Page 2 of Cruel Christmas Cruise (Cruising Through Midlife: Cruise Ship Cozy Mysteries #12)

E merald Queen of the Seas , Royal Lineage Cruise Lines

Itinerary

Trixie

The present…

Suddenly Hitched—What a Trip!

Hey there, mystery-loving readers!

Ready to join me aboard the Emerald Queen for a holly-jolly holiday cruise through the British Isles?

I’ve packed my festive earrings (the icicle-shaped ones that double as weapons in a pinch) and my detective intuition!

From Edinburgh’s misty castles to London’s twinkling markets, I’m determined to soak up every drop of Christmas cheer—along with plenty of hot chocolate with extra whipped cream.

Who knows what adventures await? Perhaps a friendly ghost or two in these ancient lands. After all, rumor has it that spirits (both the drinkable and supernatural) tend to be extra sociable during the holidays.

Here’s to making merry memories—and hopefully avoiding any untimely demises under the mistletoe!

XOXO Trixie

“Do you think they keep the naughty elves in a separate workshop?” Nettie asks as we weave through London’s Christmas-crazed streets. “Because I’m on the hunt for the hot ones. I call dibs on all the naughty elves from here to the North Pole!”

“You would,” Bess says, rolling her eyes at her bestie.

“Yeah, and you wouldn’t ,” Nettie shoots back with a grin. “That’s what makes me the fun one!”

That might be a stretch since Bess is pretty fun, too, but it does wrap up those two in a nutshell pretty darn well.

Bess Chatterley and Nettie Butterworth happen to be my favorite octogenarians, and they’re also a big part of the reason I live on the Emerald Queen of the Seas along with them.

My cheating ex would be the other significant reason I’ve taken to the high seas. But as bad as his cheating ways sound, I should probably pen him a thank-you note. I much prefer my life now compared to living with him under one roof.

My name is Trixie Troublefield Baxter, and I’m staring down the barrel of fifty. I’m five feet five inches of unremarkable height with medium-length blonde hair and bangs cut in that blunt eighties style that refuses to die. Speaking of which, I can see the dead. It’s a long story.

The crisp December air nips at our cheeks as Bess, Nettie, my handsome husband Ransom, and I continue to walk, and I have to admit, London at Christmastime is nothing short of magical.

Twinkle lights wrap around every lamppost, and the smell of roasted chestnuts mixes with fresh pine from the evergreens at the tree lots.

And Big Ben chimes in the distance in all his old-world glory while competing with carolers dressed as Dickens’ characters on every corner.

“London at Christmas makes the North Pole look like amateur hour,” I say, threading my arm through Ransom’s as we dodge tourists who’ve decided the middle of the sidewalk is the perfect place for a photo op.

My handsome husband looks particularly delicious in his navy peacoat, his dark hair slightly tousled by the breeze. At fifty-four, he’s still as cutthroat handsome as can be and turning heads—not that I blame the women who do the double takes. I’m rather fond of looking at him myself.

“Would you look at all this yuletide glory?” I continue in awe. “It’s stupendous!”

“Yup, whatever that is,” Nettie agrees.

“The North Pole called. They’d like their entire inventory back,” Bess quips with her red bob looking as if it’s immune to the wind. “Apparently, Santa’s workshop has been cleaned out.”

“You think this is festive?” Nettie practically bounces along in her technicolor coat that looks as if it was tie-dyed in Christmas spirit.

Her gray curls escape from under a purple beret embellished with an entire row of jingle bells—and boy, do those bells jingle—and she’s humming something that might be “Jingle Bells” but could also be anything from Madonna’s greatest hits.

“Wait until you see how I plan on decorating my cabin back on the ship. The steward will need sunglasses just to drop off fresh towels.” She glances at my handsome hubby.

“Oh honey,” she coos his way. “You’re glowing like Rudolph after too many energy drinks. Marriage clearly agrees with you.”

“Either that or he’s radioactive.” Bess laughs. “I’ve noticed the glow, too.”

Ransom pulls me closer and drops a kiss on the top of my head. “When you’re lucky enough to marry the most amazing woman on the planet, it tends to show.”

“Careful there,” Bess warns. “Any more sweetness and we’ll all need some serious dental work.”

We share a quick laugh as we head to Covent Garden to meet with my son Parker, and my stomach can’t seem to stop doing little flips of excitement. Parker is a graduate student at Hollingsworth University out in Cambridge, but he’s coming out to have lunch with us while the ship is in port.

The holiday market up ahead looks like Santa’s village on steroids with mistletoe-laced garland everywhere you look and a massive Christmas tree strewn with enough twinkle lights to guide a 747.

Street performers dressed as Victorian carolers belt out “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” while a man in a Santa suit plays the saxophone nearby, creating an eclectic mashup like only the holidays can.

The scent of spiced cider and cinnamon drifts from every direction, mixing with the ever-present aroma of roasted chestnuts and something that might be burning fruitcake.

“Look at that window display,” Nettie exclaims, pointing to Harrods’ famous Christmas windows. “Those elves are wearing stilettos and sequins. Has the North Pole gone Vegas?”

“North Pole: The Vegas Residency,” Bess deadpans. “Coming to a department store near you. It sounds confusing.”

“Speaking of confusing—” Nettie says, dodging a group of tourists wielding selfie sticks like weapons. “Did you hear about the cruise ship Santa who got fired?”

“Don’t encourage her,” Bess warns, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips.

“He kept checking his list twice during working hours,” she finishes anyway. “HR said it was a clear case of OCD—Obsessive Christmas Disorder.”

Ransom groans while Bess actually chuckles.

“That was terrible,” Bess says. “But go ahead and tell another one.”

“Men are like Christmas cookies,” Nettie is quick to unleash another holiday pun. “Some are sweet but fall apart; others look fancy but taste awful.”

“And some give you food poisoning,” Bess adds dryly.

“And the best ones have a tough exterior but are warm and soft on the inside,” I add, squeezing Ransom’s arm.

“Smooth save,” he whispers, dropping a kiss on my temple.

“There he is!” I squeal, spotting Parker’s dark hair in the crowd. I dart forward, dodging tourists and street performers alike until I crash into my sweet son.

“Mom!” Parker laughs as I hug him tight.

“Let me look at you!” I step back to inspect my baby boy who’s a whole six inches taller than me.

At twenty-four, he’s all Cambridge polish—complete with a tweed jacket, blue eyes with just the right hint of daredevil, and that same grin that used to mean trouble when he was little.

I’m guessing it still means trouble—but trouble that I don’t want to know about.

“You look great, Mom.” He smiles before turning to Ransom. “So, how was the honeymoon?” His expression falls flat in less than a second. “Actually, forget I asked. I don’t want to know. Ever.”

We all laugh as Ransom claps him on the shoulder.

“Speaking of things better left unsaid”—Parker continues with his cheeks pinched pink—“I talked to Emerson. She sends her love.”

Emerson happens to be Ransom’s daughter who happens to be in college herself, but she’s currently stateside, in Georgia to be exact.

She also happens to be dating Parker. It’s relatively new, and it’s still dizzying for me to wrap my head around.

But they seem to be crazy in love. And seeing that Ransom hasn’t arranged for Parker to disappear, I’d say he approves, too.

“When are you two going to make us grandparents?” Nettie blurts out.

I nearly choke while Bess lifts a finger. “Finally, someone’s asking the real questions.”

“ Whoa ,” Ransom and I say at the very same time. “They’ve got school to finish,” I add. “No one is even thinking about that yet.”

“Speak for yourself,” Bess mutters.

Parker, bless him, clears his throat. “Anyone hungry? I know a pub with amazing fish and chips.”

“Lead the way,” Bess says. “Nothing fixes awkward conversations like fried finger food.”

“The male survival playbook, page one,” Nettie says with a wink. “When the conversation gets deep, deploy the deep-fried diversion. My third husband once brought home an entire bucket of fried chicken and three boxes of donuts to avoid talking about his mother moving in.”

I’m about to comment when I spot my own diversion that makes me gasp.