Chapter 4 #2
Bess and Nettie appear at that exact moment, guardian angels wielding breakfast plates.
Well, Bess is the guardian angel. Nettie is chaos in a muumuu. More to the point, she’s a hurricane about to make landfall.
Their plates are absolutely ridiculous in the most delicious way possible.
Bess has pancakes four high with a mountain of whipped cream starting to slide sideways, a syrup situation bordering on a swimming pool, a tidy scattering of donut holes, and an entire jar’s worth of strawberry preserves.
Nettie has waffles, a three-donut tower that has no business standing, more bacon than should be legal in international waters, and a bowl of fruit salad balanced on top, destined for the floor. Nettie uses the words balanced meal every bit as loosely as I do.
“Well, if it isn’t Quinn Riddle, the only puzzle nobody wants to finish,” Nettie says with a wink as she plops into a chair. “What does the Ice Queen want now?”
Quinn’s jaw tightens. “I was just leaving.”
“Oh, don’t leave on our account,” Nettie says with a smile that’s all teeth and zero warmth. “Bess and I were just talking about Trixie.”
“I’m sure you were,” Quinn says coolly.
I do my best to shrink in my seat. With Nettie steering this conversation, we could end up anywhere. None of it good, I’m guessing.
“Yep.” Nettie deposits her plate with a decisive thunk. “We were discussing how Trixie’s basically a serial killer who keeps getting away with it. Bodies just pile up wherever she goes.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “You know what that means, don’t you?”
Quinn’s eyes narrow. “What.”
“It means you should watch your back, Bun Head.” Nettie grins wider. “Trixie’s on a roll. And there’s no use tattling to the cruise line about it either, because they’ve already fired and rehired both her and her husband. Multiple times. So clearly, they don’t care.”
“They care about lawsuits,” Quinn fires back.
“And yet here we all are,” Bess observes mildly. “Still employed. Still breathing. Well, most of us.”
Nettie leans forward conspiratorially. “So face it, Bun Head, you’re stuck with her.”
Bess nods sagely. “And if I were you, I’d definitely watch my back.”
Quinn gasps. An honest-to-goodness gasp, her face going even paler than usual, which I didn’t think was possible without medical intervention. She spins on her heel and stalks off toward the elevators, her spine rigid with fury.
We all watch her go in satisfied silence. Even her exit looks freshly pressed.
“That was beautiful,” I say.
“That was necessary,” Nettie corrects, already carving into her waffles. “Someone needed to put her in her place.”
“I don’t think you put her in her place so much as terrorized her.”
“Same thing.”
Marina looks between us with wide eyes. “Do you always antagonize ship security like that?”
“Only when they deserve it,” Bess says, popping a donut hole into her mouth.
“Which is always,” Nettie adds. “It’s a full-time job. No benefits, but the hours are flexible.”
Marina takes the three of us in. Somewhere in her head, a mental note is writing itself: never cross the octogenarians. And maybe not Trixie, either.
We settle into eating, and I’m halfway through my hash browns when I spot Elodie weaving through the tables toward us.
She’s impossible to miss. Her hair has somehow negotiated a truce with the wind, her white linen pants have survived the breakfast buffet unscathed, and she’s wearing a coral silk top I couldn’t afford with a year of my art-supply budget.
She moves through the crowd fully aware that every eye is on her and completely unbothered by it.
She’s also carrying a mimosa, which seems ambitious for ten in the morning but very on brand.
In Elodie’s world, orange juice is a garnish.
Elodie Abernathy manages the Queen’s Mall, hails from South Africa, and is the most prolific man-eater this side of Nettie Butterworth, which is really saying something, considering Nettie’s track record. She’s also one of my best friends on this ship, which means I forgive her for most things.
Most.
“Morning, gorgeous people!” Elodie announces, sliding into the empty chair beside me without a single awkward molecule in her body.
She sets down her mimosa, plucks the chocolate croissant directly off my plate without asking, and takes a bite while making eye contact to establish dominance.
In the wild, this is how apex predators say good morning.
“Good morning, Elodie,” I say right back. “Please, help yourself to my food. It’s not as if I stood in line for it or anything.”
I’m teasing. It’s basically understood that I stand in line for the two of us. I’m the hunter-gatherer in this friendship. She gathers whatever I hunt.
“Don’t mind if I do.” She grins, licking chocolate off her finger. “Also, Trixie, I’m deeply wounded that you didn’t invite me to the murder mystery dinner in the Coral Lounge last night. Wounded. Devastated. Emotionally scarred. I heard there were men.”
“They were made out of cardboard,” Bess is quick to inform her.
“I’ve got one back in my cabin if you need a close-up,” Nettie says as she lifts her coffee.
“I believe it’s called the Valhalla Lounge now,” Marina corrects.
Elodie waves a hand dismissively. “Whatever you’re calling it, I heard there was death and drama and Viking ice sculptures and I missed the whole thing.
Do you know how rarely exciting things happen on this ship?
” She pauses to inspect me for a moment.
“Wait, actually, exciting things happen constantly when you’re around. Never mind.”
“You didn’t miss much,” I say, reclaiming what’s left of my croissant before she can finish it. “Just a woman getting poisoned and crushed by a six-foot ice Viking.”
“That’s not much?” Elodie’s eyes widen. “Well, when you put it that way—”
Nettie brandishes her fork, syrup dripping. “A raunchy Viking book club has infiltrated the ship!”
Elodie’s mouth falls open dramatically. “No!”
“Yes!” Nettie gasps back, matching her energy gasp for gasp. She’s been waiting all morning for this. Possibly all year.
“Good Lord,” Bess mutters into her pancakes, not even looking up. “This is going to be a long, hairy-scary cruise, isn’t it?”
“The hairiest,” Nettie confirms with obvious delight. “Fifty women obsessed with fictional Vikings. Shirtless men in fur cloaks. Abs for days. Steamy romance novels with titles I can’t repeat in polite company. It’s absolutely glorious.”
“It’s absolutely terrifying,” Bess corrects, finally looking up from her breakfast. “Fifty women with questionable taste in literature and no sense of self-preservation.”
Nettie shrugs. “Same difference.”
Elodie lights up. This is the best gossip of the year, and she knows it.
“Well, I certainly hope those women have better luck tracking down real Vikings on this cruise than they do in their paperback fantasies.” She sips her mimosa thoughtfully.
“Fictional men are for women who have not tried the real ones. I have tried a great many.”
Bess balks. “Fictional men are for those of us who have tried the real ones and want a refund.”
“Story of my life,” Nettie agrees, stabbing a waffle with more force than necessary.
“Story of everyone’s life,” Bess adds dryly, pouring more syrup over what’s left of her pancake tower.
“But let the record show, I love men,” Nettie says, feeling the need to clarify her adoration for the species. “It’s my goal in life to show each and every one of them my appreciation. Except for the taken ones or the dead ones. They’re off the market, too.”
I keep my mouth shut on the dead ones. In my experience, they’re not so much off the market as extremely talkative. And handsy. And occasionally interested in my breakfast.