Chapter 8

Suddenly Single—What a Trip!

Dear readers, it's safe to say this cruise to paradise is off to a rocky start. But nevertheless, the trip goes on.

Trixie here, reporting live from the Emerald Queen, where our voyage to the Caribbean is proving that even paradise can have its pitfalls. Yes, this trip has kicked off with more than a few hiccups, and I'm not talking about the kind you get from sipping one too many devilishly good pirate-themed cocktails.

Speaking of which, pirates have infiltrated the ranks here on the Emerald Queen and havoc and chaos are everywhere you look.

But as they say, smooth seas never made a skilled sailor—or in my case, a smooth cruise never made for an uneventful journey.

And speaking of adventures, today marks the start of my onboard art class for this trip, where I'll attempt to teach the fine art of watercolor to my fellow passengers.

So, wish me luck, as I dive brush-first into my favorite endeavor. Who knows? Perhaps somewhere in this watercolor world we'll find that all is not lost in paradise and that every rocky start leads to a masterpiece in the making.

Until next time, keep your life jackets handy and your curiosity piqued.

Yo-ho, yo-ho, it's an artist's life for me!

XOXO Trixie

Confession:I woke up at three-thirty this morning and couldn't go back to sleep. It probably didn't help that I didn't get back to my cabin last night until midnight.

Ransom and his team were busy all night documenting what could very well pan out to be the crime scene—oh, who are we kidding? It was a crime scene. And while Ransom spent his time in that alcove where the Grim Reaper snatched Roger Maxwell into the ether, I spent the night shadowing the Jolly Roger Crew, doing my best to listen in on any and every conversation that was going on—and seemingly all at once.

I gleaned three things. One: Roger Maxwell drank like a fish. Almost half the people there thought his liver walked the plank and took poor Roger out in the process.

Two: There were whispers of another woman. Or at least the words she and her dominated the conversations, and every now and again I'd hear if I were Connie, I would have killed him. So there's that.

And three: There were snippets of the name Mr. X, but nothing that I could coherently put together to make anything meaningful from it.

Whoever Mr. X is, he remains a total mystery to me.

As soon as the buffet opens in the Blue Water Café, I show up with bells on and attack the pancakes, waffles, a made-to-order omelet, and a couple of chocolate-filled croissants.

At ten I rolled my way to the crafts room and taught my first class of the day—still life sketching. My second class isn't until two, so I do the only thing I can think of—make my way back to the lido deck and hit the buffet again.

Stepping into the Blue Water Café, the first thing that hits me is the panoramic view of the ocean blue. According to the Seabreeze newsletter, we've already officially sailed into the Caribbean Sea, and let me tell you, the azure hue of the glorious body of water is every bit as mesmerizing as I thought it would be.

The sky is a pristine blue, dotted with seagulls soaring intermittently, and every now and again there's a gasp from the crowd on the promenade deck as pods of dolphins swim by, leaping through the air as if they were eager to welcome us to paradise themselves.

The Blue Water Café is no slacker in the paradise department either. The spacious room is laden with floor-to-ceiling windows that afford blue water views that stretch endlessly in every direction. The floors gleam with creamy marble, but it's the countless brass culinary stations that are the star of this show.

I start by piling a heap of jerk chicken onto my plate, with its spicy aroma promising to kick this day in the right direction. I add a scoop of coconut rice, a mound of mango salsa, and a few deep-fried plantains to round off the dish. A table clears up next to the window, and just as I'm about to snag it, I spot the garlic butter shrimp looking perfectly plump and pink so I plop a few onto my plate, grab a glass of papaya punch, and snag that seat next to the window.

My plate is essentially a masterpiece of Caribbean flavors, so I quickly take a picture of it and put it in the family group chat where unfortunately my ex, Stanton, still roams. But we share two great, fully grown kids, Abbey and Parker, so it's for their sakes that Stanton and I put up with the ridiculous updates on one another's lives. Well, his updates are ridiculous, and mine are delicious—especially the ones that include Ransom.

I don't get two bites into my jerk chicken when a jerk of another variety materializes across from me. The temperature drops several degrees as a spray of stars appears, as does the phantasm decked out in grungy pirate garb who just so happens to have a nest of garden snakes for a beard. And each one of those ghostly snakes is slithering and hissing my way as if they disapprove of both my meal and me.

"Ye be dawdling, las," he growls it out so loud, hurricane force winds blow my hair back. "This is no time for feastin', missy. There be a mystery afoot!" He lets out a roar so mighty, I jump out of my seat and dive behind a potted palm tree near the exit. Not that I expect any kind of greenery to protect me from the cranky spook, but right now it's all I've got.

I peek around a palm frond, only to see one of the waitstaff clearing away my plate and disappearing into the kitchen before I can stop them.

Drats.

But just like there's no sign of my lunch, there's no sign of that ghost either.

So much for grilling a surly sea dog—and his pet snakes, too.

It's all my fault for turning into a big pile of jerk chicken myself.

Snakes or no snakes, I'm going to have to grow a backbone and shake down the scariest pirate of them all—the dead kind.