Page 7 of Transatlantic Terror Cruise

We fall into step and I cast another quick glance in the direction of the casino.

But something tells me that’s exactly what I just saw.

And if I did, well, that means a very sinister event is afoot.

And that sinister event would bemurder.

CHAPTER4

The double doors of the Neptune Lounge stand wide open, exposing the rows and rows of crystal chandeliers inside as they cast a warm glow over the blooming crowd.

A metallic sign propped on an easel readsWelcome to Whispers of the Wicked Podcast Cruise—where murder meets martinis on the high seas!And there’s a Post-it note slapped onto the sign that readsKillers not included!

“Famous last words,” Bess mutters while adjusting her crimson silk scarf. “Nothing attracts a killer like a no killers allowed sign. They’re essentially tempting fate.”

“Honey, on this ship?” Nettie’s gray hair wobbles as she shakes her head. “Fate doesn’t need any tempting. It’s got Trixie here to do its dirty work.”

“Hey, I resent that.” A partial laugh bubbles up my throat. “The bodies find me, not the other way around.”

“Same difference,” Elodie says, pulling me closer to her as if she were trying to protect me from myself—or more to the point, protect others from me. Now that I think about it, it’s probably the latter. “Face it, Trixie, you attract killers like moths to a flame. Or in your case, corpses to a cruise.”

Tinsley’s eyes widen in horror my way. “You had better not attract so much as a fly.” A loud yelp goes off by the door as a crowd amasses and Tinsley’s attention is quickly hijacked. “Oh, it’shim!” Her enthusiasm spikes to never before seen heights and her demeanor changes on a dime. Gone is that sourpuss she reserves just for me, and it’s quickly replaced with an unbridled—joy?

Tinsley waves enthusiastically at an older couple standing at the door as they busy themselves by greeting the throngs of people pouring into the lounge.

“That’s Brad Whipple and his wife, Elvie—the podcast power duo themselves,” Tinsley hums out the words, mostly to herself. “Elvie helps him run the podcast, but it’s basically Brad’s show. He’s the true crime junkie of the two. And she likes to call herself the true crime junkie widow because of all the time he spends researching cases.”

“Interesting,” I say as I examine the couple in a whole new light.

They look pleasant enough as they greet each guest with a handshake and a smile.

I’m about to step over to get a better look at them when a heavier woman in a purple knit cardigan barrels between us. That cardigan of hers hangs past her knees and reminds me more of a robe than a sweater, but despite the fact, she’s holding a tray with tiny shot glasses filled with a bright pink cocktail of some sort. Two larger glasses stand apart from the sea of shot glasses and they both have a picture of a crown on them, and just above those crowns it readsKiller Kingand the otherKiller Queen.

It’s Brad and Elvie who scoop up the drinks fit for royalty and quickly thank the woman as well.

“Salute,” Elvie calls out to the crowd and the tiny shot glasses are all scooped up as we make our way to the front. “Just remember, Pink Primrose Punch can also be an invaluable part of your beauty routine when added to your bubble bath!”

“Or you can use it as a foot soak,” Brad quips, and a raucous laugh circles through the crowd.

If looks could kill, Elvie just eviscerated him.

I’m guessing the pink potion is directly related to her heart or her ego somehow. Probably both. Heck, I’ve got a favorite strawberry banana smoothie that the ship serves, and trust me when I say, I wouldn’t mind bathing in it sometime.

Hey? That sounds like a delightful honeymoon idea if ever there was one.

Both Brad and Elvie look somewhere in their mid-fifties, tired from a long day of travel, but seem rather determined to let their crime-fighting hair down despite the fact.

Brad is handsome enough. His good looks probably peaked during the Reagan administration, but he’s continued to age like expensive whiskey. He’s a silver fox who’s oozing charm in his Italian wool suit and a burgundy Hermes silk tie. I can spot a knockoff a mile away, and that’s not one of them. It’s safe to say the man has more than two nickels to rub together.

His teeth gleam impossibly white against his tan leathered skin, and yet there’s not a wrinkle in sight. My guess is he has an excellent plastic surgeon. I should know, I was married to an excellent plastic surgeon for twenty-five years. I can spot their work in the wild every single time. And thus, my impeccable knowledge of Hermes scarfs, fake and genuine alike.

Elvie, however, looks as if she stepped out of the society pages—the true crime edition, of course. Her auburn hair is styled in perfect waves that let you know she’s logged some serious time at the salon. It’s short and feathered and frames the rather camera-ready grimace she’s sporting.

She’s donned a fitted crimson dress, that in keeping with the theme most likely has a fancy name like Murdered by Merlot. Nonetheless, it hugs her every curve as if it understood the assignment. There’s a diamond-encrusted brooch in the shape of a bright red lipstick pinned to her lapel and it catches the light every time she moves, and for some reason, it feels as out of place as a disco ball at a funeral.

Elodie purrs by my side like the lioness huntress she is. The man might be married, but that has never stopped Elodie from giving a handsome man his due.

“That man is a walking, talking temptation,” she purrs while fanning herself. Case in point. “Although his poor wife looks like she’d rather be getting a root canal than standing next to him.”

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