Chapter 20
Final Night, Viking Formal
If the real Valhalla is anything like this, I may need to rethink my stance on dying.
The Valhalla Lounge is dripping with opulence tonight. Literally dripping, since someone decided to hang crystal chandeliers shaped like frozen waterfalls from the ceiling, and they’re catching the light from every angle.
The room has been transformed into what I can only describe as a Viking palace crossed with Vegas, all gold accents, deep-purple velvet drapes, and hundreds of flickering candles crowded onto every surface.
Battery-operated, every last one, because this ship may host the occasional homicide, but the fire marshal draws a hard line at open flames.
A woman can be poisoned in this lounge, but she will not be singed.
The air smells of dill, expensive perfume, and money. Valhalla, indeed.
The buffet table stretches along one wall, groaning under the weight of Swedish delicacies—smoked salmon arranged in elaborate rosettes, Swedish meatballs swimming in cream sauce, gravlax with mustard-dill sauce, pickled herring that actually smells good for once, and potato pancakes with lingonberry jam.
The dessert station features saffron buns, chocolate balls rolled in pearl sugar, and princess cake.
If you’ve never had princess cake, you’re truly missing out.
Yes, it sounds like something served at a three-year-old’s birthday party, and honestly it should be, but underneath that smooth green marzipan dome hides layer upon layer of airy sponge, raspberry jam, and vanilla cream.
It’s what a cloud would taste like if a cloud had ambition.
And for anyone not feeling Scandinavian, the standard fare showed up too. Wagyu sliders, deep-fried mac-and-cheese balls, lobster-and-crab-stuffed mushrooms, bacon-wrapped scallops, and coconut shrimp with a sweet chili sauce. I’ve already mapped my route through it all twice. A woman needs a plan.
Champagne flows from an ice sculpture of a Viking longship, and the music pulses through the space, a modern Nordic fusion of drums and electric violins.
I suppose they eschewed the ice sculpture of an actual Viking this time around, given the deadly circumstances.
Understandable. Although it is a touch off-putting that we’re celebrating the club’s big farewell bash in the very same lounge where Astrid inadvertently celebrated hers. But to each his own.
The Velvet Viking Book Club has descended upon the lounge in full period costume glory. We’re talking elaborate braided wigs, leather bodices, fur-trimmed cloaks, and enough silver jewelry to fund a small country.
The room is buzzing, women chattering, laughing, posing for photos, celebrating the last night of the cruise with an enthusiasm that only champagne and a healthy pour of denial can buy, seeing as their founder was murdered a week ago.
Grief is a strange animal. Sometimes it wears a braided wig and orders another glowing blue drink.
And then there are the cover models. Three of them, to be exact, all shirtless, oiled up, and textbook gorgeous.
They’re posing with book club members for photos, flexing on command, and generally being very good sports about the whole situation.
Somewhere out there, three mothers are very proud and slightly confused.
“This is my new favorite place,” Nettie announces beside me, her eyes locked on the nearest cover model with the intensity of a hawk circling a rotisserie chicken. “I’m never leaving.”
Bess doesn’t even blink. “You can’t live in the Valhalla Lounge.”
“Watch me.”
“They’ll escort you off the ship in Tallinn.”
“They’ll have to catch me first, and I’ll be greased up like those models—and with the help of those models.”
“I’ll alert the Estonian authorities,” Bess says. “They’ll appreciate the head start.”
I decide not to examine the logistics of that plan. Or the imagery. Especially the imagery.
As for tonight’s dress code, the costume shop has outdone itself. And by outdone itself, I mean it emptied its entire wench aisle onto our unsuspecting heads.
I’m wearing an emerald wench number Elodie insisted I upgrade to after one look at the shop’s standard-issue burlap, with a laced bodice, an off-the-shoulder chemise, and a skirt that swishes when I walk.
I feel elegant, festive, and one deep breath away from a wardrobe citation.
My hair is twisted up with little braids woven through it, courtesy of Marina’s surprisingly skilled fingers.
Bess is a portrait of dignified servitude in a burgundy velvet wench gown with fur-trimmed cuffs and a collar so prim it could chaperone the rest of the outfit. Trust Bess to find the one wench costume that comes with its own dress code.
And Nettie is luminous in a gold wench getup drenched in sequins, which she keeps adjusting because historical accuracy and underwire don’t coexist peacefully.
According to Nettie, neither did the actual Vikings, which is why they raided.
Makes sense. As for the sequins, she maintains the Vikings absolutely had them.
How else would Valhalla spot you in the dark?
I have no rebuttal. Honestly, I don’t want one.
Elodie appears at my elbow in a black leather wench situation that skipped the frumpy aisle entirely, a corset cinched within an inch of the law, a fur stole sliding off one shoulder, the whole thing basically lingerie with a Viking alibi.
Her platinum-blonde hair is looking as short and sassy as ever in her signature downturned bob.
“Formal dinner at the Captain’s table was divine,” she says, accepting a champagne flute from a passing server. “Though I have to say, the real entertainment was watching you and Ransom pretend you weren’t playing footsie under the table.”
“We were not—”
“You absolutely were.” She grins. “Don’t worry, I’m not judging. If I had a husband who looked like yours, footsie would be the tamest thing happening under that table.”
“Remind me never to sit next to you and your date,” I tease.
Okay, fine, I’m not teasing.
Speaking of my husband, both Ransom and Wes are standing near the entrance, and I nearly lose my train of thought, my dinner plans, and several years of sensible behavior all in one glance.
Ransom is in a midnight-black suit that looks cut to fit every inch of his body.
A crisp white collar sits sharp against his jaw, and the salt-and-pepper at his temples gleams under the chandeliers.
His cobalt eyes sweep the room the way they always do, cataloging exits and threats, and every woman his gaze passes over looks vaguely disappointed about it.
The man is lethally handsome on an average day. Tonight he’s a felony in progress.
And I get to take him home. I may never stop gloating.
Wes is in his dress navy captain’s uniform with all the brass on the ship glittering on his blazer, and he looks annoyingly handsome in that distinguished, silver-fox manner that probably has passengers swooning into their shrimp cocktails on a nightly basis.
Notably absent is the horned helmet he swore he’d wear.
My guess is dignity staged a last-minute coup.
Either that or Ransom confiscated it at the door as a security risk.
Elodie saunters over to them, champagne in hand, and I follow because this has entertainment written all over it.
“Well, well,” Elodie drawls, looking Ransom up and down. “The ultimate Viking brute, civilized in a suit. Who knew you cleaned up so well?”
“I wear suits regularly,” Ransom points out.
“Yes, but usually you’re scowling while wearing them. Tonight you look almost approachable.” She turns to me. “Make sure he ravishes you properly tonight. You’ve been a little uptight lately and it’s showing in your shoulders.”
“Elodie!” I can’t help but laugh.
“What? I’m just being helpful.” She winks at Wes. “And you, Captain. Please tell me you’re about to sweep our newest doe-eyed crew member off her feet. The woman can’t stop stealing glances at you.”
I laugh again. “As if he can stop stealing them right back.”
Wes goes slightly pink, which is adorable on a man his age. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t,” Elodie says. “That’s why you’ve asked her about maritime defensive structures seventeen times this week.”
“That’s an exaggeration.”
“Only slightly.”
Ransom’s trying not to smile, and losing. “Just talk to her, Wes. You’re a grown man. Use your words.”
“I use words all the time. I’m excellent with words.” Wes actually manages to look affronted by this.
“Romantic words,” I clarify. “Not nautical ones. Nobody’s heart has ever fluttered over the phrase muster station.”
Wes’ phone buzzes and he pulls it out, frowning at the screen. “I need to check on something at the bridge. The night crew is reporting some minor navigation concerns.”
“Minor navigation concerns on a docked ship?” Elodie asks.
“Preparation for our departure.” He’s already heading toward the exit. “I’ll be back.”
In my experience, nothing on this ship that starts with the word minor ever stays that way.
Ransom watches him go, then turns to me. “I need to secure the perimeter. I have a bad feeling about tonight.”
“About the party?”
“About everything. Too many people, too much champagne, and a killer who hasn’t been caught yet.” He presses a kiss to my forehead. “Stay with Bess and Nettie. Don’t wander off alone.”
“Yes, Chief.”
“I’m serious, Trixie.”
“So am I. Go secure your perimeter. I’ll be fine.”
He leaves, and Elodie watches him stride off with open appreciation. “That man would step in front of a harpoon for you. If I were you, I’d invent a small emergency every night just to watch him spring into action.”
“It’s delicious,” I admit.
“It’s wasted on the well-behaved.” She lifts her flute my way. “Promise me you’ll misbehave a little.” She spots one of the cover models and her eyes light up. “Speaking of which, I’m off to snag a Viking or two. Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need luck.”
“True. I have a corset.”