What he was actually trying to find out was whether Lance knew more about the murder than he had told the police. His son and ex-wife were Indian. They lived on the reservation. One of the anonymous tips in the case concerned an Indian who lived there too. Jason Fries had talked to this man and ruled him out as having nothing to do with the case. And yet . . .
The next day Nyland and Lecuyer were planning to go to Duluth to have another talk with Bjørn Hauglie. He’d been moved from the hospital to a hotel room, which the Norwegian consul in Minneapolis had booked for him. This time they were going to confront him with the discovery of the semen. If the lab in Chicago didn’t find traces of a third person in the evidence taken from the crime scene, they would be arresting Hauglie very soon.
On the other hand, if there were traces from some unknown individual, Nyland was going to cut through the bullshit with Hansen, and try to make use of him to locate this third person. It wouldn’t take much effort to dismantle Hansen’s defense mechanisms, piece by piece, until he broke down and told them everything he knew. It wouldn’t take much skill from Bob Lecuyer either. Or even from Jason Fries, thought Nyland. Hansen already seemed practically cooked. All they had to do was stick a fork in him to get him to talk.
“So what do you say we get us something to eat?” queried Redmeyer.
Nyland tore himself away from his speculations about the homicide case. “Okay, let’s do that. Any suggestions?”
“Have you been to Sven and Ole’s?”
“I’m sure I would remember it, if I had.”
“Well, you can’t leave here without having tasted Sven and Ole’s pizza. They serve other things too. If we’re lucky they might have fresh fish cakes. It just depends on the day’s catch, since they buy their fish straight from the boats.”
They got up and began slowly making their way through the crowds. Nyland carried the bag with the handmade canoe, carved out of smooth dark wood. The canoe was the same size as the Viking ship that he’d bought a few days earlier.
“Herring,” said Sparky Redmeyer. “Freshwater herring. It makes the best fish cakes in the world. And of course it’s Norwegians who make them.”
“Of course,” said Nyland. “And by that you mean Norwegian Americans, right?”
“But isn’t that the same thing? We all come from Norway, after all.”
There wasn’t a single table free at Sven and Ole’s Pizza, which was located smack in the middle of downtown Grand Marais. The two policemen were just about to leave when they heard someone yelling Sparky’s name. And there, squeezed into the corner at the very back of the restaurant, was Bill Eggum together with a slender, petite woman. The sheriff gave the two men an authoritative wave, inviting them over. Nyland and Redmeyer made their way past all the other guests to the sheriff’s table as they breathed in the aroma of pizza, which made them even hungrier.
“They’ve run out of fish cakes!” That was the first thing Eggum said to them.
“Oh no!” exclaimed Redmeyer.
“They sold the last of them right before you came in. We’ll have to settle for pizza. Sorry,” he said, turning to Nyland. “You really should try the fish cakes before you go back to the old country. But I’d like to introduce you to my wife, Crystal.” The sheriff gallantly gestured toward the woman sitting on the other side of the table.
Eirik Nyland said hello to Crystal Eggum. She was stylish and soft-spoken—exactly the opposite of her overweight and sweaty husband.
“So pull up a chair, you two,” said Eggum. “We haven’t gotten our pizza yet. Why don’t you have a slice when it arrives? In the meantime, you can order a pizza of your own. How does that sound? Instead of you sitting there and watching us eat, and then we’d have to watch you eat. What do you say, Crystal?”
“My dear husband, a Norwegian is always welcome at my table. You know that,” she said.
So they sat down, and Nyland took a quick look around the room. At first glance, Sven and Ole’s Pizza looked like any ordinary, rather rustic-style restaurant that could be anywhere in the world. Yet he soon noticed that the majority of objects decorating the walls bore an unmistakable Norwegian theme. He saw old wooden skis and poles. A copy of the first issue of Birkebeineren. An old coffee ad in Norwegian that said, “The best housewives choose Krone Coffee! Enjoyed from the North Cape to Lindesnes.” A big black-and-white poster that looked like it was from the 1950s showed the bow of a Viking ship, and underneath the text read: “Oslo, the Viking Capital.” There was also a photo of King Olav in full dress uniform next to an ad for a classic Saab: “Starts up like a rocket, even in extreme cold!” A big pair of deer heads hung on the wall, along with a number of old tools, which he assumed had been used for logging. Other objects looked like they might be gear for trapping, but he wasn’t entirely sure about that. Only a couple of yards away from their table, he saw three steps that led up to the small platform area that held the bar, which bore the sign: “The Pickled Herring Club.” A couple of old geezers sat at the bar having a drink.
“So, what do you think?” asked Redmeyer. “Do you feel right at home here?”
“It’s almost like being in Norway,” replied Nyland.
Bill Eggum raised his hand to wave at someone in the crowded restaurant.
“Sid!” he yelled. “Sid, come over here!”
A moment later a thickset, middle-aged man was standing next to their table. His brow glistened with sweat under the Sven and Ole cap he wore.
“Your food is coming right up, Sheriff,” he said.
“Good,” said Eggum. “But look here, this is Eirik Nyland. He’s a policeman from Norway. Investigating the murder out at Baraga’s Cross.”
Nyland said hello to Sid Backlund, owner of Sven and Ole’s Pizza.
“He says this place is practically like being in Norway,” said Eggum.
“Glad to hear it!” replied Backlund. “That’s what we were aiming for, you know. We just want folks to feel at home. Like they’re in Norway.”
At that moment one of the employees called Sid from behind the counter at the other end of the room. He excused himself and hurried off.
“Backlund,” said Nyland. “Isn’t that a Swedish name?”
Sparky Redmeyer shrugged to show that he wasn’t really sure.
“Yeah, but we don’t pay too much attention,” said Eggum. “I mean, we don’t really differentiate between Swedish and Norwegian. We’re all a hodgepodge, anyway. At least most of us are.”
Nyland paused for a moment and then said, “But if Sid Backlund is the owner, then who are Sven and Ole?”
That made the other three burst out laughing.
“Haven’t you ever heard of Sven and Ole?” asked Eggum.
“No,” Nyland had to admit.
“Then we’ll have to tell you about them,” Eggum went on. “Let’s see now . . . ” He looked as if he were trying to decide on something.
“Okay,” he said. “Sven and Ole went to see a ventriloquist who was performing in a tavern. The whole show consisted of jokes about how dumb Norwegians are, and finally they couldn’t take it anymore. ‘Hey, you!’ shouted Sven. ‘Stop making such derogatory remarks about Norwegians. We don’t like it!’ ‘My good sir, they’re just jokes,’ said the ventriloquist. ‘Shut up, you!’ yelled Ole. ‘We’re talking to that little devil sitting on your knee!’ ”
Nyland laughed, and he noticed that his reaction immediately admitted him to the group. Because it wasn’t just at Sheriff Eggum’s table that everyone was laughing. No sooner had the laughter died down at one table than it broke out at the next. It was these rolling waves of laughter that formed the very pulse, the rhythm of the restaurant. The bursts of laughter rose from the tables to the ceiling, where they continued to roll around until they faded and left the air space to another volley of laughter that shot up from a different table.
“So I take it they’re characters that appear in
a lot of jokes. am I right?” said Nyland.
“Yes,” said Redmeyer. “Sven and Ole are the main characters in nearly all jokes about Norwegians and Swedes up here.”
“That’s not exactly true,” said Crystal Eggum. “Half of the jokes about Norwegians and Swedes are about Sven and Ole. The rest are about Ole and his wife, Lena.”
“Okay, you’re right,” admitted Redmeyer. “Sven and Ole, and Ole and Lena. Everybody has heard about them up here.”
When the first pizza arrived, Redmeyer and Nyland ordered another one, and then all four began to eat. The pizza was okay, but Nyland had tasted better. As they ate, they talked about Cook County and its ties to Norway. Crystal said that many people in the region had visited Norway, and somebody was always going over there.
“They come back with stars in their eyes,” she said.
“What about you?” Nyland asked her. “Do you have Norwegian roots too?”
He asked the question out of politeness, since that was obviously the most natural topic for conversation between a Norwegian and someone who lived in Cook County.
“Norwegian and Swedish,” she told him. “The standard North Shore combination.”
Only once did they touch on the murder at Baraga’s Cross. That was when Nyland explained that he really should have been out at his cabin with his family right now.
“So I guess he’s also guilty of wrecking your vacation,” said Sparky Redmeyer. “The murderer, I mean.”
“Whoever he may be,” said the sheriff.
Nyland looked at Eggum. “Don’t you think Bjørn Hauglie is the killer?” he asked.
Eggum was about to answer when his wife interrupted. “No talking shop!” she admonished her husband.
“Fair enough,” he replied.
They ate in silence for a while, surrounded by loud voices and laughter. Outside the windows Nyland could see that people were still swarming the harbor area.
“But apropos the murder . . . ” Eggum began as he wiped his mouth on a paper napkin.
“Didn’t I just say no talking shop?” his wife reminded him. “Yes, you did. But, as I was saying, apropos the murder . . . as far as I know there has never been a homicide in Cook County before.”
“Is that true?” asked Nyland in surprise.
“Even Lance Hansen couldn’t remember ever hearing of a murder taking place here. Not until now. And if he hasn’t heard of it, then it didn’t happen. Because that’s how a lot of things are up here. If Lance hasn’t heard of it, then it’s not true.”
Mrs. Eggum laughed. “Lance is a good man,” she said.
“Sure,” said the sheriff. “There’s no question about that. But he won’t listen to what other people say about things that have happened here. That’s the whole problem.”
“I think he just wants to have things verified,” said Crystal. Nyland thought about the story Eggum had told him, about the origin of the Seagren name.
“Verified?” said the sheriff, sounding a bit annoyed. “What about the lead bullet from Grandpa’s skull? Shouldn’t that be verification enough? But no, apparently not. Not for Lance Hansen, at least.” He looked at Nyland. “Have I told you about my grandfather Jack Eggum?”
Nyland shook his head.
“Well, Jack was the first of the Eggum men to be born in the U.S. of A.”
Crystal rolled her eyes. She’d clearly heard this story before.
“It was down on the prairie,” her husband went on. “Near the Yellow Medicine River. That’s where they lived in a little log cab-in—Mr. and Mrs. Eggum, and a pile of young’uns. Including Jack, their firstborn. One day Jack had been out hunting—he must have been ten or eleven—and as he opened the door to come inside, there was a loud BANG! He had stumbled over one of the many babies crawling around on the earthen floor and shot himself in the head with his Winchester rifle. The shot went in here . . .”—Eggum pointed under his chin—“. . . and continued through his mouth all the way up to his eyes. Then the bullet stopped. And this was in eighteen hundred and . . . hmm . . . when exactly was it? I’m not sure, but a long time ago, and you couldn’t just phone for an ambulance. It would have taken a journey of several days to find a doctor. So of course everybody thought Jack was going to die. Nevertheless, his father rode off to bring back a doctor from the nearest town. When he returned . . . after . . . well, I don’t know how long it must have taken, but no doubt at least a week, and when he got back, bringing a doctor along with him, there was a big surprise waiting. The first thing they both saw was the boy, whom they expected to find dead. He was out behind the house, doing target practice. After the doctor examined Jack, he said that the lead bullet from the Winchester hadn’t struck anything of importance inside the boy’s head. And now new tissue was in the process of growing around it. So it would be a greater risk to try to operate than to let the bullet stay where it was. And that’s what happened. That’s why Jack Eggum lived the next seventy years of his life with a bullet inside his head. And that’s why it said in his obituary: ‘Jack Eggum died with a bullet between the eyes, seventy years after the shot was fired.’ But it didn’t end there. Because after Jack died, one of his sons, my uncle, had the bullet surgically removed from his skull. He was close friends with the funeral director in town. Together they cut open the old man’s head and took out the bullet from the Winchester. And since my uncle died childless, my father inherited the family treasure. And when he died . . . well, to make a long story short, I have the bullet from Grandpa’s skull in a drawer at home.”
“In the bedroom,” said Crystal with a shudder.
“But do you think that’s enough proof?” the sheriff suddenly shouted. “Do you think that’s proof for the well-known local historian and forest cop, Lance Hansen?”
“Probably not,” said Nyland.
“You’re right about that. Do you know what Lance said when I showed him the bullet? This is years ago, now. He studied it for a while, and then he said, ‘It’d be really interesting to know with certainty where this bullet came from.’ He clearly didn’t believe a word of what I’d told him. Not that I care anymore, but . . . verification, my you-know-what!”
“Now, now,” said Crystal, trying to smooth things over. “That’s just the way Lance is. And there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”
The second pizza arrived, and they devoured most of that one too. Afterward they all had coffee. Nyland could see from the light outside the windows that the sun was setting. It was a little past nine. They began making motions to leave. He picked up the plastic bag from the Trading Post.
“Nyland bought some Ojibwe handiwork,” said Redmeyer.
“Oh, can I see?” said Crystal, her interest immediately sparked.
Nyland unwrapped the canoe, which took a few minutes, but at last it stood on the table amid a sea of blue tissue paper. A canoe made of dark wood. Maybe eight inches long, maybe two inches at the widest spot, carved from a single piece of wood, streamlined in form and polished smooth. In the back a little paddle rested against the edge, carved from the same piece of wood as the rest of the boat. The only thing missing was a miniature person, an Ojibwe Indian who could paddle off through the tissue-paper waves on the table.
“That’s a beautiful piece of carving,” said Sheriff Eggum appreciatively.
Both Crystal and Sparky reached out to touch the smooth surface that seemed almost unreal.
EVEN THOUGH THE FIREWORKS wouldn’t start for another forty-five minutes, people had already begun making their way toward Artists’ Point. It was a partially wooded promontory that stuck out into the lake over near the big white wooden building belonging to the Coast Guard. Nyland and Redmeyer crossed the parking lot in front of the Coast Guard station and headed down a path that led through the dense birch groves. When they emerged from the woods, they found themselves on top of a slope of bare rock that stretched off to their right and eventually formed a breakwater
that continued, straight as an arrow, all the way out to the small white lighthouse at the very end. In the opposite direction, off to their left, was the promontory known as Artists’ Point, with its pine trees and rocks.
“So, is this where they’re going to shoot off the fireworks?” asked Nyland.
“Yes, from a raft on the lake,” said Redmeyer.
Nyland noticed that a few people were sitting on part of the breakwater closest to land. Several small birds flew past the lighthouse. Over the harbor they wheeled about and came flying back, then landed on the breakwater right in front of the lighthouse.
“Come on, I want to show you something,” said Redmeyer.
He made his way down the steep rocks until he was close to the water’s edge. It wasn’t more than a few feet below. Nyland followed suit. The rock was different down there. Darker and not as smooth as the bare surface they’d been standing on. Clearly a different type of rock, which stretched in a long, wide band along the edge of the lake, extending toward the breakwater. It was uneven, which made it a little difficult to walk, and in places puddles of standing water had collected in the deepest hollows.
“Do you see it?” asked Redmeyer, pointing at the rock in front of them.
Nyland looked but couldn’t see anything special.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Look there.” Redmeyer stretched out his foot and pointed with the toe of his shoe.
And now Nyland noticed that something had been carved into the stone. He squatted down. Redmeyer did the same.
Anton Pederson 1902. And a short distance away: Mick Gallagher Duluth.
“There’s something special about this rock,” said Redmeyer. “It’s soft.”
“So who are these people?” asked Nyland as he looked for more names close by. “Or rather, who were they?”
The Land of Dreams (Minnesota Trilogy) Page 22