The Body in the Fjord ff-8

by Katherine Hall Page

  “The police wouldn’t tell me why they think Oscar was murdered, but they seem pretty sure.”

  Marit was surprised. “It’s because he was hit from behind with something before he fell. He had an injury on his shoulder that couldn’t have come from the fall, given the way the body was found.”

  No wonder Ursula and Marit were such friends.

  “Who told you this?” Pix asked admiringly. When she grew up, she’d like to be just like them, but she wasn’t too sanguine.

  “Some of it was from the policeman, who was so reassuring about my safety, and some was from the maid who tidied my room. We decided it must have been a full bottle of something, because they didn’t find any broken glass, and an empty one would have shattered.”

  “It could have been something else like a piece of wood, but that’s not so easy to come by,” Ursula added.

  This was true. The grounds were manicured and unless one trekked up into the mountains, a cudgel of this sort would be difficult to locate. It would have helped that Oscar was blind drunk, and maybe the person hadn’t planned to kill him, but a blow to the rear, precipitating a fall on the jagged rocks below, suggested a strong desire

  for at least grievous harm. The actual outcome meant the

  killer was either lucky or unlucky, depending on the intent.

  Intent. Pix looked at her watch.

  “I’m going to the gift shop to get something for the kids and Sam, then bed.” She kissed both women good night and headed off to the tempting array of handicrafts, silver and enameled jewelry, and shelves of hideous-looking trolls. Forty minutes later, her Visa card having made it altogether too easy to acquire some gorgeous ski sweaters, Pix was in her room, eyeing her bed longingly. She had spent so little time there. But first she wanted to call Annelise, Kari’s friend in Bergen, and ask her about how hard it was to smuggle antiques out of the country. Helene Feld was a collector, and collecting can be an obsession. And obsessions can lead to other things. Marit had had the number with her and, thanks again to her phone card, Pix soon heard ringing and a voice: “Annelise Christensen her.”

  “You do speak English, don’t you? This is Pix Miller, an American friend of the Hansens.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Is there news? Have you found Kari?”

  “No, I’m sorry. Nothing has changed. Marit is with my mother and me at Kvikne’s in Balestrand. We joined the tour to see if we could find anything out the police may have missed.”

  “Marit’s idea?” The girl sounded impressed.

  “Yes, but we haven’t discovered anything, except there is a woman with quite a passion for Norwegian antiques, and that started me wondering how difficult it would be to get them out of the country.”

  “Very difficult indeed, and a heavy fine if you are caught. There was a big case last year and both the buyer and seller had to pay a stiff penalty. Still, it does happen, and that’s why we have such an elaborate security system at our museum. Even security systems aren’t foolproof, though. You can have human error. Like when Munch’s

  The Scream was stolen from the National Gallery in Oslo. Maybe you remember?”

  Pix did. They’d used a ladder from a nearby building site, climbed in an open window, and were out again with the painting in sixty seconds. The guard thought the alarm, which went off, was malfunctioning, but it was all recorded on video and the painting recovered unharmed in two days. Since then, security in all the museums had increased.

  “In terms of the world market, are these antiques worth a great deal?”

  “In a way, because our laws are so strict, the value has increased. But the average tourist would not be able to buy anything over a hundred years old, so I’m not sure I follow you.”

  Pix wasn’t sure she did, either.

  “Just a thought. Well, thank you, and if we hear anything at all, we’ll let you know.” She was about to hang up when she recalled her sauna musings about Kari’s personality, so she asked Annelise on the spur of the moment, “You know Kari well. How would you describe her?”

  If Annelise thought the question odd, she didn’t say so. “Well, she is very loyal to her friends and very sure. I’m not saying this right, but sure of herself and what she thinks is the right thing. Sometimes this annoys people.”

  “What about Kari and Erik? Did you think it was a good match?”

  Annelise hesitated. “That is not for me to say. It was their business, but they had fun together and I think they probably would have been married someday. They weren’t in a rush. My generation isn’t, I think. Maybe we’re too picky.”

  “Did Kari have other boyfriends?” Pix had married her high school beau the week after she graduated from Pembroke, and the generation gap suddenly seemed an abyss.

  Annelise gave a little laugh. “Boys, men always wanted to be with Kari, but she has been with Erik for quite a while. I am sorry I have to go now. I’m supposed to meet someone and I’m late already.”

  “I’m so sorry and won’t keep you any longer. Thank you for all your help,” Pix said.

  “Ha det bra.” As Annelise hung up, she reverted by habit to the Norwegian equivalent of “Have a good day.” Pix hoped she would “have it good,” too, wherever she was going at this time of night—a time she knew from her son Mark was the mere shank of the evening to that generation, despite its being bedtime for those on either sides.

  Bed—at least for a while. She changed into corduroy slacks and a turtleneck, putting out a warm sweater next to her jacket. Ursula would certainly not approve of the number of times Pix seemed to be sleeping in her clothes these days, but then her mother had been the one who had drawn her to one side before disappearing into the Dragon Room for coffee and hissed in her ear, “Be sure to set your alarm. Do you want me to call you?”

  Pix had refused. She knew what she had to do. The inspector hadn’t said she couldn’t take a walk after midnight. He had said “try not to.” And if she didn’t go to the fjord cruiser and search her mother’s fabled closet, there would be no rest in this life. Forget “try not to.”

  She was about to check the pockets of her coat to make sure her kit was intact when there was a knock on the door.

  It was Mother, the glint of victory in her eye. “Marit’s still with her, but I wanted to tell you before you went to sleep.” She came in and sat down.

  “Tell me what?”

  “We decided it would be pleasant to invite Carol Peterson to have coffee with us on the porch. I thought she might like to talk with a native Norwegian. Perhaps tell Marit a bit about Duluth. You know, Hans’s brother settled in the Midwest.”

  Pix did not know. What she did know was that Carol had as much chance of talking about Duluth once she was on the porch as a fly trapped in a web would talking about aerodynamics with a spider.

  “We chatted for a bit and then began to talk about the tour. Poor woman. It hasn’t been much fun for her. She seems to have a daughter-in-law she doesn’t much care for and then her husband made an indecent proposal to her.”

  “A what!”

  Ursula grinned. “You’ll never guess!”

  Pix conjured up a mental image of Roy senior. “Indecent” and the personification of white bread didn’t seem to go together. But something must have turned his thoughts from the missionary position to the wilder side. Maybe it seemed that his son was having a little too much fun with Lynette.

  “Okay, I’ll never guess. Wait—he wants Carol to sleep in the buff.”

  “I don’t know about that, but what he does want is for her to sleep with Don Brady—and he gets Marge.”

  “Wife swapping! No wonder Carol was upset—and now we know how Roy got his black eye. I think she’s wrong about it being illegal, yet that doesn’t prevent it from being a crime in her book! And the Bradys! Don’t tell me Marge was willing.”

  “I’m telling you.” Ursula was laughing now, as she couldn’t when Carol had poured her heart out to the two older women, unable to keep her guilty secret any
more, wanting sympathy, and secure in the knowledge she’d never see them again after the tour.

  “Marge! But she seems like such a little mouse, a mouse with a cold.” Marge apparently had allergies or had picked up a germ somewhere. She was constantly reaching for a tissue and her turned-up little nose was either red or about to drip. Pix had not thought of the woman as either a sex object or a libertine, but she was trim and not unattractive otherwise. Sensible shoes, denim

  skirts, turtlenecks, and sweaters—attire not unlike Pix’s own. Her hair was short, a bit wispy, and the color mousy brown. Yes, a mouse—a well-organized, inquisitive, energetic little mouse. Inquisitive—that was it.

  “She must have another list like the one of the places she wants to go—‘Unusual Things I Want to Do.’”

  “I’ll let you get to bed and I have to help Marit. That Peterson woman is really terribly upset, but she’s also a bit boring.” Mother never believed in mincing words.

  “Good night,” Pix said. “Thank you for clearing up one mystery at least.”

  “I thought you’d want to know. Now, be careful tonight.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “And remember, we’ll be leaving tomorrow, so this is your last chance.”

  Thank you, Mother, Pix said silently as she closed the door firmly.

  All she had to do now was make sure she had everything she might need in her pockets and she could go to bed. She’d emptied them after she’d come in dripping wet from her first attempt and draped the jacket on the heated towel bars in the bathroom to dry. Then this morning, she’d been in a rush and hadn’t bothered to transfer everything back from where she’d stashed it in her suitcase. Penlite, keys—she dropped them in and was about to add the hair spray when she realized there was a piece of paper in the bottom of the pocket. She didn’t remember putting anything in. It must be her ticket stub from the Glacier Museum. She pulled it out. It was a folded-up piece of newspaper.

  “Now where did this come from?” she said aloud. “Strange.” Strange to be talking to herself, too. This was why people had pets.

  She unfolded it. It was from a Norwegian newspaper and she was about to throw it away when she saw that single letters had been circled in red. She sat at the desk, took out a sheet of the hotel notepaper and a pen, then

  started copying the letters. There weren’t many and put down in order, they read: “stopasking?” Although it seemed to be another Norwegian word, Pix, veteran of crossword puzzles and word jumbles, quickly deciphered it.

  “Stop asking questions.”

  Eight

  Pix was startled, but she was not scared. As anonymous letters went, it was pretty tame. No threats, no imprecations, merely a request. Were there time enough and words, she was pretty sure a “please” would have been inserted. No, she wasn’t alarmed, but caught up instead in contemplating the odd turn her life had taken in recent years, for this was the second such missive she’d received. The other, however, sent via the U.S. mails and delivered through the slot in the front door in Aleford made this one look like a birthday card.

  But it wasn’t. “Stop asking questions”—the “or else” implied.

  She looked at the bed. She looked at the clock. She looked at the newspaper clipping. There was no way she could fall asleep now. Wearily, she took out another piece of notepaper. It was time to make a list.

  “Stop asking questions”—who had been threatened and who had access to her jacket pocket? She’d been asking questions ever since her arrival in Voss and obviously had not been as circumspect as she imagined. But, Mother had been inquisitive, too.

  Her head jerked up. Dear Lord, had Mother gotten the warning, as well? It was one thing for Pix to reach in her pocket and pull out a viper, but Mother! Ursula was probably still nodding away at Carol Peterson out on the porch—which reminded Pix that if anybody should have been her unknown correspondent’s target, it should have been Carol. Nobody asked more questions, and more stupid questions, than that woman. She felt a bit resentful.

  The idea of going to join the threesome was unappealing. If her mother found anything like this, she would knock on Pix’s door. If she had not received one—or didn’t find it, not having occasion to search her pockets for a night’s mission like Pix—then why upset her?

  That settled, Pix turned back to her list. She was tempted to call Faith and run through the possibilities. It would be late afternoon at home, a more considerate time to call than the middle of the night, but she felt stubborn. Faith had plenty of good ideas and the kit she’d prepared had been a thoughtful, though unnecessary, gesture. Pix took up the pen. She could certainly handle this alone.

  Means, motive, opportunity. Opportunity was easy. Her jacket had hung on the back of a chair in the main cabin of their Viking fjord cruiser for most of the day. Anyone on the tour could have put the piece of paper in her pocket. Even Captain Hagen, who came into the room when the boat was docked at the farm. Pix had seen him through the window as she was leaving.

  A Norwegian newspaper. Anyone could buy an Aftenposten. The fact that this paper was used didn’t mean it had been someone who knew the language. The International Herald Tribune was available, too, but in limited supply. Sidney Harding had guarded his copy each day, refusing to lend it to Arnie Feld, saying he had to save the financial section and he’d been lucky to get it. So, Aftenposten it was. No clues there.

  She began to put down names, starting with the Petersons, for no other reason than they came to mind first. In a distant corner, she was still picturing the scene in which Roy senior proposed switchies to his wife and her reaction. Walked into a door. Yeah, sure.

  She jotted down their names and let her thoughts roam—any connections to Kari, Erik and the murder of Oscar Melling?

  Carol and Roy Peterson, Sr.: Carol was very upset at the bench by the side of the fjord this morning. Was it just her husband’s indecent proposal, or had she seen Melling’s body? She had been dancing with him earlier and was out and about late. She was still wearing the same clothes she’d donned for the evening’s revelry and had apparently not been to bed. Had Oscar continued to pursue her? Had she had to push him to get away from his lecherous clutches, or was there an angry shove from hubby—either sending Oscar to his death? Carol had also been outspoken about her dislike for Kari. Pix wrote, Strong connections to O.M., Kari? As to whether the Petersons were up to anything that Kari and Erik had stumbled upon, the family group was a great cover. Drugs, oil secrets? The Petersons had secrets. That was sure.

  Lynette and Roy Peterson, Jr.: Lynette was planning a nasty surprise for her mother-in-law. Like? Framing her for murder? Pix tried hard in everyday life not to be overly judgmental and ascribed most of the ills of civilization to the rush to differentiate, unlike her friend Faith, who felt it was an essential skill. With this in mind, Pix was still forced to admit to herself that even on the basis of only brief encounters, she did not like Lynette. At all. The young woman seemed to delight in tormenting her mother-in-law, flaunting her sexual powers over Roy junior. Okay, this was not a dream honeymoon, but she could have said no. Instead, she was storing up points for the future. What else could she be up to? Pix was sure Lynette would do anything for money and/or power. Pass some papers to someone, deliver a package. Kari and Erik might have discovered what she was up to. But then what? Hard to think of nebulous Roy junior, drooling at the mouth, as an accomplice. Yet, caught between two powerful women, maybe he had hidden depths. Or depth charges. Carefully she wrote, In the running next to their names.

  Marge and Don Brady: She already knew that they had been hiding something under their TV-sitcom exteriors. Pix could not remember any episodes where the TV Bradys cruised the neighborhood. Don was retired from the oil business, a company that did business in Norway. Was he doing a little under-the-table consulting now? He had not hidden his strong dislike of Oscar Melling, though. The rotten apple. Had Oscar done something to him, or found something out? Maybe Oscar was blackmailing someon
e and that was why he’d been killed. Had Kari and Erik found the same thing out? Blackmail would fit in with Oscar’s personality. Too good to be true, she wrote by the Bradys.

  Erna and Louise Dahl: The twins from Virginia. Pix paused. She didn’t have anything much to write. Knowledgeable about Norwegian customs? Surely the two sisters were what they seemed. Only, Faith was always telling her the whole point was that people weren’t. She put a big question mark next to their names:?

  The French cousins, Sophie and Valerie: Sophie had had an encounter of the close kind with Oscar shortly before his death. Struggling to resist, had she sent him tumbling over the rocks below? The cousins took a trip someplace every year. Couriers? Their clothes looked expensive and both wore a lot of gold jewelry. But then, Faith had pointed out to her that Frenchwomen made all their clothes look expensive, and maybe the jewelry was fake. She wrote, Possibilities, giving a nod to her absent friend. Faith might not be here, but her maxims were proving useful.

  Helene and Arnie Feld: Helene had been the last person to see Kari and Erik. Could she be lying about what she had observed? But why? She was certainly an avid antiques collector. Was Helene hiding some painted bowls, the rosemaling by the Sogndal painter, in her Samsonite? Was this what the two young people had discovered? And had Pix’s own questions struck a nerve? Arnie had had an argument with Oscar Melling, but that was probably not

  much of a distinction. Next to the Felds, she put: O.M.—Nil. Other possibilities.

  Sidney and Eloise Harding: Sidney Harding knew Norway very well and, Ursula was virtually certain, knew the language. Maybe he knew some other languages, too—Russian, for instance. He had a perfect cover. For a businessman connected to the oil industry, there would be nothing suspect in frequent trips to the country, as well as extensive travel within Norway’s borders. This time his wife had pushed to go along and he had promptly invited their friends. A jolly bridge foursome. Could they all be in it together? But surely if they were, they would fake a bit more enthusiasm for the scenery and play cards a little less. Maybe Oscar had been blackmailing Harding. Ursula had reported Eloise’s complaint about calls and meetings at all hours. Carefully, she wrote, Yes on all counts, crossing off Eloise’s name.