Chapter 9
If Gothenburg was for chasing a murder suspect down a cobblestone side street, today was for pretending I’m a normal woman on a normal cruise.
Sea days are supposed to be the relaxing ones, and I clung to that promise with both hands.
I slept in until the decadent hour of eight, met Bess and Nettie for our traditional double breakfast, and spent a solid hour on the lido deck answering letters for my column while the Baltic rolled by in fifty shades of silver.
Nettie spent the morning in mourning over Harald, who never even asked for her cabin number. Bess spent it reminding her that wooden men rarely do.
“He knows where I dock,” Nettie insisted over her third cheese Danish.
“He’s a statue, Nettie,” Bess was quick to tell her. “He doesn’t know anything. That’s his entire appeal.”
In between heartbreaks, I taught two art classes, both on Viking lore, both attended exclusively by women, and both hijacked within the first ten minutes by a unanimous motion that the Vikings be shirtless. I run a democracy, so shirtless they were.
One woman lobbied to lose the pelts entirely on the grounds of climate accuracy.
Another argued the spear was “blocking the most important components.” By the second class, the pelts had shrunk to a modesty patch and the spears were, and I quote, “optional.” I’ve never witnessed such a passionate commitment to historical revisionism. Attendance, for the record, doubled.
Then I capped the afternoon off with a nap so restorative I woke up briefly wondering if I’d accidentally been cryogenically frozen.
By evening, we all congregate for dinner in the Main Dining Room, and by all I mean the usual suspects: Bess, Nettie, Marina, Ransom, and even Wes, who decided his captain duties could wait because Marina was going to be at our table. What a coincidence. I’m sure the timing never crossed his mind.
The man can dock a 140,000-ton vessel in a crosswind, but ask him why he’s suddenly free on the one night Marina joins us for dinner, and he’ll start studying the dinner menu like there’s going to be a quiz afterward.
All through dinner, he makes googly eyes at Marina across the bread basket.
And she gives a few shy smiles back while turning approximately seventeen shades of pink.
Never in my life have I seen anyone blush so prolifically.
It’s a time-lapse of a sunset, except the sunset is Marina’s face and it keeps happening every time Wes says literally anything.
“Could you pass the salt?” Wes asks her.
Marina blushes and hands him the pepper.
“That’s pepper,” he says, smiling.
She blushes harder and swaps it for the bud vase, white carnation and all.
“Thank you.” He accepts the vase without missing a beat, plucks the carnation, and lays it beside her plate as though that’s precisely what he requested.
Marina makes a sound I’ve only ever heard from a teakettle. She’s full scarlet now. The woman runs an entire cruise ship’s worth of entertainment without breaking a sweat, but one dark-haired captain asks for a condiment and her circuitry shorts out.
Not that I’m in any position to judge. I was the exact same way when I first met Ransom. Heck, I’m the same way now. Twenty-four hours a day I share a cabin with that man, and he can still ask me to pass the butter in that low voice of his and my IQ drops twenty points.
Nettie leans my way. “Is she having a medical episode or is this flirting?”
“Both,” I whisper back.
“That makes perfect sense.” Nettie gives a sage nod. “The last man who short-circuited me like that, we didn’t surface for three days. Scooter Springs sent out a search party.”
Bess nods along in solemn agreement. “I organized it. We printed flyers.”
After a divine meal of beef Wellington draped in a red wine demi-glace so good I briefly consider asking for seconds, a twice-baked potato buried under bacon and sharp cheddar until the potato is merely a rumor, and a buttered lobster tail I ordered because the menu offered it and I’m only human, dessert arrives, a trio of delights that includes chocolate lava cake, crème br?lée, and fresh berries with whipped cream.
I sample all three because I’m on a cruise and calories don’t count when you’re investigating murder.
I don’t make the rules. I just eat by them.
After dessert, Marina excuses herself to prepare for an event in the casino that she and Tinsley cooked up called Raiders and Wagers, a Viking-themed casino night. And seeing that the lethal book club will be there, you can bet your britches that Bess, Nettie, and I won’t be missing it either.
Wes and Ransom may have forbidden us from investigating, but technically speaking, gambling isn’t investigating. I checked the definition and everything. Twice.
Wes watches Marina all the way to the door, and then he watches the door.
“She’s really something, isn’t she?” he says to no one in particular. Possibly to the bud vase.
“She’s something, all right,” Bess agrees pleasantly. “Would you like us to pass her a note in study hall?”
“I could do it,” I offer. “It can say, Check yes or no if you like me. I’ll even draw the boxes.”
“Laugh it up,” Wes says, though the dimples give him away.
Nettie pats his arm. “Captain, in my day, when a man looked at a woman like that, there was a christening within the year.”
“And with that, I’m off to the bridge.” Wes stands and buttons his jacket like he’s about to accept an Oscar. “I’ve got icebergs to avoid. That sort of thing.”
There hasn’t been an iceberg in the Baltic since the last ice age, but not one of us has the heart to stop him.
He does pause at the door for a final longing look in the direction Marina disappeared, and I send up a small prayer for the navigational systems. That man is going to sail us across the entire Baltic on autopilot tonight, and I don’t mean the ship’s.
Bess, Nettie, Ransom, and I still have a little time before the event, so we take in a show at the Emerald Theater called Sirens & Silk, a sensual dark circus performance featuring acrobats, contortionists, and dancers far too limber to be entirely human.
Let’s just say I’m taking mental notes to try out with my handsome husband later in our cabin. Here’s hoping I don’t break anything. Or anyone. The ship’s doctor and I are already on a first-name basis, and I’d hate to have to explain this one.
Ransom slides me a look during a particularly impressive aerial silk routine and raises one eyebrow in a silent question.
“I’m memorizing their moves,” I whisper.
“I noticed.” His mouth grazes my ear. “Should I be flattered or should I call ahead to the medical bay?”
“Flattered. Definitely flattered.” I pat his knee. “You might want to hydrate, though.”
His low laugh rumbles against my shoulder. “Duly noted, Mrs. Baxter.”
“That’s Mrs. Baxter, aspiring contortionist, to you.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he murmurs.
“Oh, you’ll see it.” I quiver as I say it.
Finally, we step into the casino, and I’m immediately hit with sensory overload, and I mean that as a five-star review.
The air is a heady blend of spiced cologne, floral perfume, and something vaguely smoky that’s probably meant to evoke ancient campfires but mostly registers as expensive candles about to burn a house down.
Slot machines chime and ding in chaotic harmony, punctuated by the occasional whoop of victory or groan of defeat.
The lighting has been dimmed and replaced with warm amber tones that give everything a torchlit glow, offset by the flashing bulbs that surround us every which way, and Norse-inspired music plays overhead, lots of drums and what might be a lyre or possibly just a very enthusiastic keyboard.
The casino has basically been transformed into Valhalla with a two-drink minimum.
Faux fur table runners drape across every gaming surface, managing to be luxurious and slightly ridiculous at the same time.
Gold goblets replace the usual plastic cups at the bar.
Decorative shields lean against blackjack tables, and there’s an actual longship backdrop positioned behind the roulette wheel, crowned with a carved dragon head that appears to be judging everyone’s gambling choices.
Somebody gave that dragon eyebrows, and those eyebrows are disappointed in every last one of us.
Something tells me the dragon and I are going to get along just fine.
The Velvet Viking Book Club has descended upon the casino floor like a well-dressed horde of wenches, all wearing variations of velvet, leather, and enough silver jewelry to sink a longship.
They’re clutching leather pouches filled with Viking tokens instead of regular chips, wooden coins stamped with little axes and shields that clatter pleasantly when they move.
The entire club jingles. You can hear them coming from three tables away, which I have to imagine defeats the whole purpose of raiding, but here we are.
Tinsley stands near the entrance with her ever-present clipboard.
She’s wearing a blazer over what appears to be a Viking-inspired tunic, and she looks frazzled but determined.
Her chestnut hair is starting to escape its ponytail, and she’s got that slightly manic buzz you get from organizing an event while mentally tallying how many liability waivers you’ll need if someone gets too deep into the mead and tries to actually raid something.
“Don’t give me that look,” she mutters as we pass. “I’ve already confiscated two grappling hooks and a homemade catapult. This crowd is fully capable of pillaging, and my waiver only covers mead-related incidents.”
Honestly, I believe every word of it. And by the way, are the bartenders serving mead? And if so, how did they procure it?