Page 9 of Cruel Christmas Cruise (Cruising Through Midlife: Cruise Ship Cozy Mysteries #12)

Suddenly Hitched—What a Trip!

H ello, Trixie!

I’m on a Caribbean cruise celebrating my retirement after thirty years as an accountant.

Your blog has inspired me! I’ve been keeping detailed notes on all passengers who seem suspicious (the couple who never leaves their cabin, the man who keeps changing dinner tables, etc.).

Yesterday, I followed the ship’s purser for THREE HOURS thinking he might be embezzling. The security officer gave me a warning.

How can I pursue my new passion for detective work without getting kicked off the ship?

Would-Be Sleuth in St. Lucia

Dear Would-Be Sleuth in St. Lucia,

Congratulations on your retirement! While I admire your enthusiasm for investigation, following crew members for hours might get you confined to your cabin faster than you can say amateur detective.

For safer sleuthing, try the ship’s mystery book club or true crime discussion group—many cruises host these! Redirect those accountant skills to the daily sudoku or crossword competitions. Those pattern-recognition abilities deserve a spotlight!

As for those suspicious passengers—the cabin-dwellers are likely honeymooners, and the table-hopper probably just enjoys meeting new people. Not every quirk equals criminal activity (believe me, I’ve learned this lesson repeatedly).

Save your detective skills for organized mystery events, and remember—real detectives know when to observe discreetly. The best investigations happen when no one realizes they’re being investigated!

Happy cruising,

XOXO Trixie

It’s day three and the Emerald Queen is docked in misty Liverpool, England.

The Liverpool air bites at my cheeks as we step off the ship here, carrying the mingled scents of salt water, diesel fuel, and something distinctly festive—probably spiced apple cider and slight panic attacks from last-minute Christmas shoppers.

A light dusting of snow covers the ground here in jolly old England like powdered sugar on a dessert that’s trying too hard to please, and the morose sky threatens to dump more of the white stuff any minute.

“I can’t believe we’re in the home of the beetles !” Nettie gyrates with excitement while every jingle and sparkle of her Christmas-gone-rogue ensemble adds to the festive chaos.

She’s wearing what can only be described as an ugly sweater on steroids—red and green with actual working lights that blink the word NAUGHTY across her chest. Her matching coat looks like it was decorated during a holiday crafting frenzy, complete with pom-poms that jingle and jangle when she moves.

And confession: a part of me has a hankering for one just like it.

“They’re basically just fancy ladybugs with better PR,” Nettie continues her diatribe about one of the greatest bands to ever hit the stage.

“That’s Beatles with an A,” Bess corrects, looking sophisticated in her crimson wool coat adorned with an emerald Christmas tree brooch that could probably fund a small country’s holiday budget. “Not the insects.”

“I knew that,” Nettie huffs. “I was testing you. Although imagine how much more interesting ‘A Hard Day's Night’ would be if sang by actual beetles. Nature’s first boy band!”

“All you think about is boys.” Bess rolls her eyes.

“I think about other things, too,” Nettie is quick to tell her. “I’ve been wondering for years if the Beatles were named after beetles or if beetles were named after the Beatles. These are the questions that keep me up at night.”

“I think it was that sixth serving of chocolate lava cake that kept you up last night,” Bess says, patting her tummy.

“Confession: it sort of kept me up, too,” I say. “Although Ransom may have had something to do with my lack of shut-eye last night.”

Both Bess and Nettie ooh and aww at my confession.

Speaking of my handsome hubby, I can’t help but think how much Ransom would enjoy exploring Liverpool with us, but he’s currently occupied with Scotland Yard, escorting poor Mistletoe Thatch on her final voyage off the Emerald Queen .

That terrifying text Wes shared last night flashes through my mind— One down, but who’s next on the naughty list? —and I shudder despite my thick winter coat.

The Christmas Market sprawls before us like a holiday fever dream.

Wooden chalets line the cobblestone streets, their peaked roofs heavy with fake snow that looks more convincing than the real stuff beneath our feet.

Twinkle lights crisscross overhead, creating a canopy of stars that would make the actual night sky jealous.

“Come on, girls,” Nettie announces, marching forward with military precision. “We’re on a mission.”

“Please tell me it involves food,” I say, already eyeing a booth selling what appears to be deep-fried Christmas pudding.

“We’re on the hunt for souvenir spoons,” she declares.

Bess stops dead in her tracks. “Did she just say spoons ?”

“I sure did, Toots,” Nettie confirms. “I need to add to my collection.”

“Since when have you collected spoons?” Bess looks bewildered. “I’ve known you for decades and this is the first I’ve heard of a spoon collection.”

“That’s because I’m starting today. And I’ve got decades’ worth of spoons to make up for.” Nettie links arms with her bestie. “It’s time to start a-lookin’ so I can get a-cookin’.”

“You can’t cook with souvenir spoons, for Pete’s sake,” Bess cries, trying to keep up. “And we don’t even use our own silverware on the ship!”

“Details, details.” Nettie gives a dismissive wave.

We weave through the market, passing booths selling everything from hand-knitted scarves to artisanal cheeses. The air is thick with the aroma of roasted chestnuts, hot chocolate, and something suspiciously like burnt sugar. But regardless, it smells like heaven.

Holiday donation collectors with their signature hand bells compete with street musicians playing jazzy versions of Christmas carols, and together they create a cacophony of holiday chaos that somehow works.

At one of the many craft booths, we discover embroidered throw pillows with sayings like Sleigh All Day and Fleece Navidad .

The sweatshirts are even better—or worse, depending on your perspective.

Jingle My Bells, Santa Saw Your Internet History , and my personal favorite, I’m Only a Morning Person on December 25th .

“Oh, I need this one,” Nettie exclaims, holding up a shirt that reads Dear Santa, Define Naughty.

“As if you need clarification,” Bess mutters, but she’s already reaching for one that says Gangsta Wrapper with a picture of festive paper and bows.

We stock up on questionable apparel while sampling our way through the food stalls.

The carnival atmosphere brings out vendors selling everything from traditional British fare to American favorites with a holiday twist. Warm mince pies melt in our mouths, their fruity filling spiced with just the right amount of cinnamon and nutmeg.

We follow those with sticky toffee pudding drowning in butterscotch sauce that threatens to glue our teeth together.

Although I will admit, Wes’ grandmother’s recipe can go toe-to-toe with this one.

“Oh my stars,” Nettie moans around a mouthful of Christmas pudding ice cream. “This is better than?—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” Bess warns.

“I was going to say it was better than winning the church bingo jackpot, but I can see where your thoughts wandered, you naughty little thing.”

I’d laugh at the irony, but I’m still too spellbound by the culinary offerings.

For the savory fare, we descend on a vendor selling fish and chips who wraps our order in newspaper, while the vinegar and salt create an aroma that makes my stomach growl despite the fact I’ve been eating nonstop for the last year straight.

We munch on the crispy battered cod while dodging past a stall offering shepherd’s pie served in edible bread bowls—and you can bet your last chocolate-covered donut that we indulged in that treat, too. I’ll grab the chocolate-covered donut back on the ship.

The carnival section of the market proves irresistible when it comes to good eats.

Foot-long corn dogs dipped in candy cane-striped batter compete for our attention with giant soft pretzels twisted into Christmas tree shapes and dusted with cinnamon sugar.

A donut stand offers Santa’s Belly donuts—massive glazed rings filled with eggnog cream and topped with crushed peppermint.

And yes, we tried them all. It would be criminal not to.

“Try the Christmas Crack,” a vendor calls out, offering samples of chocolate-covered toffee with crushed candy canes. And try it we do. The name isn’t just cute marketing—it’s a legal disclaimer. Suffice it to say, the addictive properties are real.

“Now that’s my kind of holiday spirit,” Nettie says, grabbing three more pieces.

We’re making our way past a booth selling fresh scones with clotted cream and jam when Nettie gets waylaid by a chocolate display that stops her in her tracks.

The vendor in question has created an entire collection of British royalty in chocolate form, from William the Conqueror to the current modern monarchs.

“I must have them all,” Nettie breathes, her eyes glazing over like the sugar-coated almonds in the next stall.

“You’re going to buy chocolate versions of dead monarchs?” I ask.

“Not just dead ones,” she corrects. “Look, there’s Charles and Camilla in dark chocolate.”

Bess picks up a milk chocolate Henry VIII. “I want to bite his head off. Seems fitting, considering his history with wives.”

“Anne Boleyn would approve,” I agree, reaching for a white chocolate Queen Elizabeth I.

I’m about to suggest we stage a chocolate Tudor dynasty reunion when movement at the back of the booth catches my eye. Two translucent figures hover near a white chocolate sculpture of Buckingham Palace, nibbling at the gates like spectral mice.

It’s my ghostly friends from the ship! Okay, so the word friends might be a stretch, but to know me is to love me—or at least know me a little bit better is to tolerate me. And I’m going to make sure they can tolerate me, indeed.

The blonde woman notices me first, and her blue glowing face shifts from delight to alarm. “Oh, she’s here,” she hisses loud and clear while grabbing the arm of the ghostly stud next to her.

Okay, so stud is a strong word, but he seems handsome enough, and I’m sure he was a looker before he reached his expiration date.

I weave through the crowd, ignoring Nettie’s detailed explanation of why she needs the entire War of the Roses in truffle form.

The ghosts start to fade, but I’m faster than they expect.

Months of chasing both the living and the dead have honed my reflexes, and there’s no way I’m letting these two slip away again.

Not when there’s a killer on the loose and they clearly know something.

And just like that, I’m upon them.

“You’re not going anywhere,” I say firmly, planting myself between them and their escape route—not that it matters, but still, the principle is the same. “We need to have a little chat about your sudden interest in chocolate architecture—and, oh yes, the murder on our cruise ship.”