Chapter 3 #2
I spot Poppy Lindgren near the floor-to-ceiling windows, her honey-blonde bob still perfectly styled, her cashmere without a single wrinkle.
She’s standing very still, staring at Astrid’s body, and her face is doing none of the things a face should do right now.
No grief. No shock. Something cooler. Calculation, if I had to name it. Or relief.
Interesting.
Sienna Caldwell is openly weeping into her hands, her frizzy auburn hair escaping its velvet headband in wild spirals around her soft face.
A cluster of women surrounds her, offering tissues and those there-there pats that do nothing for the recipient but work wonders for the patter.
Say what you will about this club, they circle their wagons fast.
My heart pinches for Sienna, and I mean that sincerely. Whatever she and Astrid were fighting about, she never got to finish the argument. She’ll be finishing it alone in her head for years, and both sides of it will still lose. That’s its own kind of grief, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
Then there’s the striking dark-haired woman I saw arguing with Astrid earlier, the one dressed straight off one of their book covers in black leather, a dramatic cape, and enough silver jewelry to sink a longship.
She leans against the far wall with her arms crossed, watching it all unfold with all the warmth of the ice sculpture.
And the ice sculpture is currently melting into a puddle, so that’s saying something.
She’s taking mental notes. Or admiring her handiwork.
“Who’s that?” I ask Marina, nodding toward the raven-haired woman.
Marina follows my gaze. “No idea. But she doesn’t exactly look heartbroken.”
“Neither does Poppy.”
“You think they’re suspects?”
“I think everyone’s a suspect until proven otherwise.” I pause. “Welcome to my world. The dress code tonight is velvet, and the body count is alarming.”
Ransom’s security team is slowly, painfully, glacially herding women toward the exit.
It’s taking forever because every three steps someone stops to demand explanations or squeeze off one more photo for their true crime podcast. Yes.
Someone said that out loud. With every ounce her lungs could afford.
Wes flags Ransom down and jerks his head toward a quiet corner. They have a brief, intense conversation I can’t hear over the noise, but I catch Ransom’s jaw doing that tight thing it does right before he growls at someone.
Not good.
Tinsley storms up with her clipboard clutched to her chest, a shield against the evening, her chestnut hair falling out of its usual perfect styling. She looks ten years older than she did ten minutes ago and might age another decade before the night ends.
“This is a PR nightmare,” she hisses at no one in particular. “An absolute nightmare. We’re going to be all over the news. Murder cruise. Viking ice sculpture. Book club gone wrong. I couldn’t write worse headlines if someone paid me.”
“Maybe focus on the dead woman,” Bess suggests.
“I am focused on the dead woman! I’m focused on how her death is going to tank our ratings and get us sued into oblivion!
” Tinsley’s eyes grow wild. “Do you know how many forms I have to fill out now? How many phone calls I have to make? How many incident reports I need to file? I haven’t even started on the liability paperwork! ”
“The dead woman probably had it worse,” Nettie offers.
“Debatable,” Bess says. “The dead woman doesn’t have to talk to corporate.”
“Breathe,” Marina says gently, putting a hand on Tinsley’s shoulder. “We’ll handle this.”
“We?” Tinsley gags on the word. She’s pretty much used to being a solo act.
“You’re not alone. I’m your assistant, remember? We’ll get through this together.”
Tinsley looks at Marina as if she just offered her the last life vest on a sinking ship. “Thank you.”
They head off together toward Wes, presumably to start the paperwork avalanche that comes with a guest getting crushed by an ice sculpture at a literary event.
I’m guessing corporate doesn’t have a form for that.
Yet. Give Tinsley a week and she’ll invent one in triplicate, laminate it, and name it after herself.
Marina reaches Wes first, and for half a second his captain face slips into a look he definitely didn’t learn in maritime school before duty snaps it back into place.
She powdered her nose for this man twenty minutes ago.
Now they’re standing over incident reports together.
Romance on the high seas is not for the faint of heart. Or the faint of paperwork.
The crowd is finally, mercifully, thinning.
Women file out in small groups, still whispering, still glancing back at Astrid’s body as though they can’t quite believe what happened.
A few are crying. Most look stunned. One woman is already on her phone, composing what has to be a very dramatic text to the folks back home in Willow Creek.
By morning, the story will have three Vikings and a sword fight.
By Friday, I’ll have done it in the library with a candlestick.
By next month, there will be a commemorative sweatshirt.
Another woman pauses near the exit and turns back to the buffet with a look of longing in her eyes. “Can I just grab one meatball—”
“No!” three security officers shout in perfect unison.
She leaves, looking personally victimized by Swedish cuisine. Her therapist just felt a disturbance in the force.
At last, the Valhalla Lounge empties down to crew, melting Viking, and one very dead book club founder. The music cuts off, leaving us in an eerie silence broken only by dripping ice and the distant chatter of women as the Emerald Queen slides deeper into the Baltic night.
Ransom walks over, still wearing the growl. “Wes is calling it in. Swedish authorities will board and take over the investigation when we dock in Gothenburg.”
“So this is officially a murder investigation,” I say.
“This is officially a nightmare wrapped in paperwork and tied with a bow of international jurisdiction issues,” he says with a nod. “Poisoned at a book club party. Crushed by an ice sculpture shaped like a Viking. The press is going to feast on this for weeks.”
I cringe. “At least it’s memorable.”
He lifts a brow my way. “That’s not helping.”
“I’m rarely helpful in these situations. I find the bodies and occasionally solve the murders. The helping part is really more your department.”
“Leave the investigation to me and help yourself to some peace and quiet for a change.” He pulls me in and lands a warm kiss on my cheek.
I open my mouth to answer, or, more to the point, to protest, but Wes beats me to it, captain mode bolted firmly back on. “Ransom, I need you to coordinate with your team. Secure the lounge. Nobody touches anything until we can properly document the scene and hand it over to the authorities.”
“On it.” Ransom heads off, barking orders at his officers in that clipped tone he saves for full security mode. And yes, I find it wildly attractive. I’m only human. A human who married a walking security briefing and has zero regrets.
Wes turns to me, Bess, and Nettie, and his face gentles. “You three should get some rest.”
“We’re not leaving,” I say immediately.
“Trixie—”
“Someone murdered that woman in a room full of witnesses. And unless I’m very wrong, which I’m not, that someone is still on this ship, probably enjoying a cocktail while we mop up their mess.” I glance at Astrid’s vacant stare. “I’m not going anywhere until I figure out who.”
Wes sighs, long and deep. He’s had this exact conversation with me a dozen times, and we both know how it ends. “Fine. But stay out of the security team’s way.”
“When have I ever gotten in the way?”
He flashes a quick smile. “Do you want that list chronologically or alphabetically?”
Bess snorts. “Alphabetically would take less time.”
“Wow. Thanks for the support,” I tell her.
“Anytime, Trix.”
Nettie turns to me with that gleam in her eye. “You know, Astrid went straight for you when she was dying. She grabbed you, shook you, used her last breath trying to communicate with you.”
“She was choking,” I say. “She grabbed whoever was closest.”
“Sure.” Nettie winks my way. “Or maybe she understood you’re thick as thieves with the Grim Reaper.”
“Yeah,” Bess adds, not even trying to hide her amusement. “Thick as killer thieves.”
They share a quiet laugh while I scoff at the both of them. “You two are hilarious.”
“We know,” Nettie says cheerfully. “But you have to admit, dead people find you. Every single time.”
“It’s a gift,” Bess says dryly.
“It’s a curse that follows me to the buffet,” I counter.
“Then it has excellent taste,” Nettie says.
I glance at Astrid’s body, at the melted Viking, at the glowing blue puddle that killed her.
Astrid Storm wanted to celebrate being gloriously, unapologetically alive. Now she’s gloriously, unapologetically dead, and there’s a ghost on board who knows why.
My money’s on the Viking. He mowed me down hours before Astrid ever touched that cocktail, which means he’s been sitting on this murder all day.
Honestly, I can’t wait for him to show his braided head again.
A chatty ghost is the best lead a girl can ask for, even one who howls loud enough to rattle my ancestors’ skulls.
Although if he could work on his entrance, I’d appreciate it.
My eardrums would appreciate it more. My towel animals would appreciate it most of all.
Until he turns up, I’ll be doing what I do best—solving another murder, dodging Swedish authorities, and learning far too much about the dark side of book clubs.
Somewhere on this ship, a killer thinks they just got away with murder.
I’m about to prove them wrong.