Death Under the Bridge

by Cate Martin

  "I would love to meet your sister," I said. "But can I ask one more question?" A strand of hair had gotten loose from my knit cap and I brushed at it with the back of my hand, but it fell back into my eyes to twist up with my eyelashes. Loke reached out to gently untangle it, then tuck it behind my ear.

  "Ask," he said.

  "What's your name, really?"

  I watched his face and eyes cascade through a series of emotions. Had the question surprised him? Was he entertaining the thought of not answering? Of telling me off for prying?

  I definitely saw the moment when he flirted with getting out of answering by playing it all off as a joke.

  But then he grew serious again. He gestured for me to lean closer, then whispered in my ear, "Loke Grímsson, at your service."

  I leaned back to look him in the eye again. "That is a secret, isn't it?" He shrugged that careless shrug, but I knew he was only pretending not to care. "Why?"

  "Names have power," he told me. "Some names have more power than others."

  "But doesn't everybody know your name? You live in town, right? People knew your parents?" I asked.

  He was about to answer but straightened suddenly, moving back on the bench to put more space between us the instant before Thorbjorn came around the corner of the house to join us.

  "We're all set to ride into town," he said, but then stopped, looking at Loke and I suspiciously. "What's going on?"

  "Nothing," I said. "Let's take one last pass through the house before we go to be sure we're not missing anything."

  Thorbjorn nodded and held out a hand to help me off the bench. Perhaps he thought I didn't notice the hard glare he shot at Loke. It was certainly hard to miss Loke's mocking laugh.

  I looked around the little cottage, but nothing had been missed. The fact was, most of the furniture was simply too big to fit through the door without being broken to pieces first, and that felt like a sacrilege. So we had left it untouched.

  "It's a pity," I said.

  "What's a pity?" Thorbjorn asked.

  "That we can't take the rest with us. I mean, someone would really love this bed," I said, running my hands over the smooth wood.

  "Someone does love it," he said, sounding confused. "You love it."

  "I know, but I could never fit it in my grandmother's loft," I said. "Still, I've sketched everything, and taken photographs. That will have to be enough."

  "Ingrid, Solvi gave you this house," Thorbjorn said. He still sounded confused. Heck, I was confused.

  "No, I only asked for the art," I said. "I needed to give Kyle Meeks enough to get his shop running, so that he can pay off the debts Garrett Nelsen ran up in their business's name and pay the fees for canceling those manufacturing orders."

  "That's all you asked for, but that's not all he gave you," Thorbjorn said.

  I frowned but cast my mind back to that night on the hilltop. What had Solvi said, exactly?

  "He did," I said, looking from Thorbjorn to Loke who was smirking as he leaned in the doorway. "He did, didn't he? This place is mine. All of this gorgeous woodwork is mine."

  "It suits you," Loke said, looking around the interior. "And look, Mjolner has already made himself at home."

  I gave Loke a puzzled look, but he was pointing at the bed. I peeked inside to see my cat curled up on the pillow, napping away. When had he arrived? And how?

  "But it's not like I can live here," I said. "This place is in the woods. That's still off limits, right?"

  "When I'm not with you, yes," Thorbjorn said. "But that won't always be true. Your power grows by the day."

  "Well, by the month, maybe," Loke said, but we both ignored him.

  "This is really mine," I said again, because it was so hard to believe it. I had never really imagined what my first place would be like, if I ever lived on my own. I had never wanted to leave my chronically ill mother on her own. If I had I might've imagined a garden level apartment somewhere. Or maybe a loft in the arty part of Minneapolis. But this? "This is amazing."

  Loke was grinning at me like I was a dopey fool, which I supposed was how I was acting. But then he usually grinned like that at everyone, so what did it matter?

  "Come," Thorbjorn said, clapping his hands together. "Fetch your cat. We have to get these wagons back to Villmark before it gets dark."

  I picked up Mjolner and followed Thorbjorn to one of the wagons. Loke drove his on ahead, and when Thorbjorn got our horse to follow I turned back to keep the cottage in sight for as long as I could. Until the trees around us closed together to block it from view.

  But it was still there and always would be. And it was mine.

  Chapter 26

  I don't have to be doing magic to lose all sense of time while doing art. Just getting caught up in the drawing can do it, especially if I'm working in ink and not pencil, which I was doing the afternoon before my grandmother and I were planning to have dinner with Lisa Sorensen's parents.

  I had been nervous about how the evening was going to go, so to distract myself I had started working on a new illustration, something based on one of my sketches from the day out on the lake on the Viking ship. I liked the broad outline I had sketched out, but really got focused on the details of every single rower, of the carving on the prow and the pattern on the sail.

  I was vaguely aware of the rich smell of my grandmother's butter cookies in the oven. But even the promise of that decadent goodness wasn't enough to pull me out of my mental world.

  But her voice calling my name did. And she hadn't even put any magical oomph on it.

  "Coming!" I called back, capping my ink and wiping my pen before running down the stairs. I was dressed to go, but my ink-stained fingers would probably need some explaining, or at least a sheepish apology. My fingers hadn't been clean, really clean, since I was a kid and moved beyond crayons.

  But my grandmother wasn't waiting for me, cookie dish in hand, prepared to head out the door. She had called me for another reason all together, as I realized as I rounded the landing on the stairs and saw three people sitting around the fireplace.

  They looked up as they heard me approaching. I recognized Tore Nelsen straight away, but the other two were less familiar. Then I placed them: Garrett Nelsen's parents. I had seen their picture in the paper with the last story about his mysterious death.

  "Oh. Hello," I said, slowing my steps down the last of the stairs. "I didn't realize we were expecting company?"

  "Not expecting," my grandmother said, waving for me to take a seat beside her on the sofa. The three Nelsens sat together on the other sofa, the coffee table between us. Tore reached for the mug in front of him and took a sip of coffee, then wiped his lips nervously on his sleeve.

  "I need to be here for this?" I whispered to my grandmother. Since I had done that bit of magic on the hilltop with my voice, I had discovered all sorts of things I could do. Like this particular ventriloquist trick, where my lips didn't move and only my grandmother could hear me.

  "They're here for you, not me," she whispered back to me in the same way.

  The three Nelsens were getting more uncomfortable by the second at the awkward silence. I cleared my throat, then offered them a polite smile. "What can I do for you?"

  Inwardly, I chanted to myself, "please don't have a case. Please don't have a case. Please don't have a case."

  Because I had gained a bit of a reputation around Runde for being a first-class investigator. Not for solving murders, of course. No one in Runde save my grandmother and Loke knew I had done that. Twice.

  No, after bringing all of Solvi's art down from Villmark and giving it to Kyle, word had gotten out that all the poking around I had been doing after the murder had led me to a hidden stash of Garrett Nelsen's art. Now people wanted me to find all sorts of lost objects. Like I was the neighborhood bloodhound or something.

  But somehow I doubted that was why Garrett Nelsen's parents wanted to see me. Surely that topic would be too painful for them?

  "Mis
s Torfa," Tore said. "We wanted to thank you for what you did, finding those things that Garrett left behind."

  "I just lucked upon it, really," I said, hoping they didn't press for details. Unlike Loke, I was terrible at remembering all the little things that would keep my lies consistent.

  "Well, we were thinking maybe you could dig around some more," Tore said, casting a sideways glance at the other two who huddled closer together, their heads bowed over their entwined hands.

  "You did?" I asked, skeptical. I couldn't imagine anyone who wanted to be where they were less than Garrett's parents.

  "Yes. And of course there'd be a finder's fee," Tore said in a rush.

  "I didn't collect a finder's fee the first time. Why would I want one now?" I asked.

  "Of course," he said, mopping at his brow. "But you know we would've given you one, if you'd brought what you found to us and not to Kyle Meeks."

  All of a sudden, I didn't like where this conversation was going. "I don't think so," I said, trying to keep my tone diplomatic. "Honestly, there is nothing more to be found. You should just make your peace with that."

  "Well, maybe that's true and maybe that isn't," Tore said. I shot a look at my grandmother, who understood me at once. She got to her feet and headed towards the door.

  "I am sorry, but Ingrid and I have another engagement we really shouldn't be late for," she said as she opened the door wide and waited for them to exit.

  "Of course," Tore said again. "We didn't mean to intrude. We'll take this up another time, perhaps."

  "No, we won't," I said. Tore, halfway between sitting and standing, froze and looked up at me, startled by the sudden change in my tone. I leaned forward over the coffee table to look him in the eye. "Mr. Nelsen, you got the money you needed for your bridge. Not that you ever needed that bridge. But what's done is done. Let it go."

  He blinked at me but said nothing.

  I looked over at Garrett's parents, who were still leaning on each other for support. I had a hunch they hadn't wanted to come here at all. But they had let Tore talk them into it.

  "Mr. and Mrs. Nelsen," I said, and got the diplomatic back in my tone somehow. "I'm sorry for your loss. But the truth is, you know and I know that none of that work was ever really Garrett's. The true artist isn't going to make a fuss about credit. The little memorial for Garret and that anonymous artist's work will remain in the shop in Grand Marais. He'll be remembered, if only for a little while. But there is no more art. Do you understand?"

  They nodded at me mutely.

  "Good," I said. Then I looked to Tore. "We won't discuss this again."

  "No, of course not," he said, and scurried out of the door with all haste.

  My grandmother murmured condolences to the Nelsen parents, then closed the door behind them.

  "I'm not sure if that's how I would've handled that," she said to me. But I couldn't tell from her tone or the expression on her face if she was disappointed or impressed.

  "We're late," I said.

  The October night made for a cold walk, but there was no wind coming in off the lake. Still, it was a surprise when Mrs. Sorensen sat us down around a table set out on their deck overlooking the moonlit lake. But they had heaters running all around us, and it was just warm enough not to be uncomfortable. And the stars scattered across the clear skies overhead made it well worth it.

  The Sorensens seemed to be doing better. No longer numb with grief, they were pleasant company. Mrs. Sorensen had a wonderful laugh, and Mr. Sorensen delighted in saying and doing anything to provoke that laugh.

  Still, people can put on a happy face in public. And most of Runde was deeply invested in always showing my grandmother their very best faces.

  When we were finally done and the temperature was finally sinking low enough for us to feel it, Mrs. Sorensen started to get up to start gathering up the dishes, but her husband got up first, putting a hand on her shoulder to keep her in her chair.

  "You did all the cooking. I'll get the mess," he said, and she gave in with another little laugh.

  "I'll help," my grandmother said, shooting me a look that told me I was going to be staying in my chair with Mrs. Sorensen. I wanted to complain about the cold and point out that twice the hands would make half the work, but I said nothing. There was no arguing with one of my grandmother's silent commands.

  So I found myself alone with Mrs. Sorensen, looking out over the lake, the light from the moon reflecting off the currently gentle waves.

  "How are you doing, really?" I asked her, my voice more earnest than I had meant for it to be. The last thing I wanted was for her to feel like I was interrogating her.

  But she didn't take it that way at all. She just gave me a soft smile. "Well, we still miss Lisa. We'll always miss Lisa. But we're doing all right."

  "It must be hard," I said, picking at a spot of gravy that had dried on the tablecloth so that I wouldn't have to look right at her. "I've heard the police aren't really investigating the case anymore."

  "They've done their best," she said with a forced brightness. "They followed every lead they had. I believe them when they tell me that. And if they get any new leads, why, they'll pursue them as well. But without any leads, there isn't much that they can do."

  I nodded. I was going to have to let this go. Asking more questions was going to hurt Mrs. Sorensen more than it was going to help me, I was sure. But it was hard, letting go.

  "I know you never really met her, but I feel like if you had, you would've been friends," Mrs. Sorensen said, giving my hand a squeeze.

  "I think so too," I said, but my voice choked on me.

  She smiled a sad smile at me. "You take it hard. Like Jessica. Jessica takes it so hard. I try to talk to her, but I don't think she's ready to hear me yet."

  "Jessica?" I asked.

  She nodded. "I try to tell her, I know Lisa is at peace. I can feel it. Sometimes I dream about her too. But it doesn't feel like a normal dream. It's different. Maybe that sounds silly to you."

  "No," I said.

  "No? Well, you're an artist. Maybe that makes you more open to things."

  I smiled at the irony. Being an artist was not what made me more open to these sorts of things. But I could scarcely say that out loud.

  "If I had evidence, I could share it with Jessica, but I don't. I just have a feeling. And a hope that one day Jessica will come to feel the same. That Lisa loved us and misses us, but that at the core, she's found peace. And so should we, however we can."

  Peace. It wasn't closure. But if her parents could find a way to make do with one without the other, could Jessica? Would it be enough for Jessica?

  Would it be enough for me, if that was all I had to give people?

  "Come," Mrs. Sorensen said, pushing herself up out of her chair and extending a hand to me. "Let's go inside. I can smell your grandmother's butter cookies from here, and there's no way I'm going to let my husband eat all those without us."

  "I'm right behind you," I said. "I'll just switch off the heaters?"

  "Turn the knob on the front all the way to the left," she said. "Thank you, dear."

  I moved from heater to heater, switching them each off. I hadn't realized they had been making a low hum until they were all silent and I could hear the waves lapping against the shore. I stopped for a moment to watch those waves, leaning against the deck railing with my hands tucked inside my own sleeves.

  I guess I knew now why my grandmother had set up this dinner. Not to check up on the Sorensens like she'd told me. No, she was checking up on me.

  I could imagine what she would say, that Mrs. Sorensen wasn't deluding herself feeling like Lisa was at peace. Because my grandmother and I knew for a fact that her spirit was at peace. We had sensed that in the very first magic lessons we had done together. After the murder had been solved and Halldis had been locked away, Lisa had stopped haunting me. If you could call what she had been doing to me "haunting."

  And somehow, without having a hint of mag
ic in her body, Mrs. Sorensen knew it too. I hadn't gotten credit for solving the murder, and I hadn't given her closure, but my actions had given her peace.

  Well, it wasn't nothing.

  A shiver ran over me as I stood there just looking up at the moon, and I hurried back inside the house, where warmth and coffee and rich butter cookies awaited me.

  Check Out Book Three!

  The Viking Witch will return in Murder on the Lake, coming November 10, 2020 and available for preorder now!

  * * *

  Ingrid Torfa juggles two very different lives. In one she lives as an aspiring book illustrator in a quiet old fishing village on the North Shore of Lake Superior.

  But in the other she lives as an apprentice volva, a Viking Witch, in a lost Norse village that exists half in and half out of the real world.

  Balancing those two lives is trouble enough. But then a murder forces her to work in both worlds at once. She needs all her friends to help her solve this case.

  But first, they all have to meet. And half of them are about to get their minds blown.

  Murder on the Lake, book 3 in the Viking Witch Cozy Mystery series.

  * * *

  Murder on the Lake, Book 3 in the Viking Witch Mystery Series!

  The Witches Three Cozy Mysteries

  In case you missed it, check out Charm School, the first book in the complete Witches Three Cozy Mystery Series!

  Amanda Clarke thinks of herself as perfectly ordinary in every way. Just a small-town girl who serves breakfast all day in a little diner nestled next to the highway, nothing but dairy farms for miles around. She fits in there.

  But then an old woman she never met dies, and Amanda was named in her will. Now Amanda packs a bag and heads to the big city, to Miss Zenobia Weekes' Charm School for Exceptional Young Ladies. And it's not in just any neighborhood. No, she finds herself on Summit Avenue in St. Paul, a street lined with gorgeous old houses, the former homes of lumber barons, railroad millionaires, even the writer F. Scott Fitzgerald. Why, Amanda can practically hear the jazz music still playing across the decades.