Page 11 of Cruel Christmas Cruise (Cruising Through Midlife: Cruise Ship Cozy Mysteries #12)
“ I ’m so sorry about the loss of your friend,” I say to Holly Cresswell as I study her with the intensity of someone who’s turned grief counseling into an extreme sport. I’ll admit, I’ve turned more than my fair share of condolence conversations into investigative opportunities.
We’re standing in the middle of Liverpool’s bustling Christmas market, surrounded by the aroma of spiced cider, fresh baked gingerbread cookies, and a mountain of chocolate surrounding us while Joy and Dash hover invisibly nearby like a couple of supernatural chaperones.
“Thank you,” she replies, her smile faltering just a fraction. “It’s been so very tough for all of us. But we traveled halfway around the world to be here, and well, we’ve collectively decided to go on with the trip.”
“I’m sure Missy would have wanted you to,” I say, and both Joy and Dash exchange a look that suggests Missy would have insisted on being mourned with the same dramatic flair she brought to exposing everyone else’s secrets—preferably with choreographed weeping and a dedicated hashtag campaign.
“I’m sure you’re right,” Holly says with the politeness of someone who’s had to make the best of difficult situations before.
“So where do you call home?” I ask, steering the conversation to safer waters while eyeing a nearby stall selling gingerbread figures of the Beatles.
Note to self: pick up all four. I’ll devour them with eggnog back on the ship.
I’ve always wanted to hang out with Paul, and now I’ll get to gobble him up, too.
“It’s still Ballast Bay, Maine, for a majority of us,” Joy answers my question.
“We’re all so connected to this very day.
We’re more like one big family.” She cringes slightly as if the word left a bad taste in her mouth.
“A rather dysfunctional family, some might say. Wes mentioned that he shared the messages with you and your husband.”
I nod, remembering last night’s chilling text. “He did. It’s sort of creepy, don’t you think? To get those gossip-laced updates regularly after all these years?”
“Forty years of gossip.” She blows out a breath that could extinguish a birthday candle, and another chunk of Buckingham Palace collapses to the table nearby. This time both Holly and I sneak a stolen bite. Nothing bonds people quite like petty theft—especially petty theft that involves chocolate.
“So, who do you think it is?” I ask around a mouthful of royal architecture. “I mean, do you know who’s sending those messages?”
She gives a little laugh that sounds more resigned than amused. “Now that Missy is gone, rumor has it, it’s me.” She rolls her eyes at the thought.
Joy leans in, her ghostly form flickering with interest. “To be honest, I thought for years it was Holly, too.”
Dash shakes his head. “That never once entered my mind.”
“Oh you.” Joy swats him playfully and pulls him close by the arm. They’re such an adorable couple, I almost forget they’re dead.
“ Is it you?” I shrug at Holly, studying her face for any telltale twitches or nervous tics that might give her away.
“I wish,” she says, stealing another quick bite of the crumbling wall.
The palace is really taking a beating today.
“I mean, whoever he or she is, they’re really getting some primo dirt on all of us.
Not that there isn’t plenty to dig up.” She pauses to take another bite.
“But then, we all do belong to the same country club, and if you know anything about country clubs, well, I swear they bug your home upon entry.”
We share a laugh at that one, and I’m reminded of my own country club experiences back when I was Mrs. Stanton Troublefield—a career that required looking decorative, staying silent, and perfecting the art of strategic ignorance about husband-related felonies.
Okay, fine. The ignorance was real for the most part.
“I do, in fact, know all about country clubs. I was a member back home in Brambleberry Bay right up until I decided to ditch my cheating ex and move onto a cruise ship. Come to think of it, I might actually still be a member. They’re probably still billing my credit card for the membership.”
“Wow.” Holly’s eyes widen with what looks like genuine admiration. “Well, if not, they should make you an honorary member forever. Good for you for ditching the cheating ex. And by the way, your new husband is amazing. A few of my classmates had the pleasure of speaking with him yesterday.”
Funny, Ransom didn’t mention interrogating suspects—or chatting with witnesses—at dinner last night. However, he did seem preoccupied with asking me to not investigate, so maybe it slipped his mind.
Holly makes a face like she’s bitten into a lemon. “But his partner, Ms. Riddle, she was less than pleasant.”
A wry smile rises and falls on my lips. “Funny you should mention it. I’ve had the same experience with her.
” We share a wicked laugh at Quinn’s expense.
“So, who do your classmates think is behind all this? I mean, the Gossip Ghost has all but said Missy’s death was murder.
” And little does she know, the ghosts floating beside her are evidence of the very same felony, too.
Holly gives a circular shrug that would make a mime proud.
“We really don’t know what to think. We’re all hoping that the Gossip Ghost is just trying to scare us.
After all, that’s exactly what they’ve been doing for the past forty years.
Ginger says she’s going to get to the bottom of this.
I think you met her that first day as well.
She’s the cute redhead. And believe me, when Ginger sets her mind to something, she gets things done.
” She gives a quick glance over her shoulder.
“Alec and I are determined to do the same. If one of us is a killer, they’re not getting away with it. In fact?—”
She leans in another notch just as Alec himself materializes beside her, looking distinguished in dark jeans and a charcoal wool coat that gives him a cozy appeal.
Drats. It sounded as if Holly was just about to get to the good part.
“Here you are,” he says with a warm smile to Holly. “I was starting to get worried.”
“We got separated.” She laughs my way. “Let’s just say, I’m easily distracted by chocolate.”
“Same,” I tell her just as a thought hits me like a ton of chocolate bricks.
I look to Joy and Dash, then back to the couple at hand.
“Oh, you’re Holly and Alec,” I say as I connect the dots in the love connection my ghostly friends are trying to orchestrate.
I press my lips tight for a moment as I devise a scheme of my own.
“So are the two of you a couple?” I ask, fully intending to tell them how adorable they are together and that they absolutely should be. I can play Cupid, too, you know.
Holly inches away before taking a full step back from Alec, as if I’ve suggested she date a cactus.
“Absolutely not,” she says with an incredulous laugh.
“Alec’s late wife was my best friend. And my late husband was his.
We would never in a million years do that to Joy and Dash.
” Her cheeks flush as if she’s been caught stealing more than a little chocolate—something far more sinful.
“It wouldn’t be right. It would be the greatest betrayal. ”
Alec nods in agreement. “We’re just friends. And we always will be.”
Holly looks to the ground when he says it, and I catch the briefest flash of something—disappointment? Regret?—before she composes herself. “If you’ll excuse us, we need to get back to finishing up some Christmas shopping.”
They take off as if they’re being chased by the ghost of Christmas past, which, technically, they are—two of them.
Joy swoops in, her ethereal form practically buzzing with frustration. “Now you see what we’re up against? They’re both in denial deeper than the Grand Canyon.”
“The Mariana Trench is much deeper,” Dash adds. “And that is still a shallow comparison when it comes to those two.” He glances their way. “If you’ll excuse us, we’ve got much work to do.”
The two ghosts float off to follow their respective spouses, leaving me alone with my thoughts and a rapidly diminishing chocolate palace.
Suddenly, an earth-shattering crash near the front of the booth punctures the festive atmosphere.
I whip around to see Nettie at the epicenter of what appears to be a chocolate catastrophe of epic proportions—and that’s saying something considering I’ve just watched Buckingham Palace crumble to pieces.
“It was an accident!” Nettie shouts as she backs away from what looks like an entire North Pole workshop made of chocolate, now reduced to festive rubble. Santa has rolled under a nearby table, several elves are missing their heads, and there’s a chocolate reindeer impaled on a candy cane.
The vendor, a burly man with a beard that rivals Father Christmas himself, chases after her with a chocolate-covered spatula. “You’ve destroyed my masterpiece! That was for the Lord Mayor’s Christmas party!”
Nettie dodges around a Christmas tree, and her ugly sweater looks as if it’s blinking SOS in Morse code. “I was just trying to see if Rudolph was hollow or solid! How was I supposed to know the whole thing was deliciously load-bearing?”
Bess appears from behind a stall selling eggnog cheesecake, looking mortified. “I can’t take her anywhere! Last week it was the Ming vase at the museum, now it’s the entire North Pole!”
“To be fair,” Nettie calls out while ducking under a string of garland, “that vase was already cracked!”
“Everything cracks after five minutes in your vicinity—including people!” Bess shoots back. “You’re like a walking stress fracture with a purse!”
The vendor whirls around, spots me mid-bite of his precious Buckingham Palace, and lets out a scream that could shatter glass ornaments—and strangely enough, does send a few chocolate ornaments tumbling to the ground. “You, too? What is this, a chocolate crime syndicate?”
Come to think of it, Bess, Nettie, and I could totally start a chocolate crime syndicate if we wanted to. We meet the qualifications on many levels.
I freeze while a piece of decadent royal architecture melts on my tongue, and in that moment three thoughts occur simultaneously—I’m about to be banned from the Liverpool Christmas Market (most likely for life), I’ve got a couple of ghosts playing matchmaker with their living spouses, and somewhere in this festive chaos, a killer walks free.
Bess grabs my arm. “ Run! ”
You don’t have to tell me twice.
And as we sprint through the market, dodging angry vendors and scattered chocolate elves, I realize this is exactly why they call it the holiday rush.
Murder, mayhem, and now the destruction of confectionery masterpieces—and have I mentioned I’ve ambushed my first suspect?
Clearly, my definition of not investigating needs some work.