Page 7 of Cruel Christmas Cruise (Cruising Through Midlife: Cruise Ship Cozy Mysteries #12)

Suddenly Hitched—What a Trip!

H ello, Trixie!

I’ve booked a two-week Mediterranean cruise and, after reading all your adventures, I’m secretly hoping to stumble upon a mystery of my own!

I’ve packed my magnifying glass and notepad, but so far the only suspicious activity I’ve witnessed is someone taking two desserts at the buffet.

How can I ensure some excitement without actually, you know, causing someone to get murdered?

My vacation needs a little intrigue! And maybe a body.

Mysteriously Bored in Monaco

Dear Mysteriously Bored in Monaco,

Oh my goodness! While I appreciate your enthusiasm, finding dead bodies is NOT the highlight of my cruises I’d recommend replicating.

For mystery without homicide, try joining a murder mystery dinner (all the suspense, none of the prison time). Chat with crew members—they have stories that would curl your hair! Or explore ports like a detective by tracking down obscure locations without using your phone.

My favorite? Create backstories for fellow passengers. That couple who only appears at midnight? Clearly international art thieves. The gentleman with different colored socks? Secret coded messages, obviously!

Remember—the best mysteries are the ones where everyone lives to enjoy the midnight buffet, especially you!

XOXO Trixie

I went straight to my cabin last night—well, almost straight. Bess and Nettie diverted me to the Blue Water Café on the lido deck where we hit the buffet like it owed us money. We can’t help it. Murder gives us the munchies.

After demolishing three plates of lobster mac and cheese, lasagna, Kung Pao chicken, pepperoni pizza, half a prime rib, enough mashed potatoes smothered in gravy to feed a small army, two slices of key lime pie, a tower of profiteroles—aka cream puffs drenched in chocolate—and at least half a dozen molten chocolate lava cakes—okay, fine, I ate a cool dozen—we finally waddled back to our respective cabins.

I’m pretty sure I heard my waistband whimpering for mercy, but that might have been Nettie complaining about the lack of second dessert.

Side note: Ransom and I picked up a cabin on the fourteenth floor so we could be near Bess and Nettie. Or more to the point, so I could be. Ransom mentioned something about how if another murder were to take place, he’d be busy and wouldn’t want me wandering to our cabin alone.

I laughed it off, of course. But the man wasn’t kidding. Nothing says romance quite like your husband planning your accommodations around anticipated homicides.

Normally, crew gets assigned cabins below deck— way below deck—but Ransom and I have always purchased our own cabins. Now that we’re married, we’re continuing the tradition, just with one cabin instead of two. Because let’s face it, his chief concern was my proximity to potential crime scenes.

I conked out the second my head hit the pillow. I didn’t even notice Ransom coming in. In fact, I barely registered him leaving this morning either, though I did wake at one point to feel his strong arms wrapped around me.

At least he’s not steering clear of me— yet . I wouldn’t blame him if he were. I’m more than just a bad luck charm on this ship.

Tinsley’s right. I’m definitely a corpse collector. An inadvertent one, but still. Maybe I should start a loyalty program—find ten bodies, get the eleventh investigation free.

But it’s the very next morning now, our first sea day, and I’ve already taught two art classes on the promenade deck.

Both groups painted the moody Atlantic as it churned beneath gunmetal skies.

Nothing says holiday cheer quite like threatening weather and the possibility of seasickness.

Half my students spent more time gripping the railing than their paintbrushes. But my classes ended rather quickly.

Which explains why Bess, Nettie, and I have once again parked ourselves in the Blue Water Café, this time next to a ceiling-to-floor window with our plates piled high with Christmas-themed breakfast delights.

We’ve got stacks of gingerbread pancakes drowning in maple syrup, eggnog waffles topped with candied cranberries, cinnamon rolls, croissants, French toast, fresh made-to-order omelets, and enough bacon to construct a life-size replica of Big Ben.

Our Christmas lattes sport whipped cream snowmen that are slowly melting into glorious caffeinated puddles—and melting in our bellies as well.

The café has gone full tilt North Pole with its decorations as giant candy canes line the walls, while artificial snow dusts every surface.

A twelve-foot tree dominates one corner with its branches groaning under the weight of enough ornaments to stock a craft store.

Outside, the Atlantic looks like liquid steel with waves crashing against the ship as a December chill seeps through the glass.

“According to this here maritime manifesto”—Bess says, squinting at the ship’s newsletter, the Seabreeze —“Tinsley’s got enough Christmas activities planned to exhaust every last one of Santa’s elves—at least the nice ones.”

Nettie nods while inspecting her own copy.

“I’ve tried to exhaust a naughty elf or two in the past and they really understood the meaning of working overtime.

” She shakes out the newsletter in front of her.

“This is quite the list. Cookie decorating contest, ugly sweater parade, mistletoe scavenger hunt, reindeer games on the sports deck—” She pauses and her lips curve with dark intent.

“Speaking of Santa, I’m hoping he’ll skip the candy canes this year and toss a few good men down my chimney instead. ”

Bess nearly chokes on her eggnog latte. “The only thing coming down your chimney is soot and possibly a restraining order.”

“Don’t be such a Scrooge.” Nettie waves her off. “I’m just trying to stuff my own stocking, if you know what I mean.”

“Unfortunately, we all know what you mean,” I tease, reaching for another piece of bacon. “And I’m pretty sure that’s not what naughty or nice refers to.”

Nettie leans my way. “Speaking of naughty, have you seen any cute men from the other side lately?”

I’m about to tell them about the two ghosts—the dapper dark-haired man and the pretty blonde—when I spot Elodie Abernathy heading our way.

Elodie doesn’t know about my supernatural quirk, and believe me, it’s for the better.

She’s wreaking enough havoc among the living.

Those ghostly studs holding court in the heavenlies that are dying to take a bite out of her will have to wait until the Grim Reaper taps her on the shoulder and asks her to dance.

Knowing Elodie, she’ll proposition him before he ever has the chance to make his lethal move.

Speaking of pretty blondes—my blonde bestie looks slightly irate at the moment but fashionable as ever in a winter white cashmere turtleneck, burgundy leather pants, and designer knee-high boots that could probably qualify as investment property in parts of the world.

Her lipstick matches her pants perfectly because, of course, it does.

Elodie doesn’t do anything halfway, including coordinating her wardrobe with potential crime scenes.

She drops into the empty seat next to Bess, never taking her eyes off me. “The person you turned into a corpse—was it a woman or a man?”

“What?” I inch back, nearly knocking over my latte snowman.

“Answer the question. Who did you send to the big cruise ship in the sky? A woman or a man?”

“It was a woman, but?—”

“Oh, thank heaven.” Elodie plucks a croissant off my plate and fans herself. “I saw the offerings from the captain’s classmates, and those men were top shelf. I’m bound to have my stocking stuffed with more than just holiday cheer if you catch my drift.”

“We caught it, wrestled it to the ground, and begged it to stop,” I mutter, but Elodie is on a roll.

“I mean, have you seen that Alec Shepherd? Silver fox alert! And don’t get me started on the sea of dark-haired mystery men.

The best part? They’ve all got bad boy with a trust fund written all over them.

” She takes a bite of that croissant she swiped and moans deeply.

“I’m thinking of offering a special discount at the boutique.

Twenty percent off for anyone willing to unwrap their presents early—and I’ll volunteer to be the present. ”

“You and me both, sister.” Nettie nods so fiercely that the gray tumbleweed sitting on her head nearly topples. “I’m planning to jingle some bells and deck more than just the halls.”

Bess scoffs. “Nettie, you’re old enough to be their mother.”

“Exactly,” Nettie shoots back. “Which means I have the experience to show them what they’ve been missing. Besides, haven’t you heard? Vintage is in.”

Elodie picks up my latte and raises it in a toast. “Cheers to that. Nothing wrong with being a classic model—we appreciate in value.” She takes a sip, then fixes me with a knowing look. “Count me in when you start your little snooping with the troops tango.”

“Are you talking about my investigation?” I ask, amused. “It’s hardly a dance. But if it were, it would definitely be the chicken dance—all flapping and chaos with no clear direction.” I loathe to admit it, but we all know it’s true.

“Potato, po-tah-to. Murder, mayhem. Same difference.” Elodie grins. “I want a front-row seat when it comes to shaking down all those scorching hot suspects. Someone has got to make sure they’re properly frisked.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s Ransom’s job,” I point out.

“Your husband can pat them down for weapons. I’ll check for hidden assets.” She winks. “Thoroughly.”

“I call shotgun,” Nettie shouts, startling a nearby waiter.

“Heaven help.” Bess pinches the bridge of her nose as if she’s trying to ward off an impending migraine. “So, Trixie? Are we investigating?”

“No,” I say firmly. “That’s Ransom’s job.”

“Right.” Elodie laughs, and it’s a sharp, tinkling sound—think breaking champagne flutes.

“And I’m Mother Teresa.” She polishes off my latte and stands.

“Text me when the second the fun begins. I’ve got a mall to run, but murder waits for no woman.

Besides, someone needs to make sure those poor, grieving men have a shoulder to cry on. Preferably while shirtless.”

She sashays away, leaving a trail of expensive perfume and questionable intentions in her wake. That’s sort of her signature move.

Bess leans in the moment Elodie is out of earshot. “Now, tell us about those ghosts!”

Only a handful of people know about my supernatural blessing—or curse as it were—Bess and Nettie being two of them, which is appropriate, considering they’re the ones who got the ghostly ball rolling with that vodka bottle incident.

Nothing says welcome to the paranormal quite like blunt force trauma with a bottle of premium spirits.

Wes and Ransom know, too, but that’s where I draw the line. Not even my kids are aware of this oddball talent I’ve inadvertently picked up.

Turns out, I’m something called transmundane, further classified as supersensual, which basically means I can see dead people, but only the ones the universe decides will help me solve a murder case.

And yes, sometimes I see them before there’s even a case to solve, though I haven’t quite mastered the art of preventing the murders from happening.

In fact, I seem to have perfected the opposite.

I tell Bess and Nettie what little I know about the dapper dark-haired man and the pretty blonde, which amounts to exactly nothing except that they exist and seem unhappy about the current situation.

“Dibs on the dark-haired ghost,” Nettie declares.

Bess sighs. “What happened to dibs on the naughty elves?”

“That still stands.” Nettie rolls up her sleeves. “You want to fight me for ghost rights?”

“I’d rather fight you for the last piece of bacon,” Bess shoots back. “At least that’s a battle worth winning. But given the right ghost, I might be open to a love match from the other side myself.”

I tip my head. “I’m thrilled you’re both branching out into dating the deceased, but we should probably prioritize preventing any new ghostly singles from joining the market.”

I’m about to continue when movement by the buffet catches my eye, and sure enough, the two ghosts in question are there, laughing and stealing cookies like a couple of spectral culinary thieves raiding the cookie jar.

The blonde pops a gingerbread man into her mouth while the dark-haired man juggles at least a dozen sugar cookies.

But the moment they notice me watching, their expressions shift. They shoot me looks that could freeze what’s left of the coffee in my cup, before vanishing into a vat of red and green stars.

Two ghosts who are apparently playing hard to get? At this rate, we’ll solve this murder sometime around next Christmas.

Unless the killer decides we’d make better ghosts than detectives.