Page 25 of Cruel Christmas Cruise (Cruising Through Midlife: Cruise Ship Cozy Mysteries #12)
On cue, a booming “ HO, HO, HO! ” cuts through the party chatter.
I turn to see Wes making his grand entrance in a tailored red velvet suit with white fur trim.
Unlike the shabby mall Santas of my childhood, Wes looks like Santa got a makeover from GQ with his faux beard perfectly groomed, his suit impeccably fitted, and his eyes twinkling with genuine delight as his old classmates crowd around him.
“The man does clean up nice.” Bess sighs appreciatively.
“If I was his ex-wife, I’d be kicking myself right about now,” Nettie adds, slurping her blue concoction. “Santa may deliver once a year, but that man looks like he could deliver all night long.”
“Tinsley certainly thinks so,” I observe, watching as our holly jolly cruise director materializes at Wes’ side, dressed as what can only be described as the world’s most provocative elf. Her green dress is cut up to here and down to there, with jingle bells sewn in strategically placed locations.
“Speaking of the devil in Prada,” Elodie mutters, just as Tinsley spots us and changes course, cutting through the crowd with laser precision.
“Ladies,” she snips as she reaches us, her smile as genuine as cubic zirconia. “Enjoying the festivities? I spent weeks planning the perfect Christmas Eve celebration.”
“It’s spectacular,” Bess says sincerely. “The decorations are magnificent.”
“Yes, we were just admiring the abundance,” I add.
“Along with certain other abundances on display tonight,” Elodie purrs, eyeing Tinsley’s revealing elf costume. “Tell me, did the North Pole experience global warming, or is your hemline rising with the Christmas spirit?”
Tinsley’s smile tightens a fraction. “Some of us understand the importance of presentation.” She nods my way. “Not everyone can pull off the just rolled out of bed look you typically go for.”
And judging by her tone, she doesn’t think I can pull it off either.
“That’s what makes tonight so special,” I say sweetly. “I’ve upgraded to just rolled out of the ship’s boutique look. Speaking of presentation, did your seamstress run out of fabric, or is that an intentional design choice?”
Sorry, not sorry. I couldn’t resist.
Elodie snorts into her champagne while Nettie doesn’t even try to hide her cackle.
“At least Trixie’s clothes are managing to stay on,” Elodie interjects while swirling her champagne. “Your outfit seems to be actively seeking an escape route.” She tips her head. “I’ll have to look into getting one myself.”
Tinsley’s eyes narrow slightly. “Enjoy the ball, ladies.” She leans in my way. “And don’t you dare trip over another dead body. And if you do? The next dead body just might be yours.”
Before I can respond to the threat, she takes off toward a group of admiring male passengers, her jingle bells announcing her approach. That explains two of the reasons those men can’t take their eyes off her chest.
“That woman is sharper than my grandmother’s best paring knife,” Nettie declares.
“And twice as likely to draw blood,” Bess adds.
“Speaking of sharp objects,” Elodie mewls, “take a look at those beefcakes cozying up next to the dessert table. Rumor has it the chocolate fountain has five different kinds of chocolate—and I’d like to dip the whole lot of them in it all.”
“Five different kinds of chocolate?” Nettie’s eyes widen. Although I’m not sure that was the takeaway from that conversation that Elodie intended. “Well, what are we waiting for? There’s a medical law or something that says calories don’t count on Christmas Eve.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not a thing,” Bess groans because I have a feeling she knows where this is headed.
“It absolutely is,” Nettie insists. “And I intend to test out the hypothesis thoroughly.”
Elodie lifts her chin. “And I’ve got a few men I’d like to test out myself.”
They start moving toward the dessert table, but I pause as I spot a familiar figure across the room—Alec Shepherd, standing alone by one of the enormous windows while staring out at the darkness beyond.
The festive lights reflect off the glass, creating a halo around his silhouette that seems almost ironic given the rumors circulating about him, and my mind begins to race.
Financial records. Offshore transfers. A private investigator was hired just before Missy’s death. The pieces are starting to form a pattern, but I need one more confirmation.
Before I know it, I’m crossing the ballroom toward him, navigating between dancing couples and festive revelers, as the lights suddenly flicker—once, then twice—before stabilizing again.
The crowd murmurs nervously about power surges, but I spot the real culprits up above.
Joy and Dash have made themselves comfortable in the crystal fixtures, lounging as if they’re relaxing in the world’s most expensive hammocks.
Alec doesn’t seem to care whether or not the ship’s electricity is on the fritz. He continues staring out into the darkness with his reflection in the glass showing an expression I can’t quite read. Is it guilt? Grief? Or something far more calculating?
I’m ten feet away when he finally senses my approach and turns my way. For a split second, there’s something in his eyes —a flash of something cold and hard that sends a chill down my spine despite the warmth of the crowded room.
Then it’s gone, replaced by a smile that never quite initiates.
“Trixie,” he says, raising his champagne flute as a greeting. “Just the person I wanted to see.”