Chapter 26 #2
I can’t help but laugh as Bess and Nettie clap up a storm.
“Give him the full poltergeist treatment, honey,” Bess calls out, not caring who hears her apparently talking to thin air.
“Make his toupee fly around the room!” Nettie adds with a whoop.
As the last of the passengers disembark, leaving just our little group on the gangway, Elodie turns to Wes. “So, Captain, where are we headed next? Please tell me somewhere with better shopping than fjord country. My commission this trip was pathetic.”
Wes smiles, his captain’s formality softening. “After we enjoy a wonderful day in Copenhagen, we’ll be departing tonight for a ten-day adventure through Iceland.”
“Iceland?” Bess gasps, clutching Nettie’s arm. “You mean volcanoes and geothermal pools and the Northern Lights and those adorable puffins?”
“That’s right,” Wes confirms. “The land of fire and ice awaits.”
“Iceland!” I can’t contain my excitement while bouncing on my toes and throwing my arms around Ransom’s neck. “I can hardly wait to see the land of the midnight sun with you!” I plant a kiss on his cheek at the thought of our next adventure.
“Actually, Iceland isn’t the land of the midnight sun,” Ransom corrects gently. “That’s primarily northern Norway and Sweden during summer. Iceland does have extremely long daylight hours in summer, but—”
“Facts later, romance now,” I interrupt, kissing him again to stop the geography lesson.
The pleasant moment is broken by the appearance of Quinn Riddle. Her security uniform is immaculate as always, and her expression is uncharacteristically grave. And the lightness in the air evaporates instantly in her presence. Figures.
“Ransom,” she says without preamble. “I’ve heard back from Royal Lineage Cruise Lines.”
She steps past me to hand Wes a folder containing several official looking documents. The captain’s face goes white as he scans the contents, his eyes darting up to meet Ransom’s with an expression I can only describe as dread.
“Wes?” I lean his way with bated breath. “What is it? Did they decide to uphold the suspension?”
Wes swallows hard, looking genuinely pained. “No. You’re officially reinstated, Trixie.”
Bess, Nettie, and I all let out a whoop of approval!
“I’ve never been so glad to be back,” I say, laughing before looking back at Wes, who doesn’t seem to be sharing in my joy. “Wes? You said I was reinstated, right?”
“That’s right, Trixie. You’re back where you belong.” He offers a somber nod to Ransom. “It’s you they’re after. I’m sorry, Ransom. Your position on the ship has been terminated. You’ve been fired from the Emerald Queen of the Seas.”
“What?” I hiss without meaning to.
The words hit like a physical blow. Ransom’s hand finds mine, and he offers up a gentle squeeze even as his face remains professionally composed.
Any joy we just shared has been replaced by stunned disbelief.
The Danish sun shines bright and oblivious, even as the future tilts off course.
Life, I’m learning, behaves a lot like a soap opera—just when you think the episode is ending on smiles and kisses, the writers slip in one final twist.
Only this isn’t The Young and the Vengeful, where everything resets after a commercial break. This is real life—our life—and the next chapter feels as uncharted as the Icelandic waters ahead, especially without our security chief at the helm.
Thank you for reading!
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Trixie is turning fifty!
And the Emerald Queen of the Seas is bound for Iceland—until a dead body turns her birthday cruise into a killer getaway.
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1
Copenhagen, Denmark
Five minutes ago, my life was perfect. Well, as perfect as life gets when you’re married to a former FBI agent turned cruise ship security chief while solving murders and seeing ghosts on a regular basis.
Then Quinn Riddle appeared with a folder that changed everything.
Ransom—my brilliant, capable, devastatingly handsome husband—has just been fired from the Emerald Queen of the Seas.
As in terminated. Let go. All because he did his job too well and solved Madison Rothschild’s murder alongside his liability of a wife.
Apparently, Royal Lineage Cruise Lines decided that having a security chief married to someone who attracts dead bodies like a magnet is bad for business.
Meanwhile, I’ve been reinstated to my art instructor position. Because that makes sense. Fire the professional, keep the amateur who literally trips over corpses.
The irony isn’t lost on anyone, least of all the small group gathered around us on the gangway. Bess and Nettie are as stunned as I am, Elodie looks furious on our behalf, and Captain Wes Crawford studies the termination papers as if he’s looking for a loophole written in invisible ink.
Ransom’s hand is still in mine, his grip steady despite the bomb that just detonated our carefully constructed life.
His face doesn’t give away any emotion—years of FBI training don’t disappear just because your world is falling apart—but I can see the tension in his jaw, the tightness around his eyes.
“Well…” Wes says, finally, folding the papers and handing them back to Quinn, hardly concealing his disgust. He looks at our little group—every last one of us is shell-shocked, angry, and we’re all still standing on the gangway like we’re not sure what to do next.
“I know just the place I need to take us. I think what we all need right now is a drink.”
“And nachos,” Nettie adds without missing a beat. “Some of us still have an appetite despite the emotional devastation we just witnessed.”
“We’ll see what we can do,” Wes replies with a half-smile that doesn’t look too promising about anything.
We follow him through the cobblestone streets of Copenhagen’s harbor district as the afternoon sun does its best to pretend everything is fine despite the bomb that just detonated our lives.
The bar Wes leads us to is tucked between a fish market and a souvenir shop, its weathered sign reading Havnekrogen in faded letters.
Inside, the place has that comfortable dimness that all good drinking establishments possess—dark wood, brass fixtures, and worn leather booths that have absorbed decades of secrets and maybe a few decades of bad decisions, too.
It’s almost noon, so the lunch crowd is just starting to trickle in, but we manage to snag a table near the bar.
Nettie wastes no time flagging down a server and proceeds to order what I’m pretty sure is half the appetizer menu. “Nachos, buffalo wings, mozzarella sticks, potato skins, and do you have fried pickles? No? Well, what about onion rings?”
“Nettie,” Bess hisses, “we’re in Denmark, not Wisconsin.”
“Food is food,” Nettie counters. “And stress eating is a valid coping mechanism.”
Wes leans toward Ransom, his captain’s authority softening into genuine concern. “Listen, this isn’t permanent. You’re not going anywhere. Trixie is an employee, which means you still have reasons to remain on the ship. I’m going to fight this with everything I’ve got.”
Ransom’s jaw tightens, but his voice remains steady. “And if you can’t get me reinstated? I just had my last cruise as an employee myself.”
“Maybe the gift shop is hiring!” Nettie chirps.
Bess swats her arm. “I’m pretty sure he’s verboten from any staff position. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if they yanked him from his living quarters, too.”
Actually, Ransom and I purchase our own cabin for each sailing because we prefer it to the employee quarters, but still.
I gasp, turning to Wes. “They can’t banish him from the ship, can they?”
Wes winces. “Well—”
But he doesn’t finish. His eyes go wide, his lips parting slightly as his gaze locks onto something—or someone—at the bar.
Ransom and I follow his stare to where a redhead sits hunched over the counter, her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs as she nurses what appears to be a very inadequate cocktail.
“Oh, that breaks my heart,” I say, placing my hand over my chest.
Ransom nods. “Poor thing seems to be all alone.”
I crane my neck to get a better look. She’s about my age, close to fifty, with long, glossy crimson hair that catches the light even in this dim bar.
Slender figure, cheekbones that could touch heaven, and she’s wearing a jade green dress with tan heeled boots that scream I had plans today that did not include crying in a Danish bar.
“Is that a suitcase next to her?” I gasp. “Maybe I should go and—”
Before I can finish, Wes is already on the move, settling onto the barstool beside her with an effortless grace that comes from decades of command. Ransom and I scramble to catch up, positioning ourselves on the other side of her.
She looks up and appraises us all, her red, swollen eyes lingering a moment too long on Wes.
And just like that, I know whatever brought her to this bar with a suitcase and tears isn’t over.
It’s just beginning.
Marina
Through the veil of tears currently destroying what’s left of my mascara, I become aware of far too much company swooping in around me.
As if crying in a bar wasn’t bad enough, being surrounded by a group of concerned citizens feels that much worse.
A decidedly handsome man in a navy suit with enough brass buttons to outfit a marching band has materialized to my right.
To my left, a beautiful blonde with concerned eyes stands next to a dark-haired man who looks like he could double as a movie star playing a cop, as the rugged, intense, and yet protective energy radiates off him in waves.
But my gaze sweeps back to the man in the navy suit. Dark hair peppered with just enough silver to make him look distinguished. He has dimples deep enough to lose your car keys in, and eyes so green they could double as emeralds.
My heart thumps unnaturally at the sight of him.