot, there’s nothing stopping me from getting lucky, not even the fact he doesn’t have a body.”
I press my lips tight. Only a handful of people know about my supernatural quirk—Bess, Nettie, Wes, and Ransom comprise my entire ghost-seeing support circle on this ship, which is already four people too many for my comfort.
My talent—or curse, depending on whether you’ve just had breakfast or are trying to sleep—is technically called transmundane, further classified as supersensual.
In normal human language, that means I see dead people, but only around the time of murders, which makes for a very niche and unwanted superpower.
I didn’t always have this spectral party trick.
In fact, it started the day I met Bess and Nettie, when their tug-of-war over a vodka bottle ended with said bottle connecting with my skull.
Ever since that fateful bonk, my life has featured unwanted ghostly visitors who pop up like supernatural telemarketers, and always when I least want company.
“Actually,” I admit, lowering my voice, “I have seen a ghost. A woman. And we’ve already sort of discussed her.”
Bess’s eyes widen. “Oh, my word. Is it the Queen of England?”
“Princess Grace?” Nettie suggests. “Amelia Earhart? Wait, is it Judy Garland? I always thought she’d make one heck of a ghost.”
I shake my head. “It’s Marlie Rothschild. It turns out, she’s been dead for a while.”
Both women gasp so hard they nearly inhale their napkins.
“Victoria Darkmore herself?” Bess clutches her pearls so hard I half expect to see them launching into my coffee.
“The original Mrs. Dirk Rothschild?” Nettie adds. “Before Madison swooped in and took her job AND her husband?”
“One and the same,” I confirm with a rather smug nod.
“Complete with 1980s power shoulders that could double as aircraft carriers and enough hairspray to punch a decent hole in the ozone layer. And she is glorious.” I’ve never swooned over a woman before, but there’s a first time for everything. And boy, am I ever swooning hard.
“Where is she?” Bess looks around as if expecting to spot a ghost hovering by the omelet station.
Nettie leans in close and nearly dips her sleeve in her coffee. “I lived for her paranormal storylines! Remember when she was possessed by that evil spirit and her eyes turned a scary shade of yellow? She chewed scenery like it was made of caramel!”
“The famous levitation scene.” I nod furtively.
“And when her eyes started glowing, I had nightmares for weeks!” Bess nods vigorously.
“I had to sleep with a nightlight. Is she as fabulous as she seems? I swear, I thought if we ever met, we’d be best friends, especially after her husband cheated on her with his secretary.
The same thing happened to me, and nothing bonds women more than a cheating ex! ”
“Hear, hear.” I raise my coffee in solidarity. “I haven’t spoken to her yet, but, boy, I can’t wait until I do. Believe me, if there was a way to get her otherworldly autograph, I would.”
“Just hand her a pen and a napkin,” Nettie suggests. “Nothing livens up breakfast like airborne linen.”
We share a quick laugh just as a woman with strawberry-blonde hair pauses near our table, then backtracks with the hesitant steps of someone who’s both curious and trying not to appear nosy.