“I thought the folkemuseums had been recording the furniture and old buildings,” Pix said.
“Well, yes, but they can’t keep track of everything,” Helene responded peevishly.
Recalling how difficult it was to take antiques out of the country, Pix wondered about Helene. The woman had obviously wanted to discover a hidden gem. But for what purpose? To inform the museum in Bergen or Oslo? Or
to try to get it to Mount Vernon, New York, home of the Felds? Not a chest, of course, but things like the wedding spoons Jan had described might not be so hard to hide in one’s luggage. And if they were stopped, they could plead ignorance—once anyway. The other thing that struck her was Helene’s obvious familiarity with ferreting out country antiques. She’d been to Norway before, she’d mentioned, but she hadn’t described scouting the countryside for antiques, unless she’d been accompanying a Norwegian dealer or antiquarian. Kari’s last known request had been the phone number of her friend at the Museum of Decorative Arts in Bergen. Pix thought she’d give Annelise a call and ask her about the antiques market and what the laws were more precisely. Faith had said something was staring her in the face. Maybe it was an ancient ale bowl.
Pix went over to Ursula, who was standing at the head of the path. As they started down to the boat, the farmers emerged from the barn, all smiles. They grabbed fistfuls of sandwiches, drank hasty glasses of beer, and shook hands with the farmer, who seemed to be expressing, genuine regret at their departure.
“Obviously a good day for Ole Knudsen and Henry Amulfson. Now they finally have something to talk about when they get home,” Ursula said dryly, the corners of her mouth twitching. “I think I just might play pinochle with them after all. It’s been years.”
That reminded Pix of Oscar Melling. Certainly the farmers weren’t mourning him.
“Did you learn anything about the oil business from Mr. Harding?” she asked her mother.
“I’ll tell you about it later, dear. Wasn’t that fascinating? And do you see what’s over there? Such a shiny new boat. It must be their fjord taxi. What fun for the children to ride in.”
Pix looked over her shoulder. The guides and Jennifer Olsen were almost on their heels.
“Yes, it does look like it would be fun to ride in, and business must be booming for them to buy such a spruce little craft.” She felt as if she was reading from a script.
Jan reached for Ursula’s arm and helped her aboard. Sonja and Anders appeared to cast off and soon they were in the middle of the fjord again.
Carl addressed the group before they had a chance to scatter to various parts of the Viking cruiser.
“We hope you will enjoy the special trip we have arranged for you this afternoon to the Norwegian Glacier Museum at Fjærland. To get there, we will sail back to the Sognefjord and into the Fjærlandsfjord. It’s a very beautiful cruise and you will see the glacier just in front of you the whole way. The museum was designed by Sverre Fehn, our most famous architect. He calls it ‘an altar in a landscape.’ You see if you agree. It’s only a short bus ride from the quay, and if you have any questions, please ask me or Jan.”
Pix wanted to know why they were going to the museum. She was curious about what they’d say, but she decided not to ask. The somber mood of the group had changed entirely and her question would only make the guides uneasy. Besides, they’d probably just answer that they were doing it to make the Scandie Sights experience just that much more memorable for everyone. And maybe they were.
She was eager to find out what Ursula had talked about with the Hardings and the Golubs, that inseparable quartet. Her mother had apparently not had a chance to get Carol Peterson alone. Carol and Roy senior were the exceptions to the general lifting of spirits. The two elder Petersons were still obviously on the outs with the world. Carol had returned to the boat long before everyone else and Roy had moped about the shore after viewing the lunch distastefully.
It was definitely an odd sensation. Pix was walking through the model glacier at the museum. Technology had created authenticity and she truly felt she was beneath the
glacier—the bre. She could hear the ice breaking and rocks falling above her, then a series of high-pitched creaks—the ice, in constant motion, alone. It was chilly and the glistening fiberglass maze that had been created looked as if it could freeze one’s fingers off. The tunnel was dark, with occasional spots of light for safety; the ground beneath her feet was spongy, simulating clay. She stepped carefully, avoiding a pool of water. All very, very real.
They’d found two buses waiting for them at the quay and arrived minutes later at the museum, which was surrounded by walls of mountains on three sides and the fjord on the fourth. It was an altar, an altar to the powerful, massive glacier, which was so close that when one ascended the staircases to the museum’s roof, the bre would seem deceptively within reach. Ursula and Pix had been the last ones off the bus and, with several others, became separated from the rest of the group. Attempting to rejoin their comrades, they were imperiously pushed to the rear of a very long line by a guide from another tour. “My lot already has tickets,” she announced in English. Pix was annoyed at the way the woman had literally wedged her “lot” in front of them, but she had no idea whether Scandie Sights had tickets or what she should do. As she was about to explain to the woman that they were part of a group farther ahead, a lean figure jumped over the rope and, taking Ursula by the arm, led her and the rest of them to the front of the line, unleashing a torrent of invective—in Norwegian—at the other guide as they passed. It was Carl, a snarling sheepdog, protecting his flock. The woman responded. They obviously knew each other, but it was Carl’s day, and soon Pix found herself in the movie theater, staring at five screens and slightly out of breath.
“Quite a passionate young man when roused,” Ursula observed, unruffled. “The other leader didn’t have a chance.”
“We all have tickets,” he’d said—in English—pointedly, perhaps for the benefit of her group, which was re
garding the Scandie Sights stragglers with undisguised venom. Jumping the queue just isn’t done, you know.
Once inside, the film, on five screens, was breathtaking. Pix instantly resolved to come back to explore the glacier, the bre, itself with Sam and any family members who would still take a vacation with parents and siblings. Mark had made it clear that destination was everything, and she had the feeling he was thinking of Hawaii.
One group in the film was hiking across the glacier in pleasant, gentle stages—picnics in the sun, a hearty, happy throng of children and adults. The other glacial explorers provided the drama, wielding picks and dangling into dangerous-looking crevasses, their ropes taut. They started out tanned and fit and emerged yet more so at the end. Even the oldest, who looked Ursula’s age, could have qualified for a Ray Ban ad. The film ended and everyone filed out to explore the center’s exhibits.
“Makes it seem as if you really are two feet below the surface, with tons and tons of ice on top of your head.” It was Marge Brady, well informed as usual. For a moment, Pix resented the intrusion, both for its quantification and because it marked an end to her solitary fantasy. She’d deliberately waited until the model seemed empty to experience it alone.
“It’s remarkable,” she commented. Marge, undeterred by brevity, continued Pix’s private tour. “It was designed by the same person who designed the special effects for the Star Wars sets. The Norwegians call the glacier ‘the roof of Norway.’ Pretty big roof! I’m not sure I’d want to walk on it, even with a guide. How can they be sure you won’t fall through?”
Pix did not have an answer. “I’m sure they’re very experienced.” She made a mental note to check out the accident rate before they returned.
The two women emerged into the main hall. Marge was heading for a stationary bike, ready to test her ability to generate energy. Pix was sure she’d do well and ducked behind a large photo of a woolly mammoth. It was hard
to concentrate on the dis
plays, excellent as they were, when she kept seeing Oscar’s body on the rocks. The question uppermost in her mind was not why the ice was turquoise blue, but how had the man died?
Ursula was buying postcards.
“Do you think Danny would like this one of the polar bear?” she asked.
Pix started to respond, “Danny who?” but fortunately she remembered that she did indeed have a twelve-year-old. She told her mother he’d love it.
Marge came sailing by. “We’re going to have time to visit the glacier after all!” she called, off to spread the news to others.
“I’m glad you’ll have the chance to see part of it. It really is extraordinary,” Ursula said. Then, lowering her voice, she added, “They certainly don’t seem anxious to get back to the hotel.”
“I think they’re counting on arctic memories to obliterate any other, less pleasant ones from the ‘Dear Scandie Sights’ evaluation forms I’m sure we’ll be filling out tomorrow,” Pix remarked.
They both headed for the ladies’ room, then rejoined the group. Jan was counting heads when someone from the museum came up to him and spoke into his ear. An anxious look crossed his face, quickly replaced by a neutral one. “Carl,” he called to the other guide, who was answering a question for Marge Brady.
Pix wasn’t taking much note of what was going on, but Ursula poked her in the ribs. “Follow them,” she whispered. “Something’s up. They’re not smiling.”
Pix slipped away from the tour and pretended to be looking at one of the exhibits—weather on the glacier. Carl and Jan were going toward the phone in the small gift shop. She hastened toward a postcard rack, grabbed one, and went to pay the cashier. Carl was speaking and she didn’t understand what he was saying, but it was clear that something serious had occurred. He hung up, pulled Jan to one side, and spoke to him. The other guide’s face
paled and he put a hand on Carl’s arm. A few more words and they went back to the group. Pix was out the door, as well.
“Wait, you’ve left your card.” The clerk was running after her.
“Tusen takk,” Pix said, and was in time to hear “So we will be returning to the hotel for a pleasant afternoon.” Carl was smiling. Jan was smiling. At least their mouths turned up at the corners. Their eyes told a different story.
“What did I miss?” Pix asked Ursula.
“Apparently, we have to get back to the hotel because of the dinner schedule. We won’t have time to see the glacier, but Jan told everyone the museum is better.”
“Dinner schedule!” Pix was positive that when the tour was supposed to eat would not have caused the reaction she’d just observed. But what would have?
Marit was sitting on the small dock in Balestrand, next to the huge Midsummer bonfire pile, which had grown even more since they’d arrived. She spied Pix in the bow and waved her arm back and forth. Why would Marit be down here, so obviously waiting for them, abandoning her cover? Pix jumped to her feet and started toward the door of the cabin.
“What’s your rush?” Jennifer asked. She was stretched out on her back, looking up at the sky.
“I—I have to check on my mother,” Pix answered, and went straight inside to Ursula.
“Marit’s on the dock. She waved to me.”
Ursula understood immediately.
“Go see what’s happened. I’ll be fine.”
Pix grabbed her jacket from the chair she’d hung it on—the sun had made it unnecessary—and went to the upper deck.
As the boat drew closer, she could see Marit’s face was tense. She sat looking toward the fjord like some figure from Norse mythology. Pix thought she ought to be knit
ting a shroud or something. Shroud! Dear God, let it not be bad news about Kari.
Pix was the first off the boat. She went directly to her friend.
“What’s wrong. Is it Kari?”
“Nei.” Marit stood up and took Pix’s hand, pulling her in the direction of the hotel. “You’ve got to come. The man you found—it wasn’t an accident. Everyone at the hotel is talking about it and the police are here.”
“You mean Oscar Melling was murdered!” She—and Faith—had been right.
It was upsetting, yet why was Marit reacting this way—so fearfully? The older woman was setting a rapid pace.
“Murdered, ja,” she said, “and someone saw you from a window out near the place where he was lying.”
“Well, of course they did. I found him.”
Marit stopped and shook her head. “Saw you before that. Saw you at about the time the police think he was killed.”
Now fear filled Pix, too, like the tide rushing in. A cloud passed in front of the sun. She slipped her jacket on. It was cold.
Entering the lobby of the Kvikne’s Hotel alone after Marit went to meet Ursula, Pix debated the merits of approaching the police herself versus being approached by them. Her instinct was to find them as quickly as possible and tell all, but then again, this might seem suspicious. Why was she so anxious to speak with them? they might wonder. And of course the first thing they’d ask would be how she knew they were looking for her. Her long association with Faith Fairchild had taught Pix that her own instincts were not always to be trusted, whereas Faith’s were. Pix could not recall an instance in Faith’s own numerous investigations where the lady had gone to the police to share what she knew. Rather, Faith felt it was completely legitimate to hold out on them. “They wouldn’t listen anyway” was her oft-stated rationale. Pix
decided to adopt it now. In any case, she had to think of Marit. She had no idea how Marit had found out so much—Pix recalled mention of pumping one of the younger, less seasoned veterans of the force—and she had to protect the older woman. But how could she tell them anything without involving Marit? For instance, why she had come to Norway on the spur of the moment? It was a hopeless dilemma.
In the end, she did not have to agonize over her decision for long. Almost simultaneously, a clerk from behind the desk and a uniformed policeman stopped her before she could get on the elevator. After saying something in Norwegian—the two words “Fru Miller” needing no translation—the clerk withdrew hastily, leaving Pix with the young officer.
“Mrs. Miller?”
“Yes?” She unconsciously mimicked his questioning tone.
“Would you mind talking to the inspector who is looking into the death of Mr. Melling, the man from your tour you found this morning?”
Tempted to reply, Oh, that Mr. Melling, instead Pix meekly said, “Of course,” and allowed herself to be ushered into the Star Chamber. Sam would kill me, she thought. Well, if I ask to have a lawyer present, it really would look odd. Besides, her lawyer husband was thousands of miles away and need never know—at least not for a while.
The hotel had turned over a large conference room to the police. It was arranged for a business meeting, long tables in a U shape, with a pad and pen at each place. An overhead projector and screen were set up at the front, along with a television and a VCR. A smaller table and several chairs had been placed in front of one of the large windows on the outside wall. A pot of pink begonias sat squarely in the middle of each sill. With Pix’s and the officer’s arrival, there were exactly four people in the room.
A man got up from behind the small table.
“How do you do? I’m Inspektør Johan Marcussen,” he said, extending his hand. She took it, well aware how sweaty and cold her own must feel.
“I’m Pix Miller,” and I’ve been better, she finished silently.
“Pix—this is an English name I’ve not heard before,” he said.
She decided to let it go at that. Let him think it was a family name and—inwardly cursing her parents’ flight of fancy—it was.
“Please, sit down.” He pulled out a chair across the table from his. She had the fjord view. “Would you like some coffee?” This was one question that did not take her by surprise. She could not imagine anything, even a police inquisition, taking place in Norway without this beverage
, and maybe some little cakes, too. Well, it would use up some time—she didn’t see a tray. Plus, when it arrived, it would give her something to hold on to.
“That would be very nice, thank you.” So far, so good.
The officer who had accompanied her left the room. This left Pix, the inspector, and another police officer, pad and pen—not the hotel’s—in hand.
Inspector Marcussen was tall, looming over Pix, and she judged him to be in his late fifties. His hair was gray and thinning, but he was extremely attractive. She had always thought that unattractive Norwegians were the exception, and piercing blue eyes like the inspector’s had held a special attraction for her since that long-ago summer visit when Olav something, a friend of Hanna’s, had flashed his at a very susceptible young American girl. The police at home did not have this effect on her. She’d known Patrolman Warren since he was a runny-nosed little boy, and his sister had been in Pix’s Girl Scout troop. Veteran police chief Charley Maclsaac may have had a certain appeal once, but there had been a few too many muffins at the Minuteman Café in the last thirty years. Johan Mar
cussen, on the other hand, would have been in the group with the ropes and picks in today’s glacier movie.
She realized Inspector Marcussen was talking to her and that she had better pay attention—close attention.
“It must have been a terrible shock for you to discover Mr. Melling like that in the fjord.”
“Yes, yes it was.” She folded her hands together until the coffee came, then thought it looked like she was praying, so she quickly separated them.
“Could you tell us exactly what he looked like and what you did? Maybe starting with how you came to be at the fjord at this time of the morning?”
She definitely needed a lawyer. She didn’t know whether Norway was one of those countries like France where you were guilty until proven innocent. She hoped not.
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