Page 13 of Cruel Christmas Cruise (Cruising Through Midlife: Cruise Ship Cozy Mysteries #12)
“ T here’s a ghost tour in Dublin, Ireland, tomorrow that most of Wes’ classmates will be on,” Ransom whispered to me last night with his lips tantalizingly close to my ear. “Including Ginger Garland.”
The information slipped out right after a particularly spectacular moment of marital bliss—proof that I can extract any intel I want from this man when properly motivated.
Ransom may be ex-FBI, but his resistance to pillow talk is nonexistent. And speaking of the bedroom, the man should really copyright those night moves of his—they’d make a fortune if bottled and sold. Then again, I’d prefer to keep that particular skill set as my exclusive privilege.
It’s remarkable how pliable a strong, authoritative head of vessel security becomes with the right incentives. Not that I’d use this superpower for evil—just for solving murders and occasionally securing the last chocolate éclair at the midnight buffet.
Which explains how Ransom, Bess, Nettie, and I now find ourselves huddled in the cobblestone courtyard of Dublin Castle with our breath forming little clouds in the frigid December air.
It’s day four of our seafaring adventure and the Emerald Queen is docked in Dublin, Ireland. The sky above us has already surrendered to darkness at three in the afternoon, lending a distinctly Gothic vibe to our surroundings. I would be lying if I said I didn’t love it.
Dublin rolls out before us like something from a Victorian Christmas card—all twinkle lights, historic architecture, and enough holiday spirit to intoxicate us without a single drop of whiskey.
Every lamppost wears a wreath like a festive collar, while shop windows compete for the most elaborate Christmas displays.
The cobbled streets buzz with locals and tourists alike, bundled in scarves and hats, with some even sporting light-up holiday sweaters, ornament earrings, and necklaces that twinkle with battery-powered cheer.
The air smells of cinnamon, something deep-fried, and the faint hint of smoke from nearby pubs where roaring fires chase away the December chill.
A street musician plays “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” on a violin and the haunting melody floats through the courtyard like the ghosts we’re supposedly about to encounter.
And believe me, if there are any ghosts here, I will encounter them.
“I didn’t realize ghost tours came with a side of hypothermia,” Bess grumbles, pulling her crimson wool coat tighter around her small frame. Her Christmas tree brooch catches the streetlight, sending a shower of green sparkles across the cobblestones.
“That’s part of the authentic experience,” Nettie chirps, seemingly impervious to the cold in her multi-colored patchwork coat that looks like a crazy quilt with sleeves.
Her light-up reindeer earrings blink red with every move of her head, giving the impression that Rudolph times two is having a seizure on either side of her face.
“Ghosts are cold, so we should be, too.”
“I’ve never heard that theory before,” Ransom says while wrapping his arm protectively around my shoulders—you know, in case there’s a ghost.
“That’s because I just made it up,” Nettie admits. “But it sounds good, doesn’t it?”
I nod her way. “And it just might be true.”
Our tour guide—a tall, bearded Irishman dressed in full Victorian regalia including a top hat, cape, and an honest-to-goodness pocket watch—begins arranging people into a semicircle. His lantern casts shadows across the ancient stonework as Wes and his classmates begin to gather.
That’s when I spot my ship bestie, Elodie, looking as if she just stepped off a runway in Milan.
Her silver coat catches every bit of available light, making her glow like a Christmas star, while her matching high-heeled boots somehow manage to navigate the uneven cobblestones with supernatural precision.
For a woman who doesn’t believe in ghosts, she certainly knows how to haunt a historical courtyard like a rockstar.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Ransom, excusing myself to make a beeline for my fashionable friend.
“Well, well, look what the North Pole dragged in,” Elodie greets me with air kisses on both cheeks. “I didn’t know ghost hunting was on your holiday itinerary.”
“I didn’t know ghost tours were your thing,” I counter, watching her scan the crowd like a lioness at a watering hole. “Last I checked, you were more interested in spirits that come with a proof level.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” she says with a dismissive wave. “Not that I believe in any of this ghost nonsense. As far as I’m concerned, the only spirits worth believing in come in a bottle and get better with age—like most of the men in this reunion group.”
I press my lips together and hold back a smile.
This is exactly why I’ll never tell Elodie about my supernatural quirk.
She’d either check me into the ship’s makeshift psych unit or try to monetize my ability.
I can see it now— Ghost Whispering Cruises!
We See Dead People so You Don’t Have to .
The brochures would feature me in a fortune teller costume with a crystal ball and a terrified expression.
I tip my head her way. “Since you don’t believe in the beyond, I’d ask why you’re here, but I think we both know the answer.” And the answer involves men, alcohol, or both. With Elodie, it’s usually a package deal.
Elodie’s eyes gleam with predatory intensity. “Can you blame me? Have you seen the quality of men in Wes’ class reunion? I’m hot to trot for those silver foxes. And I’m determined to land one in my stocking far before Christmas morning.”
“Going for an early unwrapping?” I quip, watching her eyes follow Theo Frost as he strolls past, his camel coat perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders. He is a tall, dark, and handsome looker in every respect.
“Exactly. Why wait for Christmas when you can enjoy the presents now? I’ve been a very naughty girl, and I deserve something nice to stuff my stockings.” She wiggles her eyebrows in a way that would make Santa blush.
“You know, some people just leave cookies out,” I suggest.
“Cookies are fine, but I prefer something with a bit more— bite ,” she purrs.
“Santa is going to need a whole new category for your wish list—somewhere between naughty and requires a safe word .”
“Now you’re talking my language. Speaking of things getting naughty,” she continues, undeterred, “I’m hoping to jingle some bells tonight. Maybe find out if one of these gentlemen is packing an impressive yule log.”
I nearly choke on my own laughter. “Elodie! There are actual children on this tour.” I nod toward a family with two pre-teens who, thankfully, are out of earshot.
“Not within range,” she dismisses with a casual flip of her hand. “Besides, Santa isn’t the only one who’s coming to town this Christmas.”
“You are terrible.” But I can’t help laughing. Elodie has always been unapologetically herself, which is one of the reasons we’re such good friends. That and her uncanny ability to find discount designer shoes in any port—and more importantly, pass along those discounts to me.
“I prefer to think of myself as festively frisky. After all, ’tis the season to be jolly.” She strikes a pose that belongs on a very different kind of Christmas card than the ones my mother sends out.
“At this rate, you’ll end up on the naughty list until next December,” I warn her.
“That’s the goal, sweetie. I’ve been on the nice list my whole life, and what has it gotten me? Not nearly enough meaningful presents, if you know what I mean.” She winks at a passing reunion member who promptly walks into a lamppost.
“So”—I ask, steering away from any more innuendoes before we get banned from Dublin—“do you have your sights set on anyone in particular?”
“It’s a tough choice between Alec Shepherd and Theo Frost,” she confesses, studying the two men who have just arrived with the rest of the class reunion group. “Theo has that brooding bad boy thing going, but Alec looks like he’d remember your birthday and bring flowers just because it’s Tuesday.”
“The eternal dilemma—bad boy or good guy.” I nod sagely. “Although I notice you haven’t considered the character of either. You never know, one of them might be a killer.”
“Character?” Elodie looks genuinely puzzled. “I’m not looking to marry them, Trixie. I’m looking for a holiday happening, not a happily ever after.”
“Maybe steer clear of Alec,” I suggest, thinking of Joy and Dash’s otherworldly matchmaking efforts. “A couple of birdies told me they’re trying to set him up with Holly.”
A couple of dead birdies, but that’s beside the point. Sometimes the supernatural grapevine is just as efficient as the living one, if not a bit chillier.
“Birdies?” Elodie’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows arch in amusement. “Since when do you listen to gossip?”
“Since it involves potential murder suspects,” I admit.
“Even better,” she purrs. “Nothing spices up a holiday fling like a little danger. I can’t make any promises about staying away from Alec. Sometimes the nicest packages have the best surprises inside.”
“You’re mixing metaphors.”
“And you’re no fun. Besides, matching Alec with Holly is like pairing a fine wine with bologna. That woman couldn’t find passion if it was gift-wrapped with her name on it.”
“Be nice.” I wince. “She lost her husband.”
“Five years ago,” Elodie counters. “That’s practically ancient history in rebound terms. Plus, have you seen the way she looks at him? Like she wants to jump his bones but is afraid someone will judge her Christmas cookies for not being perfectly round.”
“That’s... actually a surprisingly apt metaphor.”
“I have hidden depths.” Elodie winks. “Among other things.”
A shrill whistle cuts through our conversation as the tour guide announces that the tour is about to begin.
“Duty calls,” I say. “Try not to steal anyone’s boyfriend before the tour is over.”
“I make no such promises,” Elodie replies, linking arms with me as we make our way back to where Ransom, Bess, Nettie, and Wes are waiting. “But I’ll at least wait until after the ghost stories. I’m nothing if not respectful of the dead.”
If only she knew how literally I take that statement. But I’m not sure if respect is quite the word I’d use to describe my relationship with the deceased. It’s more like an ongoing supernatural temp job that I never actually applied for.
The tour guide raises his lantern and its golden light casts long shadows across the courtyard as the group falls silent.
“Ladies and gentlemen”—his voice booms with all of the theatrical flair an evening like this requires—“prepare yourselves for a journey through Dublin’s haunted Christmas past. I am Seamus O’Malley, your guide into the otherworld.”
Nettie elbows me. “Five euros says I can get his phone number before the tour ends.”
“Ten says he runs screaming if you try,” Bess counters.
As we begin to follow Seamus toward the first stop, I catch a flicker of movement on the castle ramparts above us. Two familiar translucent figures wave down at me, their ethereal forms glowing a pale shade of blue against the dark stone.
Joy and Dash have joined the ghost tour.
And judging by the way they’re pointing at something behind me, they’re not just here for the historical commentary.
Things are about to get spooky, indeed.