Death & the Viking's Daughter

by Loretta Ross

  “No.”

  “Come on. I’ll show you.”

  The lobby they were in was enormous, with marble floors and dark wood display cases. The ceiling two stories above was pressed and painted tin. A double row of windows along the front wall let in plenty of natural light and the walls were white with gold trim. The most prominent feature was a massive, curving staircase that rose to a central landing before dividing to swoop off to the left and right and meet the second-floor gallery at either end. The treads were of dark wood with a white and gold stair runner and the balustrades looked like nothing so much as broad bands of gilded lace.

  Death followed Lila up the left-hand flight of steps. At the head of each flight, an elaborately framed portrait hung. The portraits were placed about six feet off the floor, in plain sight of anyone who happened to be passing through the lobby or the gallery or climbing the stairs. The one in front of Death was a severe-looking woman whose eyes seemed to follow him as he moved.

  Below the painting there was a glass case filled with china and an assortment of ceramic figurines.

  “This is Leland Warner’s mother. Dr. Warner had us move his great-great-grandparents up here after we let the other paintings go for study. We had to wrap and store every single item in the glass case, then move the glass case, and then it took three men and two ladders to lift the painting down. It took the entire day.”

  “It certainly doesn’t seem like it would have been easy to switch the picture,” Death agreed. “You were here when they took it down?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened after they took it down? Was it stored somewhere? Who was here, and who knew where it was going and what was going to happen to it?”

  “Nothing happened after we took it down. It didn’t go into storage. Cecily Myers was here with a pair of technicians from Eiler Laboratory. She’s the grad student who’s doing her thesis on Hans Volkmer. Eiler Labs is who did the x-rays and other tests on it. They signed for the paintings and took them right then.”

  “And they took both paintings for study? They were both by Volkmer?”

  “Yes. The other was an unknown actor portraying Hamlet in a University of Missouri theater production circa 1905. And I know what you’re going to ask, and no, they found nothing to suggest that the Hamlet picture was replaced as well.”

  “Mr. Bogart.”

  Dr. Chase Warner spoke Death’s name but didn’t turn to look at him. He was standing in his office facing out the window. Warner was a stocky man, a little under average height, and he stood ramrod-

  straight with his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Sir.”

  “I swear to you, as God is my witness, that I did not have anything to do with forging that painting.”

  “I’m neither judge nor jury, Dr. Warner,” Death said. “I’m just a gumshoe trying to figure out what’s going on.”

  Warner turned then and quirked up one eyebrow. He allowed himself a slight smile. “A gumshoe, eh? How very 1940s of you.”

  Death grinned. “Please. Come tell me what you know.” He adjusted an imaginary fedora. “I’d like to get home. I’ve got a hot date with a cold whisky and a warm dame.”

  That drew a laugh from the other man. He came over and sat behind his desk, and Death took a visitor’s chair and leaned forward with his arms on the wood surface.

  “This museum has had that portrait for a long time,” Death said. “How long have you been the director?”

  “Since ’87,” Warner replied. “October 23, 1987. I took over when my mother became too ill for the position. She’d been running the museum since my father was killed in a traffic accident in ’70. Before him, it was my paternal grandfather. He died, in fact, in this very chair.”

  “So it’s always been a family affair?”

  “Yes. My great-grandfather, Leland, originally established the collection. He had a younger sister, Abigail, who died of cholera while she was still in her teens. She was a great lover of music and the arts and he started the collection in her memory and as a way to give his mother something to distract her from her grief. In the beginning it was just a few rooms in the family mansion.”

  “The family mansion,” Death said with a light chuckle, shaking his head. “You say that like it’s normal.”

  “Well, it is normal for us. My great-great-grandfather immigrated here from Germany, well, Prussia, in the 1890s. He worked for a while at a winery in the Missouri River Valley, saved his money, and eventually opened a series of general stores, at first along the river where the paddle wheelers put in. When the railroads came through, he found out ahead of time what the routes were going to be, bought up land in advance, and expanded his businesses. He was a shrewd businessman. He figured out where people were going to be and what they were going to need and then he just planted himself in their path with his merchandise. Made a fortune.”

  Death nodded. “And who was director of the museum when you first took possession of the painting? The, um, forged one, I mean.”

  “It’s known as ‘the Ring Portrait’,” Warner offered helpfully. “Because she’s in costume for the Ring Cycle.”

  “Right. The Ring Portrait. Who was director of the museum then? Your father?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where was it originally displayed, if you know?”

  “Yes, above the left-hand flight of the grand staircase. It’s always been there. Until recently, that entire hall was given over to theater mementos. The glass case was filled with props and small framed photographs of famous actors. There were half a dozen easels in the upper hallway displaying a selection of playbills. The ballroom, where we stage musical recitals and performances of nineteenth- and early twentieth-century plays, is at that end of the balcony.”

  “When did you remove those things?”

  “At the same time we took the paintings down for Ms. Myers and the technicians. Honestly, we only intended it to be a temporary change. Since the paintings were going to be gone for a time, we thought we’d replace the theater display with more, shall we say, generic pieces. It’s giving us a chance to clean them and do some basic conservancy.”

  Death leaned back, steepled his fingers over his midriff, and thought.

  “What about security?” he asked.

  “We have security, of course.”

  “Internal? I mean, do the guards work directly for you or do you contract with a security company?”

  “It’s a security company, Armstrong Security. They provide two to four guards during our regular hours, depending on what kind of crowd we’re expecting. Two on weekday mornings, for example, but four on weekends and holidays. We also have a state-of-the-art security system and they monitor it from their headquarters in real time. And we hire off-duty police officers for extra security if there’s an event going on after hours.”

  Death sighed. “Right now there’s just too big a window of opportunity. We know the forgery was made sometime after 1970. Probably after ’74. It could have been switched with the original at any point since then, so there’s more than four decades we have to account for.”

  “What can you do?” Warner sounded hopeless. Lost. “I can’t believe this happened. This is a nightmare.”

  “The real painting isn’t that valuable, correct?” Death asked.

  “That’s not the point. It was in our care and we let something happen to it. Someone I’ve considered a friend my whole life entrusted me with a family heirloom. And now it’s gone. And I can’t even tell him how or when or why.”

  five

  Gianni’s Pizza was a staple in East Bledsoe Ferry. It had been around since Wren was in grade school, a tiny, family-owned pizzeria in a dark concrete-block building that still had a faded, 1950s dairy logo on the side.

  Wren pushed open the heavy wooden door and ducked inside, waiting for her eyes t
o adjust from bright sunlight to deep gloom. Gianni’s had only two windows and both were stained glass. When she could see again, she helped herself to a seat at a booth along the front wall. It was nearing the dinner hour and the restaurant was already half full.

  The head waitress came over and, without asking, set a glass of soda down by Wren’s elbow. “Just you tonight?”

  “Death’ll be here. He’s on his way back from the city, though. He might be a bit.”

  “Okay, we’ll hold off until he gets here. Let me know if you need anything.”

  The waitress left and Wren pulled out her phone, but before she could pull up the game she’d been playing it buzzed in her hand and the screen flashed Mom.

  Suddenly, Wren had butterflies in her stomach. She took a deep breath and ran her thumb across the answer icon.

  “Mom? Hi! Did you get my message?”

  Wren’s parents, after her father retired from the Department of Conservation, had shocked their family by selling their house and buying a camper. They were spending their leisure years traveling the country with no set itinerary. Her mom made dolls and stuffed animals by hand that she sold at craft fairs. Her dad had become a champion at pitching horseshoes.

  “You did send a message!” Her mother sounded jubilant. “I thought there was a message but I couldn’t figure out how to listen to it.”

  “So … you didn’t hear it?”

  “It wanted my password. Do I have a password?”

  “I don’t know. Don’t you know?”

  “Wrennie, you know I don’t know how this contraption works. I’m doing good to use it for a phone, let alone do anything else with it. What was your message? Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, everything’s great. Um … ” Wren swallowed hard. “You remember me telling you about Death? Death Bogart?”

  “Oh, yes. The young man you’ve been sweet on. A Marine, right?”

  “Right. Well, a former Marine.”

  “What about him?”

  “Well, how would you like to have him for a son-in-law?”

  Her mother was silent for so long, Wren thought perhaps they’d lost the connection. “Mom? Are you still there?”

  “I’m here. Are you saying you want to marry him?”

  “I’m saying I’m going to marry him. He proposed and I said yes.”

  “You’re moving awfully fast, don’t you think?”

  “No faster than the situation warrants.”

  “Wren Elizabeth … ” Her mother hesitated. “I don’t want to be a wet blanket, but you haven’t even known each other for a year now, have you?”

  Wren slid around in the booth and turned sideways so she could put her feet up on the bench seat and her back to the window. “I know we’re moving fast. But I also know that it’s the right thing to do. Wait until you meet him. When you meet him, you’ll understand.”

  “Well, we’ll just have to head back that way so we can do that. Daddy and I were talking about coming home for Thanksgiving anyway. We’ll go ahead and start that way now. Though I hope you’re not rushing into a wedding quite so fast! When are you planning on doing this, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “We haven’t set a date yet. We’re thinking maybe in the spring.” Wren steeled herself and forged ahead. “We’re going to sell my house and look for something bigger, a place to start a family.”

  A few beats of silence.

  “Really?” her mother finally said, voice flat.

  “Really.” There was more to it than wanting to start a family, actually. Death’s time in the service had left him with issues beyond the physical. When they first met, Wren had tried to wake him from a nightmare and he’d reacted violently. Because of that, Death didn’t feel that he could sleep in the same room with her. Even though she’d promised not to repeat the mistake, anytime he tried to sleep next to her he had nightmares about accidentally killing her. They were looking for a house large enough for each of them to have their own room, until the time came when he would be able to stay with her all night.

  She wasn’t going to try to explain that to her mother over the phone right now, though.

  “And whose idea was it to sell your house and look for a bigger one?” her mom asked. “I wonder what your godmother would think?” Wren’s house had been a bequest from her mother’s favorite aunt.

  “I think Nan would understand,” Wren replied. “She’d love Death too, and so will you when you meet him.”

  “And what kind of house are you looking for?”

  “We haven’t really decided yet. We just started looking. I did find one house I really like, but Death hasn’t had a chance to see it yet.”

  “There, in town?

  “Just a little southeast of town, on CC. A lady named Myrna Sandburg is living there now.”

  “Oh, of course. I know Myrna. That’s the old Duvall place. Frannie Duvall’s father gave them the land when they got married and Ned built her that house. Just after the First World War, I believe. The cellar is left over from an 1830s log cabin that was there before. That is a nice house.”

  Wren slumped in her seat a little, relieved that her mother had finally found something to approve of. “Yes, it’s lovely, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is … You know there’s a body in the rosebushes, right?”

  “My gosh! It looks like the Brady Bunch exploded in here!”

  On Saturday morning, with the rest of Keystone and Sons occupied with auctioning off the equipment from a closed restaurant, Wren returned to the yacht club with Robin Keystone along to lend a hand. They had entered a large dining room on the north side of the building. A three-sided bar occupied the central area, while garishly colored tables and chairs sat in alcoves created by various room dividers and collections of artificial plants. Macramé hangers held more artificial plants, and there were shelves with an eclectic assortment of conversation pieces. The walls were covered with bold paintings and wall hangings; there was an emphasis on bright colors and geometric designs. Small, oddly shaped lamps with orange- and raspberry-colored plastic shades provided lighting.

  Though she wouldn’t say as much to Robin, this place gave Wren the heebie-jeebies. After listening to Sam and Roy talk about the Beverly Hills Supper Club, she’d researched the place. They hadn’t been exaggerating when they said Claudio Bender had built his nightclub as a copy of that one. Not only did it imitate the crazy floor plan of its doomed predecessor, but the decorations were modelled after the original too.

  After reading accounts of the deadly fire at the Beverly Hills club that had claimed 165 lives, Wren could walk through the Ozark Hills Supper Club and pick out where the fire had started, envision how the furnishings and decor had fed the flames, and imagine the terror of all the victims lost in the maze-like building, trapped in the dark and heat. She imagined this was how a ghost would feel, walking through the memory of the place she’d died.

  “It’s called kitsch,” she said, pushing her own unease away. “We’ll list it as an impressive assortment of mid-1970s kitsch.”

  “Kitch? Like kitchen?”

  “Kitsch.” Wren spelled it for him. “It’s basically the ‘oh my god, that’s horrible! I love it!’ school of collecting.”

  Robin gave her the side-eye and she laughed.

  “Don’t knock it. There are a lot of people who like this kind of stuff. I have a friend in Kansas who makes her living dealing in kitsch.”

  “Hello? Is anyone here? Is someone here? Hello?”

  A strange voice sounded from the direction of the entryway. Wren and Robin exchanged a glance and moved together toward the door.

  The man who stood just inside the entrance was a stranger to Wren. He was tall and thin with blond hair fading to white and pale blue eyes behind thick glasses. He wore a heavy wool coat, and Wren read nerves in his taut posture and the
way he kept his hands in his coat pockets and his elbows tucked against his sides.

  She moved forward, instinctively putting herself between Robin and an unknown man even though she got no bad vibes from him.

  “Hi, can I help you?”

  “Hi. Yeah. Um, are you the Keystones?”

  “I’m Wren Morgan. I work for the Keystones. They’re not here right now.” She could feel Robin glaring at her as she said it, but she wasn’t letting him take over this conversation until she knew who the man was and what he wanted. “Can I help you?”

  “Hi.” He stepped forward and offered her his hand. “I’m Jacob Larsen. From Arnhold.”

  “Arnold?”

  “The Viking settlement next door? It’s called Arnhold. It means ‘stronghold of the wolf.’”

  “I see. Larsen … Are you related to the gentleman who was taken ill yesterday?”

  “Yes, he’s my father. That’s why I wanted to stop by. To thank you for helping him.”

  “That’s no problem. I’m just glad we were here to help. Is he going to be okay?”

  “He should be, yes. They’re keeping him in the hospital for a couple of days, to try to pinpoint exactly what happened, but they don’t think it was anything serious.” Jacob Larsen shuffled his feet on the carpet, gazing at the floor and looking like a child facing his principal. “There was something else I wanted to talk to you about.”

  Wren glanced back at Robin again and he met her gaze with raised eyebrows. She had a feeling she knew where this was going.

  “The clothes?” she asked. “The dress and other things the kids found up in the sail loft?”

  “Yeah, that. The, uh, ghost my father thought he saw. That was just a little girl playing dress-up?”

  Robin snickered and Wren shushed him with a glance.

  “A little boy, actually. He was just fooling around.”

  “Matt’s a bit rambunctious,” Robin put in, defending his cousin, “but he’s not a bad kid.”

  “Oh, no. I’m sure he’s not. The sheriff said you seemed to think that the clothes had something to do with my sister’s disappearance.”