Chapter 15 #2
“I think it’s the Sea Monster Museum,” Ransom says, craning his neck a bit.
“Even better!” Nettie belts out a whoop. “I want to see both.”
We head in that direction, and the closer we get, the clearer Marina’s body language becomes. She’s not just upset—she seems downright furious. Her free hand gestures sharply, and though I can’t hear what she’s saying, her mouth is forming words that are definitely not polite.
“Looks like trouble in paradise,” Nettie observes. “I wonder what the captain did now.”
I shake my head. “I highly doubt she’s talking to Wes.”
“And she’s not in paradise,” Bess says. “She’s in Isafjordur arguing with someone on the phone.”
“I bet it’s about a man,” Nettie says. “When you get a woman riled up that bad, it’s always about a man.”
Marina turns away from us, stepping into a small alcove near the museum entrance. Her voice rises—I still can’t make out the words, but whoever’s on the other end of that call is getting the sharp end of her vocabulary.
Bess and Nettie make a beeline for the museum, and Ransom glances at me.
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking Marina needs privacy, and we should probably make sure the trolls are safe from Nettie.”
“The trolls are fictional,” he says with a wink.
“That won’t stop Nettie.”
We follow them inside.
The museum is exactly the delightfully weird tourist trap I didn’t know I needed.
It’s small, dimly lit, with exhibits featuring Icelandic folklore creatures and supposed evidence of sea monsters.
Life-sized troll figures lurk in corners looking constipated and menacing in equal measure.
And, well, Nettie is basically in heaven.
“Look at this one,” she breathes, pointing to a particularly adorable specimen with a giant bulbous nose and a wicked gleam in its eyes. “He’s magnificent.”
“He’s terrifying,” Bess counters.
“Same thing. I’m going to marry him.”
Bess rolls her eyes. “You can’t marry a museum exhibit.”
“Watch me.” She turns to the young museum attendant. “Is this one available? Does he have a wife?”
The attendant gives a few blinks. “It’s a statue, ma’am.”
“So that’s a no on the wife?” Nettie seems far too pleased by this development.
“Nettie,” I say, “maybe don’t propose to the trolls just yet.”
“Fine,” she grunts. “But I’m coming back for him. He’s got that bad boy energy I’ve always been attracted to.”
And does he ever.
We wander deeper into the museum, past detailed folklore descriptions and an entire section on hidden people—elves and trolls that Icelanders allegedly still believe in.
“You know what I think?” Nettie says, stopping in front of another troll display—this one featuring three of them huddled around what appears to be a very small and very adorable goat.
“Nothing good,” Bess mutters.
“I think one of these committed the murder on our ship.”
Bess stares at her. “The trolls?”
“Why not?” Nettie counters. “They’re sneaky. They live in rocks. It’s a perfect cover for a stowaway.”
Bess frowns. “They’re not real, Nettie.”
“That’s exactly what they want you to think.” She leans closer to the exhibit. “What if trolls have been committing murders on cruise ships for years? Decades. Centuries, even. It’s the perfect crime—everyone blames the humans while the trolls run free.”
“That’s the most ridiculous theory you’ve ever had,” Bess says.
“Is it? Think about all the unsolved deaths on cruise ships. There must be hundreds. What if it’s been trolls this whole time?”
Ransom clears his throat. “The FBI would’ve noticed.”
“Would they? Or are the trolls just that good?” Nettie waggles her eyebrows. “I’m telling you, this one right here has shifty eyes.” She points to one that indeed has shifty eyes, and I swear they’re looking right at me. “He’s definitely guilty of something.”
“Nettie, you’ve truly outdone yourself,” I say, unable to hold back a laugh any longer.
“I aim to please.” She turns back to the troll, whom she’s all but dubbed her boyfriend. “I still think he’s a catch though. Like I said, I’ve always had a thing for bad boys.”
“Your late husband was a Vermont farmer,” Bess points out.
“He had a rebellious streak. He once planted corn where he was supposed to plant wheat. It was all very scandalous.”
Bess laughs. “Nettie, that’s a crop rotation, not rebellion.”
“Agree to disagree.”
We spend another twenty minutes listening to Nettie develop increasingly elaborate theories about troll involvement in maritime crimes. By the time we stumble back into the drizzly afternoon, I’m exhausted from laughing and Bess looks like she needs a stiff drink.
Marina, however, is nowhere to be seen.
“Do you think we should look for her?” Bess asks, craning her neck in the direction we saw her last.
I scan the tiny village—tourists browsing shops, taking photos, and living their non-murder-adjacent lives. “Maybe she’ll find us when she’s ready.”
But here’s what I’m afraid of—people don’t have furious phone conversations in alcoves unless those conversations are dangerous. And people don’t beg documentary producers to forget they exist unless they’ve got secrets worth killing for.
The trolls didn’t murder Gideon Vale—despite Nettie’s compelling evidence.
But someone did.
And I’m starting to wonder if Marina Maxwell knows who that could be.