Chapter 4
It’s our very first day at sea, and Marina and I are balancing our plates through the Blue Water Café toward the outdoor seating.
I use the word balancing loosely. The buffet on the Lido Deck is a dangerous place for people with questionable impulse control, which describes both of us perfectly.
My plate looks like someone played food Jenga and lost. Hash browns piled three high, a waffle the size of a dinner plate drowning in syrup, scrambled eggs that are getting cold and know it, bacon arranged in a log cabin formation, sausage links rolling toward the edge with escape on their minds, a chocolate croissant that’s destined to leave crumbs everywhere, and, because I’m pretending to be health-conscious, a single strawberry perched on top, a tiny red flag of surrender.
I’ll eat it last, as penance. The strawberry knows why it’s here. We don’t discuss it.
Marina’s plate isn’t much better. She’s got French toast swimming in powdered sugar and syrup, a Belgian waffle with whipped cream threatening to avalanche, fruit salad that’s strictly there for show, enough bacon to feed a church picnic, and an entire Danish pastry folded over itself in open defiance of physics.
We claim two chairs outside with a view of the ocean stretching endlessly in every direction.
The wind whips around us, carrying the scent of salt water and sunscreen, but the sky is brilliantly blue and the sun is warm on my face, and honestly?
After last night’s chaos—the poisoning, the ice sculpture, the screaming, the phones—sitting here with a ridiculous amount of carbs is exactly what the doctor ordered.
Well, maybe not exactly what the doctor ordered.
The doctor would suggest Greek yogurt and granola, maybe some oatmeal.
But the doctor isn’t here, and I am, and I’m choosing waffles.
The doctor also isn’t the one who got grabbed by a dying woman twelve hours ago, so he can keep his granola and his opinions.
Marina takes a bite of her French toast and closes her eyes in something close to rapture. “This is obscene.”
“This is breakfast,” I correct, attacking my hash browns with real feeling. I skipped dinner last night on account of the murder, and I intend to make up the difference. With interest. Trauma has a calorie count, and I’m invoicing accordingly.
“This is three breakfasts.”
“Your point?”
She laughs, and I’m glad to see it. She looked rattled last night after I told her that Astrid grabbed me and started convulsing, and considering a woman got crushed by an ice sculpture at what was supposed to be a festive literary event, I can’t exactly blame Marina for needing comfort food.
We eat in comfortable silence for a moment, the ocean breeze playing with our hair and making my napkin try to flee. I pin it down with my fork. This napkin and I have tangled before. I always win, but it costs me a moment of my meal, and mealtime is sacred.
I scan the pool chairs between bites, half hoping my Viking will come stomping through them with answers.
No sign of him. He’s the best lead I’ve got, and I’d happily trade my last sausage for five minutes of his time.
For a ghost with urgent news, he’s remarkably bad at follow-through.
The afterlife has done nothing for his time management.
Dead men tell no tales. Mine won’t even return a voicemail.
The Lido Deck is already filling up with passengers. Families claim loungers, couples stroll with coffee, and a group of women I recognize from the Velvet Viking Book Club huddle together near the railing, looking dazed and exhausted.
Marina lowers her fork. Whatever’s coming, she’s been chewing on it longer than the French toast. “Trixie, this is my second cruise on the Emerald Queen. And my second homicide.” She pauses, her ice-blue eyes searching mine.
“Do you think there’s a connection? Am I jinxed?
Should I be worried that death follows me around? ”
I nearly choke on my waffle. A piece of it goes down the wrong way, and I cough, reaching for my orange juice. Once I’ve recovered and Marina’s stopped looking at me like I might need the Heimlich, I dab syrup off my chin with my napkin.
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of awkward news,” I say, trying not to laugh because this is genuinely serious and also, unfortunately, hilarious, “but there’s been a homicide on every single cruise on this ship since I set foot on it.
” I spear a piece of bacon for emphasis.
“So you can clearly see, it’s me who’s jinxed.
You’re not the curse, honey. You’re just seated next to one. ”
Marina’s fork freezes halfway to her mouth. “Every cruise?”
“Every. Single. One.”
“Oh my word.” She glances around as if she’s scanning for exits. And maybe a lifeboat.
“Yeah.” I take a triumphant bite of bacon.
“My life is basically a true crime podcast at this point, except I’m the recurring guest star who keeps finding bodies instead of just talking about them in a cozy studio.
” I pause. “Also, I don’t get ad revenue, which feels deeply unfair.
At the very least somebody owes me a shoe sponsorship.
All this sleuthing is murder on my arches.
And a lifetime supply of waterproof mascara. Heaven knows I’ve earned the mascara.”
Marina stares at me, visibly reevaluating every decision that led her to accept a job on this particularly homicidal ship. “How are you so calm about this?”
“Practice?” I shrug and sip my orange juice. “At a certain point, you either laugh or you start wearing all black and listening to depressing music while contemplating the futility of existence. I choose laughter. And waffles. Mostly waffles. And molten hot lava cake.”
She toasts me with her latte. “That’s very healthy of you.”
“I have my moments.” I cut into my waffle and watch the syrup pool around it. “Although my therapist would have some thoughts about using breakfast foods as a coping mechanism.”
“Do you have a therapist?”
“No, but I probably should at this point. Somewhere out there, a licensed professional is living her best life precisely because she’s never met me.”
We share a laugh, and I’m gearing up to steer this conversation into something more probing, namely what exactly Marina was running from in Copenhagen and why she looked so relieved when we finally set sail, when Quinn Riddle strides past our table on what appears to be very official business.
Then she stops and backtracks.
And just like that, my morning takes a turn for the hostile.
“Here we go,” I mutter.
Quinn is Ransom’s counterpart in vessel security, and she wears the title like a crown, and heaven help whoever reaches for it.
Her skin is paper white, either from avoiding the sun religiously or from being part vampire.
The jury’s still out. Her black hair is pulled back into a bun so tight it has to be causing a migraine, and she sports her navy uniform with a solid fifteen percent too much pride.
The buttons gleam. The creases could slice bread.
Somewhere in her cabin, an ironing board is dedicated exclusively to her underwear.
The woman is starch incarnate.
She’s also the founding president, treasurer, and sole member of the I Don’t Care for Trixie Troublefield Baxter Club, which holds hourly meetings in her head. Attendance is mandatory. Minutes are kept. Grievances are filed in triplicate.
“Trixie.” Her voice could curdle milk and possibly strip the lacquer right off the steering wheel of this vessel. “Why am I not surprised you’re the one who found another body?”
I set down my fork slowly. “Good morning to you too, Quinn. Lovely weather we’re having.” I force a smile, but only because I know it will annoy the heck out of her.
“It’s not a good morning.” She wastes no time snipping at me.
“A woman is dead. Crushed by an ice sculpture at a book club bon voyage party.” She crosses her arms, and her nails are painted blood red.
Do vampires paint their nails? And if so, is it polish or is it evidence?
“Care to explain how you keep ending up at crime scenes?”
“Bad luck?” I offer. “Karma? A particularly vindictive curse someone purchased off Etsy?”
Perhaps all three.
Marina clears her throat. “Actually, technically speaking, the poor woman found Trixie just before she dropped dead. Trixie was standing there minding her own business when Astrid grabbed her and started convulsing and—”
“I don’t care about technicalities,” Quinn snaps, her eyes never leaving mine. They’re dark and sharp and currently shooting daggers. Very on theme for this cruise. “I care about the fact that every single time there’s a homicide on this ship, you’re somehow involved. Without fail.”
“Correlation doesn’t equal causation,” I say, taking a bite of my chocolate croissant and pausing a moment to swallow while I let her simmer. “I learned that in statistics class. Fine, I learned it from Bess, but the principle holds.”
Quinn leans in closer, and I catch a whiff of her perfume, something expensive and cold with notes of ice and judgment.
If disappointment had a base note, she found it and bought a case.
“You should watch your back, Trixie. Both of you.” She glances at Marina.
“This investigation is under my jurisdiction, and I won’t tolerate any interference.
None. Zero. I’ve already notified Swedish authorities, and when we dock in Gothenburg, they’ll be assisting with this. Until then, you stay out of my way.”
“Wouldn’t dream of interfering,” I lie cheerfully, my smile as sweet as the syrup on my waffle.
The truth is, I’ve already dreamed of interfering. Last night, in fact, and it was intense. Thankfully, Ransom was there to kiss away the trauma. That man is pure gold.
“I mean it.” She straightens and adjusts her uniform. No doubt the woman irons her jeans. I’d stake my waffle on it. “Stay out of my investigation.”
I’d salute, but my hands are full of croissant. Priorities.