Page 47 of Fire and Ice Cruise

Trixie

P.S. The northern lights wait for no one. Wear something warm, bring lip balm, and if he tries to get too poetic about the aurora borealis, feel free to laugh again. It’s clearly your signature move now.

Day 5: Isafjordur, Iceland

(northwest fjords, dramatic cliffs, isolated village)

After yesterday’s Second Act Society meet-and-greet—which was equal parts inspiring and suspicious—Bess, Nettie, and I decided we needed some serious ice cream therapy.

The soft-serve machine just outside the Blue Water Café is self-serve, which means we basically ate our weight in chocolate and vanilla swirl. We each started with a vanilla cone, then a chocolate cone, and then Nettie double-dog dared us to create the ultimate combo.

Neither Bess nor I have ever walked away from a dare, which is how we ended up in a sugar coma discussing murder suspects at midnight.

I invited Marina to join us, but she said she wanted to curl up with a book. Fair enough. She didn’t join us for dinner either—not that she’s joined us for dinner on any other night—and at first, I thought maybe she just needed to cocoon herself and process whatever brought her to tears in that Copenhagen bar.

But now I’m getting the distinct feeling she’s avoiding us.

Bess and Nettie did basically announce to her that I solve homicides for fun. And she knows Ransom is—or was—the chief of security.

Maybe having friends who are professionally adjacent to murder investigations is more than she bargained for when she boarded this ship with a suitcase full of secrets? Nonetheless, Marina Maxwell is harboring a few secrets of her own. Something broke her heart and sent her on the run. And as much as I’d like to let sleeping secrets lie, a part of me is determined to find out what’s going on.

Today’s a new day, though.

The Emerald Queen is anchored off Isafjordur, Iceland—or as close as we can get, which turns out to be not very close at all. This is a tender port, which means we’re ferrying to shore in smaller boats. After I wrote in my blog and consumed a few too many breakfast treats—raspberry Danish, eggs Benedict, a waffle that had no business being that fluffy, and a cinnamon roll because abandoning it felt wrong—Ransom, Bess, Nettie, and I headed for the tender boats.

No sign of Marina, but I’m hoping we’ll catch up with her on shore.

The tender ride takes fifteen minutes, and the water is choppy enough that Bess turns slightly green, but recovers quickly once I offer her a few of the white chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies that I tucked in my purse for a snack later.

The village of Isafjordur appears through the drizzle—brightly painted houses clustered at the base of mountains so dramatic they look Photoshopped. The whole place smells like salt water, wet stone, and fish.

We step off the tender onto a small dock, and I’m immediately in love.

The village is tiny—maybe four blocks long—with red, yellow, and blue houses defying the gray sky. Tour buses idle near the waterfront, their engines rumbling, and I spot several Second Act Society members milling around.

Nicolette is on her phone, looking stressed, Silas and Holland are window shopping, and everyone else is consulting maps as though we’re navigating a major metropolitan area instead of what amounts to a very scenic fishing village.

“We’ve got a couple more hours until the whale watching tour,” Bess announces.

“Plenty of time to explore all four blocks,” Nettie says.

Ransom pulls me close against the drizzle. “What do you want to see first?”

“Surprise me,” I say.

“Dangerous words, Mrs. Baxter.”

Nettie honks out a laugh. “Oh, I bet he surprises you plenty. All that FBI training has to be good for something in the bedroom.”

“Nettie!” Bess looks scandalized.

“What? I’m just saying, the man knows how to handle high-pressure situations. He’s probably very thorough and very detail-oriented.”

Heat floods my face, and not from the Icelandic chill. “You’re not wrong, Nettie.”

“I knew it!” She practically jumps for joy—and believe me, I have on occasion jumped for joy, too. “See Bess?” she continues. “Inquiring minds wanted to know if all that undercover work translates to under-the-covers work and according to a primary source—it sure does.”

“Nettie—” Bess cringes, then turns my way and gives a sly thumbs up.