Page 19 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

Sure she’s not. And I’m not interested in dessert.

She casts a dark look toward the water, and her jaw does that careful clench I’m starting to recognize, the one that locks the vault before anything can slip out. Whatever emotional baggage she’s got stashed in that vault, I hope she knows she’s landed among people who would gladly help her carry it. Bess would organize a rescue committee. Nettie would bring the bail money. I’d bring the snacks. Every rescue needs snacks.

Her phone beeps loudly, shattering the moment. She glances at the screen and sighs. “It’s Tinsley. Gotta run. A cruise director’s duties never end, apparently. Or at least Tinsley’s don’t, which means mine don’t either.”

She pushes back her plate, still half full of French toast and bacon, and heads off in search of the terror on the high seas, otherwise known as her boss. She doesn’t exactly drag her feet on the way out, either. I wouldn’t drag mine toward Tinsley Thornton, and I’m not even on her payroll. I’m merely on her list.

Nettie shoots out of her seat and shoves all three of her remaining donuts into her oversized purse, smooth as any jewel thief. Every woman over fifty carries a bag that could smuggle a ham. Nettie’s the only one I know who stress-tests hers weekly with carbs.

Bess stares at her. “Where are you going?”

“You heard the woman. All the trashy literature is half off.” Nettie zips her purse closed and snaps a donut hole off Bess’ plate for good measure. “I need to stock up for the long nights ahead. You know, in case I don’t find a real Viking to keep me company.”

“You’re not going to find a real Viking,” Bess says flatly, dissecting her pancakes into tidy squares.

“Not with that attitude, I won’t.” Nettie waggles her brows at me. “But a girl can dream. And read. And occasionally confuse the two in the best possible way.”

She bounces off after Elodie, her purse riding heavy with contraband donuts, leaving a trail of powdered sugar in her wake. Hansel and Gretel could learn a thing or two from that woman.

Bess groans, shaking her head. “She’s going to eat those in bed tonight, isn’t she?”

“Absolutely,” I confirm. “She’ll leave a powdered outline of herself on the mattress.”

“And I’m sure Quinn would be thrilled to chalk it and open an investigation.”

“Her first solved case.”

I glance at my plate and try to calculate whether I have room for one more piece of bacon. I decide I do, because when has more bacon ever been a bad decision? My cardiologist could name a few, but he isn’t here either. Today is shaping up to be a banner day for professionals who aren’t here.

Bess eyes the mountain of food still remaining on our table. Marina’s abandoned French toast, my half-eaten waffle, Nettie’s fruit salad that she never touched because she’s Nettie and fruit is decorative. “Who’s going to eat all this food?”

A spray of silver stars erupts near the railing as a rather ornery-looking Viking begins to materialize. And no sooner does he show up than he zooms his way in through the sliding doors with a grumpy roar.

Finally.

“Have at it, Bess!” I sing, already heading toward the ship’s interior with a fistful of bacon.

I thread my way through the Lido Deck, dodging kids running toward the pool, sidestepping couples taking selfies with the ocean as a backdrop, narrowly avoiding a waiter carrying a tray of mimosas bound for the Velvet Viking Book Club members starting their day with liquid courage. After last night, I can’t say I blame them. If I weren’t on a first-name basis with murder, I’d be ordering doubles too.

A raunchy Viking book club may have infiltrated the ship, bringing their steamy novels and their weakness for fictional men. But a killer has infiltrated it too—someone who poisoned Astrid Storm in a room full of witnesses and watched her die without flinching.

And somewhere between the buffet and the great beyond, one very angry, very dead Viking warrior just might know who did it.

Here’s hoping he’s in the mood to talk.

Lucky for me, bacon makes an excellent icebreaker.

CHAPTER 5

Ifollow the silver stars down a corridor I’ve never noticed before, which is saying something considering I’ve lived on this ship for over a year.

Either the Emerald Queen has been holding out on me, or the dead get a better deck plan than the living. The stars lead me past the main dining room, past the theater, and down a narrow hallway lined with vintage maritime posters that were clearly purchased in bulk at a nautical yard sale.

I trot along behind them with my fistful of breakfast bacon held high. Some women bring flowers to a meeting. I bring cured meats. We all have our love languages.

The stars blink out at a door marked Neptune’s Sanctuary: Private Event Space. The door swings open on its own. Naturally, it does. Ghosts never met a door they couldn’t dramatize—or float through.

I step inside and immediately understand why this room isn’t in heavy rotation. It’s gorgeous in that over-the-top way that says someone’s rich uncle decorated it in 1977 and nobody has had the heart to update it since. The walls are painted a deep marine blue with hand-painted murals of mermaids and sea creatures that look vaguely anatomically confused. One of the mermaids has two navels. I counted twice.