Page 10 of Transatlantic Terror Cruise

“Welcome, my fellow murder aficionados,” he calls out, commanding the room with a confidence that looks as if it comes far too easy for him. “Before we dive into tonight’s gruesome tales, I want to thank you all for joiningWhispers of the Wickedon this grand oceanic adventure aboard theEmerald Queen of the Seas. I look forward to getting to know each and every one of you. But before we get to know each other, or even a few serial killers a little better, I’d like to thank my amazing team.” He grins with more than a littlekillercharm. “First, I’d like to thank my partner in crime—pun intended—my business partner in what I like to call my real-world job. He’s a true friend—my best friend, Reed Williams.” He points to a man standing near the bar with dark hair and deep dimples as he toasts Brad with the drink in his hand. “Without him, our haunted house empire would be just another real estate venture.”

A polite applause circles the room as the two men exchange looks that seem more loaded than friendly, and I can’t help but think that Reed’s smile seems a touch manufactured.

I lean in toward Bess and Nettie who are seated to my right. “Did he say haunted house empire?”

Nettie nods. “And you can bet I’m going to find out all of the haunted deets. If I can’t find me a good man in this life, I’m determined to find him in the next—and I’m going to do it while I’ve still got breath in my lungs, too.”

Bess grunts. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

Nettie elbows her bestie. “Who says I was talking to you? I’m talking to Trixie. She can vet the ghosts for me and give me the 411 on who’s a hottie and who’s extra naughty.” She nods my way. “I’m especially interested in the latter.”

Bess ticks her head to the side. “Knowing the type of dead men you’re interested in, I’d venture to say they’re all feeling a little hot right about now, especially considering which holding tank they’re stuck in.”

The microphone squeals and our attention is relegated to the front once again.

“I would also like to thank the technical wizards among us.” Brad points to a man in the corner who raises his hand briefly. “The man who makes me sound much smarter than I am. And, of course, sweet Becky Lee Darling, whose crafty hands have bestowed endless treasures upon us.” His voice softens as he says her name, and to my surprise, it’s the woman in the purple knit cardigan he’s looking at. “And lastly, my wife Elvie, who”—he pauses for a moment—“well, let’s just say she’s given me endless material for future episodes. Some might even say she’skillingit in the cosmetics game.”

A bout of awkward laughter filters through the room.

At least he’s consistent with highlighting the tension in his marriage.

Soon enough, Brad launches into his greatest hits collection of cold cases, and the room lights up as if it’s story time at a particularly murderous family reunion.

“And who remembers the Bakery Butcher of ’92?” he asks, and hands shoot up faster than alibis at a police lineup. The crowd trades theories and timelines with the cozy enthusiasm of a book club—if your book club happens to specialize in blood spatter analysis and suspicious insurance claims.

Brad begins to cough, slow and subtle at first before it picks up to something that garners far more of his attention. He downs the rest of his drink then holds up a hand.

“How about a quick break?” he calls out. His cheeks are flushed and beads of sweat line his forehead.

“Donuts are in the back,” Reed announces, coming to the aid of his friend. “And we all know donuts are tantamount to a true crime junkie’s daily bread. Please indulge.”

“Don’t forget the coffee,” someone shouts. “We need to keep the armchair detectives in us happy—and awake for those three a.m. research sessions.”

A laugh rumbles through the room as the crowd disperses into clusters as everyone begins mingling at once.

We stretch our legs and turn our attention to the donut buffet set up along the back wall as well as a table housing enough coffee to keep the entire state of New York awake for a year.

“Speaking of keeping ourselves happy”—Nettie links arms with Bess—“those maple bars are calling our names. Come on, girls. Let’s get the goods while the goods are still there to get.”

“Ooh”—Bess moans—“I hope they have one with caramel and sea salt sprinkled on top.”

“You would,” Nettie grouses. “Because you’re a weirdo.”

“Yeah, but I’m your weirdo,” Bess shoots back. “Come on, Trixie. You, of all people, need to refuel with sugar and carbs.”

“Amen to that, sister,” I mutter just as Tinsley cuts in front of me.

“No donuts for me,” Tinsley announces as she scuttles past us. “I’m making a beeline for Brad.” She nods toward the bar and I spot him speaking with his friend Reed, the older man with adorable dimples. “Here’s hoping they have room for one more in that haunted conversation.”

Elodie snorts as Tinsley takes off. “Now there’s your classic Tinsley move. Nothing says one-night stand like throwing yourself at married men with money—and apparently haunted houses, too.”

“How do you know Reed is married?” I ask.

Elodie sucks in a quick breath. “My goodness, if that man is single, he’ll be landing in my bed tonight.” She speeds in their direction like a bullet train in heels and somehow manages to beat Tinsley to the punch by a naughty nautical mile.

But in no time, Bess, Nettie, and I are at the donut buffet and I load my plate with an assortment of deadly sins—maple bars, chocolate-filled eclairs, and one suspiciously pink-frosted creation that screams murder by sugar rush. And it’s one that I wouldn’t mind dying for.

“Hey, look,” Bess says, nodding to the pink wonder on her plate—it’s one of three. “I got one of those pink treats, too. It’s gotdeath by sprinkleswritten all over it.”

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