Page 6 of Cruel Christmas Cruise (Cruising Through Midlife: Cruise Ship Cozy Mysteries #12)

“ N ot again,” I mutter as the Star Lounge erupts with screams that could shatter every ice sculpture currently floating on the Atlantic.

The scent of chilled champagne mingles with expensive perfume and the unmistakable tang of death—a combination I’m becoming disturbingly familiar with.

Crystal chandeliers cast shadows across the horrified faces of Carrington Academy’s finest as they realize their class reunion just turned into a class funeral.

And here I thought the worst thing about this Christmas cruise would be needing industrial-strength shapewear—turns out, dead bodies are more concerning than dress sizes.

My stomach does a little flip—partly from shock, partly from the three macarons I just inhaled.

This is not how I pictured my evening going.

I was planning on maybe solving the mystery of how many chocolate fountains one person could accost before getting cut off, not solving an actual murder— another murder at that.

Wes materializes beside me with his captain’s whites morphing into a beacon of authority in the chaos. “ Trixie ,” he pants with panic at the sight.

And why exactly did he say my name that way? It almost sounded like a reprimand.

Okay, fine. It probably was.

Ransom appears seconds later, already dropping to check Missy’s pulse with the efficiency of someone who’s done this far too many times—usually with me standing right next to the body.

Do other women stumble across corpses with the regularity of finding lost socks in the dryer? Probably not. Most husbands worry about working late or forgetting anniversaries. Mine worries about me tripping over dead bodies on the way to dinner.

He shakes his head at Wes, prompting a fresh wave of screams that make the Christmas carols blaring from the speakers sound as if they’re singing in a hurricane.

Ransom winces as he draws me close. “I need to call this in—but really? Again?”

My mouth falls open as he pulls out his phone, already barking orders to security to get to the Star Lounge immediately.

I want to protest that this isn’t my fault, that I’m just an innocent bystander who happens to have terrible luck when it comes to the living and the dead, but even I’m beginning to wonder if I’m cursed.

Maybe I should start warning people when I enter a room.

“Hi, I’m Trixie, and there’s a seventy-three percent chance that someone will die in my vicinity. ”

More like ninety-nine point nine, but I don’t dare own those odds in any way—even though they sort of own me.

“Please remain calm, everyone,” Wes calls out, commanding attention with the ease of someone used to steering ships through storms—and crime scenes. “It seems someone has had a medical event.”

He slices a glance my way, and I can tell by the tightness around his eyes that he suspects this is about as medical as a mob hit—just with better catering and Christmas carols.

The man knows me too well. He’s seen my track record.

Medical events don’t typically follow me around like lost puppies—unlike the Grim Reaper.

Speaking of hits, Tinsley races over like a heat-seeking missile locked on its target—which is undoubtedly me. Her stilettos click against the marble floor with military precision as she speeds my way.

“You just can’t stand letting someone else be the life of the party, can you?” Her perfectly lined lips curl with disdain. “You had to go and mow down one of Wes’ poor classmates to ensure you were the star of the show!”

“I had nothing to do with this,” I protest, wondering how I always end up playing defense attorney for myself, at crime scenes no less. Come to think of it, maybe I should keep a lawyer on retainer. Or better yet, start traveling with a polygraph machine, just to save everyone some time.

“Nothing to do with it?” Tinsley scoffs loud enough to wake the dead—well, not this particular dead.

“I beg to differ,” she huffs. “The woman dropped dead at your feet. Not to mention the trail of bodies you’ve conveniently discovered since boarding the Emerald Queen just under a year ago.

” Her voice rises to performance level and has clearly garnished the attention of just about everyone in the room.

“Congratulations on being the killer Grinch who stole the Christmas cruise, Trixie! You’ve ruined the trip for everyone on board.

” She glances down at Missy’s face with its vacant stare.

“Especially that poor woman. I’d better go run defense. ”

I bite back the urge to point out that if anyone is stealing Christmas, it’s the actual killer, not the person who found the body. But arguing with Tinsley is like trying to merge into traffic during rush hour—dangerous, stressful, and you’ll probably get the finger.

She claps her hands like a kindergarten teacher. “Everyone, please move back and exit the lounge immediately!”

Ransom lifts a hand to the crowd. “Not before you leave your name and cabin number with the officers stationed at the door.”

The room hardly empties, but the volume ratchets up again as a thousand hushed conversations start up at once.

Apparently, murder trumps even the dessert buffet for entertainment value.

Although I do notice several people trying to sneak those sought-after macarons into their purses on the way out. Priorities, I suppose.

Bess and Nettie materialize at my side like the geriatric SWAT team they are.

“How rude,” Nettie huffs. “Finding a body without us.”

Sometimes I wonder about my friends. Most people would be horrified to stumble upon a corpse. Mine are offended they weren’t invited to the dead man’s party.

Bess swats her arm. “Would you stop? The only thing rude here is you. There’s a woman who died minutes ago, and the captain said it was a medical event.”

Nettie squints at me with the intensity of someone trying to read fine print without their glasses.

“We’ve yet to have a death related to a so-called medical event.

Tell us the truth, Trix. Have you seen a ghost hovering around?

Preferably one that the Man Upstairs sent back to help solve a case.

Or did this woman drop dead from a mere case of shellfish poisoning? ”

Leave it to Nettie to jump straight from supernatural to seafood. Though I have to admit, both theories seem equally likely in my world these days.

Bess gasps as if Nettie just insulted the Queen—and she sort of did, the floating Queen.

“Don’t you dare hint that this ship has bad seafood.

If we miss out on lobster dinner because of your propensity to start vicious culinary rumors of the crustation variety, I’ll have half a mind to throw you overboard. ”

“I knew it!” Nettie slaps her thigh. “You’ve only got half a mind.” She nods my way. “I’ve long since suspected this.”

“Well, the other half is busy keeping you alive,” Bess retorts. “And out of jail, I might add.”

“That was one time,” Nettie protests. “And I maintain that garden gnome had it coming.”

“Come on.” Bess tugs her arm. “Let’s hit the dessert table one more time before they kick everyone out for good. I saw profiteroles that need rescuing.”

They waddle off toward the buffet, leaving me to face my next challenger as Ransom returns with Quinn Riddle, his right hand at vessel security. Her black hair gleams under the sparkling chandeliers, and her green eyes hold all the warmth of a frozen margarita.

“Another one, huh?” Quinn’s voice drips with accusation—and mostly sarcasm. “You’re quite the collector of corpses, aren’t you?”

I’ve always wanted to collect something. Stamps, coins, vintage teacups. Instead, I seem to be amassing a collection of murder victims. Not exactly something you can display in a china cabinet—at least not with a modicum of decorum.

“Whoa, watch it,” Ransom warns. “That’s my wife you’re speaking to.”

Quinn hikes a brow. “I understand the lure of danger, Ransom, but you sure chose an odd duck to marry. The woman has found more bodies than a medical examiner during flu season.”

I hate how much that rings true.

“I prefer to think of it as having a talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” I offer helpfully. More like the wrong place at the wrong time—again and again.

“Or the right place at the right time—if you’re the killer,” Quinn shoots back. “Maybe we should lock you in the brig just to keep the rest of the passengers safe.”

“Yes, because clearly I’m the threat here,” I say, gesturing to the actual dead body. “Not the person who’s going around poisoning people’s cocktails.”

“How do you know it was poison?” Quinn’s eyes narrow my way.

“Lucky guess?” I say, realizing I’ve just made myself look more suspicious than usual. Ten bucks says Quinn thinks I’m getting sloppy. “I saw the woman clutching her throat just as she downed her cocktail.”

“Did you mean to blurt that out?” Quinn sniffs. “Or are you just getting sloppy?”

Knew it.

Ransom’s expression turns to granite. “Do your job, Riddle. Leave my wife out of your conspiracy theories.” He gives my cheek a quick kiss. “Go ahead to our cabin, Trixie. And try not to trip over any more corpses on the way, would you?”

My mouth falls open again as he strides away, leaving me standing there like a murder magnet in heels.

I’m beginning to think I need a new hobby.

Maybe knitting. Although knowing my luck, I’d probably accidentally strangle someone with yarn—or stab them with a knitting needle.

The possibilities seem endless. How knitting is considered a safe hobby, I will never know.

Holly and Alec, Wes’ classmates, step forward and exchange horrified looks. Ginger joins them, along with the dark-haired man I saw arguing with Missy earlier. They all look as if they’ve seen a ghost—which, given my life, is entirely possible and at this point in the night, pretty much warranted.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Ginger gasps, pressing a trembling hand to her lips. “I think I’m going to be sick.” She bolts for the exit without hesitation—or a proper alibi.

The dark-haired man I saw arguing with the deceased walks over to Holly. “You shouldn’t be seeing this either,” he says, wrapping his arms around Holly and leading her away as if she’s made of blown glass.

I note the hard look Alec gives them before he nods toward the deceased and heads for the door himself. Interesting. There is definitely some serious tension here, and not just of the someone just died variety.

I’m about to follow Ransom when a spray of miniature red and green stars appears before me like festive fireworks.

Two ghosts materialize—the same ones I saw earlier in London.

A blonde with her hair in soft waves that cascade over her shoulders and a handsome man with dark hair and light eyes, both looking eternally fifty-something and happen to be glowing like Christmas lights on steroids.

Great. As if one murder wasn’t enough, apparently, I need two ghosts to solve it. Is there a bulk discount for supernatural assistance? Asking for a friend. A friend who happens to have very, very bad luck.

The two ghosts of Christmas past frown down at the corpse before the ghostly woman points directly at me. Then they vanish as quickly as they appeared, leaving me wondering if I should start charging admission for these supernatural meet and greets.

The room around me ignites with gasps, and I look around just as Wes and Ransom approach.

“What’s happening now?” I ask, bracing for whatever fresh hell awaits.

“This.” Wes holds up his phone as Ransom and I lean in to read.

It’s another message from Carrington Confidential .

brEAKING: The Queen of Mean has taken her final bow.

Ding dong, the witch is dead—but this was no house-dropping accident.

Someone gave Missy her last kiss, and I suspect it wasn’t under the mistletoe.

With a thousand reasons to want her gone, the real question is—which one of you finally had the nerve to do the deadly deed?

It’s time to separate the naughty from the nice.

Class is in session,

The Dean of Dirt

XOXO, Gossip Ghost

The message ends with a skull emoji wearing a Santa hat because apparently, even anonymous killers have a little holiday spirit in them.

“Well,” I say, staring at the screen, “at least someone is having a merry little Christmas.”

Tinsley sighs as she steps in close and pinches the bridge of her nose. “This is going to be a PR nightmare.”

“Not to mention an actual nightmare for whoever did this,” I add. “Although I have to admit, Gossip Ghost has a certain ring to it.”

“Please don’t compliment the killer.” Tinsley sighs again.

Suddenly, I realize this reunion just became a murder investigation with a side of nostalgia—and I’m right in the middle of it. Again.

Ho, ho, homicide , indeed.