Page 10 of Cruel Christmas Cruise (Cruising Through Midlife: Cruise Ship Cozy Mysteries #12)

T he ghosts exchange looks right here in the Christmas Market in Liverpool, a look that suggests they’re debating whether to materialize fully or vanish quicker than chocolate in Nettie’s vicinity.

The chocolate vendor, oblivious to the supernatural standoff happening at his stall, continues hawking his royal confections to passing tourists as the booth bustles to life around us.

“Who are you?” I ask, snagging a piece of white chocolate that’s mysteriously dropped onto the table.

It probably has nothing to do with the fact that ghosts are terrible at holding onto physical objects—because for some reason the ghosts I’ve dealt with in the past are able to gobble down anything they want just fine.

And no calories to count to boot. The living really do get the short end of the supernatural stick.

“And how did you know Mistletoe?” I continue in a rather miffed tone.

The woman sighs, her ethereal form solidifying slightly. “I’m Joy, and this is my friend, Dash.” She gestures to the dark-haired man beside her who gives me a charming smile that probably knocked plenty of women dead back when he was alive.

Joy is stunning even in death, with warm brown eyes and vanilla waves that frame her face.

She radiates the kind of effortless grace that makes you check your posture and wonder if you have chocolate on your face.

Her casual but elegant outfit—a cream sweater and perfectly tailored slacks—suggests she was someone who never had a bad hair day, even in the afterlife.

Dash, tall and athletic with mischievous blue eyes, looks like he just stepped off a yacht—or would have if he hadn’t stepped out of his mortal body. His dark hair has that perfect windswept look that takes most men three products and a prayer to achieve.

“Short for Dashiell,” he supplies, catching my curious look. “And before you ask, yes, like the author. My mother had literary pretensions. She loved mysteries.”

“Better than my mother,” I quip. “She nicknamed me after her favorite breakfast cereal and it sort of stuck.”

Joy laughs, a sound like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. “We once attended the Carrington Academy. We died five years ago,” she explains, her voice soft but clear. “I went first—car accident on a cliff road. Dash followed six months later.”

“Widowmaker heart attack,” Dash adds with a wry smile. “Apparently, I ate one too many double cheeseburgers.”

The double cheeseburgers next to the main pool back on the ship are grilled to perfection.

And if that wasn’t enough, they’re served on fresh brioche buns.

I’ll have to remember to treat myself to one later.

They’re right next to the soft serve ice cream machine so, of course, I’ll have to have one of those, too.

I like to mix the vanilla and the chocolate.

Joy nods. “We understand we’re here to catch Missy’s killer.” She makes a face. “I must say we’re both a little shocked we qualified for the job.”

I nibble on my pilfered chocolate, trying to process this information. Death by cheeseburger sounds perfectly delicious until you remember it involves actual death.

I lean in a notch. “So you knew Missy, but you’re surprised she thought highly of you?”

They exchange another look, this one loaded with meaning. I’m starting to think ghost couples develop their own form of telepathy. Either that or they’ve had five years of afterlife to perfect their silent communication skills.

“Let’s just say she fell a little short of admiration-worthy,” Dash cringes. “Mistletoe Thatch was a pill.”

“To put it mildly.” Joy nods. “The rules state that the person the newly deceased loved most comes back to help solve their murder. Apparently, she admired us both and aspired to be like us.”

Dash ticks his head to the side. “Clearly, she missed the mark by several zip codes.”

“And a few moral compasses,” Joy adds.

I can’t help but wonder what it says about Missy that the people she admired most can barely hide their disdain for her.

Then again, I’ve met plenty of people who worship celebrities while knowing nothing about their actual character.

Maybe Missy saw Joy and Dash as the golden couple of Carrington Academy—beautiful, successful, seemingly perfect—and completely missed the part where they were also, apparently, decent human beings.

A thought strikes me and I brighten. “So you must have known Wes, too!”

Joy’s face lights up with genuine warmth. “Oh, we did know Weston. What a wonderful man he’s turned into.”

“He was wonderful back then, too, of course,” Dash adds quickly. “But let’s just say we all had a bit of a wild streak at Carrington.”

“Wild streak?” I lean forward, nearly knocking over a chocolate Prince William. “Do tell.”

Dash grins. “The dean’s office knew us all by name. And not because we were on the honor roll.”

“Although we were,” Joy interjects. “Honor roll by day, holy terrors by night.”

The three of us share a dark laugh at the thought.

Now this is getting interesting. Captain Wes Crawford, pillar of maritime authority, was once a teenage troublemaker? That’s almost as delicious as the chocolate.

“I can’t wait to hear all the juicy details about the captain’s wild side,” I tell them. “But first, I’m sure Wes would appreciate it if you help me track down the killer.”

“It would be our pleasure,” Dash says, but Joy tightens her lips in a way that suggests otherwise.

“But not too soon,” she adds.

“Why not?” I ask, stumped by her hesitation.

We have a killer to catch, and these two are interested in dragging their ghostly feet?

I don’t think so. “Is there some kind of supernatural waiting period I should know about?” I ask.

“Like how you’re supposed to wait an hour after eating before swimming?

” As lame as that sounds, I’ll admit, I’m digging for the real reason they’re looking to extend their earthly stay.

It might be as simple as they want more chocolate.

But I bet they’ve got something better up there than any cocoa bean in the world could provide.

Joy and Dash engage in some sort of spectral shoulder-shrugging conversation that convinces me that being dead improves your nonverbal communication skills by miles.

Finally, Joy turns back to me. “Because we’re sort of on a double mission.”

I inch back. “What’s the other mission?”

Why do I have a feeling I’ll regret asking? In my experience, supernatural missions rarely involve simple tasks like folding the celestial laundry or dusting the pearly gates.

Joy winces. “We want to help two of our classmates make a love connection.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet.” I straighten, relieved it’s not something more disastrous like creating a supernatural dating site or establishing a haunted brothel—and knowing my luck, I’d end up as their social media manager posting #DeadandDating content for eternity. “Which two?”

“Holly and Alec,” Joy says, just as a strawberry blonde approaches the chocolate booth we’re currently ensconced in. It’s Holly Cresswell enrobed in a scrumptious verdant cashmere sweater coat. The pink pearls around her neck give her look a glorious contrast.

“Speak of the angel,” Dash murmurs.

“I’ll take it from here,” I whisper as my very first suspect arrives on the scene.

My heart rate picks up the way it always does when I’m about to question someone who might be a cold-blooded killer.

It’s like the world’s most dangerous job interview—where the worst-case scenario isn’t rejection, it’s becoming the next victim.

“Holly?” I call out, and the woman turns, her expression settling into the kind of smile that’s meant to end conversations before they begin.

“Wes introduced us the other day in London,” I remind her as I close the gap between us, watching for a flicker of recognition—or guilt.

“Oh yes,” she says, visibly relaxing and that friendly demeanor of hers makes me feel right at home. “You’re his friend from the ship. I’m afraid I don’t remember your name. I apologize—so much has happened since then.”

I nod, noting how she keeps her hands clasped tightly in front of her, knuckles white with tension.

“Trixie Troublefield Baxter. And yes, quite a lot has happened.”

The ghosts hover nearby, watching with interest as I prepare to interrogate my first suspect.

Holly Cresswell might seem as innocent as freshly fallen snow, but I’ve learned that killers come in all packages—even ones wrapped in cashmere and pearls.

Time to unwrap this particular Christmas present and see what secrets are hiding inside.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned during my accidental career as a corpse collector, it’s that everyone has secrets.

And some of them are worth killing for.