Death & the Viking's Daughter

by Loretta Ross

  She started to turn away and return to her truck, but Randy caught her arm and nodded at the lake. She followed his gaze.

  The Viking longboat had emerged around the point, from beyond the village. The sails were full and the oars were up. The wind carried it, silent, like a ghost, across the silver water until it disappeared into the fog.

  “Who’s Daddy’s little sweetums? Is you Daddy’s little sweetums? Oh, you are! Yes, you are!”

  Death, in the parking lot of the corner grocery, turned to look at whoever was talking behind him. With just over a week left until Thanksgiving, he had volunteered to start the shopping. He had an ulterior motive, truth be told, which was simply that he was still hoping to impress his future in-laws by being helpful, diligent, cheerful, thrifty, and neat. Or something.

  A big guy in motorcycle leathers was leaning into the window of a gold sedan, talking baby-talk to a tiny Chihuahua. The guy glanced around, caught Death watching him, and started guiltily.

  Death blinked. “Hagarson?”

  The biggest, baddest bail bondsman in Rives County straightened up, shifted his shoulders self-consciously, and said gruffly, “Yo, Bogart. What are you doing here?”

  “At the grocery store? Buying groceries. What are you doing?”

  “Oh, huh. Yeah. The, uh, the wife sent me down here to get some more kibbles for her pet rat.” He nodded at the dog. “Even insisted I bring the spoiled little monster with me so it could pick out a new toy.” He rolled his eyes. “Seriously!”

  Death laughed. “Sorry, man. That’s not gonna fly. I heard the daddy-voice. I saw the kissy face.”

  Hagarson tipped his head and peered at Death in a calculating manner. “You were hallucinating,” he said. “You’re short of breath and it’s making you lightheaded. You imagined it.”

  “Nope. Sorry.”

  Hagarson’s shoulders slumped and he sighed. “Well, hell. Listen, Bogart. I’ve been good to you. Cut me some slack, all right?”

  “I suppose I could do that.” Death chuckled. “Anyway, I wouldn’t want you to sic that attack dog on me. She looks ferocious.” The dog was wearing a sparkly pink bow and a crocheted sweater. She noticed Death paying attention to her and bounced around the car’s seat yipping happily. He’d seen bigger stuffed animals. “How old is she?”

  “Almost four.”

  “Really? She’s not a puppy?”

  “Nope. This is as big as she’s going to get.” Unsnapping a big pocket on the side of his leather vest, Hagarson bent toward the window again, holding it open. The dog hopped in and lay down out of sight. “Her name’s LeeLee. Shut up and don’t rat us out when we get into the store.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  They strolled toward the front entrance side by side. “Say, listen,” Hagarson said. “What are you planning on doing on Thanksgiving?”

  Death shrugged. “Eating, I hope.”

  “No, I mean after dinner.”

  “Digesting?”

  “Ha. Ha. But, seriously, you want in on a little excitement?”

  “What kind of excitement?”

  “Black Friday!”

  “You mean one of those sales where crazy people pack themselves into stores on Thanksgiving night and punch each other out for toys and sheet sets? You can’t be serious.”

  “Dead serious. I think you should come with me.”

  “Oh, no. There’s literally nothing I need badly enough to go arm wrestle old ladies for it. I can’t believe you like those things. What’s wrong with you?”

  “Dude,” Hagarson said, “I’m not talking about shopping. I’m talking about hunting.”

  “Hunting? Hunting what? Bargains?”

  “Felons.”

  “Come again?”

  They’d reached the building now. Hagarson dragged Death off to the side before he could enter and lowered his voice. “Every year, on Thanksgiving night, the stores hold these giant sales. Everybody gripes about them and complains that they’re ruining the holidays, etc. etc. But every year those places are packed. They always have a selection of big ticket items and special merchandise that isn’t available any other time. There are never very many of any given item; they’re just there to get people in the door. But if you get there early, and you’re patient and lucky, sometimes you can get something really cheap. Something you’ve always wanted. Or, you know, at least since you saw the ad.”

  “Okay, but—”

  “No, listen. The thing is, these sales are really enticing. Customers pack in, crowd the aisles, clog the parking lot. They’re just focused on shopping and sales. It never occurs to them that there will be people like me there, watching.”

  “You’re starting to sound a little creepy, man. Not to put too fine a point on it, but right now the kissy face, daddy-voice thing is actually coming down in your favor.”

  Hagarson sighed. “I’m talking about fugitives.”

  “Fugitives?”

  “People who have warrants out for their arrest. They spend 364 days a year avoiding the authorities, and then Black Friday comes along and they’re like, ‘Oh! I’ve always wanted this video game! Maybe if I get there early, I can find these pajamas in purple!’ And so on and so forth.”

  “So you go there to look for people who have warrants out?”

  “Right. You wouldn’t believe how many bail jumpers I’ve caught waiting in line for TVs and remote-controlled cars.”

  “Do you have a lot of bail jumpers in the wind?”

  “Not at the moment. But I’ve got wanted posters and lists of outstanding warrants from every law enforcement agency in this part of the state.”

  “So you’re just going to go and watch for wanted people. And then what? You’re not a cop. You just being a good citizen and helping to apprehend?”

  Hagarson frowned at him. “You’re awfully shortsighted for a businessman.”

  “Sorry. I just don’t understand.”

  “I watch for people who have warrants out for their arrest. When I see one, I alert the authorities and they get arrested. And then, of course, I go bail them out! And then they have to pay me. It’s a gold mine.” Hagarson grinned. “If you want in, I’ll share a cut of the proceeds.”

  Death laughed. “Maybe next year,” he said. “This year I’m trying to impress my future in-laws. I don’t think running off right after Thanksgiving dinner would help my case any.”

  “In-laws?” Hagarson asked. “You getting married?”

  “Yup. I proposed to my girlfriend and she said yes.”

  The bail bondsman pounded him on the shoulder. “Well! Congratulations! Who’s the lucky lady?”

  “I’m the lucky one,” Death said. “The lady’s name is Wren Morgan.”

  “Oh.” Hagarson’s smile dropped and he looked dismayed.

  “What?”

  “Wren … isn’t that Emily Morgan’s daughter?”

  “Yeah. You know her?”

  “Yeah. You’re trying to impress Emily Morgan?”

  “Why?”

  “Oh … nothing.” LeeLee whimpered and Hagarson patted his pocket gently. “Don’t worry, snookums. Daddy’ll take you to get your num-nums.”

  Death glowered at him. “Listen. If you want this whole snookums/daddy/kissy-face/num-nums business to get swept under the rug, you’d better tell me whatever you know about Emily Morgan.”

  For the second time in the conversation, Hagarson’s big shoulders drooped. He sighed. “Okay, well, it was a long time ago, but Emily Morgan might have caught me putting Vaseline on people’s doorknobs one Halloween. And their car windshields. And I might have TP’d a couple of houses. And she’s little, but damn that woman has a scary temper!” He patted Death’s shoulder. “All in all, it would probably be best if you just pretend you don’t know me.”

  fifteen

&nbs
p; Madeline Braun, formerly Madeline Bogart, came into work Wednesday morning with a bounce in her step and a large gift-wrapped box in her arms. Madeline was a member of the secretarial pool at one of the largest local insurance firms. She was a competent typist and could handle basic accounting, but her main asset, in her own estimation, was her appearance. She played it up at every opportunity. Her hair and makeup were always perfect. She wore her necklines a little lower than the other women and her skirts a little shorter and made it a point to get her nails done weekly.

  She had a desk in an office she shared with five other women. Two of her fellow secretaries were married, and one was single but in a long-term relationship. The other two were single and unattached. For Madeline, these five represented the competition. She didn’t dislike them, exactly. She just liked to remind them every now and again that when it came to beauty and popularity and sex appeal, she was at the head of the class.

  Betty, one of the older, married women, gave her a puzzled look as she entered. “Is it someone’s birthday?”

  “No, I don’t think so. If it is, I don’t know about it.”

  “So what’s the present for?”

  “You know, I don’t know.” Madeline beamed. “I found it on my doorstep when I got home last night.”

  “And you didn’t open it?”

  “I’m trying to figure out who it’s from.”

  Renee rose and crossed to get a paper out of the printer. “Eric?” she suggested.

  “No, Eric didn’t know anything about it. I do believe I made him a little jealous when I asked him.”

  “I can’t imagine why.” Renee rolled her eyes.

  Allie, a young woman with an unfortunate skin problem, raised her eyebrows. She was busy typing away at her computer and spoke without breaking stride. “Do you often get mysterious presents that aren’t from your boyfriend?”

  “Oh, sure,” Madeline said casually. “All the time. I have so many secret admirers.”

  “If they’re secret,” Allie said, “how do you know about them?”

  “I can tell. There’s just that feeling you get when a man is giving you that hungry, needy look. You know.” She looked over at Allie. “Or maybe you don’t,” she said pointedly.

  “Why don’t you just open it and see what it is?” Betty asked.

  “Oh, all right,” Madeline said. “I suppose you’re all probably curious too.”

  “Yeah, can’t live without knowing,” Allie deadpanned, still not looking up from her typing.

  “Well, everyone come over and see what I’ve got. If it’s chocolate I’ll share. I can’t eat too much because I don’t want to risk my complexion.” She cut a pointed side glance at Allie. “I know not everyone has to worry about that.”

  The four other women came over at once, at least pretending to be interested. Madeline read it as jealousy and smiled to herself. After a moment, Allie sighed and rolled over in her chair, not bothering to rise.

  “Okay,” Madeline said. “I’ll just clip the tape and then the lid should come up.” She made a production of cutting the tape on all four sides of the gift, then set the scissors aside. “Ready?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. Just do it,” Allie said.

  Madeline gave her a miffed, insincere little smile and pulled the lid off.

  A balloon floated out and rose toward the ceiling. There was a thin white banner attached to it, which trailed behind. The six women all tipped their heads to the side so they could read the blue writing scrawled along it: Death and Wren are engaged!

  Madeline could only stare in shock. “What?”

  Allie reached into the box and pulled out a handful of candy. “Oh, look! Lemon drops.”

  “What?” Madeline repeated.

  Betty turned the box lid over. “Here. There’s a card,” she said. It was just a folded sheet of paper taped to the inside of the box lid. She opened it and read it aloud. “To Madeline from Randy. P. S. I’m not dead yet.”

  Madeline grabbed the banner and hauled the balloon back down into her hands. “What. The. Hell?”

  “Well, I don’t know, but it kinda sounds like your ex is getting married again,” Allie said. She could not possibly have been more amused.

  Madeline picked up her scissors and stabbed the balloon, popping it. “Like hell he is!”

  “Cecily? This is Death Bogart. I wanted to ask you a couple of follow-up questions about the Volkmer painting.”

  He could hear her sigh travel across the phone connection. “I don’t know anything about it,” she said, sounding fed up. “I told the cops, I don’t know anything about it. I understand that the lab techs stole it for someone, but it wasn’t for me. Where would I even put it? I live in a one-bedroom apartment the size of a postage stamp. My bathroom is a converted closet. And not a walk-in closet either! I eat ramen five days a week. I’m not a criminal mastermind!”

  Death chuckled, but quietly so she wouldn’t hear him. “I know, okay? I don’t think you are. I’m not calling to accuse you of anything, I just want to ask you a question about the forged painting, as an expert and as someone who had a chance to examine it.”

  She was quiet for a long moment before she answered him. “Fine. What is it?”

  “Just how good a forgery was it?”

  “What?”

  “How good was the copy? If you’d studied it without the x-ray, would you have pegged it for a copy? I’m wondering where one gets a forged painting. What level of skill was involved?”

  “Oh.” He waited while she thought about it. “It wasn’t a very good copy, honestly,” she said finally. “I like to think I’d have figured out on my own that it was a forgery, but of course that’s easy to say with hindsight. I might have decided there was another explanation for the quality of the painting, though. And if I were admitting things, I’d have to admit that I probably wouldn’t have dared to say anything.”

  “What do you mean?” Death asked. Then, “No, wait. Let’s break that down. First, what do you mean, ‘another explanation’ for the quality. What sort of explanation?”

  “At some time around the turn of the century, Volkmer was injured in a knife fight over a prostitute. He got hooked on morphine while he was recovering and it affected the quality of his work. By the time he painted the Ring Portrait he’d gotten his drug addiction under control, but he could have had a relapse.”

  “And what do you mean about not saying anything?”

  “Well,” Cecily replied, “I’m not proud to admit this, but I don’t know if I’d have had the courage to tell a museum that one of their display pieces was a forgery, even if I’d figured it out.”

  “Ah,” Death said. “I think that’s understandable. Okay, one last question. If you were looking for a forgery, and this level of quality—or lack of quality—was acceptable, where would you go?”

  “Heck,” Cecily said. “I don’t know. I don’t suppose I’d go to anyone. I’d print a good-quality picture of the painting on a transparency and project it onto a white canvas. Then I’d just paint over it as best I could. Any competent art student could probably do it if they took their time and used a high-resolution print, and maybe a computer analysis to help get the colors right.”

  Death thanked her and hung up, then sat at his desk and thought about it. The Ring Portrait forgery was a poor copy. The thirteenth-

  century clay pot that had been stolen was replaced by one that hadn’t been put together along the same break lines. The angel crown was replaced with a copy sewn together from acrylic feathers.

  In the case of the painting, it seemed to Death that whoever had arranged the substitution was actually counting on them discovering that it was a forgery (though probably not counting on them figuring out when and how it was swapped out). With the pot and the angel crown, the person or persons who’d stolen the original seemed to be relying on the fa
ct that these were obscure items and unlikely to be closely examined.

  He still thought the family angle was his best bet, but so far it hadn’t paid off. The genealogy information Appelbaum had sent him was contained in a 174-page PDF. That was small print, and Death had been lost in relationships and notations before he even got started. He’d tried searching the document for the name of the donor who’d given the Prussian coin collection to the museum in Maryland and for the names of the owners of the angel crown, but neither had turned up. The pot had been unearthed during an archaeological dig that the museum in Pittsburgh had helped sponsor. There was no name to search for there.

  Death pulled his phone over and called the museum in Alabama that had lost the angel crown. He had some difficulty understanding the woman who answered due to the strength of her Southern accent, but eventually he convinced her to give him the phone number of the person who’d owned the wayward curiosity.

  That was his next call.

  “Hello, Mrs. Eichenwald? I’m sorry for disturbing you. I got your number from the Little Museum of Appalachian History. I wanted to talk to you about your missing angel crown.”

  “And what’s your angle?” He could hear her skepticism from two thousand miles away.

  “My name is Death Bogart. I’m a private investigator. I’m working on a case that’s similar to the disappearance of your angel crown, and it’s occurred to me that the two thefts might be related.”

  “Somebody stole somebody else’s junk?” she asked.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Look.” Mrs. Eichenwald sounded tired. “That angel crown was nothing but a piece of worthless crap. And I know it was nothing but worthless crap. But dammit, it was my worthless crap.”

  “Yes. I understand that,” Death began. “If I could just ask you—”

  “What kind of nonsense did you get stolen?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Your thing. Your doodad. Are you daft? I’m trying to ask you what got stolen.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry, I wasn’t following you. I’m trying to track a missing oil painting.”