The man at Marcussen’s side had leaned forward. The inspector followed her gaze.
“Do you mind if Jansen here takes a few notes—to help us find out what happened to Mr. Melling? You are free to look them over before you leave.”
Leave where? The room, the hotel, the country? She nodded, took a deep breath, and—the coffee arrived.
The smell was instantly calming. For a moment, they were simply four people adding cream and sugar to their cups, or not. And while there wasn’t cake, there was a plate of delicious-looking butter cookies.
“Where were we?” the inspector asked jovially. “You were going to tell us about finding the body.” The words were at odds with his tone.
“Yes.” Pix put her cup down on the table. She was afraid it might wobble. “I wasn’t sleeping.” She chose her words with care to avoid as many out-and-out falsehoods as possible. Falsehood was the word she used to herself when contemplating a lie. It sounded so much less serious. “I got dressed and went out for a walk. It’s very beautiful here.” She nodded out the window. How did the
businesspeople with the fjord view ever pay attention to their
flowcharts?
“Excuse me,” he interjected. “How did you leave the hotel?”
Obviously they already knew that no one at the front desk had seen her.
“I left by a side door. It was near the stairs.”
She paused, but he didn’t say anything.
“I walked along by the water, toward where the boat was docked, and met someone else from our tour, Carol Peterson.” She presumed they must know about Carol, who most certainly would have gone out by the lobby—unless, like Pix, she’d been sleuthing around for an inconspicuous side entrance and exit.
The inspector nodded.
“We sat on one of the benches and talked a few minutes, maybe five.”
“So, that would make it what time?”
“I left the hotel a little past four.” Seeing their faces, she added defensively. “People in my family have always been early risers.” Too true, too true. “It was probably ten past when I met Carol and close to four-thirty when I found Oscar.”
“You saw the body from the shore, and what did you do next?”
“I climbed down to make sure he was dead—I mean, to make sure that he wasn’t just injured and needing some help.” Neither man said anything. “Like CPR. I don’t know what it’s called in Norwegian, but it’s to resuscitate people when their hearts have failed.”
“Yet you thought he was dead before you got to him. Why was that?”
Why indeed?
“He looked dead. He wasn’t moving, and it seemed like a very awkward position to maintain.” Pix closed her eyes for a second, seeing the figure sprawled on the rocks. Oh, he had been dead. Anyone would have come to the same conclusion. Her eyelids flicked open. “I’m sure if
either of you had seen him, you would have thought so, too.” She could not keep a slightly accusatory note from her voice.
“Anyway, I felt for his pulse—on his wrist, his left wrist. I didn’t touch anything else.” She shuddered slightly. “Then I came straight back to the hotel to tell them. And you must know the rest.”
She started to get up. Inspector Marcussen put up his hand. He didn’t say, Not so fast, lady, but he might as well have.
“Just a few more things. You must be tired.”
Pix leaned back against the chair. It had a straight back, covered and tufted, as was the seat, in deep crimson. The room had elaborate brass chandeliers, she noted. This couldn’t be happening to her.
“Could you tell us about your other walk? The earlier one?”
She was glad Marit had prepared her.
“I suppose I’m not quite used to the time change.” Another nonfalsehood. “I got up at three o’clock and went outside, but I came in when it started to rain. I got very wet, in fact.”
“Again you left by the side door?”
“Yes, I didn’t want to disturb anyone.”
“Did you meet anybody during this walk?” Those blue eyes were looking straight into her soul.
“No one I knew. I saw two men running from the dock to get out of the rain.”
“Can you describe them?”
“They were speaking Norwegian—I could hear it as they passed me—but I didn’t get a good look at them. One had a dark beard, though.”
The inspector and officer exchanged glances.
“Now, you are from Aleford, Massachusetts?”
“Yes, it’s a small town west of Boston.”
“I have never been to the United States, but I have cousins in New Jersey. They have been here often and
sometime I must go see them.” If he hoped to keep her off
balance with such extraneous tidbits, it was working.
“Did you know Mr. Melling before the tour?”
“No, I had never met him before.”
“And your mother, Mrs. Rowe—had she met him here in Norway or in the United States?”
“No, and neither of us had but the slightest contact with him on the tour.” The question implied knowledge of Ursula’s trips to Norway. It certainly indicated that Oscar had been here before, but that was not surprising for someone who imported Norwegian food and had such a strong feeling for his homeland.
“And what brought you to Norway, Mrs. Miller, besides the fjords, that is?”
Here it was. She decided it was time to come clean, at least somewhat. If it came out later, it would look very peculiar, and besides, she had nothing to hide, except her hair spray and skeleton keys.
“My mother has a childhood friend, Marit Hansen, who has been very worried about the disappearance of her granddaughter, Kari.”
Both men sat up straighter and exchanged a few words in Norwegian. At this rate, Pix would really have to learn the language if she was going to find out anything at all.
“Kari Hansen? You knew her?”
Pix did not like the inspector’s use of the past tense.
“Yes, and Marit wanted us to come on the tour to see if we could discover anything about where Kari might be.”
“And have you?”
“Well, not really anything concrete. Some odd things have happened.” Pix told them about the man on Jennifer Olsen’s balcony and the swastika on the lawn at Stalheim. When she got to that, the two men gaped.
“Swastika! Are you sure?”
“Of course I am. I saw it myself. Ask the hotel—and the guides must know. Lots of people of the tour knew, too. What’s the significance? I mean, I know what it has
to do with the hotel, but what could it have to do with Oscar Melling’s death?”
“Oscar Melling—rather, Oscar Eriksen—was one of Vidkun Quisling’s most loyal adherents during the war. Eriksen was born and grew up in a small village near the hotel.”
Jennifer Olsen had been right. The dead man had been a fascist. A Nazi. A traitor.
Marcussen poured them some more coffee. It was getting close to dinnertime, but Pix took a cup and ate a cookie anyway. She told them about the men in the woods at Stalheim and was about to reveal Ursula’s find on the Viking cruise ship when the inspector rose and thanked her for coming.
“I am sure that the men you overheard, and maybe the ones who were about as early as you this morning, were involved in the illegal liquor market.” He grinned. “You know what a drink costs in Norway, and people find all sorts of ways around it—brewing their own. You can get the supplies in any market. Flavoring for scotch and cognac are on the shelves with cardamom, salt, and pepper. There are also many rural stills. As for the business with Kari, you can assure your mother and your friend Fru Hansen that the police are doing everything they can to find out what happened to Kari. We care deeply. Why don’t you just enjoy the rest of your tour and leave it to us?”
Pix was annoyed. She hadn’t even gotten a chance to tell them about Sophie and Oscar, the dirty old man—or his argument with Arnie Feld. Or that h
e cheated at cards. She was being dismissed. But she wasn’t going without getting one answer, at least.
“Why do you think Oscar Melling’s death wasn’t natural? The man had been drinking heavily and could easily have fallen.”
“I’m sorry, but we can’t tell you that.” Inspector Marcussen didn’t look one bit sorry, Pix thought. She supposed
it was fair. She wasn’t telling him everything, either.
Both men saw her to the door.
“Try not to take any walks after, say, midnight, will you, Mrs. Miller?”
Jansen chuckled, but Pix didn’t think the inspector was joking.
Ursula and Pix had abandoned any pretense of not knowing Marit and the three women walked into the dining room together.
“I’m hungry,” Pix announced. “I intend to eat a great deal of fish in many guises, then go to bed.”
“Pix, dear,” her mother said, “do you know these people?”
A group of Japanese tourists were leaving an earlier sitting in the dining room and they stopped, giggled, and bowed to Pix. She realized that she had given Marit and her mother only an abbreviated account of her ordeal in the sauna, omitting to mention the gentleman from Tokyo. He had apparently not been as silent.
Another group passed and bowed. Pix found herself reflexively bowing back; then the man appeared himself, wreathed in smiles and patting his heart. The tour leader, or so Pix assumed from the trim navy blazer he wore, insignia above the pocket, bowed and addressed her.
“Mr. Yoshimuro is very anxious that you were not offended in any way.” He seemed to be searching for words to describe the incident.
“Oh, no, I hope I did not offend him. It’s the custom in Norway for saunas to be shared by men and women, but we were both quite decently clothed.”
Marit and Ursula were staring at Pix, wide-eyed. Pix saw her mother’s mouth tremble and knew that in a moment she would be roaring with laughter.
“Please, do not think any more about it,” she said, and bowed.
The man translated Pix’s words and Mr. Yoshimuro spoke rapidly, pointing toward all three of them.
“Would you mind if I took a picture of you with your friends and Mr. Yoshimuro? He would deem it an honor.”
What was to mind? Pix Miller, the new pinup of Japan? She thought not.
“Of course,” she answered, and repeated to her mother and Marit, “They want to take our picture.”
“Whatever for?” Ursula asked.
“I’ll tell you later,” Pix promised, falling into position between Ursula and Marit, Mr. Yoshimuro next to her mother.
With a few final ticky-tocky gestures and bows, the men left and the women proceeded into the dining room.
“I didn’t know you spoke Japanese, Mrs. Miller,” Jan said admiringly as they entered. He had apparently witnessed the entire event and had been fooled by the expertise of Pix’s bows.
“I don’t—and it’s a long story.” She laughed.
“Whatever you say. You can sit at any table, except those at the windows. It was our turn last night.”
“Is it all right for our friend Fru Hansen to sit with us?” Ursula asked. “She is a guest at the hotel.”
“Of course. There’s plenty of room,” Jan replied.
There was one extra place for sure, Pix thought. Her mother and Marit had dismissed the police questioning rather perfunctorily. The idea that Pix might be a suspect in Oscar Melling’s death seemed ludicrous to them, although Marit had been initially upset when she’d overheard the clerks talking about Pix’s early-morning wanderings. Pix had given them a report on her conversation with Inspector Marcussen and they had figuratively patted her on the head for being such a good girl with the police. They were not surprised that Marcussen had not been interested in a possible link to Kari and Erik. That was their job—theirs and the hund.
Carl came forward to shepherd them a bit more as they searched for the little Mermaid/Troll flags indicating their tables. He looked concerned. She was sure he had heard about the police questioning and the reason why. The entire hotel must have, those who were not preoccupied with her sauna escapade.
“Sit anywhere, ladies, and enjoy your meal.” Was Carl being a little too welcoming? A kind of “Eat up—the food in Norwegian jails is good, but not like Kvikne’s” underlying message?
Now he definitely was addressing her, and her alone. “Is everything all right?” He lowered his voice, “This has been a most upsetting day for you, Mrs. Miller, and Scandie Sights is well aware of it. Anything we can do, just let us know.”
Pix could think of a number of things, like possibly posting bail or finding Kari and solving Oscar’s murder, but she merely thanked him and said she was fine. “I’m going to turn in early. A good night’s sleep is what I need.” Then, impelled by her usual curiosity, she asked him, “What do you do after tomorrow? Pick up another tour? Or do you get to rest in between?”
“We don’t start another one until Tuesday.”
Jan had joined them, hearing Pix’s question and Carl’s answer. “We always get a few days off,” he answered. “I usually go home to my parents and let my mother make a fuss.”
“And sleep half the day,” Carl teased.
“Ja—and, as usual, you’ll go see your father in London, I suppose. Although”—he winked at the women, seated now—“I have my doubts about this ‘father.’ I think it may be someone a bit younger and of the opposite sex.”
Carl flushed. It made him even more attractive. “My father is British, although I was raised here. Maybe I just happen to like London. All right, maybe it has some charms, besides his nice flat.”
The guides went to their own table, where Captain Hagen was stolidly consuming a mounded plate of each smörgåsbord course and the stewards were doing a fine
job on the reker, peeling the shells off and dipping each shrimp in a mayonnaise sauce.
“I can never eat enough reker,” Pix said, glancing at the captain. “And I want a glass of white wine to go with it. Will you join me? It’s the last night of the tour.” They had nothing to celebrate. If anything, things were more confused and the outlook for finding Kari alive bleak, but Pix felt they needed to keep their spirits up. Marit and Ursula agreed.
As she ate the shrimp, Pix remembered her mother hadn’t mentioned what she’d found out about Sidney Harding. The room was filled with noise and their small table was set against a pillar with a serving station on the other side. They could talk softly, undetected.
What Ursula had to say was interesting.
“He really didn’t want to talk about what he does. They had taken a break from cards, believe it or not, and were having a snack. I asked him whether his work brought him to Norway much and he was very evasive. His wife was the one who answered—bitterly. Seems he’s away from home a good deal and this was to have been a solo business trip, too, but she insisted on coming this time, and then he had the idea of inviting their bridge friends to come along. ‘I’m glad he did,’ she said, ‘because otherwise it would have been very boring.’ There was not much to do in Norway so far as she could see.”
Marit frowned. “Didn’t they visit the museums in Oslo, Frogner Park with its Vigeland statues? Maybe they don’t like scenery, but still…”
“I think she likes to shop and play bridge, period. Things are too expensive here, so that leaves cards. I did notice Sidney was wearing a Rolex and a diamond pinkie ring, so he must make some money.”
Mother is getting as label-conscious as Faith, Pix reflected. She wouldn’t have thought Ursula could have told the difference between a Rolex and a Timex.
“But what about oil secrets? Is he passing them on to the Russians? Did you work that into the conversation?”
Ursula gave her daughter a “Now, don’t be silly” look.
“Actually, he is in research and development. I found that out. And he spends weeks in Bergen, and Stavanger. I’m also pretty sure he speaks Norwegian. Anders walked by, saying someth
ing to Sonja, and Harding said to us, ‘I guess I’d better go wash up. We’ll be docking soon.’ How would he know that unless he’d been able to translate what Anders had said? His wife complained about the number of business meetings he’d had to attend during the trip and he reminded her that for him, it was not a vacation. She started to say something about telephone calls and meetings at all hours, but he told her that people weren’t interested in hearing about his boring life, then asked, ‘Are we going to play cards or what?’”
The three left their dirty plates and moved on to the next course—and the next subject. Oscar Melling. It was Marit’s turn. Marcussen had not been revealing state secrets when he told Pix Oscar’s real name and what he’d been up to during the war. That had been all over the hotel, too, along with the fact that Pix was a suspect.
“There has to be a connection with Stalheim and the swastika. Yet how does it relate to Kari and Erik?” Pix asked.
Marit replied, “I have been thinking of nothing else. Kari might have discovered that Oscar was connected with the Lebensborn home. He lived in the area. Maybe he supplied the groceries or was somehow connected. The Nazis did not permit Norwegians to work in places like that, only Germans, but there were always exceptions. Could it have been this that she wanted to tell me on the phone?”
Pix was deep in thought. Could Oscar have been Hanna’s father—Kari’s grandfather? If Kari had discovered this, it might have upset her so much that she ran off. But to stage an elopement? Plus, it still left Erik’s death unanswered. She sighed.
“I’m going to have some of that applesauce dessert layered with the toasted crumbs—what is it called, any
way?—but no coffee. Maybe a slice of the cake with the almonds on top, too.”
“It’s called tilsiørte bondepiker, which means ‘veiled country maidens,’” Marit answered. “I have no idea why. The whipped cream on top could be the veil, but as for the rest…”
“Whatever it means, it’s one of my favorites. Bring me a little, will you?” Ursula asked.
The two older women fondly watched Pix leave. A big hungry girl.
She returned with the cake and pudding, plus some fruit compote with vanilla sauce. With only a fleeting thought to what Faith would think of this plebeian dessert plate, she dug in. Norwegian food was the ultimate comfort food, lacking only macaroni and cheese to be complete.
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