Page 17 of Fire and Ice Cruise

I didn’t always have this spectral party trick. It started the day I met Bess and Nettie, when their tug-of-war over a vodka bottle ended with said bottle connecting with my skull. I woke up from the bonk on the head with a concussion, two new best friends, and the ability to see ghosts. Some people get lottery winnings. I get haunted.

Nettie stabs at her waffle. “I wish the ghost was a hot man. I’m in the mood for a little Gothic romance. I have a soft spot for the brooding, tortured type. Preferably shirtless and wandering the moors.”

“You have a soft spot for every type,” Bess says biting into her pancake.

I laugh. “We’re on a ship, Nettie. There are no moors.”

“Fine,” Nettie grouses. “The lido, then. A brooding, tortured, shirtless ghost wandering the lido deck. Near the soft-serve machine preferably. That way I can kill two yummy birds with one stone.”

“A soft serve does sound good,” I muse, and I take a bite of crispy bacon.

“Nettie.” Bess shoots her the stink eye. “Cool your engines, at least until after lunch.”

“What? I have needs. Imaginary ones, but they’re still needs.”

“You’re always in the mood for romance,” Bess points out.

“Not always. Sometimes I’m in the mood for blueberry muffins. Sometimes I’m in the mood for both at the same time.”

“At the same time?”

“A man who hands me a blueberry muffin while in the throes of passion is a treasure I intend to find. What’s your point, Bess?”

“My point is that you’re shameless.”

“That’s not a point,” I tell her. “That’s a compliment.”

Nettie winks my way. “You really do know me, Trix.”

I nod. “And by the way—Ransom has pulled off that blueberry muffin feat more than once.”

Nettie offers a standing ovation and Bess’ jaw unhinges.

I shrug. “We get room service to deliver breakfast.” That’s before I hit the breakfast buffet with these two, and before we hit the main dining room for second breakfast. What can I say? It takes a lot of carbohydrates to keep up with a man like Ransom.

Footsteps traipse this way, and Tinsley and Elodie materialize out of the morning gloom. Tinsley’s got her ever-present electronic notebook clutched to her chest, her chestnut hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and she’s wearing her cruise director blazer despite the wind trying to rip it off her shoulders.

Elodie, meanwhile, looks gorgeous as always—blonde bob perfectly styled, designer sunglasses perched on her head, wearing navy slacks and a white cashmere sweater that makes me nervous around all this food and coffee. She hails from South Africa and is a male magnet in the classic sense, with enough charm to make grown men forget their own names.

They pull up chairs without asking, which is standard procedure.

Elodie immediately fixes me with a look that could curdle milk. “Trixie Troublefield Baxter, I’m not amused that you’ve offed another man.”

“I didn’t off anyone.”

“Details.” She waves a manicured hand. “You’re single-handedly making it harder for single women out there. Every man you find dead is one less man for the rest of us.”

“That’s a disturbing way to look at it,” I muse. And yet, every time a man drops dead on this ship, she says the same thing.

“I’m just saying, the dating pool is shallow enough without you draining it completely.” She picks up one of my chocolate-filled croissants and starts to pull it apart.

Tinsley doesn’t even look up from her notebook. “I have way too many activities scheduled and not enough underlings to run them. The Second Act Society wants private workshops, group excursions, and apparently a midnight stargazing session that requires telescopes we don’t have.”

She finally glances up, and her eyes land on me.

“Don’t look at me,” I say, holding up both hands.

“I wasn’t going to ask,” she snips while breaking off a piece of Bess’ chocolate muffin and popping it into her mouth.