Page 5 of Cruel Christmas Cruise (Cruising Through Midlife: Cruise Ship Cozy Mysteries #12)

“Ha-ha,” Tinsley says without a trace of humor.

“For your information, I’ve already arranged for ice sculptures, a string quartet, and yes, actual gold leaf on the desserts.

Wes, I’ll make sure your friends have the trip of a lifetime.

” She nods to a series of ice sculptures dotting the center of the magnificent buffet, three giant snowmen all wearing bright red scarves with actual carrots for noses.

They’re melting quickly and look as if they’re contemplating filing a complaint with OSHA about their working conditions.

“Gold leaf?” Nettie perks up. “Is that edible?”

“Everything is edible if you’re brave enough.” Elodie winks.

Nettie snorts at the thought. “Eat the rich just became my dinner plan! Wes, I should have known your prep school pals would be the gold-plated variety. Does the country club know you’re letting us commoners sample the membership?”

“Funny you should say that, because most of them do belong to the same country club now,” Wes admits. “The revolution to rebel against our opulent upbringing never quite materialized.”

“Shocking,” Bess deadpans. “Rich people staying rich. Who could have predicted?”

“Don’t worry,” Tinsley assures him, shooting me a look that could curdle eggnog.

Wait—isn’t eggnog already curdled? “I’ll make sure your guests have a fabulous time,” she purrs his way.

“I’ve planned an entire Christmas-themed itinerary.

And it will be wonderful—as long as certain people don’t find any bodies to ruin the festivities. ”

“I don’t go looking for trouble, ” I’m quick to inform her. “Trouble has my cell number, home address, and apparently, my cruise itinerary.”

At this point, I’m pretty sure trouble has me on speed dial and a GPS tracker on my luggage, too.

Tinsley snorts my way. “So you’re saying dead bodies just happen to fall at your feet?” She hikes a brow, looking less than amused.

“Pretty much,” I admit.

“Try not to turn our Christmas cruise into a crime scene,” she growls it out like the threat it is. “Some of us prefer candy canes to caution tape—especially at this time of year.” And with that parting shot, she glides away to work the room.

“That woman desperately needs someone to jingle her bells,” Elodie observes with ruthless clarity. “Preferably someone who knows how to handle her... ornaments .”

“You said it,” Nettie is quick to add. “What she needs is a good ho, ho, ho from someone who knows how to work a North Pole.”

Bess scoffs at her bestie. “How are we in a room full of people without a muzzle?”

Nettie scoffs right back at her. “Keep your kinky ways to yourself, Toots. There might be elves in the vicinity.”

Elodie snickers. “I think the three of you need to find a man in your stocking. It might take the edge off,” she’s quick to add.

“And I’m counting Tinsley in that number, not you, Trixie.

Santa has already stuffed your stocking with a security threat hot enough to melt the snow off both poles.

” Her phone buzzes. “Duty calls. New shipment at the boutique.” She winks at me.

“I’m sending a Mrs. Claus negligee to your room that would make Santa trade in his sleigh for a sports car.

And it’s guaranteed to land you on the naughty list—every night of the year. ”

“Is it see-through?” I ask, because apparently I’m a glutton for punishment. Not only that, but since I’ve become a newlywed and seem to have formed an addiction to spicy lingerie, Elodie has essentially become my dealer.

“Red, fur-trimmed, and so sheer you could read the passenger manifest through it.” She grins. “Ransom won’t know what hit him.”

She’s gone for less than a second before Wes is suddenly surrounded by his reunion trio from earlier—Ginger, Holly, and the infamous blonde Mistletoe. Each one is dressed in an opulent gown—red, gold, and green, in exactly that order.

“Westie!” Missy executes the classic social butterfly mwah-mwah maneuver. “You have gone overboard with all of these decorations. Get it? Overboard? ” We all share a quick laugh, but her fellow classmates look less than amused.

Wes gives a humble nod. “I plan on making this a cruise you will remember.” He offers an easy smile to his classmates. “You know, in London, we never got around to what’s been keeping you ladies busy. Obviously, I’ve been sailing, but what’s going on with the three of you these days?”

“Oh, let’s not bore anyone.” Missy waves dismissively, but Holly raises a hand.

“I’m running the Cresswell Foundation now,” the strawberry blonde says with a touch of pride.

“We fund educational programs for underprivileged children.” Holly looks sweet and kind, and the kind of person you’d want to have as a neighbor who occasionally brings over dessert.

I bet she bakes a mean banana nut bread.

“How noble,” Missy says to her former classmate in a tone that makes it sound like an insult.

“I’m sure it keeps you busy between charity luncheons.

” She makes charity luncheons sound like a bad thing.

Honestly, it’s the only thing I miss about my own time served at the Brambleberry Bay Country Club.

“At least she’s doing something meaningful.” Ginger bristles and her red hair bounces with indignation of its own. “I’ll have you know, I just closed on the biggest property deal in Connecticut history.”

“Still in real estate?” Missy’s smile has all the warmth of an arctic breeze. “How practical. And here I thought you’d end up marrying money like the rest of us—and then, of course, divorcing it. But then, you have, haven’t you?”

“I make my own money.” Ginger leans in so close to Missy and I’m worried that tinsel won’t be the only thing flying around the Star Lounge. “My agency is number one in luxury homes.” She hisses the words out like a career-based threat.

“Ladies,” Wes interjects before nodding to the antagonist in question. “What about you, Missy? Still in journalism?”

“Journalism?” She laughs as if he’s told the funniest joke.

“That’s adorable. I’m a media mogul now—ten million podcast subscribers worship at my altar—and the podcast itself makes TMZ look tame, my social media posts have been known to cause international incidents, and Netflix green-lit my book before I’d written the synopsis. ”

“Your book?” Holly asks skeptically.

“ Secrets, Lies, and Socialites: My Life in the Fast Lane ,” Missy preens. “It’s already hit all the bestseller lists.”

“I’m surprised you had time to write between ruining lives,” Ginger mutters.

“Oh, Ginger.” Missy’s voice drips like honey. “Still bitter about that little incident junior year? Water under the bridge, surely. Unless, of course, your conscience won’t let you forget.”

Holly opens her mouth to speak, but Missy cuts her off. “But enough about our boring careers. How about some real Carrington gossip instead?” She waggles her phone like a weapon. “Did everyone see today’s blind item?”

Both Ginger and Holly stiffen visibly.

“Blind item?” I ask, intrigued despite myself.

Wes leans my way. “Someone has been sending anonymous texts to our entire class for years. Very Gossip Girl . Today’s was particularly juicy—something about covering up a crime so serious it could mean murder charges.”

“Let me guess,” I say. “Something like ‘Spotted: Someone’s been naughty, not nice’?”

Missy’s eyes widen just a fraction. “How did you?—”

“Lucky guess.” I shrug. That and the fact I caught a glimpse of Wes’ phone earlier in the hall when he linked arms with me. “Who do you think writes them?” I can’t help asking.

Ginger gives an incredulous laugh at the blonde among us. “Everyone knows it’s you, Missy.”

Holly nods. “Gossip is literally your business model. You started with that awful newsletter in high school?—”

“The Carrington Confidential was a legitimate news source,” Missy interrupts.

“You published excerpts from my diary ,” Holly scoffs at the thought.

“Which you never proved I had anything to do with,” Missy replies smoothly.

“Because Ginger stole it for you,” Holly shoots back.

“Ancient history,” Ginger says with a laugh. “And completely unprovable.” She winks at Wes. “It’s nothing but hearsay.”

“Missy is guilty as sin and she knows it,” Holly doubles down, looking less like the nice neighbor next door and more like an axe-wielding charity fundraiser bent on revenge.

Missy places a perfectly manicured hand on her chest. “Me? I’m shocked you’d think that.

” But that devilish smile of hers suggests otherwise.

After all, she built an empire on other people’s secrets—from her high school Carrington Confidential newsletter to her current podcast that she herself said makes TMZ look tame.

Another trio of Wes’ old classmates comes over and they all drift away while reminiscing about the good old days, leaving me to search for Bess and Nettie, who’ve apparently been swallowed by the buffet line.

I’m also keeping an eye out for Ransom, but no such luck. Instead, I spot Missy in the corner in what appears to be a heated argument with a dark-haired man. She’s clutching a red cocktail and looking to launch it as if it’s a grenade with the pin pulled.

The argument ends abruptly. Then, without wasting any time, Missy storms over to Holly, unleashing what looks like a verbal assault. No doubt about that diary again. Alec Shepherd, the man I met in London, grabs Missy’s wrist, but she yanks free with surprising force.

Then, in one fluid motion, Missy downs her entire drink as if to prove a point.

Three seconds later, her hand flies to her throat.

My feet are moving in that direction before my brain can fully process what’s happening.

Missy’s eyes meet mine—wide with panic—as she crumples to the floor.

I drop next to her and my fingers desperately search for a pulse that isn’t there.

Missy won’t have to worry about maintaining her ten million followers anymore.

Mistletoe Thatch is dead.