Page 21 of Transatlantic Terror Cruise

“Don’t forget which lotions and potions to use to get you there,” Nettie adds with a wiggle of her brows and it’s enough to make a grown woman blush. Although not one in our immediate circle.

Bess gives me a nudge. “Why don’t you join Elodie? She can talk shop with the woman while you talk murder.”

I frown at the thought. “I think I’d rather corner Elvie on my own. Besides, we all know there’s no competing with Elodie when it comes to stealing the attention of menorwomen.”

“She could sell ice to penguins,” Nettie agrees. “And probably convince them they needed matching scarves.”

“And she did call you a wicked witch,” Bess teases. “Although, let’s be honest, I’m betting your broom gets more action than hers these days.”

“You would think,” I mutter as thoughts of that Sassy disembodied busybody comes to mind.

“Well, we both seem to have a reason to talk to Elvie, so I suppose we have more than just our transportation options in common.” I snap up a plate and am about to hit the buffet hard when a certain cruise director with a mane full of chestnut locks stomps our way.

I sigh at the sight of her. “Speaking of wicked witches.”

Something tells me this beauty brunch is about to get ugly. Good thing I have experience with both murder and makeovers—although honestly, the makeovers are usually more dangerous. At least with murder, you know who your enemies are.

I glance over to where Elodie is chatting with Elvie.

It’s almost time to see what secrets are hiding behind all that luxury lipstick. After all, in my experience, the prettier the package, the deadlier the contents.

CHAPTER10

The click of determined heels against marble announces Tinsley’s arrival as she parts the crowd of beauty enthusiasts like a shark through a school of well-dressed fish.

I take that back. Juxtaposing Tinsley to a shark is an insult to sharks everywhere. And perhaps witches, too.

The chandeliers here in the Coral Crown Lounge catch the auburn highlights in Tinsley’s chestnut mane, and her usual scowl looks especially hardened this morning.

She makes a beeline for our little group, ignoring the tower of pastel macarons I’m attempting to balance on my plate. The classical music seems to fade as she comes in hot, or maybe that’s just the sound of my appetite dying.

“Trixie.” She says my name as if she’s reading it off a list of ship violations. “I have a very serious problem that only you can solve.”

Bess and Nettie gasp so hard their pastry towers give a mean wobble.

“Did hell just freeze over?” Nettie clutches her invisible pearls.

“Quick, someone check to see if the woman’s got a fever,” Bess adds. “I think she’s delusional.”

I’d laugh, but they’re not being funny. I’m the last person Tinsley would come to for help of any kind.

“Well, don’t keep us in suspense,” I say to Tinsley and watch as her eyes twitch. “What’s the crisis? Do you need me to teach a class? I mean, Wes gave me time off for my honeymoon, but if you’re in a pinch I’d be happy to help.”

I’m not just a permanent resident on this floating paradise, I teach art classes on board as well. With the exception of this particular cruise. Both Ransom and I were supposed to be free from any outside duties other than tending to each other. It was a nice thought while it lasted. But thankfully, one thing remains the same—that man will end each and every day in my bed.All night long.

I have a feeling the rest of our lives will be one long honeymoon.

Tinsley balls her fists as she leans my way. “I need your help with something.”

Nettie shakes her head in disbelief. “Out there somewhere, pigs must be flying—right before they end up at the breakfast buffet.” She pats her stomach as she eyes the offerings before us.

It’s just like Nettie to relate everything back to food. And come to think of it, I’d rather gobble up an entire herd of flying bacon than team up with Tinsley. She’s pretty much tried to make my life miserable ever since I set foot on this ship. And she’s succeeded.

That whole flying pigs thing Nettie just spouted is more or less true.

Tinsley would rather eat her shoe, and perhaps the shoe of every passenger on this ship, even the smelly ones, than ask me for so much as a glass of water.

Bess shakes her head. “Tinsley Thornton asking for help—from Trixie Troublefield? That seems about as likely as the buffet running out of bacon.”

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