Page 46 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

The air smells clean the way only Scandinavia seems to manage, as if somebody power-washed the entire city and then added a hint of salt water for ambiance. It’s beautiful and breathtaking and moody.

Also, rumor has it that a cinnamon bun the size of my head is waiting for me somewhere in Gamla Stan. The Swedes call it a kanelbulle. I call it destiny, and I fully intend to keep our appointment. This entire cruise has had a sticky bun theme.

Thanks to Marina’s intel, I happen to know that the Velvet Viking Book Club is planning to hang out with royalty today, and by proxy, so are we.

“I can’t wait to see the palace,” Bess says as we navigate Stockholm’s cobblestone streets. “All that history. The architecture.”

“I can’t wait to sit on the king’s lap!” Nettie announces.

Bess stops walking. “Sit on his what?”

“His lap. You know, like Santa.”

“He’s not Santa, Nettie.”

“But he wears a crown,” Nettie insists. “That’s basically the same thing.”

Bess’ eyebrows arch right into her hairline. “One brings toys to children. The other has an army.”

“Those elves are no slackers,” Nettie shoots back. “What do you think those pointy shoes are for?”

I shake my head. “And I’m betting the king has got a security team that would make Ransom’s crew look like mall cops. So maybe keep your lap-sitting fantasies theoretical.”

“You’re fun at parties,” Nettie says with a grunt.

I am, in fact, a delight at parties. The parties simply keep ending in homicide, and I refuse to accept full responsibility for that.

The Royal Palace rises before us like somebody decided to build a monument to showing off, and honestly? I respect the commitment. It’s a mansion on steroids, the caliber of mansion that eats other mansions for breakfast. And lunch. And dinner. Knowing Sweden, it probably lights a candle in between.

Honey-colored stone walls stretch three stories high, punctuated by rows of windows that gleam in the morning sun. Gold detailing traces along the roofline and around the entrance, catching the light so brilliantly I want to squint and also take about fifty photos, and I see no reason I can’t do both.

The building sprawls across what feels like an entire city block, all symmetrical wings and perfect proportions that scream “royalty lives here and you don’t.” A Swedish flag snaps in the breeze from the roof, and the whole thing is so meticulously maintained I’m pretty sure they employ people whose entire job is polishing individual stones. It’s the career I never knew existed and now quietly covet.

Wes walks beside us in blue jeans and a pale blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, sunglasses on, looking more relaxed than I’ve seen him in days. Turns out having a dead body on your ship really kills the vacation vibe. Pun intended, and I’m not sorry. But now that Astrid’s body is with the proper authorities and Ransom’s team is hot on the killer’s trail, he’s a new man. Relief looks good on him. Then again, most things do.

“This is nice,” Wes says with his hands in his pockets. “No emergencies. No crisis management. Just a beautiful day in Stockholm.”

His gaze drifts to Marina as he says it, and she suddenly develops a deep fascination with a nearby lamppost. The pink creeping up her neck pairs beautifully with her crimson hair.

Nobody comments. We’re all very mature. Nettie only mouths the words honeymoon suite at me. Twice.

I’d knock on wood, but the nearest wood belongs to a royal palace door, and I don’t need to cause an international incident before lunch. That’s Nettie’s department.

“Absolutely,” I say. “It’s just a beautiful day.” I’m not mentioning that we’re about to crash a book club event and hopefully shake down a suspect or two.

“It’s very peaceful,” Bess adds.

“A totally normal shore excursion,” Nettie trills. “Not a sign of a homicide in sight.”

Bess and I shoot her a look. Marina stays quiet, which is smart, because she couldn’t improvise a convincing lie if her life depended on it. Although, ironically, she’s been telling more than a few convincing ones where it counts, and to the very people I want to believe matter to her.

I glance at Wes, and my heart grows heavy for a moment.

The Royal Palace courtyard opens before us, all stone and gold and perfectly manicured everything. Royal guards stand at attention in blue and gold uniforms, completely motionless, very attractive human statues, every last one of them. Somewhere out there, Harald the wooden Viking has competition.

Tourists cluster around, taking photos of both the palace and the royal guards. Drums sound from inside the palace, ceremonial and impressive, making me feel as though I should be wearing something fancier than my sundress and sandals.

And there, gathered in a semicircle near the palace steps, are the Velvet Vikings in all their overdressed velvet glory.