Page 15 of Cruel Christmas Cruise (Cruising Through Midlife: Cruise Ship Cozy Mysteries #12)

I thread my way through Dublin Square where our ghost tour has paused for a break.

The sky is ever-darkening while the late afternoon air is tinged with cinnamon and woodsmoke, with the scent of something savory wafting from a nearby pub.

The historic buildings around us gleam with thousands of twinkle lights shimmering in puddles across the cobblestones, while a distant choir sings “Deck the Halls” with quintessentially Irish flourishes.

It’s the perfect backdrop for a ghost tour—or in my case, an impromptu interrogation.

“Hi there,” I say as I approach Ginger Garland, who happens to be examining a display of hand-blown glass ornaments in a shop window near where our tour has stopped.

With her flame-red hair and porcelain complexion, she looks like a Christmas ornament herself, especially in that hunter-green cashmere wrap coat cinched tightly at her narrow waist. “How are you enjoying the tour?”

Ginger jumps and clutches her chest, nearly dropping the fragile red orb in her hand.

“Oh sorry! I thought I saw a ghost,” she says with a laugh, just as Joy and Dash materialize next to me, glowing an ethereal shade of blue against the ink-black Dublin sky.

The irony is almost as palpable as the chill in the air.

“Sorry.” I wince. “I tend to have that effect on people. I’m Trixie. Wes introduced us the other day.”

“Oh, that’s right,” she says, shaking my hand with fingers so cold they could double as ice cubes. “The woman with the art classes.”

“And the body-finding habit,” I add before I can stop myself.

Did I just say that out loud?

I really should look into a muzzle.

“There is that,” she says with a tight smile.

“I’m so sorry about your friend,” I offer with what I hope passes for a mournful expression rather than investigative interest—or the fact I’m trying to cover up my crass remark.

“Sorry doesn’t begin to cover it.” Ginger shudders.

“I’m so sad Missy is gone.” She pauses, looking back at the tour group scattered across the square during our break.

“Missy had a way of making everyone smile—when she wasn’t making them wring their hands.

She was the town crier, born and raised a gossip right to the bitter end. ”

“ Bitter being the operative word,” Joy mutters from beside me.

“She once told my entire high school that I stuffed my bra with toilet paper,” Dash adds. “And I’m a guy.”

I cough to cover my laugh. “So, you all grew up together?”

“Oh yes.” Ginger nods, turning away from the display of ornaments before us.

“We all went to the Carrington Academy from freshman year through graduation. It’s the kind of bond that’s hard to break, even when you want to.

” Her voice takes on a sharp edge. “We’ve been through everything together—birthdays, weddings, funerals. ..”

“Funerals?” I prompt.

“Yes, there’ve been a few in recent years.

Joy Shepherd—Alec’s wife—had a terrible car accident about five years ago.

Went off a cliff road during a rainstorm.

” Her expression clouds for a moment. “Then Dash, Holly’s husband, passed six months later.

Heart attack. It was a rough time for our little group. ”

“That’s awful,” I whisper, watching as both Joy and Dash exchange troubled glances.

“Life’s a real roller coaster.” Ginger sighs. “One minute you’re on top of the world with a successful real estate business, the next you’re watching everything you’ve built threatened by someone with loose lips.”

My internal antenna perks up like a cat spotting a canary. “Missy threatened your business?”

“Oh, she threatened everyone’s everything.” Ginger laughs, though the sound lacks humor. “That was her specialty. Finding skeletons and rattling them for fun and profit.”

“Her podcast must have been something,” I venture.

“ Spilling the Tea with Mistletoe ,” Ginger mimics in a falsetto voice. “More like Ruining Lives for Clicks and Comments . She was planning a holiday special episode— Christmas Secrets Unwrapped —that would’ve been a real career-ender for some of us . ”

Joy leans in close enough that if she were alive, I’d feel her breath on my ear. “She seems awfully defensive, doesn’t she?”

“How are you handling everything?” I ask Ginger.

“Oh, you know , one day at a time. I’m an expert at handling unexpected bumps in the road,” she says. “But I admit, I miss her, in a twisted way. Despite everything, we had history.”

“History is important,” I agree. “It sounds as if Missy had the sort of personality that made quite an impression.”

“She left impressions, all right. Usually the kind that bruised.” Ginger glances around at the other tour participants milling about the square during our break. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How Christmas is supposed to be all about joy and goodwill, but here we are, discussing murder on a ghost tour.”

I wrinkle my nose at the thought.

“Ginger, do you have any idea who might have killed Missy?” I ask, aiming for casual but landing somewhere closer to intensely curious and highly suspicious.

“I don’t know,” she says, shaking her head. “In all honesty, everyone here had a motive or two.”

“Everyone?” I inch back and inadvertently glance at Holly and Alec, who are huddled near a street vendor selling hot apple cider.

Ginger laughs and the sound is surprisingly bitter for someone with such a girl-next-door appearance. “Oh, those two look innocent, but I can promise you they’re anything but.”

“How so?” I ask, feeling like a dentist extracting information one painful yank at a time. And I get the feeling that would be easier.

“Take Holly, for instance.” Ginger lowers her voice.

“All that charity work is a nice front, but did you know Missy discovered that the Cresswell Foundation has some very creative accounting practices? There was money disappearing into offshore accounts and grants that never quite reached their intended recipients.” She clicks her tongue.

“Mistletoe was planning to expose it all. Imagine the scandal—an embezzler running a children’s charity. ”

Dash’s ghostly face contorts with indignation. “That’s ridiculous! Holly would never?—”

Ginger nods aggressively as if to say she did.

“And get this—Holly presents this perfect mother image, but Missy found out that Holly’s been hiding her son’s gambling addiction and has been using foundation money to bail him out of debt.

Nothing illegal about loving your child, but imagine the scandal if donors knew where their charitable contributions were really going. ”

“That happened once,” Dash roars. “It was a misstep on Holly’s part and we paid back every dime. Missy had a way of twisting things around and making them sound worse than they were. If she wasn’t dead, I’d consider killing her myself.”

I hike a brow in the surly specter’s direction.

“And Alec?” I interrupt before accidentally responding to a ghost that only I can see.

“Oh, Alec’s hands are just as dirty,” Ginger continues, warming to the topic.

“His company, Shepherd Industries, has been cooking the books for years. Missy found proof of insider trading that would have brought his whole empire crashing down.” She shakes her head. “The SEC would’ve had a field day.”

Joy frowns deeply. “She’s certainly eager to point fingers at everyone else.”

“Interesting,” I muse, trying to sound neutral. “And what about you? Did Missy have anything on you?”

Ginger’s expression freezes for a millisecond—so quick I almost miss it. “Me? No, I lead a pretty boring life. Sell houses, go home, repeat. Nothing podcast-worthy there.”

“Something doesn’t add up,” Joy whispers, studying Ginger with newfound suspicion.

I almost react to Joy’s comment, but manage to maintain my composure. “It’s just that you said everyone had a motive.”

“Well, sure.” Ginger waves dismissively. “I mean, Missy once wrote a scathing review of my business on Yelp because I wouldn’t give her a referral kickback. But that’s hardly murder-worthy.”

“No, of course not,” I agree, filing that tidbit away with the other juicy morsels she’s slung my way. “It’s just so shocking that you think someone from your close-knit group would do such a thing.”

“Is it? We may have history, but some histories are bloodier than others,” Ginger says with an edge creeping into her voice. “You’d be amazed what seemingly normal people are capable of when pushed to their limits.”

I nod and think on it for a minute.

“I imagine real estate teaches you a lot about human nature,” I suggest.

“You have no idea.” She laughs. “I’ve seen couples divorce in the middle of closing, families stop speaking over inheritance properties, neighbors try to kill each other over six inches of disputed property line.

” She shrugs. “After twenty years in the business, nothing surprises me—not even murder.”

The shrill sound of a whistle cuts through our conversation, and I turn to see Seamus standing at the head of our scattered group.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he calls out. “The spirits are growing restless! Please gather for the final leg of our journey into Dublin’s haunted Christmas past!”

Ginger offers me a thin smile. “Time to rejoin the living—and the dead. Good chat, Trixie.”

She takes off and both Joy and Dash look troubled.

“She certainly gave you an earful.” Joy frowns in the woman’s direction.

“And she’s certainly quick to accuse Holly and Alec,” Dash adds. “Makes you wonder why she’s so eager to direct attention their way.”

I nod. “That’s exactly what a killer would do.” Or someone convinced they’re pointing the finger at the killer, but I don’t dare say those words considering who I’m speaking with.

The tour group begins to gather near Seamus, who stands backlit by the illuminated castle, and I’ll admit, it’s a dramatic sight. His top hat and cape create a distinctly Dickensian silhouette against the festive lights. Spooky, indeed.

I search the crowd for Ransom and spot him still deep in conversation with Quinn and Wes, their expressions serious. Whatever security issue they’re discussing, it doesn’t look like your average holiday-themed small talk.

Ginger slips into the crowd, her red curls disappearing among the tourists and Carrington alumni as the group moves toward our final destination. I take a step to follow, but pause as a cold hand touches my shoulder—one that happens to be glowing a ghostly shade of blue.

“Be careful,” Joy warns. “There’s something not right about her story. And I’ve got this feeling... It’s almost as if I’m close to remembering something important.”

“Watch your step with that woman,” Dash adds grimly. “You’ve stirred up a lot of questions.”

The hair on the back of my neck rises, and not just from the supernatural chill.

I hop over and rejoin the group, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched—and not by the friendly ghosts at my side.

Somewhere in the twinkling Christmas wonderland of Dublin, a killer might just be tracking my every move.

And unlike the spirits on this tour, this threat is very much alive.