Chapter 10 #3
I set my token down on the little ledge in front of my machine because my hands have suddenly forgotten what they were doing.
The slot machines keep chiming. Someone at the bar orders another round of Berserker Brews.
Elodie has now acquired a horned helmet from parts unknown and is wearing it while posing between her two conquests for a photo, her blouse undone one button past prudent, her décolletage doing most of the smiling.
The Vikings believed their fallen warriors were carried off to paradise by beautiful women. Both of these men look ready to volunteer for the trip.
Tinsley wedges herself into the frame at the last second, clipboard in hand, smiling hard enough to claim credit for the entire evening. Knowing Tinsley, by tomorrow she will have.
The casino pulses with life and noise and the special chaos you only get by mixing alcohol, gambling, and grown-ups in costume.
And in the middle of it all, Marina Maxwell, or Marina Valentine Madsen, or whoever she really is, moves through the crowd smooth as a waltz, distributing tokens and smiling at guests and scanning every exit as if her life might depend on knowing where they are.
Ransom finally looks at me, then at Wes, his cobalt-blue eyes serious. “I’m not saying she’s dangerous.” He’s choosing his words so carefully I can all but see him weighing each one before releasing it into the world. “I’m saying she’s not transparent.”
That’s it. No accusations, no big villain reveal, no dramatic music swelling in our ears. Just controlled unease settling over our corner of the casino while the party continues around us, oblivious.
I look across the casino floor at Marina, who’s laughing at one of Tinsley’s remarks, her green dress catching the light, her smile warm and genuine and possibly hiding everything or nothing.
Is she running from something? Or protecting something? Is she in danger, or is she the danger?
Magnus’ words from that side street in Haga drift back to me, uninvited. She’s protecting someone. Or protecting herself. Hard to tell which. He was talking about Sienna at the time. It’s starting to feel like a diagnosis for half the women on this ship.
I’m honestly not sure which answer would let me sleep tonight. I’m even less sure I want to find out.
The slot machine in front of me dings again, hopeful, and my token is sitting exactly where I left it on the ledge.
On the screen, my three pixelated Vikings have dropped to their knees, arms raised to their pixelated gods.
Feed us, woman. Pull the lever. A Viking cannot pillage on promises alone.
One of them is sobbing into his tiny beard.
Even in the animated afterlife, I’m somebody’s disappointment.
Somewhere in this casino full of Vikings and velvet and women competing to be Queen of the Fjords, there’s a killer who poisoned Astrid Storm and walked away without a scratch.
And the cruelest joke of the night is that the one woman who’d have won that title without breaking a sweat is lying in a Swedish morgue instead.
And somewhere in this same casino is Marina Maxwell, who might be running from her past or hiding her present or possibly just trying to start over somewhere nobody knows her name.
The question is whether those two someones are connected. Or if I’m just seeing mysteries everywhere because I’ve solved too many murders and can’t turn off my investigative brain even when I’m supposed to be enjoying a casino night with fake Vikings and real cocktails.
Nettie appears again, this time with the horned-helmet Viking bartender in tow. “Trixie! This is Sven! Tell him I’m a party in a dress!”
“She’s a fire drill in a muumuu.”
“Same thing!”
“She’s told me about Thor,” Sven says solemnly. “Twice.”
“And I’m not done,” Nettie warns, dragging him back toward the bar, already chattering about something involving Thor and also possibly her romantic availability.
Bess sweeps past our corner, cranberry pantsuit immaculate, winnings tray balanced on one hip. “If anyone asks, we met at bingo and I’ve been paying for it ever since.”
“You’d walk the plank for that woman, and we both know it,” I call after her.
“I’d push her first. Then I’d jump in after her. It’s called a system.”
It’s called love, Bess. But I’ll allow the rebrand.
Ransom leans back in his chair, his tray holding a respectable pile of tokens he never once asked for, his expression thoughtful.
Wes is staring at his machine as if it holds the answers to the universe. So far, the universe is paying out about as well as my slot machine.
Ransom reaches over and pulls his lever one final time, and his machine bursts into celebratory chiming as another win clatters into his tray.
Naturally. The man gets his answers, his files, his favors from the Bureau, and now the house’s money too.
If the universe keeps a ledger, Ransom’s column balances to the penny, and I’d complain about it if I weren’t married to the dividends.
And I’m sitting between them, wondering how many secrets one cruise ship can possibly hold before it sinks under the weight of them all.