Sneak Peek!
Tainted Love Valentine Cruise
Book Description:
Trixie and the gang are exploring the British Isles and France—and so is a killer.
Join the fun as they enjoy excursions to Stonehenge, Blarney Castle, and beautiful Paris!
Cosmopolitan Magazine calls Addison's books, “…easy, frothy fun!”
Chapter 1
Suddenly Hitched—What a Trip!
Hey there, mystery-loving readers!
Ready to join me aboard the Emerald Queen for the most romantic—and potentially deadly—Valentine’s Day cruise ever? I’ve packed my killer heels, my heart-shaped sunglasses, and enough chocolate reserves to survive whatever romantic chaos awaits! From the cliffs of Ireland to the lights of Paris, I’m determined to soak up every drop of Valentine’s magic—along with plenty of champagne and those divine little cream puffs that make life worth living.
Here’s to love, laughter, and hopefully keeping the body count to a minimum this time around. Though I have a sinking feeling that love might literally be murder on this voyage.
XOXO Trixie
Emerald Queen of the Seas, Royal Lineage Cruise Lines
Itinerary
“Valentine’s Day is a capitalist conspiracy to make everyone feel like failures at love while emptying their wallets.” Bess Chatterley announces as she adjusts her crimson wool coat right here in the elegant atrium of the Emerald Queen of the Seas.
And honestly? I can’t argue with her logic, even though I’m currently floating on cloud nine in my newlywed bubble—which, according to Bess, should pop any day now like a cheap party balloon.
It’s the first day of yet another cruise here on the glorious Emerald Queen of the Seas, and Bess, Nettie, and I are standing at the mouth of the gangway, greeting giddy passengers along with a few crew members who look more than happy to deal with a little Valentine’s drama.
“Oh, come on, Bess!” I say, bouncing with a laugh. “You’re being way too practical. Valentine’s Day is about celebrating love, the one thing that makes the world go round.”
“Celebrating love?” Bess scoffs, watching a couple stumble aboard wearing matching His Queen and Her Kingsweatshirts that probably have Bess twitching to stage an intervention. “More like celebrating the markup on roses and dinner reservations. I bet those two paid triple for those monstrosities just because their tacky outfits have hearts on them.”
“At least someone is making money off romance,” Nettie chimes in, adjusting her heart-shaped sunglasses as if to prove a point. “I’ve been investing in love for eighty-plus years and I’m still waiting for my dividends!”
I can’t help but snort. “Nettie, your approach to love is like day trading—high risk, frequent transactions, and you never quite know when the market’s going to crash.”
“Your dividends?” Bess raises an eyebrow while gesturing toward a man boarding with a bouquet so large it looks like he robbed a funeral home. “Nettie, you’ve been married more times than Elizabeth Taylor had facelifts.”
“Exactly! I’m a repeat customer, which means I believe in the product,” Nettie shoots back, straightening her hot-pink sweater that reads “Single and Ready to Jingle” in rhinestone letters that could blind the dead. “You, on the other hand, are like a restaurant critic who’s never actually eaten the food—just complained about the menu prices.”
“I’ve eaten plenty,” Bess mutters, watching another couple board with tattered luggage that screams we spent our mortgage payment on this cruise. “And most of it gave me indigestion.”
“That’s because you keep ordering from the wrong menu,” I laugh, feeling a bit giddy myself as I spot my gorgeous husband across the atrium. “I however, have finally ordered from the right menu—the only menu I care to look at for the rest of my life. Look at me and Ransom—we’re proof that real love exists. Even if I did have to solve a few murders to get here.”
“You two are still in the honeymoon phase,” Bess points out with a grunt. “Give it six months and you’ll be arguing over who forgot to take out the proverbial trash—assuming you survive that long with your track record of finding dead bodies. Kidding. Mostly.”
She cringes as I gape at her.
“Six months?” Nettie mock-gasps while clutching her bedazzled purse as if it were a life preserver. “Bess, that’s practically a golden anniversary in today’s dating world. Most relationships don’t make it to the toothbrush stage or sharing their streaming passwords.”
I grin. “See? Ransom and I have already survived three separate streaming service logins AND a few murder investigations. We’re basically relationship veterans at this point.”
“That’s exactly my point.” Bess tosses up her hands, nearly smacking a passing passenger carrying a heart-shaped box the size of a small coffin. “We’ve turned love into a subscription service with monthly fees and early termination penalties. And apparently, Trixie’s package comes with a complimentary corpse finder feature.” She winks my way. “If you have to find one on this trip, make sure it’s Cupid.”
The three of us share a mournful laugh.
Bess Chatterley and Nettie Butterworth happen to be my two favorite octogenarians, and they’re also a big part of the reason I live on this floating paradise instead of back in my old life getting cheated on by my ex-husband. Because nothing says upgrade like trading a cheating spouse for two sassy senior citizens and a supernatural murder-solving hobby.
And have I mentioned my hot new husband? Some might say that getting cheated on by my ex was the best thing that’s ever happened to me—and some would be me.
Speaking of being cheated on…Bess, with her sharp red bob and even sharper wit, spent decades teaching home economics at Honey Hollow High back in Vermont before her dentist husband decided his secretary’s dental hygiene was more interesting than his marriage vows. Now she’s making him pay—literally—for her cruise ship lifestyle while she drains his wallet one buffet at a time. I have to admire a woman who turned her divorce settlement into a floating retirement plan.
Nettie, meanwhile, looks like a walking Valentine’s Day explosion in her technicolor coat and those heart-shaped sunglasses. Her gray curls peek out from under a pink beret, and knowing Nettie, it probably has some kind of flashing lights or musical component. She’s from Scooter Springs, Vermont, where she “dabbled in farming”—though Bess always makes air quotes when she says that, hinting at Nettie’s more colorful agricultural past that may or may not be legal in some states.
“You know what your problem is, Bess?” Nettie continues, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at her bestie. “You’ve been hurt once and now you think all men are emotional tax write-offs.”
“Am I wrong?” Bess snorts, watching a man board whose forehead displays the words I’M MARRIED in large block letters—wait, is that actually tattooed on his skin? “Nettie, I was been married to the same man for forty years,” Bess continues. “I’ve been hurt approximately fourteen thousand times, give or take a few forgotten anniversaries, and that time he tried to floss his teeth with my good jewelry—despite the fact he’s a dentist.”
“Well, I’ve been married more times than I can count,” Nettie declares with a touch of pride, “and I regret absolutely nothing. Each husband taught me something valuable.”
“Like what?” I ask, genuinely curious and slightly concerned for her mental health regarding the lessons she may or may not have learned.
“Husband number one taught me that love is blind—because he couldn’t see the dishes piling up or the lawn that looked like a jungle. Husband number two taught me that love is also deaf—he couldn’t hear me asking him to get a job for three years straight. Husband number three taught me that prenups exist for a reason, and so do private investigators. Husband number four taught me that retirement communities have surprisingly active social scenes and shockingly loose morals. And husband number five—”
“Taught you that cremation is cheaper than divorce,” Bess finishes dryly.
“Now that’s just morbid,” Nettie says with a dark smile. “He taught me that sometimes the best relationships are the ones that end before someone gets arrested. Or before you have to start hiding the kitchen knives.”
“That’s… actually kind of wise,” I admit, watching the steady stream of passengers flooding the ship, each one looking as if they’re either ready for the vacation of a lifetime or a nervous breakdown. Sometimes both. Day one on a new cruise can be a lot.
But there’s just nothing like that first day glow.
Speaking of glowing, the rest of the crew that’s standing with us seems to be glowing too. The rest of the crew loves the first day of a new cruise just as much as the passengers. The scent of a freshly scrubbed ship, the delicious scents from the fresh buffets, and the briny scent of the sea. I have to admit, it’s an intoxicating combination.
I glance over at Wes, who looks absolutely dashing in his crisp white uniform, and just about every woman who spots him begs for a selfie with the captain—of course, he’s more than happy to comply, flashing that dimpled smile that could navigate ships through storms.
Elodie and Tinsley stand next to him side by side in their matching crew uniforms—white blouses and navy pencil skirts—although Elodie’s version fits like it was painted on by a very talented and slightly perverted artist, while Tinsley’s looks like it came straight from the regulation handbook.
Elodie, my forty-something blonde South African bestie, stands close enough to Wes that she’s practically in his personal space, and I can see her scanning the boarding passengers like a lioness eyeing a particularly delicious herd of gazelle. That woman treats every cruise like an all-you-can-eat buffet of eligible men, and judging by the gleam in her eyes, she’s already spotted her appetizer course.
Tinsley would be the fort-something chestnut-haired, hairy, scary cruise director who makes no apologies about the fact she’s not my biggest fan. In fact, I’m pretty sure she’d push me overboard if given half the chance.
And last but never least, there’s Ransom Courtland Baxter—fifty-something handsome to a fault, devastating and arresting in every single way, make-my-knees-wobble Ransom. The head of vessel security, ex-FBI, ex-playboy du jour, stands with that confident posture that screams, “I could disarm a bomb or break your heart with equal efficiency.”
His jet-black hair has just a smattering of distinguished gray around the temples, cobalt blue eyes that see everything, and a body built for destruction—or justice, as it were. He also happens to be my gorgeous husband, which still makes me want to pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming. And thankfully, I’m not.
I cast a quick glance at the ship done up to the glittering-heart nines as the crystal chandeliers cast a dreamy glow over everything, while pink and red decorations drape every available surface as if cupid decided to redecorate the entire ship in honor of his upcoming special day.
“Bess, just look at all this romance,” I say. “Ten days through the British Isles and France, and we’ll be celebrating the actual heart-shaped holiday on our final sea day—talk about perfect timing.”
My name is Trixie Troublefield Baxter, and let me tell you, I’m still getting used to that last name after a couple of months of marriage to the most amazing man on the planet. At forty-nine, I never thought I’d be this giddy about Valentine’s Day, but being a newlywed has given me rose-colored glasses that would make a romance novelist jealous. Everything looks prettier when you’re in love—even Bess’s sharp observations and no-nonsense attitude seems sort of endearing.
Oh, and I can see ghosts. Not every ghost, not every time, but apparently enough to make me the universe’s unofficial supernatural crime solver. Which, let me tell you, was NOT in my life manual nor in the marriage handbook. Not that I have either but still, you get the point.
“Ten days of forced romance and chocolate-covered everything?” Bess rolls her eyes, before catching her checking her reflection in the polished brass railing and frowning. “Like I said, you’re still in the honeymoon phase.”
“Oh come on, Bessie.” Nettie mock-slugs her bestie on the arm, and her bedazzled sunglasses nearly slide off her nose. “Ten days is like a romantic marathon. I bet I could charm at least three eligible bachelors before we hit international waters.”
“At your age, Nettie, you’d be lucky to charm the shuffleboard instructor,” Bess shoots back as she frowns at her reflection in a nearby window.
“Who says shuffleboard can’t be sexy?” Nettie protests, patting her rhinestone-encrusted sweater. “Age is just a number, and mine happens to be unlisted. Besides, older men appreciate experience.”
“Experience in what? Remembering where you left your teeth?” Bess smirks.
“Ladies,” comes that familiar warm voice that still makes my stomach do little flips. Ransom approaches with that confident stride that makes my heart skip like a teenager’s, even after all these months of knowing him.
“Everything under control?” he asks, his eyes crinkling with amusement as he takes in our little Valentine’s brigade, and he lands a quick kiss on my lips.
“Define control,” I laugh, but before Ransom can answer, a sharp voice cuts through the festive atmosphere like a knife through wedding cake.
“How DARE you show your face here after what you’ve done!”
We all turn toward the gangway where two women are making quite the entrance—and not in a good way. They’re arguing as they board with their raised voices echoing off the elegant marble walls of the atrium, and they manage to turn every head within earshot.
The first is a striking platinum blonde in a designer cream suit that I could never pull off—I’d have it covered in coffee stains within five minutes—and judging by the way she’s wielding her designer handbag, she’s not afraid to use it as a weapon. Her sharp cheekbones are sharp enough to slice cheese, and her piercing blue eyes are currently shooting daggers that would make a medieval knight jealous.
The second woman is equally elegant but in that “I-went-to-finishing-school-and-you-didn’t” sort of way—a perfectly coiffed brunette in conservative navy who’s clutching a leather briefcase like it contains the nuclear launch codes. She’s got the kind of upright, uptight posture that screams old money and even older grudges.
“I have every right to be here, Claudette,” the blonde says with the kind of icy calm that usually precedes someone getting pushed overboard. “This is a public cruise, not your private sanctuary.”
“A sanctuary you’ve spent two years trying to demolish!” Claudette fires back, her voice climbing toward the crystal chandeliers. “You and your twisted philosophy have destroyed more marriages than a discount divorce lawyer!”
Other passengers streaming aboard start to pause and stare, some looking uncomfortable, while others are clearly enjoying the drama. I notice a distinguished man with silver hair and kind brown eyes standing nearby, watching the confrontation with what looks like genuine distress. He’s wearing a cozy sweater that makes him look like someone’s favorite professor, and there’s something almost protective in the way he’s watching the blonde woman—as if he wants to step in but can’t decide if intervention would help or just add gasoline to the fire. I’m guessing it’s the latter.
“Twisted philosophy?” The blonde laughs, and it sounds like broken champagne flutes hitting marble. “At least I’m honest about what marriage really is—a business transaction with occasional benefits. You’re still peddling fairy tales to desperate housewives who think love conquers credit card debt.”
“I’m helping people save their relationships, not destroy them!”
The tension escalates quickly, and I spot Wes making his way toward the feuding women with determined strides.
“Ladies,” he calls out, trying to get their attention over their heated exchange.
They completely ignore him, too busy perfecting their death glares.
“Ladies, please,” he says again, stepping into their midst, but they’re too caught up in their verbal warfare to notice.
Still nothing.
More angry words ensue.
They’re locked in combat like gladiators, except instead of swords they’re wielding words sharp enough to draw blood.
Finally, Wes steps right between them and holds out both hands like a referee breaking up a boxing match—which, let’s be honest, this was a hair from becoming just that.
“Ladies,” he says one more time, his captain’s authority cutting through their argument sharp and swift like unexpected thunder.
Both women finally cease their bickering and turn his way, suddenly aware of the crowd of passengers and crew watching their very public display.
“Well,” I say to Bess and Nettie, “looks like this Valentine’s cruise is going to be anything but boring.”
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about cruises, it’s that when love is in the air, war is usually close behind.
Well, that was quite the entrance.
After Wes successfully defused what can only be described as a Valentine’s Day catfight at sea level, we’re left standing in the aftermath of the most dramatic boarding process I’ve ever witnessed—and that’s saying something, considering my track record with cruises.
Wes gives a slight bow their way. “Welcome aboard the Emerald Queen of the Seas,” he says with professional charm, though I can see the slight tension around his eyes—and in the crowd around him too. “I’m Captain Crawford, and I’d like to personally welcome both of you to our Valentine’s sailing.”
The platinum blonde straightens her designer suit and extends a perfectly manicured hand. “Dr. Lavender Voss,” she says with renewed composure, even though her voice still carries an edge sharp enough to perform emergency surgery. “I’m leading a progressive relationship seminar focused on modern partnership dynamics.”
“Nice to meet you.” Wes offers an amicable smile, and his dimples deploy like secret weapons designed to disarm hostile passengers—which, judging by the way both women soften slightly, is exactly what happens.
“Claudette Sterling,” the brunette responds coolly, clutching her leather briefcase like armor. “I represent the Valentine Renewal Couples Retreat—helping marriages through traditional values and genuine commitment.”
The way they emphasize progressive and traditional makes it sound as if they’re representing opposing political parties rather than relationship philosophies. I half expect them to start debating healthcare next. Or worse yet, gun safety.
“How wonderful that we have such diverse approaches to love and partnership,” Wes says, clearly trying to steer this ship away from the iceberg of another public confrontation. “I’m sure our passengers will benefit from both perspectives.”
“Indeed,” Dr. Voss says with a smile that doesn’t make it to those piercing blue eyes. “However, I suspect some perspectives will prove more… enlightening than others.”
Before Claudette can fire back with what I’m sure would be a perfectly crafted verbal missile, a woman with wild curly hair and flowing bohemian clothes steps forward like a diplomatic peace treaty in human form.
“Hi there,” she gives Wes a wave. “I’m Dr. Jazmine Stone,” she says warmly, radiating the kind of zen energy that probably comes from years of meditation and expensive yoga retreats. “And this is my husband, Rob.” She gestures to a laid-back man with sandy hair and hemp-looking jewelry who immediately starts making calming hand gestures like he’s conducting an invisible orchestra of tranquility. “We’re here to support Dr. Voss’s seminar. Love should unite us, not divide us.”
“Absolutely, man,” Rob adds in a voice that sounds like he’s been practicing meditation since Woodstock and probably has strong opinions about chakras. “We’re all just souls seeking connection in this cosmic dance of relationships.”
Nettie elbows me. “If this is a dance, someone forgot to teach me the steps, and I think I’ve been doing the cha-cha when everyone else is waltzing.”
“Well,” Wes says, looking like a man trying to juggle flaming torches while riding a unicycle in a windstorm, “I’m sure you’ll all find plenty to discuss during our voyage. In fact, I’d like to invite both of your organizations to tonight’s exclusive welcome reception in the Commodore’s Club—it’s usually reserved for our most distinguished guests.”
Both women’s expressions brighten considerably at this honor, like flowers turning toward the sun—or sharks scenting blood in the water, depending on your perspective.
“How generous of you, Captain,” Dr. Voss says with the first genuine smile I’ve seen from her. “We’d be delighted to attend.”
“Absolutely,” Claudette agrees, clutching her briefcase a bit less defensively. “Thank you for such a gracious invitation.”
As the two women and their respective groups head toward the elevators—still maintaining a careful distance from each other as if they were opposing magnets—another figure strides up the gangway with the swagger of a man who owns every room he enters and probably has the receipts to prove it, with gold chains glinting beneath an open silk shirt that’s somehow both tacky and devastatingly attractive. Weird, I know.
He looks somewhere in his early seventies, has silver-hair, and is perfectly tanned, with those gold chains glinting beneath that open silk shirt that screams “I vacation in places you can’t pronounce.” The moment he spots our little group, he flashes a megawatt smile and gives an exaggerated wink. “Howdy, ladies,” he gives an approving nod to Bess. “That’s a stunning crimson ensemble.”
“Why, thank you,” Bess sighs. She practically melts on the spot, her hand flying to her heart. “Well, hello there, Captain Handsome,” she breathes to herself, suddenly patting her red bob and straightening her crimson wool coat as he passes her by with another wink.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Nettie mutters, but even she’s stealing glances at the newcomer like a teenager trying not to stare at her crush. “Five minutes ago, you were calling Valentine’s Day a capitalist conspiracy, and now you’re practically swooning over the first silver fox who winks your way. I knew you were easy.”
“I am not swooning,” Bess protests, although her cheeks are definitely pinker than they were a moment ago and she’s suddenly found seventeen different ways to adjust her coat. “I’m merely… appreciating the scenery.”
“Now that’s what I call a welcome wagon,” Elodie purrs, materializing beside us with the predatory grace of a maneater who’s just found fresh hunting grounds. “Silver fox at twelve o’clock, and he’s got that ‘I know exactly what I’m doing and you’re going to like it’ vibe that makes smart women do stupid things. That would be, I’m that smart woman.”
“Or makes cynical women forget their own advice,” Nettie adds with a knowing smirk that suggests she’s seen this movie before and knows exactly how it ends—usually because she’s the one starring in it. Or in this case, maybe it’s Bess.
“Or stupid women do smart things,” Elodie giggles, which is honestly more terrifying than endearing. Elodie is my on-ship bestie, and one thing I know for sure about her—the woman doesn’t giggle.
Tinsley appears with her clipboard, looking slightly flustered. “I’ve organized hundreds of cruises, but the quality of gentleman boarding today is… well, noteworthy.”
Elodie huffs a laugh that sounds like pure mischief mixed with expensive perfume. “Oh honey, I’m taking notes, measurements, and possibly phone numbers. This passenger manifest reads like a dating app for the distinguished and dangerous.”
Nettie bobs her head, and that gray globe of hair on her head wobbles. “And they’ll all be at the welcome party. It’s like Christmas morning, except instead of presents under the tree, we’ve got potential romance under the chandelier.”
“What do you think?” Bess looks at Ransom and me with the expression of a woman trying to convince herself that attending a party full of attractive strangers is a perfectly reasonable idea. “Should we go?” She nods as if trying to convince us—and herself—that it’s not just an excuse to see Captain Gold Chains again.
Ransom nods. “As chief of security, I feel obligated to keep an eye on things.” He turns to me with that smile that still makes my knees melt. “Will you be my date?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I tell him before wrinkling my nose. “I’m already imagining the fireworks when those two feuding relationship experts end up in the same room with cocktails and unresolved professional grudges.”
“As am I,” he says with a tick of his head.
I turn back toward the atrium, and a strange movement catches my eye. It’s Cozy Sweater Guy again, lurking near where our dueling therapists just had their showdown like a lost professor looking for his classroom. The poor man still looks as if he’s watching that train wreck in slow motion and can’t decide whether to call for help or sell tickets.
Our eyes meet across the marble expanse, and he flashes me a smile that could break hearts and probably has—and then he explodes into a constellation of miniature red stars that twinkle out like dying Christmas lights, leaving me with nothing but empty air and the distinct feeling that what was supposed to be a peaceful Valentine’s cruise just got a whole lot more complicated.
I gasp as my hand flies to my throat, because apparently, my supernatural abilities have the worst timing in the history of inconvenient superpowers.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Valentine’s Day, it’s this—when cupid’s arrows start flying, someone usually ends up with more than a broken heart.
With a ghost haunting this cruise ship, love isn’t the only thing in the air, so is murder, and someone’s heart is about to stop beating for all the wrong reasons.
***I hope you enjoyed this preview! Thank you for reading!****