Page 20 of Cruel Christmas Cruise (Cruising Through Midlife: Cruise Ship Cozy Mysteries #12)

F amily Group Chat

Abbey: So how is the investigation going? Did you guys actually solve a MURDER?

Parker: You know, Mom. She’s in full detective mode. I bet her notebook is color-coded.

Trixie: It’s called being organized. Some of us prefer solving crimes rather than creating them.

Stanton: Should I be concerned about the fact you’re off hunting killers now?

Ransom: You say now like it’s a new thing. But don’t anyone worry. I’m handling the official side of things.

Neelie: Why do I get the feeling handling is a generous term? I bet Trixie’s investigation is miles ahead of yours.

Emerson: Dad, please tell me you’re not letting Trixie interrogate suspects. We want to keep her safe and sound.

Ransom: “Letting” isn’t exactly how I’d describe it.

Neelie: OMG this is just like those murder mystery dinner parties! I was the killer once! I wore this fabulous red dress and everyone said I looked absolutely stunning!

Abbey: Mom, maybe stick to reading about mysteries instead of solving them?

Trixie: Too late. I’ve already compiled a suspect list, complete with motives.

Parker: I hear she corners people at breakfast. It’s both impressive and mortifying.

Stanton: Impressive AND mortifying? That perfectly describes our entire marriage!

Trixie: Funny, I was going to say the same thing. Although I found it less impressive than you might think.

Emerson: Whose investigation is winning? Dad’s or Trixie’s?

Ransom: Mine is following proper protocol and legal procedures.

Trixie: Mine has more suspects. Plus, I have insider information.

Neelie: Insider information is SO important! A fortune teller once told me I’d marry a frumpy man with a past, and look at me now with Stanton!

Trixie: I’m sorry, Neelie.

Abbey: I can’t believe this is real life. Mom, please be careful!

Trixie: I always am.

Stanton: There she goes with her delusions again.

Parker: Dad, stop.

Trixie: I think I preferred it when we were discussing Christmas dinner.

Stanton: I’m just saying, I never thought I’d see the day when my ex-wife outperforms an ex-FBI agent.

Ransom: Let’s just say she has help from some unusual sources.

Trixie: Agree. Some might even say I have a sixth sense about these things.

Day 7 = Edinburgh (South Queensferry), Scotland

Edinburgh Castle looms against the Scottish sky like something straight out of a Gothic fairy tale—all ancient stone and imposing battlements, shrouded in a mist so thick you could serve it as soup.

The air carries the scent of history, damp stone, and the peculiar Scottish aroma that’s part heather, part whiskey, and part something indefinably magical. It’s a far cry from the chaos aboard the Emerald Queen last night.

Nothing kills the mood quite like a fire alarm at 2 AM.

Our romantic evening ended with a ship-wide evacuation to the muster stations, where we stood in our hastily thrown-on clothes (Ransom’s shirt was buttoned wrong, and I had mismatched shoes) only to discover it was a false alarm.

Some genius had decided to smoke in their cabin and triggered the sensors.

Ransom spent the next three hours dealing with paperwork, and I spent it lying awake wondering if our pyromaniac passenger was a smoker or a potential killer setting up a diversion.

But today is a new day, and Edinburgh’s majesty is doing its best to make us forget the interrupted bliss of last night.

“Look at this castle,” Nettie chirps, spinning in a spastic circle that nearly takes out a passing tour group. “It’s like Hogwarts had a baby with a medieval fortress.”

“While Game of Thrones watched,” Elodie adds as her eyes track a kilted tour guide with impressive dedication. “Scottish men are a whole different species, aren’t they? Must be something in the tartan.”

“Or out of it,” Nettie quips.

“Ladies, please.” Bess sighs, although I catch her openly ogling the same tour guide. “We’re at a historic landmark, not a Chippendales show.”

“A girl can multitask,” Elodie defends. “I can appreciate architecture with one eye and appreciate... testosterone-based structures with the other.”

“Like that guard over there?” Nettie points indiscreetly at a particularly strapping young man in traditional Scottish attire. “What do you think they wear under those kilts?”

“Tradition,” Bess states with authority. “Scottish men who wear kilts properly don’t wear anything underneath.”

Both Elodie and I turn to stare at her.

“What?” Bess shrugs. “I read. A lot.”

“Is there anything specific I should know about kilt inspection procedures?” Elodie asks seemingly innocently. Seemingly being the keyword.

“I bet it gets drafty up there,” Nettie muses. “And I suppose it makes certain encounters more efficient.”

“And here I thought you were interested in Scottish history,” I tease.

“I am,” Nettie insists. “The history of Scottish undergarments—or lack thereof—counts.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Bess tells her, but her lips twitch with suppressed amusement, nonetheless.

“What can I say?” Nettie hums. “I like to be thorough when it comes to cultural studies of the tall, dark, and underwearless.”

The castle has been transformed for the holidays with tasteful yet festive decorations.

Garlands of evergreen and tartan ribbon drape along the ancient stone walls, while discreet white twinkle lights glitter against the gray backdrop.

Traditional Scottish Christmas carols, which sound suspiciously like regular carols but with far more bagpipe, drift through the open courtyards.

I’m about to say something when I spot someone that makes me gasp on the spot.

“I see Ransom.” I nod toward the far wall where my husband stands with Quinn, both looking suspiciously casual for two people who are clearly conducting surveillance. They’re watching Wes and his classmates, who are gathered near one of the castle’s massive fireplaces.

“And there’s Captain Yummy,” Elodie purrs, eyeing Wes. “Honestly, Trixie, the men in your orbit are criminally attractive. Save some for the rest of us.”

“Trust me, I’m not hoarding them on purpose.”

“Could have fooled me,” she says. “First, you snag the security hottie, and we all know you still have the captain panting after you, and now you’re practically surrounded by handsome prep school alumni whose combined wealth could cover the national debt.

It’s like you’re operating a man magnet and the rest of us are just picking up the interference. ”

“Interference I’m happy to intercept,” Nettie chimes in. “Especially if it’s wearing a kilt.”

I give Ransom a little wave and he nods back just as Quinn steps in front of him and says something.

Clearly, they’re working. I’ll leave them be for now.

We wander deeper into the castle, following signs for the Crown Jewels exhibit.

The corridors narrow, the stone walls pressing in on either side as if the castle itself is leaning in to whisper ancient secrets.

The holiday decor becomes more lavish as we approach the Great Hall, where a massive Christmas tree towers nearly twenty feet high, adorned with tartan ribbons and lush gold ornaments.

“Did you know,” Bess lectures as we walk, “that Christmas was actually banned in Scotland for nearly 400 years? From 1560 until the 1950s, it wasn’t even a public holiday here.”

“Why would anyone ban Christmas?” Nettie asks, genuinely puzzled.

“The Protestant Reformation,” Bess explains. “They considered it a Catholic festival with pagan roots.”

“Leave it to religion to ruin a perfectly good excuse for presents and cookies,” Elodie muses.

“And don’t forget kissing under the mistletoe,” Nettie adds wistfully.

“Speaking of mistletoe,” Elodie segues smoothly. “Do you think our dearly departed Mistletoe was named that because she was expected to bring people together or pull them apart? I’ve seen that sexy weed do both.”

I tip my head at the thought. “Considering her gossip column, I’d say the latter.” “Although ironically, her death might end up bringing people together,” I say, nodding to Holly and Alec who I’m glad to see are canoodling across the room.

“Well, well,” Elodie trills. “Nothing like a shared trauma to spark romance.”

“Or reveal a couple of murderers,” Nettie adds practically. “But forget about a couple of killers about to get it on castle style. The man in red is here!”

She points just past them, and sure enough, perched on what can only be described as a golden throne, sits the jolliest Santa I’ve ever seen.

His beard looks real, his laugh is genuine, and his Scottish accent adds a trill to his ho, ho, ho that makes children giggle and adults do double takes.

Although that kilt he’s wearing might have something to do with the fact everyone seems to be looking twice.

“Santa in a skirt,” Nettie moans with delight. “Now I’ve seen everything.”

“I bet Mrs. Claus is a lucky woman,” Elodie says, waggling her eyebrows. “Men with accents always know what they’re doing.”

“That seems to be a scientific fact,” Bess agrees.

“Oh, it is,” Elodie is quick to confirm. “And I’ve got the extensive personal research to back it.” She glances my way. “I’ve conducted field studies across six continents—Antarctica excluded.”

“What happened to Antarctica?” I ask.

“Too cold. Shrinkage issues.” She pauses to shudder. “Though I hear Norwegian scientists can be quite innovative with warming techniques.”

“And she would know,” Nettie whispers. “Elodie’s international dating record reads like a United Nations roster.”

Elodie gleams a devilish smile. “I prefer to think of it as diplomatic relations,”

“Very hands-on diplomacy,” Nettie says with a wink that makes Bess roll her eyes.

A line of delighted children and amused adults waits for their turn with Scottish Santa, who continues to ho, ho, ho with infectious enthusiasm. Despite the castle’s imposing exterior, the atmosphere inside is as holly and jolly as can be.

“We should get a picture with Santa,” Nettie cries a touch too loud, already pulling us toward the line. “For posterity—and propositioning.”

“More like blackmail,” Bess corrects. “I’m not sitting on a strange man’s lap for the sake of Christmas spirit.”

“You can sit on his throne,” Elodie says, clearly in negotiation mode. “We’ll have him stand behind you looking jolly. It’ll be the least scandalous thing you’ve done all cruise.”

“That’s a low bar,” Bess admits.

As we join the queue, I notice Wes watching us from across the hall, his classmates milling around him like satellites orbiting a planet.

Holly and Alec stand close, examining a tapestry while stealing glances to examine one another, while Ginger chats animatedly with a castle guide.

But it’s Theo who catches my eye—standing alone at the edge of the group with his gaze fixed on something I can’t see from my vantage point.

“You go ahead,” I tell the girls. “I need to check something out.”

“Don’t get into trouble,” Bess warns. “We have reservations for high tea in an hour. And I’ve been promised scones with clotted cream,” Nettie adds. “Don’t make me miss my clotted cream, Trixie.”

Nettie grunts, “You can have your clotted cream so long as I get my naughty skirt wearing Santa.”

“Get in line,” Elodie purrs in the poor man’s direction. “I’ve suddenly grown an affinity to old elves in red tartan.”

“I’ll be back before you can say restraining order,” I promise. But I can’t promise that Elodie and Nettie won’t get kicked out on their Santa-loving ears.

I weave through the crowd, keeping my eye on Theo the entire time. He’s moved to a window, partially hidden by thick ropes of Christmas garland as he watches the courtyard below.

Time to find out if Mr. Frost’s heart is as cold as his name suggests.