Page 34 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

And I mean that from the bottom of my well-fed heart. Whatever else Sienna Caldwell turns out to be, she was a lonely woman once, and somebody handed her a calendar full of plans. That counts for something in my book. Several books, actually. Most of them featuring shirtless cover models.

“What drew you to the Viking stuff specifically?” Marina asks. “Besides the abs?”

Sienna laughs, and it sounds genuine. “The lore, actually. Valhalla, the mythology, all of it. Vikings believed warriors who died bravely went to a glorious golden hall where they’d feast and fight forever. The hall belonged to Odin himself, the king of their gods, and the mead flowed and the shield maidens welcomed the worthy home. There’s something romantic about that. It’s the idea that the brave get rewarded, that honor matters, that death isn’t an ending so much as a door. That there’s something beyond just... ordinary life.”

Mead would be Viking wine made of honey instead of grapes for those not in the know. I had to look that one up after Nettie kept calling for it at dinner last night. According to her, it’s the good stuff, and she would know. The woman has done extensive fieldwork.

Something beyond ordinary life. Considering I’m standing here arm in arm with a woman who’s listening to a dead man breathe down our necks, I’d say Sienna is more right than she knows.

“She’s a dreamer,” Magnus says, and his voice has gone a touch softer. “I like her.”

I nod because I like her too.

“And the books tap into that,” Sienna continues. “The heroes are fierce but honorable. The heroines are feisty and strong. Everyone gets a happy ending. After thirty years of grading papers and watching teenagers not care about literature, these books made me care about reading again.”

Everyone gets a happy ending. Somebody at the Valhalla Lounge didn’t get the memo.

“That’s beautiful,” Marina says.

“And it makes me want to pick up a book or two,” I admit. Preferably in a café. With a bun the size of my head. I take my research nearly as seriously as I take my carbs, and my carbs have tenure.

Sienna’s smile slips as she glances back toward the main street. “Astrid understood that. She built something special. And now she’s gone, and I can’t...” She shudders, wrapping her arms around herself. “To see poor Astrid die like that. It seemed as if whatever she was drinking didn’t agree with her.” She pauses, and her voice drops. “Like she was poisoned.”

Marina nods carefully. “That’s what it seemed like to us too. I suppose we’ll have to wait for the authorities to confirm it.”

“If she was poisoned,” I say, keeping my tone casual, “who could have done something like that to her? I mean, she seemed well loved by the club.”

“Oh, she was more than the captain of those jolly trollops,” Magnus interjects. “She was the head wench herself. These women followed her because she gave them purpose—and a steady supply of imaginary men to ogle. Astrid was something else.”

There he goes again, delivering eulogies for a woman he swears he never met. I add it to the growing pile of things Magnus Darkwater and I will be discussing at length. The pile now has its own ZIP code and is applying for statehood.

Sienna is quiet for a moment as if she’s choosing her words. “Astrid was complicated. She cared deeply about the club. Maybe too deeply sometimes. She had very specific ideas about how things should run, who should be included, what standards we should maintain.”

“That doesn’t sound like a woman with no enemies,” Marina observes.

“Not enemies, exactly.” Sienna fidgets with her bag strap. “Just not everyone appreciated her management style. Some people thought she was too controlling. Too demanding.”

“Like who?” I ask.

“I’d rather not speculate.” She gives us an apologetic look. “I don’t know much about the inner workings anyway. I just attended events, read the books, enjoyed the community. I wasn’t in Astrid’s inner circle.”

“You’re losing her,” Magnus says. “You’re being far too gentle. Back in my century, we’d simply point a spear at her. It’s remarkable how eight feet of sharpened honesty gets a conversation moving.”

I can’t answer him without looking like a woman arguing with a flower box, so I settle for ignoring him now and lecturing him later. I keep a running list for these occasions. The list has its own list.

“She’s protecting someone,” Magnus adds. “Or protecting herself. Hard to tell which.”

For once, the dead Viking and I are in complete agreement. Somebody alert the news.

“Who was in her inner circle?” Marina asks.

“Poppy Lindgren, definitely.” Sienna’s mouth does a quick pull to one side, there and gone before I can file it. “She and Astrid were very close. They talked frequently, had lunch together outside of club events and everything. If anyone had insight into Astrid’s life, or into who might have had it out for her, Poppy would know all about it.”

Well, isn’t that tidy. Sienna just handed us Poppy’s name wrapped in a bow with a gift receipt tucked inside. And here’s the thing about presents from quiet women. Before you say thank you, you shake the box and listen for ticking.

“That’s helpful,” I say. “Thank you.”

“I wish I could be of more help. But truly, it’s been so lovely getting to know you both. It’s not every cruise you meet women who actually want to hear a retired teacher ramble on about her book club.”