Page 4 of Cruel Christmas Cruise (Cruising Through Midlife: Cruise Ship Cozy Mysteries #12)
N othing says vacation quite like completing a safety drill on your phone while your stomach growls loud enough to alert maritime rescue. We’re back on the Emerald Queen and ready for our next adventure as the ship sails out of Greenwich and into the fog.
The muster drill app cheerfully confirms we’re all trained to abandon ship, and I can’t help thinking the real emergency is the delay between me and the buffet—the delay would be the fact I still need to check in at my muster station to make my proficiency official. And Bess, Nettie, and I do just that.
“Finally!” Nettie bounces on her toes like a kid outside a candy store as soon as we’re through. “Let’s go stuff our faces before they run out of the good stuff.”
“The good stuff being anything that’s not moving,” Bess adds, as the three of us power-walk toward the lido deck.
“And preferably covered in chocolate,” Nettie calls after her. “Or nacho cheese. Or both. I’m not picky.”
“You’re never picky when it comes to food,” I point out. “Come to think of it, neither am I.”
“That’s what makes me fun at parties,” Nettie shoots back. “Unlike some people who count calories like they’re balancing the national budget.”
“Are you referring to me?” Bess asks while arching a brow at her bestie.
“If the sensible shoe fits,” Nettie sings and the three of us share a laugh.
There is nothing quite like that first day aboard a freshly scrubbed cruise ship.
The polished brass gleams under the soft lighting, making every surface look spotless and inviting.
The air tingles with both promise and possibility—a delicious cocktail of sea breeze, excitement, and the faint scent of something delicious waiting to be consumed.
The crew moves with practiced precision while sporting genuine smiles after just a few short hours of preparation for this moment.
All around us, fellow passengers wear that unmistakable first-day glow—that look of shoulders finally dropping away from ears, of watches and phones being tucked away as everyday worries dissolve into the vast horizon ahead.
You can spot the newbies a mile away—stress lines vanishing, faces lit up, and that dreamy, far-off stare of people wondering if it’s too early for a pina colada. (Spoiler: it’s not.)
The gentle sway beneath our feet isn’t just the ocean’s rhythm—it’s freedom itself, the promise of adventure measured in nautical miles, and let’s face it, unlimited buffet plates.
This sensation right here—this weightless, timeless bubble of pure escape—this is what we’ve all come for. That and the food. Have I mentioned the food yet?
We’re halfway to our culinary paradise when a familiar figure in crisp whites blocks our path. Captain Wes Crawford looks every inch the commander even without his entourage of adoring fans.
“Ladies,” he greets us with that smile that’s launched a thousand naughty cruise ship fantasies. “I was hoping I’d run into you. How would you like to be my guests at the welcome ball I’m hosting?”
“A welcome ball?” Nettie’s eyebrows do an interpretive dance—a rather suggestive one at that. “Sounds fancy.”
“Is there a dress code?” Bess asks suspiciously. “Because I didn’t pack my tiara.”
“No tiara needed.” Wes laughs. “It’s for my class reunion. Carrington Academy’s fortieth formal meet and greet post our scholastic days.”
“Carrington Academy?” Nettie’s face lights up as if she’s just discovered gossip gold. “Why do I get the feeling that place was laced with old money, untouchable legacies, plaid blazers, and enough whispered scandals in the library to keep the entire prep school on its gold-dusted toes.”
“Don’t forget the secret societies and trust fund babies,” Bess adds with a wink.
“And the rowing teams,” Nettie continues. “Always with the rowing teams. The sport of choice for people whose biggest life challenge is keeping their trust fund afloat. Did you row, Wes? You’ve got that my-parents-also-own-horses posture.”
“I was actually on the sailing team,” Wes admits with a chuckle.
“Even better!” Nettie claps her hands. “The sport of kings!”
Bess laughs. “Where else can you spend a fortune to let Mother Nature do all the work while you pretend you’re in control?”
“It’s like rowing, but with more champagne and fewer blisters,” Nettie adds.
“What she’s trying to say”—Bess cuts in—“is we’d love to be your guests.”
I give an enthusiastic nod before craning my neck past him. “Where’s Ransom?” I ask, scanning the corridor.
“Sorry, Trixie. He’s locked in a staff meeting, doing a security team briefing,” Wes says as he tips his hat my way. “He’ll join us later. Shall we?” He extends his arm my way and I don’t hesitate to link up with him.
“We shall,” I say as Wes leads the way to what I have a feeling will be opulence the likes of which this ship has never seen before. After all, I have no doubt he’ll be pulling out all the stops for his friends.
And boy, am I right.
The Star Lounge has been transformed into a winter wonderland on steroids.
Crystal chandeliers drip with silver icicles, while towering Christmas trees guard every corner like festive soldiers strewn with twinkle lights.
The air is thick with the scent of something savory, something sweet with cinnamon, and what I suspect is very expensive cologne—and perhaps old money.
The crowd is thick, and each and every one of them looks more polished than the last. I had no idea so many Carrington Academy graduates would be joining us on the voyage.
Bing Crosby croons about a white Christmas through hidden speakers, competing with the tinkle of champagne glasses and the low hum of privileged conversation.
Everyone looks like they stepped out of a Ralph Lauren holiday catalog—all cashmere and pearls, with enough subtle Botox to freeze a small glacier.
The rhythmic tapping of Louboutin heels on marble rings out like a chorus, and it only seems to amplify the backbeat of generational wealth.
But the real showstopper is the buffet. Mountains of lobster tails, prime rib carved to order, and enough caviar to stock a Russian embassy.
The dessert table alone could trigger a diabetic coma from twenty feet away with towers of macarons, three different chocolate fountains, and what appears to be an entire gingerbread village. And that’s just for starters.
“Sweet baby Jesus in a manger,” Nettie whispers at the sight.
“Amen,” Bess agrees, already edging toward the food like a lioness spotting wounded prey.
“Is that a chocolate fountain shaped like a Christmas tree?” Nettie asks, practically shaking with excitement.
“And those aren’t just any macarons,” Bess observes. “Those are Pierre Hermé macarons. I’d recognize that shade of pistachio anywhere.”
“How can you tell from here?” I ask.
“When you’ve spent as many years coveting things you can’t afford as I have, you develop a sixth sense,” Bess replies.
Wes nods. “And I happily handed over my grandmother’s coveted sticky toffee pudding recipe to our head chef. Be sure to try some before it disappears.”
“I wouldn’t dare miss it,” I say quickly. “I’ve been a longtime fan of sticky toffee pudding. Heck, I’ve been a longtime fan of just about any and every dessert.”
Before any of us can make our move, two familiar faces materialize beside us. One of which I totally adore.
Elodie Abernathy sashays over in a dress that defies several laws of physics.
The Queen’s Mall manager from Johannesburg has been prowling these decks for twenty years, leaving a trail of broken hearts and maxed-out credit cards in her wake.
She’s also my best friend, which says something about my judgment.
Right behind her is Tinsley Thornton, our rather ornery cruise director and professional thorn in my side. She’s forty-something, Colorado-born, and as ambitious as they come. She’s never forgiven me for inadvertently catching Ransom’s eye—or for that matter, Wes’ ocular attention either.
Both women are dressed to impress in their standard ship’s uniform of a white blouse and navy pencil skirt.
Although Elodie’s attire has been customized to fit like a second skin, with enough strategic unbuttoning to suggest her uniform doubles as evening wear for very specific occasions—behind closed doors.
Or open doors, knowing my bestie. The buttons on her blouse appear to have abandoned ship somewhere around her third rib.
“Well, well”—Elodie purrs as she pats her short blonde mane—“if it isn’t the captain and his merry band of troublemakers.”
“Speaking of trouble—” Tinsley says, flashing teeth whiter than fresh snow.
“I hear we’re among prep school royalty, Wes.
I’ll be sure to keep the caviar spoons on standby for the entirety of our trip.
” Tinsley is a looker with her long chestnut-colored locks, perennial tan, and eyes that glow—usually with hatred aimed at me.
I’m also considered an employee of the ship right along with Elodie and Tinsley, seeing that I run the art classes here.
But Tinsley doesn’t see me as a coworker.
More like a natural disaster with a paintbrush and an unfortunate habit of turning her cruise itineraries into crime scene logistics.
That or a mobile crime scene generator who’s single-handedly keeping the ship’s lawyer on speed dial.
Okay, fine. It’s both.
But that’s neither here nor there.
“Don’t forget the silver platters,” Elodie adds while nodding to Tinsley. “Maybe some gold-dusted truffles?”
“And the endless champagne fountain,” I chime in. “Nothing says inherited privilege like drinking bubbles that flow uphill.”