Page 12 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

“But we haven’t finished the buffet!” someone calls from the back.

Wes blinks. “The buffet is evidence now.”

“Can we at least grab the chocolate-covered strawberries?” a woman in a fur-trimmed cape asks. “Those looked expensive.”

“I’m afraid not,” Wes says.

“What about the Swedish meatballs?” another voice chimes in.

“Also no,” he says, his smile holding on by a thread.

“The roasted⁠—”

“Nothing leaves this room.” His voice stays level, but a vein at his temple has entered the conversation. “Ladies, the Blue Water Café is open on the lido deck. Everything on that table belongs to the Swedish authorities.”

He’s going to need a very stiff drink when this is over. Possibly one that doesn’t glow.

I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. But then I remember he’s the one who invited an entire book club of Viking-obsessed women onto his ship, so really this is partially his fault.

Also, and I say this with respect for the deceased, those strawberries had more chocolate on them than they did strawberry, and I only got one. Now they belong to Sweden. An entire nation of strangers gets my strawberries. I hope they appreciate the sacrifice. I hope they build a tiny monument out of chocolate.

There are no winners tonight. Least of all me. Well, least of all Astrid.

Bess materializes at my elbow, her red hair slightly disheveled, her face landing somewhere between grim and I-told-you-so. “This is a disaster.”

“Understatement of the year,” I mutter.

Nettie flanks my other side, clutching her phone and looking genuinely shaken for possibly the first time since I’ve known her. “I took three selfies with Vikings tonight, and now one of them is a murder weapon. That feels symbolic.”

I shake my head. “The cardboard cutouts aren’t murder weapons, Nettie.”

“The ice Viking wasn’t cardboard.”

She has a good point.

“On the bright side,” she adds, “I bet my selfies just tripled in value.”

“Nettie,” Bess scolds.

“What? That woman appreciated commerce. She’d want this.”

“What she’d want is a refund on that ice sculpture,” Bess says.

“See, this is why I never buy the extended warranty,” Nettie muses. “Nothing’s built to last anymore. Not even the murder weapons.”

Bess pinches the bridge of her nose. “Good Lord, give me strength. And maybe a cabin on another ship.”

Marina pushes through the crowd, her electronic notebook abandoned somewhere in the shuffle. She reaches us and goes pale the moment she sees Astrid sprawled across the floor.

“Oh no,” she breathes. “Is she⁠—”

“Very dead,” I confirm.

“What happened?”

“She drank that glowing blue thing, started choking as if something were strangling her from the inside, and then the ice Viking fell on her.” I pause. “It was dramatic.”

Marina’s eyes track to the melting sculpture now more than a few feet from the body, the world’s saddest art installation. “That’s horrible.”