Page 58 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

“More often than you’d think.”

We make it back to the gangway as Wes turns to face us, his captain expression firmly in place. “We’re having a conversation about boundaries when we get back on board.”

“Can’t wait,” Nettie chirps.

Poppy gives me a quick hug before heading toward her cabin. “Thanks for the coffee. And the entertainment.”

“Anytime.”

As she heads into the ship, Magnus reappears beside me. “The grieving queen throws everyone else under the chariot wheels. Fascinating. And here I thought I was the only one aboard skilled in the art of misdirection. Although in my day I mostly used it to remove bodices.”

“She was just being helpful,” I murmur.

“Was she? Or was she pointing you toward everyone except herself?”

I watch Poppy’s honey-blonde bob disappear around a corner and chew on the question of the day.

Is Poppy Lindgren the friend I’d want in my corner, or the smartest killer I’ve ever met?

Either way, the woman buys excellent cookies.

CHAPTER 14

Stockholm delivered in every single delicious way, and I do mean delicious.

Not only did Poppy provide some serious intel about Sienna and Freya, but those Swedish cookies were the stuff memories are made of. Pastries that make you question every dessert decision you’ve made up until now. I’ve decided to forgive all my previous desserts. They didn’t know what they were up against.

Ransom missed dinner tonight because he’s up to his eyeballs in information from the coroner’s office. And don’t think for a minute that I won’t be wrangling every last dirty detail out of him the second I get him alone, even if I have to deploy my womanly wiles to do it. I’m not above a little creative persuasion when necessary. Okay, fine—I’m not above seduction at any time with my devastatingly handsome husband, but I digress. The wiles stay ready. That’s just good marriage maintenance.

Wes had to tend to the bridge, and Nettie was too sore to sit after her Viking-statue rodeo, so Bess, Marina, and I hit the Blue Water Café for dinner.

The theme tonight was Swedish Delights, and we piled our plates high and promptly understood why Scandinavians manage to look so happy while living in the dark half the year. Gravlax with mustard-dill sauce. Swedish meatballs in a cream gravy capable of converting vegetarians. Janssons frestelse, a potato-and-anchovy casserole that sounds like a dare and tastes like heaven. Yes. Really.

Crispy potato pancakes with lingonberry jam. Pickled herring that I went back for twice, and I’d appreciate it if that stayed between us. Beef Rydberg crowned with an egg yolk. And pytt i panna, which is basically fancy Swedish hash that I could eat every day for the rest of my life and twice on formal night.

We demolished all of it, and I regret nothing. If the ship starts listing to one side tomorrow, I’ll issue a formal apology.

Afterward, Bess headed off to babysit her bestie in case Nettie needed anything or broke anything. Both still very much on the table.

Marina and I decided to skip the evening show in favor of a good soak instead.

We find one of the smaller hot tubs tucked away on the starboard side, far from the main promenade deck chaos. It’s a secret little spot that guests don’t usually discover, hidden behind a decorative wall, with a sliver of a view of the massive movie screen so you can see what’s playing without sitting in the middle of the crowd. Tonight’s feature is some romantic comedy I don’t recognize, the dialogue drifting over on the night breeze along with the scent of popcorn and chlorine. No sign of Magnus, either, which means my resident Viking is off haunting someone else’s evening for a change. I’d send a thank-you note if I knew where to address it.

We sink into the steaming water with simultaneous groans of relief. The contrast between the hot water and the icy night air borders on painful. My body files zero complaints. My skin tingles as I settle onto the underwater bench and let the jets have their way with my back. And they do. Shamelessly.

Marina is in a simple black one-piece that manages to be both modest and elegant, her crimson hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun. I’m wearing my favorite navy tankini. It’s practical, it’s supportive, and it doesn’t require constant adjustment, which is everything I ask of swimwear at this point in my life. Twenty-five-year-old me wore string bikinis with zero structural support and even less shame. Current me requires swimwear built with the engineering of a suspension bridge, and I’ve made my peace with it. The suspension bridge and I are very happy together.

The hot tub glows blue from the underwater lights, and the steam curls up through the glow until the whole thing looks vaguely enchanted. Stars peek through gaps in the clouds above us, and the ocean stretches dark and endless beyond the ship’s railing.

“This is exactly what I needed.” Marina closes her eyes and tips her head back with a sigh.

“Right? After today’s excitement, I think we’ve earned it.”

She laughs. “Nettie riding that Viking statue is going to live in my memory forever.”

“Mine too. And probably on the internet for eternity.”

Bess has already threatened to write a strongly worded letter to whoever uploads it. The woman doesn’t own a computer, but I have no doubt the letter will find its target. Bess’ letters always find their target. Somewhere in Vermont there’s an entire filing cabinet of men who learned that the hard way.