Page 25 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

“Which was everyone at that party,” I point out. “Not exactly narrowing the field.”

Marina pulls out her phone and swipes through something. “The Velvet Vikings canceled all their events today. Everyone was too traumatized to discuss romance novels.” She glances up. “But they’re still signed up for the Swedish Sweet Stroll tomorrow when we dock in Gothenburg.”

I lean in. “Tell me everything, starting with the word sweet.”

“A walking excursion through the city. It stops at local bakeries, chocolate shops, candy stores. Very cozy. Very Swedish. And very popular with the book club crowd.”

“Pastries and murder suspects,” Bess says. “Nothing pairs better.” She says it the way other people suggest a nice red with the tenderloin.

“If the killer’s on that tour, I bet she eats her weight in cinnamon buns out of pure guilt,” Nettie declares. “How’s that for justice?”

“That’s not justice, Nettie. That’s my average Monday.”

“It’s a start,” she says. “A pastry crawl with a built-in suspect list.”

I raise my glass. “I’ve solved cases on less, and I’ve never once turned down a cinnamon bun. Two birds, one very buttery stone.”

Marina tips her glass in a mock toast. “Sounds delicious.”

Across the dining room, I spot a tight bun and a tighter expression weaving between the tables. Quinn Riddle, running her evening security sweep with all the warmth of a Baltic headwind. Her eyes find mine over the sea of white linen, and she holds the look a half second longer than strictly necessary before moving along.

Noted, Bun Head. I see you seeing me.

A shadow falls over our table, and I look up to find Wes standing there in his crisp captain’s whites, annoyingly dapper. His dark hair is combed into submission, his eyes are sharp, and they linger on Marina a beat too long—just as I knew they would.

“Ladies,” he says with a nod.

“Captain,” we chorus back.

“What are we discussing tonight?” His tone is casual, but concern runs underneath it. The man has known me too long to hope for the best.

“We’re getting our nets ready to catch ourselves a killer,” Nettie announces with far too much cheer, and I wince on behalf of everyone involved.

Wes’ easy smile drops clean off his face. “Absolutely not.”

“But—” Nettie starts.

“No.”

Poor Wes. He’s pleading, and pleading with this table is a lost cause. He knows it. We know it. The lobster in Nettie’s bowl knows it.

Nettie’s fork hangs midair, a lobster casualty dangling off the end of it.

“I don’t want any of you getting hurt,” Wes continues, and his voice carries all the weight of those four stripes on his shoulders. “If Astrid was murdered, and the Swedish authorities seem to think she was, then there’s a dangerous person on this ship. The last place I want any of you is anywhere near them.” He looks straight at me. “Trixie, promise me you won’t pursue this.”

I press a hand to my chest, wounded to my core, or at least to my appetizer. “Why in the world are you singling me out?”

“Because you’re the ringleader,” he says without a blink of hesitation.

He does know me.

Laughter erupts around the table. Even Marina giggles into her wineglass. I’d be offended, but the man isn’t wrong, and we both know it.

I don’t run a circus so much as the circus elected me. The vote was unanimous. Nettie demanded a recount, but only because she wanted to vote twice.

The music shifts to something moodier, strings and piano built for candlelight and questionable decisions. Wes glances at Marina again, and this time it’s unmistakable.

“I’m making my rounds,” he says. “But I hope to see you ladies later this evening. Steer clear of danger. Please.”