Page 13 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

“That’s murder,” I correct quietly.

Astrid’s own words come to mind. May your secrets stay buried, she toasted not an hour ago. Somebody clearly took it personally. Or worse, took notes.

Marina’s gaze snaps to mine. “You think someone poisoned her?”

“I think someone definitely poisoned her. The Viking was dramatic punctuation.” I glance at the glowing puddle still spreading across the floor. “Also, that cocktail is either radioactive or deeply committed to the theme. Either way, new rule. I don’t drink anything that glows. If my beverage doubles as a nightlight, we’re done. I don’t care how cute the little umbrella is.”

“Noted,” Marina says with her eyes still wide as she takes in the grisly scene. “And I’ll be following suit.”

The Velvet Viking Book Club is fragmenting into smaller groups now, some crying, some speculating, some still brazenly angling for photos while Wes threatens to start confiscating phones. He’s one meatball request away from making good on it, too.

I spot Poppy Lindgren near the floor-to-ceiling windows, her honey-blonde bob still perfectly styled, her cashmere without a single wrinkle. She’s standing very still, staring at Astrid’s body, and her face is doing none of the things a face should do right now. No grief. No shock. Something cooler. Calculation, if I had to name it. Or relief.

Interesting.

Sienna Caldwell is openly weeping into her hands, her frizzy auburn hair escaping its velvet headband in wild spirals around her soft face. A cluster of women surrounds her, offering tissues and those there-there pats that do nothing for the recipient but work wonders for the patter. Say what you will about this club, they circle their wagons fast.

My heart pinches for Sienna, and I mean that sincerely. Whatever she and Astrid were fighting about, she never got to finish the argument. She’ll be finishing it alone in her head for years, and both sides of it will still lose. That’s its own kind of grief, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

Then there’s the striking dark-haired woman I saw arguing with Astrid earlier, the one dressed straight off one of their book covers in black leather, a dramatic cape, and enough silver jewelry to sink a longship. She leans against the far wall with her arms crossed, watching it all unfold with all the warmth of the ice sculpture. And the ice sculpture is currently melting into a puddle, so that’s saying something.

She’s taking mental notes. Or admiring her handiwork.

“Who’s that?” I ask Marina, nodding toward the raven-haired woman.

Marina follows my gaze. “No idea. But she doesn’t exactly look heartbroken.”

“Neither does Poppy.”

“You think they’re suspects?”

“I think everyone’s a suspect until proven otherwise.” I pause. “Welcome to my world. The dress code tonight is velvet, and the body count is alarming.”

Ransom’s security team is slowly, painfully, glacially herding women toward the exit. It’s taking forever because every three steps someone stops to demand explanations or squeeze off one more photo for their true crime podcast. Yes. Someone said that out loud. With every ounce her lungs could afford.

Wes flags Ransom down and jerks his head toward a quiet corner. They have a brief, intense conversation I can’t hear over the noise, but I catch Ransom’s jaw doing that tight thing it does right before he growls at someone.

Not good.

Tinsley storms up with her clipboard clutched to her chest, a shield against the evening, her chestnut hair falling out of its usual perfect styling. She looks ten years older than she did ten minutes ago and might age another decade before the night ends.

“This is a PR nightmare,” she hisses at no one in particular. “An absolute nightmare. We’re going to be all over the news. Murder cruise. Viking ice sculpture. Book club gone wrong. I couldn’t write worse headlines if someone paid me.”

“Maybe focus on the dead woman,” Bess suggests.

“I am focused on the dead woman! I’m focused on how her death is going to tank our ratings and get us sued into oblivion!” Tinsley’s eyes grow wild. “Do you know how many forms I have to fill out now? How many phone calls I have to make? How many incident reports I need to file? I haven’t even started on the liability paperwork!”

“The dead woman probably had it worse,” Nettie offers.

“Debatable,” Bess says. “The dead woman doesn’t have to talk to corporate.”

“Breathe,” Marina says gently, putting a hand on Tinsley’s shoulder. “We’ll handle this.”

“We?” Tinsley gags on the word. She’s pretty much used to being a solo act.

“You’re not alone. I’m your assistant, remember? We’ll get through this together.”

Tinsley looks at Marina as if she just offered her the last life vest on a sinking ship. “Thank you.”