Page 8 of Cruel Christmas Cruise (Cruising Through Midlife: Cruise Ship Cozy Mysteries #12)

“ I f you poke that escargot one more time, I’m going to stab you with my salad fork,” Bess threatens as Nettie continues prodding the snail on her plate.

“I’m just making sure it’s dead,” Nettie protests. “The last thing I need is for it to crawl off my plate and file a complaint with management.”

“It’s been dead longer than disco,” Bess retorts. “Now eat it or give it to me.”

The formal dining room of the Emerald Queen is decked out in full Christmas regalia like a three-story cathedral built to exalt holiday excess.

Black granite floors gleam like midnight ice, so polished that unfortunately I can see straight up the skirts of unsuspecting women—an oversight of the interior design crew, I’m sure.

Or maybe not. This is a cruise ship, after all.

The designers probably considered it a feature, not a future lawsuit waiting to happen.

Peach velvet chairs surround tables for two, four, six, or ten, each draped in white linens so opulent they make Egyptian cotton look like paper towels.

The centerpieces are monuments to festive insanity with towering arrangements of red roses, white lilies, and gold-dusted pine branches that stretch toward the ceiling as if they’re trying to escape.

Ice sculptures of reindeer, snowmen, and what appears to be Santa playing golf with a candy cane dot the room, slowly melting into peppermint puddles.

Above it all, an army of crystal chandeliers twinkles like frozen starlight, showering glittering confetti of light across the diners below. The whole dining room holds the scent of roasted turkey, cinnamon, and enough pine essence to make you check your clothes for sap.

It’s just hours after our breakfast buffet extravaganza, and here we are again, dressed for dining success.

My stomach is still processing this morning’s eggnog pancake marathon, but apparently, formal dinner waits for no digestive system.

At least I have my far-too-handsome-for-his-britches husband by my side this time.

Christmas Eve will be on the last full day of the cruise—a sea day no less—and I can’t wait to celebrate my first Christmas as Ransom’s wife right here on the Emerald Queen where we met.

Although I’ll admit, my mama heart breaks knowing I won’t be with Abbey and Parker.

Technology is wonderful, but FaceTime can’t replace Christmas morning hugs or the chaos of wrapping paper flying everywhere at once.

Still, there’s something magical about spending the holiday where our love story began, even if it did start with me finding a body.

Some couples’ meet cute is just that, cute .

Ransom and I more or less met at the base of a corpse.

I reach over and give my hot hubby’s hand a squeeze. “I’m so glad you could join us tonight.”

Tinsley clears her throat from across the table. Oh yes, our persnickety cruise director has graced us with her presence as well. “He’d have more time to spend with you if you weren’t filling the ship’s morgue with occupants, you know.”

I choose to ignore her, although it takes considerable effort not to accidentally knock my water glass in her direction. Water, really? I should shoot for something far more devastating to her white work blouse—like marinara sauce.

“How’s the case going?” I ask Ransom, stepping away from all tomato-based thoughts of retribution for the moment.

His chest expands before he lets out a sigh that could deflate a bounce house. “We’ll be dropping off the body tomorrow once we dock in Liverpool. Scotland Yard will be meeting with me and my team.”

“Scotland Yard?” Nettie perks up. “Will they be wearing those funny hats? The tall fuzzy ones?”

“That’s the King’s Guard,” Bess corrects. “Scotland Yard detectives wear regular clothes. Although I wouldn’t mind seeing Ransom in one of those bearskin hats.”

“I’d pay good money for that photo,” I admit, earning a look from my husband and a sly smile tugging at his lips that assures me I’ll see him in less than a hat soon enough.

I give his hand another squeeze, assuring him that’s one red-hot date I won’t be missing.

But regardless, I wince just hearing about Missy’s transfer. The thought of her body being handled like luggage makes my stomach turn.

I crane my neck and check out the surrounding tables where Wes’ classmates are seated, all looking as if they’re attending their own funerals.

Conversations are muted, their smiles look forced, and nobody is touching the champagne.

Wes moves from table to table, playing grief counselor in captain’s whites and even he looks understandably heavyhearted.

Our waiter arrives with the first course—lobster bisque served in delicate china with gold rims. The soup is velvety smooth, rich with cream and lots of yummy lobster bits, garnished with fresh chives and a drizzle of truffle oil.

It’s heaven in a bowl, assuming heaven smells like the ocean and tastes as if it costs fifty dollars a spoonful.

“This is delicious,” Nettie declares, already halfway through her portion.

“Better than your escargot adventure?” I tease.

“Everything’s better than snails,” she grumbles. “Including actual dirt.”

We share a laugh and my eye catches on all of the mistletoe decorating every available surface of the dining room.

It’s hanging from doorways, twisted around pillars, even garnishing the dessert cart.

The irony isn’t lost on me. Mistletoe is everywhere except where Mistletoe Thatch should be—unless you count the morgue, which I’m trying very hard not to.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Ransom says, studying my face with those blue eyes that still make my knees weak and I have a feeling they will forever.

“She’s thinking about the woman in the morgue,” Tinsley announces. She’s so spot-on I can’t help but gasp. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re the one who put her there.”

“I didn’t put anyone anywhere,” I protest. “I just happened to be nearby when?—”

“When she dropped dead at your feet?” Tinsley arches a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “Face it, Trixie. You’re like the Grim Reaper’s personal assistant.”

“More like his GPS,” Nettie chimes in unhelpfully. “Turn left at the buffet, murder straight ahead.”

Ransom gives my hand another squeeze. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that.” His voice takes on that careful tone men use when they’re about to ask for something unreasonable, like giving up chocolate or not investigating murders. “I know how you get when there’s a case?—”

“How I get ?” I interrupt. “You mean dedicated? Determined? Devilishly clever?”

“I was going to say obsessed, reckless, and prone to stumbling into danger,” he replies with the slight curve of a naughty smile that takes the sting out of his words. “But your version sounds better.”

The waiter returns to clear our soup bowls and presents the main course—herb-crusted prime rib with Yorkshire pudding, roasted root vegetables glazed with honey and thyme, and creamy mashed potatoes.

The meat is perfectly pink in the center, the crust golden and fragrant with rosemary and garlic.

My mouth waters despite already feeling as stuffed as a Thanksgiving turkey.

“What I’m trying to say”—Ransom continues as he cuts into his prime rib—“is that I’d like you to sit this one out. Consider it my Christmas present.”

“You want me to not investigate a murder as a gift to me?” I ask incredulously. “What happened to jewelry? Perfume? Those fuzzy socks with grippers on the bottom?”

“You seem to be well stocked on fuzzy socks,” he says. “But what I really want is for you to enjoy this cruise without putting yourself in danger. Can you do that for me?”

Before I can respond, our waiter appears with a cheese course—a selection of aged cheddar, creamy brie, and blue cheese accompanied by fig jam, a honeycomb, and water crackers.

It’s the kind of scrumptious spread that makes you forget about calories and cholesterol and the fact that your husband just asked you to ignore a murder.

“She can’t do it,” Tinsley declares while helping herself to a generous portion of brie. “Asking Trixie not to investigate is like asking a shark not to swim. It’s in her DNA.”

“I resent that comparison,” I say. But I could have easily said I resemble that remark.

“Fine,” Tinsley concedes. “You’re more like a bloodhound in designer heels.”

“I’ll have you know these are knock-offs,” I shoot back while wiggling my sparkly pumps under the table.

Ransom sighs. “Trixie, please. Just this once. Let the professionals handle it.”

“You are a professional,” I point out. “And you’re my husband. That makes me professional-adjacent.”

“That’s not how it works,” he says, but I can see him still fighting that smile. The man is stubborn in that department.

Dessert arrives—individual chocolate lava cakes with vanilla bean ice cream, fresh berries, and a dusting of edible gold leaf. Because nothing says Christmas quite like devouring precious metals.

Before I can formulate a response that doesn’t involve an assault with a dinner roll, Wes swoops in and crouches between Ransom and me. Although let’s face it, I’d launch that ball of carbs right at Tinsley if given half the chance.

“How is everyone doing tonight?” he asks, though the look in his eyes suggests he already knows the answer.

“Better question,” Bess interjects around a mouthful of lava cake, “how are your friends doing?”

He shakes his head like a man carrying the weight of forty years of shared history. “Best as they can, under the circumstances. They’re in mourning and... well, they’re concerned.”

“Concerned there won’t be enough of your grandmother’s sticky toffee pudding for Christmas Eve dinner?” Nettie asks. “Or worried Santa might skip this ship due to the body count?”

Wes shakes his head again, more grimly this time. “Concerned about this.” He flashes his phone at Ransom and me, but Bess, Nettie, and Tinsley lean in like vultures spotting fresh roadkill.

It’s another message from the Carrington Confidential .

ATTENTION CARRINGTON ACADEMY GRADUATES! The reunion nobody wanted just got deadlier.

One down, but who’s next on the naughty list?

A killer walks among us, wearing designer clothes and a devil-may-care smile.

Look to your left. Look to your right. One of these faces hides a murderer’s heart.

Sweet dreams, Carrington elite. Try not to let the bedbugs bite. .. or let the killer strike.

’Tis the season to be wary,

The Dean of Dirt XOXO,

Gossip Ghost

The message ends with a knife emoji wrapped in Christmas lights.

“Well,” I say, watching the color drain from everyone’s faces, “Merry Christmas to us all.”

Ransom turns to me with his expression as serious as stone. “Promise me, Trixie. No investigating.”

I look at his earnest expression, then at the message on Wes’ phone, then the terrified classmates all around us.

“I promise to try very hard not to investigate,” I say carefully.

“That’s not the same thing,” he points out.

“It’s the best you’re going to get,” I reply, crossing my fingers under the table.

The dining room suddenly feels less like a festive wonderland and more like a beautifully decorated bear trap.

And somewhere among the crystal and the candlelight, a killer might just be choosing their next victim.

Whether I investigate or not, murder has a way of finding me.

And something tells me this Christmas is about to get a lot less merry and a whole lot scarier.