Page 16 of Cruel Christmas Cruise (Cruising Through Midlife: Cruise Ship Cozy Mysteries #12)

I slip back to where Bess and Nettie are standing just as Seamus launches into the final leg of our journey through Dublin’s haunted Christmas past.

The temperature has dropped another few degrees, ironically turning our breath into miniature apparitions each time we exhale.

“And where did you wander off to, Miss Marple?” Bess asks as her eyebrows arch knowingly.

“Just making new friends,” I tease as Wes and Ransom rejoin us and I can’t help but note that their expressions are far too serious despite the festive surroundings.

“What did Quinn have to say?” I ask Ransom. I can’t help it. My curiosity is bubbling over like an unattended pot.

He leans in close until his lips brush my ear. “I’ll fill you in at the end of the tour.”

“Is that a promise or a threat?” I whisper back, which earns me a half-smile that does heated things to my insides despite the chill.

Seamus leads us back toward St. Patrick’s Cathedral with its magnificent stained-glass windows illuminated from within, casting rainbow patterns across the cobblestones.

The air smells of evergreen wreaths and fresh baked cinnamon rolls, the perfect Christmas potpourri.

And how I hope there are fresh baked cinnamon rolls in the vicinity.

“The Cathedral holds many secrets,” Seamus shouts dramatically with his lantern wobbling and casting ghostly shadows across his Victorian costume.

“Including the tale of Father McGuinness, who vanished while practicing carols on Christmas Eve, 1882. Some say his phantom footsteps can still be heard in the choir loft.”

Nettie huffs. “If I were a ghost,” she says loud enough for the entire tour to hear, “I’d haunt somewhere with better heating. Maybe a sauna or that bakery that’s calling to me like a siren song.”

Half the crowd laughs and agrees with her—especially about the bakery.

“ Nettie ,” Bess hisses. “Use your inside voice!”

“But we’re outside,” Nettie points out—and rather reasonably I’d say.

“Then use your not embarrassing me in another country voice,” Bess counters.

Seamus nods to Nettie. “The lady makes an excellent point!” Bless his theatrical heart as he decides to incorporate Nettie’s comment into his narrative.

“Why do ghosts return to places of tragedy rather than comfort? Perhaps because spirits are tied to powerful emotions—love, hatred, unfinished business—rather than physical comforts.”

He winks at Nettie, who preens like a cat that’s just been offered sweet cream.

“I think he likes me,” she whispers.

“He’s paid to like everyone,” Bess reminds her. “It’s called customer service.”

“Well, I’d like to check out his customer satisfaction guarantee,” Nettie purrs. “Preferably with a hands-on demonstration.”

“How refreshingly predictable.” Bess sighs.

“Says the woman whose idea of excitement is switching from Earl Grey to English Breakfast,” Nettie shoots back.

It’s true. Bess was practically shaking with excitement about her morning tea switcheroo.

You’d think she’d discovered a new continent instead of a new blend.

She discussed the pros and cons three different times of changing her morning tea routine.

I thought she was having an existential crisis.

I’ve heard a less detailed analysis from murder suspects.

Joy and Dash hover nearby as they watch Nettie with amusement.

“Your friend is something else.” Joy laughs.

“That’s one way to put it,” I murmur under my breath.

We meander toward a magnificent Christmas tree decorated with vintage ornaments as Seamus regales us with tales of past Christmas hauntings.

Nettie wastes no time edging closer to him until she’s practically standing in his Victorian-era shoes. And when he demonstrates a ghost’s mournful wail, Nettie attempts to mimic it, producing a sound like a cat whose tail has been stepped on.

“Oh, heaven help.” Bess sighs as Nettie’s lungs do their best to make sure her screeching can be heard on Mars.

Several tourists jump, a child starts to cry, and a nearby street performer drops his violin.

“And that,” Seamus says without missing a beat, “is exactly why the tour company provides these.” He pulls out a pack of earplugs from his coat pocket. “Anyone need a pair?”

The group laughs, and Nettie howls the loudest.

“I think I’ve got a hidden talent,” she says.

“Emphasis on hidden ,” Bess mutters. “Let’s keep it that way.”

By the time we reach the final stop—an ancient stone wall where, according to Seamus, the Christmas ghosts of Dublin gather for their annual midnight meeting—Nettie has managed to accidentally knock over a decorative nutcracker display, set her scarf on fire from a candelabra (quickly extinguished by Ransom), and convinced three tourists that her hideous screeching is actually a traditional Irish blessing that wards off spirits.

She’s warding off something, all right—people.

“And thus concludes our journey into Dublin’s haunted Christmas past,” Seamus announces with a theatrical bow. “May the spirits of the season follow you home—but only the friendly ones!”

If only he knew.

As the group disperses, Nettie runs toward poor Seamus and nearly tackles him to the ground.

“Mr. O’Malley,” Nettie purrs as her reindeer earrings self-adjust to maximum flash mode. “That was absolutely spine-tingling. I’d love to hear more about how you handle things that go bump in the night—namely women.”

Seamus looks both flattered and mildly concerned, like a man who’s spotted an approaching tsunami but is still too polite to run. “Well, I do have another tour starting in?—”

“Oh, we’ve got plenty of time,” Nettie is quick to assure him while looping her arm through his. “I’ve always been attracted to men who know their history, especially the dark, mysterious parts.”

“I’m technically still on the clock,” Seamus protests weakly.

“Perfect! Then you can give me a private tour of the best pub in Dublin,” Nettie says, steering him down the cobbled street. “I’ve got lots of questions about Irish traditions, especially when it comes to hanky-panky.”

“Good grief,” Bess groans. “I should probably...” She gestures toward the departing couple.

“Go.” I nod. “Before she convinces him to take her to a real haunted house where she can bump in the night—all night long.”

“Or before she becomes Dublin’s newest ghost story.” Bess sighs, hurrying after them.

The rest of Wes’ classmates have already started migrating toward a pub down the street with its warm golden light spilling onto the sidewalk like an invitation. The sign swinging above the door reads The Banshee’s Wail , which seems appropriate given our entertainment.

“Shall we?” Ransom offers his arm and he looks arrestingly handsome in the dim light.

“Only if you promise to tell me what Quinn wanted,” I counter.

“Scout’s honor,” he says, placing his free hand over his heart.

I link my arm to his and the pub engulfs us in warmth the moment we step inside.

The cozy atmosphere is a stark contrast to the chilly night we’ve left behind.

The walls are paneled in dark wood worn smooth by generations of revelers, and strings of white Christmas lights drape from exposed ceiling beams like luminous icicles.

The air holds the tantalizing aroma of burgers and fries mingling with something distinctly Irish—and I’m guessing it’s the Guinness stew advertised on a chalkboard near the bar.

A small stage in the corner hosts what appears to be karaoke, with a woman pouring her heart into “All I Want for Christmas Is You” with admirable determination—and most likely a few shots of whiskey.

Most of Wes’ classmates have already claimed tables and their laughter and conversation add to the cheerful din.

We slide into a booth near the back. Across the room, I spot Holly and Alec seated together, both nursing tall glasses of amber beer. At another table, Ginger and Theo have their heads bent close in conversation that looks more intense than festive.

“I guess Joy and Dash are not joining us,” I say quietly, scanning the room for my disembodied companions.

“Maybe they’ll catch up,” Ransom says, surprising me with his casual acknowledgment of my supernatural friends.

Sometimes I forget he knows about my ghostly assistants, a fact that makes me love him even more. It’s not every man who accepts that his wife regularly converses with the dead.

A server materializes at our table with unnatural speed, depositing a basket of steaming fries, a platter of what appears to be Irish nachos (potato chips smothered in cheese, bacon, and green onions), and four tall glasses of frothy beer.

“Compliments of the gentleman at the bar,” she says with a lilting accent, nodding toward Seamus, who raises his own glass in salute. And sure enough, there’s Nettie next to him, giving us an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

“She works fast,” I say, impressed despite myself.

“Like a forest fire in drought conditions,” Bess agrees, sliding into the booth beside me. “I’ve been abandoned for a man who looks like he mugged Ebenezer Scrooge for his wardrobe.”

“There are worse things,” Wes says with a smile. “At least she has good taste in historical periods.”

“Nettie has never met a period she didn’t like,” Bess quips, reaching for a fry. “Historical or otherwise.”

Ransom nods. “That must be why I heard her ask him if he wanted to examine her artifacts.”

We all share a quick laugh at that one, and before we can recover, Nettie appears, dragging Seamus behind her like a Victorian-era prize.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she announces grandly. “I’d like to formally introduce Sean O’Malley, tour guide extraordinaire and my date for the rest of the evening.”

“Seamus,” he corrects gently.

“That’s what I said,” Nettie insists. “Now, who wants to see me do a little hokey pokey karaoke? Sean here thinks I have the perfect voice for ‘Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.’”

“I said it would be memorable,” Seamus clarifies, looking slightly terrified.

“Same thing.” Nettie tugs him toward the stage, leaving Bess shaking her head.

“I better go stop this before she causes an international incident.” She sighs, grabbing another fry before following suit. “Last time she did karaoke, three cats lost eight of their nine lives and a cathedral window shattered.”

As Bess hustles after Nettie, I turn to Ransom and Wes, who have been suspiciously quiet since we arrived.

“All right, boys, spill it,” I demand. “What did Quinn want that was so important that she felt the need to track you down in the middle of a ghost tour?”

The two men exchange a loaded glance.

“It’s about the Gossip Ghost,” Wes says finally.

“We know who’s sending the messages,” Ransom adds. “Sort of.”

“Who?” I lean in, far too eager to hear whatever they have to say.

“That’s the twist,” Ransom says with a grave expression. “There isn’t just one person.”

“What do you mean?” I ask while gasping at the implication.

“Quinn has been in charge of investigating the anonymous messages,” Wes explains. “She managed to trace the origin of the texts. They were coming from three different phones.”

“Three?” I repeat, stunned.

“And all three phones belong to people on this cruise,” Ransom confirms. “I’m guessing they’re all Carrington Academy alumni. The phones are burners so we can’t trace to an individual.”

On stage, Nettie has begun her rendition of “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer,” and her voice is somewhere between a foghorn and a wounded moose. But I barely notice the groans from the audience as the implications sink in.

“So, the Gossip Ghost is actually... Gossip Ghosts ?” I ask.

“Three conspirators who I’m guessing have been working together for years.” Wes nods. “Quinn is still putting together the pieces, but it looks as if they’ve been running this operation since high school.”

“And the kicker?” Ransom leans in closer. “The latest message, the one about Mistletoe’s murder, came from only one of the phones. The other two haven’t sent anything since she died.”

“Which means...” I trail off as the conclusion begins to crystallize.

“One of our Gossip Ghosts is a killer,” Wes confirms grimly. “And they might be using the messages to throw suspicion on their former partners in crime.”

I let the realization sink in as Nettie hits a note that causes several glasses to vibrate ominously. But the true discord isn’t coming from her performance—it’s the knowledge that we may not be looking for just one murderer.

We’re looking for up to three killers among the three secret conspirators who might have been hiding behind a shared identity for forty years.

And as I scan the pub full of Carrington alumni, I get the feeling we’re not just hunting a killer—we’re hunting a conspiracy that’s been decades in the making.