Chapter 6
“If I eat one more waffle, I’m going to become a waffle. And honestly, at this point, the syrup situation might be an upgrade.” Nettie pats her stomach with zero regret while eyeing the stack still remaining on her plate.
It’s the very next morning after the murder, and we’ve claimed a prime table outside the Blue Water Café, where the breakfast buffet has been thoroughly attacked and left for dead.
My plate resembles a culinary crime scene—scrambled eggs, bacon, a chocolate croissant the size of my head, fresh fruit that’s probably just for show, and a cinnamon roll I grabbed in the name of due diligence.
Bess sits across from me with her own mountain of food, looking entirely too put-together for someone who witnessed a murder last night.
Her red hair catches what little sunlight manages to break through the mottled gray sky, and she’s bundled in a peach cardigan against the cool, nippy air.
It’s early spring in the North Atlantic, which means the weather can’t decide if it wants to be dramatic or just miserable.
The wind whips across the deck hard enough to steal napkins and send them flying overboard, and the sky looks like someone smudged charcoal across canvas—all grays and darker grays with the occasional break of pale light.
“I’m just saying,” Bess continues whatever argument she started while I was contemplating my cinnamon roll, “if you’re going to flirt with the waitstaff, at least wait until they’re off duty.”
“I wasn’t flirting,” Nettie protests, her gray curls dancing in the wind.
She’s eighty-something, going on twenty-five, dressed in a hot pink tracksuit bedazzled with rhinestones that spell out CRUISING in sequined letters across the back.
She can be a bit of an attention-getter in more ways than one.
“I was being friendly,” she insists. “There’s a difference. ”
Bess blinks at her. “You asked if he came with the breakfast buffet.”
“As a conversational opener!”
“Nettie. You asked him if he was complimentary.”
“And he said yes.”
“He said yes to the coffee refill,” Bess corrects.
“Same thing.”
“Nothing about that is the same thing.”
I bite back a smile and wrap my hands around my coffee mug, letting the warmth seep into my fingers.
I just finished teaching an art class less than twenty minutes ago to a group of enthusiastic women learning acrylics and how to paint an Icelandic lava field with a hot pink sky.
My fingers still have paint under the nails, and I’m pretty sure there’s a streak of magenta in my hair.
“So.” Bess turns her attention to me, her sharp eyes missing nothing. “Have you seen the ghost yet?”
I glance around to make sure nobody is eavesdropping. The deck is relatively empty—most passengers are either sleeping off last night’s trauma or camped out inside where it’s warm.
Only a few people on the ship know about my supernatural quirk, and Bess, Nettie, Wes, and Ransom are the sum total of those people.
“I saw her last night. Blonde, white dress, downright beautiful, and she looked really angry about something.”
“Maybe she’s angry about being dead,” Nettie offers.
“Maybe so.” I shrug as I take a sip of coffee. “But I haven’t had any direct contact with her yet.”
“Give it time,” Bess says dryly. “They never seem to leave you alone for long.”
She’s not wrong. We all know the drill.
Here’s the thing: I see dead people. Not all the time, thank goodness, and it just so happens that I only see them around the time of a murder.
The technical term is transmundane, further classified as supersensual, which sounds like something from a romance novel but actually just means I’ve got the world’s most inconvenient superpower.
I didn’t always have this spectral party trick.
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.
I woke up from the bonk on the head with a concussion, two new best friends, and the ability to see ghosts.
Some people get lottery winnings. I get haunted.
Nettie stabs at her waffle. “I wish the ghost was a hot man. I’m in the mood for a little Gothic romance. I have a soft spot for the brooding, tortured type. Preferably shirtless and wandering the moors.”
“You have a soft spot for every type,” Bess says biting into her pancake.
I laugh. “We’re on a ship, Nettie. There are no moors.”
“Fine,” Nettie grouses. “The lido, then. A brooding, tortured, shirtless ghost wandering the lido deck. Near the soft-serve machine preferably. That way I can kill two yummy birds with one stone.”
“A soft serve does sound good,” I muse, and I take a bite of crispy bacon.
“Nettie.” Bess shoots her the stink eye. “Cool your engines, at least until after lunch.”
“What? I have needs. Imaginary ones, but they’re still needs.”
“You’re always in the mood for romance,” Bess points out.
“Not always. Sometimes I’m in the mood for blueberry muffins. Sometimes I’m in the mood for both at the same time.”
“At the same time?”
“A man who hands me a blueberry muffin while in the throes of passion is a treasure I intend to find. What’s your point, Bess?”
“My point is that you’re shameless.”
“That’s not a point,” I tell her. “That’s a compliment.”
Nettie winks my way. “You really do know me, Trix.”
I nod. “And by the way—Ransom has pulled off that blueberry muffin feat more than once.”
Nettie offers a standing ovation and Bess’ jaw unhinges.
I shrug. “We get room service to deliver breakfast.” That’s before I hit the breakfast buffet with these two, and before we hit the main dining room for second breakfast. What can I say? It takes a lot of carbohydrates to keep up with a man like Ransom.
Footsteps traipse this way, and Tinsley and Elodie materialize out of the morning gloom.
Tinsley’s got her ever-present electronic notebook clutched to her chest, her chestnut hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and she’s wearing her cruise director blazer despite the wind trying to rip it off her shoulders.
Elodie, meanwhile, looks gorgeous as always—blonde bob perfectly styled, designer sunglasses perched on her head, wearing navy slacks and a white cashmere sweater that makes me nervous around all this food and coffee.
She hails from South Africa and is a male magnet in the classic sense, with enough charm to make grown men forget their own names.
They pull up chairs without asking, which is standard procedure.
Elodie immediately fixes me with a look that could curdle milk. “Trixie Troublefield Baxter, I’m not amused that you’ve offed another man.”
“I didn’t off anyone.”
“Details.” She waves a manicured hand. “You’re single-handedly making it harder for single women out there. Every man you find dead is one less man for the rest of us.”
“That’s a disturbing way to look at it,” I muse. And yet, every time a man drops dead on this ship, she says the same thing.
“I’m just saying, the dating pool is shallow enough without you draining it completely.” She picks up one of my chocolate-filled croissants and starts to pull it apart.
Tinsley doesn’t even look up from her notebook. “I have way too many activities scheduled and not enough underlings to run them. The Second Act Society wants private workshops, group excursions, and apparently a midnight stargazing session that requires telescopes we don’t have.”
She finally glances up, and her eyes land on me.
“Don’t look at me,” I say, holding up both hands.
“I wasn’t going to ask,” she snips while breaking off a piece of Bess’ chocolate muffin and popping it into her mouth.
“Yes, you were,” I counter.
She takes a moment to glower at me. “I was considering it.”
Before we can continue this charming little back-and-forth, Marina walks by with a plate stacked high with waffles, fresh berries, and enough whipped cream to violate some sort of dairy restrictions.
She looks cozy in a soft gray sweater, dark jeans, and ankle boots, with her crimson hair pulled back in a loose ponytail.
I flag her down immediately. “Marina! Please, come join us!”
She hesitates, glancing at our mismatched group, but I’m already pulling up another chair.
Nettie leans her way. “How are you doing after last night?”
Marina sets down her plate and cringes. “I was shocked by what happened to that poor man.”
“Tell me more, sister.” Nettie’s eyebrows waggle suggestively.
Marina looks confused, as do the rest of us. “About?”
“About the captain.” Nettie nods enthusiastically. “What’s he like in the bedroom?”
Marina gasps.
Tinsley gasps so hard I think she just inhaled one of my chocolate croissants.
And I choke on my coffee.
Bess groans. “Nettie, she’s talking about the dead body.”
Tinsley slaps her notebook onto the table hard enough to make the silverware jump. “What makes you think she’s sleeping with Wes?” she hisses.
Marina shakes her head frantically. “I’m not sleeping with Wes. He just made sure I got to my cabin safely.” She blinks over at the lot of us as if gauging whether or not we need more convincing.
Tinsley sheds a tight smile. “Just for the record, the captain is not an eligible bachelor. He’s very much taken.”
My mouth falls open.
Elodie chortles out a laugh. “Oh Trixie, you really are an alley cat, aren’t you?” She winks at me.
“If Wes is taken it’s not by me.” I cross my heart and lift my right arm as if I were taking an oath.
“Not that Wes would mind,” Bess says, nodding toward Marina. “Wes used to have the hots for Trixie.”
Tinsley narrows her eyes at me. “Used to being the operative words. The captain is taken by yours truly, so be sure to lay off.” She practically growls the last part at Marina.
Oh good grief. I don’t even bother trying to hide the fact I’m rolling my eyes.
“Wait.” Elodie laughs harder at Tinsley’s attempt to hold onto a man who doesn’t want to be held. “Don’t tell me you’ve hit your head again on that conduit pipe in the engine room. You and Wes aren’t dating.”
“I didn’t say anything about dating.” Tinsley sneers. “I said he was taken.”
It’s true, Tinsley has had the hots for both Wes and Ransom long before I ever arrived on the ship. And now that Ransom is officially off the market, she’s still making a play for Wes. And, well, Wes isn’t having it.
Marina holds up both hands. “I don’t have to be told twice. Besides, I’m not looking for a relationship.” She shakes her head emphatically as if it was the last thing in the world she wanted.
Funnily enough, we all know that’s exactly when relationships come knocking—when you’re not looking.
I happen to know that firsthand because that’s exactly what happened with Ransom and me.
Believe me, I was not looking, peeking, or batting a lash in the direction of a relationship.
In fact, my primary goal was getting out of one at that moment.
Marina holds up a finger. “Although he did offer me a tour of the bridge today,” she says, and there’s the slightest hint of mischief in her smile as she glances at Tinsley.
I knew I liked her.
Steam practically pours from Tinsley’s ears. “He offers that to just about everyone. I wouldn’t go feeling so special.”
Bess and I gasp at the audacity.
And well, neither Nettie nor Elodie are all that surprised. I shouldn’t be either.
Tinsley picks up her notebook again and sighs. “Too much work, not enough pay. I need three more staff members and maybe a miracle.”
“Can I see?” Marina asks.
Tinsley hands over her notebook, looking suspicious. Marina studies it, her expression shifting to something professional and focused.
“I’ve worked my entire life in the hospitality industry.
I’ve been in charge of my fair share of entertainment for guests.
” She scans the schedule, making humming sounds.
“You’re double-booking the Constellation Lounge, and these two activities are too close together for proper setup.
If you shift this one to Deck Ten and move the wine tasting to afternoon instead of evening, you’ll free up staff and give guests a better flow between events. ”
“Wow.” Tinsley blinks. “That’s—actually brilliant.”
Marina shrugs. “I wouldn’t mind helping out if you need an extra set of hands.”
“Really?” Tinsley’s entire demeanor shifts. “You’d do that?”
“Sure. Beats sitting alone in my cabin.”
Elodie applauds slowly. “Look at you two, teaming up. Now you can have a threesome with the captain. Who says women can’t get along when a man is involved?”
I’m about to say something—probably something about how nobody is having a threesome with anyone—when something catches my eye.
That blonde poltergeist zips past our table, her flowing white gown trailing behind her as if caught in an invisible current. She glows a shade of electric blue like an ethereal flame in the gray morning light, and she moves with purpose, heading toward the forward deck.
Oh, for the love of breakfast buffets. I haven’t even finished my cinnamon roll.
I stand so abruptly, my chair scrapes against the deck. “Sorry, I just remembered I have to uh… check on something.”
“Check on what?” Bess asks suspiciously.
“Art supplies,” I cringe as I say it. I’m a terrible liar. “Very important art supplies.” I double down on the deception without hesitation.
I take off before anyone can question me further, weaving through deck chairs and following the ethereal flame of a very dead woman. She leads me up three decks, through a crew-only corridor, and straight to the last place I expected.
The bridge.
The nerve center of the entire ship, the exact place where Captain Wes Crawford commands his floating empire.
The ghost hovers just outside the door, her translucent form flickering in and out of focus, and she turns to look at me with those hollow, angry eyes.
I guess Tinsley was right—the captain really does offer bridge tours to just about everyone, no matter what side of the veil they’re on.
Hunting down a ghost is complicated enough.
Hunting down a killer while the ghost watches your every move? That’s a whole new level of complicated.