Page 17 of Cruel Christmas Cruise (Cruising Through Midlife: Cruise Ship Cozy Mysteries #12)

F amily Group Chat

Abbey: I can’t believe this is my first Christmas without seeing you, Mom. It feels weird seeing everyone’s happy holiday posts when you guys are across the pond and I’m stuck here.

Stanton: You’ve still got me in the good ol’ USA! What am I, chopped liver?

Trixie: Do you really want us to answer that?

Neelie: He might be chopped liver, but this diamond on my finger means I’ve developed a taste for it!

Stanton: That’s my girl! Always defending me.

Abbey: Dad, please. I love you, but it’s not the same as having Mom’s traditional Christmas chaos in person.

Parker: Don’t worry, Abbey! Mom’s Christmas chaos has gone international. Rumor has it, she already tried to pack an entire Christmas tree in her suitcase.

Trixie: It was a MINIATURE tree, thank you very much. And it would have fit if customs hadn’t been so picky. Now to figure out what to do for Christmas dinner. Although I won’t miss creating a festive smoky atmosphere with my cooking!

Ransom: No need to worry about Christmas dinner. I made reservations at a traditional English pub. No risk at all of creating a festive smoky atmosphere.

Emerson: Good call, Dad!

Abbey: OK but seriously, I’ll need a ton of pics from your London Christmas. I need to live vicariously.

Trixie: We’re planning on a walking tour of Christmas lights. Parker is excited about seeing the London Eye all lit up.

Stanton: Nothing lights up my world like my wonderful fiancée Neelie!

Trixie: Good for you. (I’m trying to be nice. It’s Christmas, after all.)

Abbey: Mom! I miss you so much. FaceTime later?

Trixie: You bet!

Parker: Don’t worry, Abbey. We’ll have a proper family Christmas when we get back. Mom is already planning it for all of us.

Emerson: Can’t wait!

Trixie: Well, considering we survived a murder on our cruise, I think we can handle a transatlantic Christmas celebration.

Stanton: Wait—WHAT?!

Trixie: Oh, did I forget to mention that little deadly detail? Oops. Better save some eggnog for when we’re together again—this story is going to take a while...

Once we got back onto the ship last night, it was like stumbling into Christmas-palooza after our Dublin ghost tour.

Dinner in the formal dining room transformed into a feast of epic proportions—Beef Wellington with a golden pastry crust that shattered like caramelized glass, Chilean sea bass with champagne beurre blanc that practically sang on the palate, and truffle-infused gnocchi so pillowy they could double as clouds in heaven.

The dessert was less a dining option and more a declaration of war against willpower, featuring everything from traditional Christmas pudding aflame with blue brandy to a seven-layer chocolate Opera cake that made me consider proposing to the pastry chef again (sorry, Ransom).

And that was before Tinsley unleashed her Christmas scavenger hunt on the unsuspecting passengers.

“Find a person wearing red and green striped socks,” Nettie read from our first clue card. “Who wears striped socks on a cruise ship?”

“The same people who willingly participate in scavenger hunts,” Bess replied dryly. And she wasn’t wrong.

What followed was three hours of holiday-themed chaos.

We serenaded an unsuspecting couple with “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer,” seeing that it was Nettie’s specialty as she put it, constructed a miniature Christmas tree using only items from our purses (Nettie’s contribution of three mini liquor bottles as “festive ornaments” earned us bonus points), and somehow convinced the ship’s doctor to pose for a photo wearing a Santa hat and nothing else above the waist. I’m pretty sure Bess slipped him her room number, but some mysteries are better left unsolved.

We lost the competition when Nettie mistook find someone with Christmas spirit for find someone with Christmas spirits and dragged us to every bar on board—which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

But the midnight buffet with its chocolate lava cake made up for it all.

The rivers of molten goodness almost made me forget we were still hunting a killer.

Almost.

It’s day five of our cruise and the morning air in Belfast bites at my cheeks as we disembark onto Northern Ireland, carrying the tang of saltwater and industrial history.

Gray skies hang low over the shipyards where the Titanic was born, lending the perfect Gothic atmosphere to a city that knows a thing or two about tragedy.

A light drizzle mists around us, not enough for umbrellas but sufficient to make everything glisten with foreboding.

“Welcome to Belfast,” Ransom announces, taking my hand as we navigate the dock. “Where every tourist attraction comes with a side of existential dread.”

“Perfect for a romantic excursion with my husband and our resident chaos coordinators,” I quip, nodding toward Bess and Nettie who are currently bickering over the map.

“I’m telling you, the Titanic Museum is north,” Bess insists, turning the map sideways as if that might change its geography.

“And I’m telling you, you’re holding the map upside down,” Nettie counters. “The Titanic is that way. Unless it’s moved since it sank.”

“Too soon,” Bess scolds.

“It’s been over a hundred years!”

“Still too soon.”

Ransom nods to the dueling duo. “Ladies, might I suggest we follow the giant signs that say Titanic Belfast with helpful arrows?”

“Showoff,” Nettie mutters but follows his handsome lead.

The Titanic Belfast Museum rises before us like a modern monument to hubris with its angular silver panels reminiscent of a ship’s bow and icebergs, depending on your perspective. It towers against the gray sky like a gleaming reminder that even the unsinkable can meet its match.

“Well, that’s subtle,” I observe as we approach the entrance.

“About as subtle as calling your ship unsinkable,” Ransom agrees, pulling me close. “Tempting fate never ends well.”

“Says the man who married a woman who finds dead bodies for fun,” I remind him.

His lips brush my ear. “Have I mentioned I like living dangerously?”

“Lucky for you,” I say as a laugh rumbles from me. “I’m about as dangerous as they get, and coroners in half a dozen countries can confirm it.”

He chuckles a little too long in response and I shoot him a look.

The interior of the museum envelops us in hushed reverence and the faint scent of lemon polish and history. Interactive displays chart the Titanic’s conception, construction, and catastrophic end, while artifacts from the ship itself rest in glass cases like sacred relics.

“Did you know they had Turkish baths on board?” Nettie reads from a display, her voice carrying through the quiet gallery. “Imagine getting all relaxed and pruney just before hitting an iceberg.”

“Nettie!” Bess hisses. “Lower your voice. This is practically a memorial.”

“I’m just saying, talk about bad timing. Although I suppose if you have to go down with the ship, it wouldn’t hurt to be squeaky clean.”

A nearby docent shoots us a look that could, appropriately enough, freeze water.

“How about we move along,” Ransom suggests, steering us toward the next exhibit.

We wander through recreations of the ship’s luxurious first-class cabins and considerably less luxurious third-class accommodations. The contrast is stark—crystal chandeliers and mahogany paneling versus bare bunks and communal washbasins.

“Remind you of anything?” I whisper to Ransom.

“The Emerald Queen isn’t quite so segregated,” he says. “However, I have seen how the other half lives. I bunked down there myself at the beginning of my mission on board.”

“My prince, living below decks like a common sailor.”

“That must be why I married the princess,” he teases, dropping a kiss on my nose. Ransom moved above deck well before our nuptials. And to this day, we shell out the big bucks to keep us where the view hovers above the waterline.

We share another far steamier kiss without giving it a second thought, creating enough heat to melt the iceberg that sank the Titanic .

“Get a room,” Nettie calls from across the exhibit. “Preferably not in third-class.”

We progress through the museum’s narrative—the jubilant launch, the fateful voyage, the tragic end. Standing before a wall listing all the passengers and their fates—survived or lost—sobers even Nettie into momentary silence.

“Over fifteen hundred people,” she murmurs. “All those lives, all those stories, just... gone.”

“That’s the thing about tragedies,” Bess says quietly, “is they have a way of putting our own problems in perspective.”

“Sort of like hunting a murderer on a cruise ship?” I suggest.

Bess shrugs. “I was thinking more about Nettie’s tendency to overpack, but sure, murder works, too.”

As we exit into the museum’s atrium, I spot a couple of familiar figures across the room.

Holly is standing there with Theo practically wrapped around her like an octopus in a cashmere sweater.

His hands roam her waist and shoulders like he’s checking her for concealed weapons—or claiming ownership.

And that’s exactly what it looks like he’s doing.

I can’t help but note how Holly’s smile looks plastered on as her eyes dart around as if seeking the nearest escape route.

“Theo seems to think this is a hands-on learning experience,” I murmur to Ransom.

“Poor Holly looks like she needs a museum security guard,” he replies, following my gaze.

“Or at least one of those Please Do Not Touch signs.”

On the opposite side of the atrium, an equally interesting scene unfolds as Ginger leans intimately close to Alec, whispering what appears to be sweet nothings in his ear. His expression suggests they’re more like sour somethings, because I can tell he’s irritated from a mile away.

“And over there, we have the classic I’m Not That Into You But You Haven’t Gotten the Hint Yet exhibit,” I narrate to Ransom. “Part of the permanent collection titled Awkward Reunion Moments .”

“Maybe they’re discussing the architectural merits of the museum,” Ransom suggests with a perfectly straight face.

“Yes, and maybe the Titanic just took a wrong turn.”

We move on to the outdoor shipyard portion of the tour and the icy air feels like heaven after exploring the cloying underbelly of the Titanic disaster.

Ransom pulls me close, his voice dropping to a whisper as we stand on the quiet deck. “I wanted to let you know I got the preliminary report from the coroner,” he says with a grim expression against the backdrop of colorful Christmas lights in the distance.

I gasp a little at the thought. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. What did they have to say?”

“They found traces of cyanide in Missy’s bloodstream.

” He watches my face carefully, gauging my reaction.

“It has that distinctive bitter almond signature. It would have been nearly undetectable in her cocktail.” His fingers tighten slightly around mine.

“This wasn’t opportunistic, Trixie. Someone came prepared to kill her that night. ”

The wind picks up, sending a chill through me that has nothing to do with the December air.

Cyanide.

Someone had actually brought poison aboard the Emerald Queen with murderous intent.

I blow out a breath. “Well, at least we have one answer.”

We look out at the massive cranes that once helped build the Titanic still looming over the harbor like industrial dinosaurs as Bess and Nettie catch up with us. The wind whips off the water, carrying with it the ghosts of Belfast’s shipbuilding past.

“Hard to believe humans built something so enormous without modern equipment,” Ransom says, gazing up at the historic Harland and Wolff cranes.

“Hard to believe they built something so enormous and it still sank,” Nettie counters. “Talk about a bad Yelp review. Lovely accommodations, excellent dining, hit an iceberg and died. One star.”

“You’re terrible,” Bess admonishes, although I can see the smile tugging at her lips.

“I’m practical,” Nettie counters. “If I’m paying for a trans-Atlantic cruise, I expect to reach the other side.”

“Maybe that’s why our killer chose poison instead of an iceberg,” I muse. “More reliable.”

Ransom squeezes my hand. “I’m sorry to have taken your mind there.”

I shake my head. “At least on the Titanic they knew what hit them,” I say. “Our murderer is still playing hide-and-seek.”

We continue along the historic dockyards, now transformed into a maritime heritage site. Plaques detail the construction process, the workers’ conditions, the pride Belfast took in its mighty ship—all tinged with the melancholy knowledge of how the story ends.

“You know what I find fascinating?” Nettie says as we pause by a memorial to the shipyard workers. “Everyone remembers the Titanic because it sank. If it had made it to New York without incident, would anyone care?”

“That’s surprisingly profound,” Bess admits.

“I have my moments. Usually between cocktails.”

As we loop back toward the museum’s exit, I catch sight of Holly again.

She’s managed to extract herself from Theo’s octopus embrace and stands alone by a window overlooking the harbor while staring out with a pensive expression.

Across the room, Alec has similarly escaped Ginger’s clutches as he reads a display with what looks like intense concentration, although I have a sneaking suspicion he’s not actually reading a single word.

“I wonder why they’re even bothering,” I say, more to myself than to Ransom.

“Who?”

“Ginger and Theo. It’s obvious Holly and Alec only have eyes for each other, even if they’re both in denial.”

“Maybe that’s exactly why,” Ransom says thoughtfully. “Nothing complicates a potential murder investigation like unrequited love.”

“Or requited love that no one will admit to,” I counter.

As we exit the museum, the gray Belfast sky opens up and rain falls over us in earnest. Ransom quickly produces a couple of umbrellas—one for us and one for Bess and Nettie. And as he wraps his arm warm around my waist, I forget all about murder and motives and ghostly matchmaking.

But only for a moment.

Because as we head back toward the ship, I spot Joy and Dash standing in the rain—completely dry, of course—their ghostly faces tight with concern as they wave urgently for my attention.

Something tells me this Titanic -themed day is about to hit an iceberg of its own.