Norway to Hide

by Maddy Hunter

  CHAPTER 8

  “The territory in northern Scandinavia that you Americans call Lapland is known as Samiland to its indigenous peoples,” Helge told us on the bus ride to our evening event. “You call them Lapps, but they call themselves the Sami, and they have been herding reindeer for eight thousand years.”

  “There’s a bunch of escapees hanging around our hotel,” Bernice complained. “How’d they get loose? After eight thousand years, you’d think someone would be bright enough to figure out how to keep ’em penned up.”

  “Reindeer roam wild in the far north,” said Helge, “and they graze wherever they want, including the grounds of your hotel. Every reindeer belongs to someone, though. If you look at their ears, you’ll see they’re notched to prove ownership.”

  We turned onto a dirt road that snaked through a woodland of hardwoods and new-growth pine, the bus shimmying as we rolled in and out of the deeper ruts. “This entire area is a working reindeer farm,” Helge informed us, “and your meal this evening will be prepared and served by its owners. Historically, the Sami were nomads like your native American buffalo hunters, but they have traded in their dogsleds for snowmobiles, their tents for condos, and their quiet evenings around the cookfire for dinner extravaganzas. The Sami have survived for eight thousand years because they have adapted to change.” Laughter crept into his voice. “It has also helped that they are—what is the term?—bitching entrepreneurs.”

  Would gambling casinos be far behind?

  “What happened to your hair?” April Peabody asked me as we stepped off the bus.

  I fluffed the crinkled strands of what used to be my sexy Italian haircut. “The sauna treatment. It refreshes the spirit, invigorates the skin, and turns naturally curly hair into a Brillo pad. It’s really wonderful. You should try it.”

  She leaned close to me and lowered her voice. “You should cover your head. You’re going to frighten the reindeer.”

  Our Sami host greeted us by a rustic lodge that resembled a wigwam made of Lincoln logs. His name was Emppu, and he was a small-boned man with black eyes that snapped with intelligence, and facial features that gave him the look of Genghis Khan. He wore a blue wool tunic embroidered with bright primary colors, dark leggings, moccasins with turned-up toes, and a hat like a court jester. In Finland he’d immediately be recognized as a Sami reindeer herder; back home he might be mistaken for the head elf at the “Have Your Picture Taken With Santa” kiosk at the mall. The poor guy had to be cooking in that getup.

  He led us across a clearing to a fenced enclosure, where a solitary reindeer shied away from guests who clamored to pet him. I worked the crowd, snapping shots of people dressed in full mosquito regalia—white shirts, light slacks, and flat-topped green canvas hats with enough face netting to outfit a bridal party. Annika had recommended the hats as protection against insects in the deep woods, so we’d flocked to the hotel gift shop and bought out the stock, which, unfortunately, hadn’t been large enough to allow everyone to make a purchase.

  Psssssssssssssst.

  I looked over my shoulder to find Bernice spraying a halo of repellant around her wire whisk hair. “Do you want your picture with Emppu?” I asked cheerfully. “I should be able to get a good shot of your face since you’re not hiding behind mosquito netting.”

  She stabbed a crooked finger at me as she wheezed on the fumes. “Don’t think I’m gonna forget this. You should have done your research. That’s what an escort is supposed to do.”

  Bernice had pooh-poohed the mosquito netting idea, deeming it a tourist rip-off, but she’d changed her tune when she’d discovered that repellant was even more expensive than a hat. Of course, by then it was too late, because the hats had been limited to one a customer, and I’d bought the last one for Nana.

  “You better pray I don’t come down with malaria,” she warned.

  “No chance of that happening,” I assured her. “These are Finnish mosquitoes, not the tropical variety. And they’re not as bad as Annika said they’d be.” I stuck out my hand as bait. “See? They’re not bothering me at all.”

  “It’s your hair. You’ve scared them all away.” Pssssssst. “Ornery critters.”

  Annika clapped her hands. “Please to follow me, everyone!” She led us back to the clearing, where we formed a wide semicircle around a sawhorse reindeer whose antlers were as wide as a spreading oak. “Emppu is going to demonstrate how the Sami lasso reindeer, so please watch closely so you can test your own skill later.”

  “Here it comes.” Gus sidled next to me, his mosquito hat cocked at an odd angle. “The part of the tour where we get to show the world how stunningly uncoordinated we are.”

  “People might surprise you,” I said as Emppu sailed a coil of neon orange rope toward the wooden reindeer from twenty feet away, snagging all fourteen points of its impressive antlers.

  Whoops. Applause. Whistles.

  “Dick Teig killed in the hula competition in Maui. It was a real ego booster because after his big weight gain, he couldn’t find his hips, much less swivel them.”

  Emppu gathered his rope into a tidy coil and then scanned our faces expectantly, hefting the lasso as if to give it away to the first taker.

  “Any volunteers?” asked Annika.

  A hush descended on the group. People adjusted their mosquito netting in an obvious attempt to look preoccupied. A few shuffled backward out of the front row. The Dicks bowed their heads and slunk behind their wives.

  “Where is the sense of reckless adventure that you Americans are so famous for?” Annika scolded.

  Gus leaned toward me and said in an undertone, “It’s being quashed by the fear of looking like a total ass in front of everyone.”

  A gasp went up from the crowd as the lasso whipped through the air, encircling George Farkas around his shoulders. “Holy Hannah!” George chuckled as Emppu tightened the noose, dragging him toward the center of the clearing. “How’d he do that?”

  Eyes twinkling, Emppu coiled the rope again and handed it to George, who threw off his mosquito hat, swung the lasso back and forth to gauge its weight, then hurled it into the air.

  “Yo, George!” yelled Jackie as the line dropped over the reindeer’s antlers.

  “Foul!” sniped April Peabody. “He was standing too close.”

  “Iowans rule!” shouted Dick Teig, fisting his hand above his head.

  George shrugged modestly. “Beginner’s luck. I’d probably never be able to do it again.”

  “Did you see that?” Nana asked, elbowing Vern Grundy. “He’s with me.”

  “I’m going next,” demanded June Peabody as she marched into the clearing.

  “I’m after her,” cried April.

  I got spun around as the Floridians stormed past me in a mad scramble to line up behind the Peabodys. “Eh!” I hunched my shoulders to give them room. “I guess they rediscovered their sense of reckless adventure.”

  “It’s not the adventure,” said Gus, “it’s the competition. Everyone wants to be top dog. They’re galled that George looked so outstanding. They smell blood.”

  “Are you going to join them?”

  “Hell, no. They can eat each other alive, for all I care. I gave up the competitive thing a long time ago.”

  “Except for gin rummy.”

  He smiled through his layers of mosquito netting. “Yeah. It ticks me off that I never beat the champ before she died, so I guess that makes me more competitive than I’m willing to admit.”

  Hoots went up from the crowd as June’s toss flopped to the ground at the reindeer’s feet.

  “You must have been pretty competitive when you wrote for the Post,” I remarked. “I imagine everyone would like a Pulitzer. Did you run into a lot of professional jealousy?”

  “How did you know about my Pulitzer?”

  “Joleen told me. She was very complimentary of the article you wrote about Reno.”

  “That’s hard to believe, but I can’t take much credit for the piece. O�
�Brien is a real chatterbox, especially when he’s talking about himself. Besides, who’s going to stop reading when you mention the Boston Strangler? O’Brien knew details about the case that never saw the light of day. It was pretty creepy, actually. If I didn’t know him so well—”

  A cheer exploded as April roped Osmond Chelsvig’s foot.

  “If you didn’t know him so well?” I prodded.

  He looked suddenly distracted as Reno advanced to the front of the line. “Let’s just say he knows more about strangulation than ninety-nine and nine-tenths percent of the population. Definitely his area of expertise.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. “And you didn’t mention that to the Helsinki police?”

  “Was that my responsibility? Everyone knows about O’Brien’s big case. It was in the article. I thought it was a non-issue.”

  Sure it was. Kinda like Tweetie Bird’s feathers flying out of Sylvester’s mouth was a non-issue.

  “If you want to nail me for withholding evidence, you’ll have to nail everyone else for the same thing, which could really bog down the sightseeing activities. Lighten up, Emily.” He draped his arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze. “Reno O’Brien is the last person on earth who’d ever kill Portia.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because he’s the resident expert on strangulation. If he doesn’t keep his nose clean, you know damned well he’ll be the one they haul off to jail.”

  I liked his logic. Reno didn’t do it because it was way too obvious that he might have done it. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

  Sniggers and jeers traveled through the Florida crowd as Reno snagged two points on the reindeer’s antlers. “Let me try again,” he pressed Emppu. “I can do better.”

  Emppu waved him off good-naturedly and nodded for Vern to step up.

  A hint of sarcasm crept into Gus’s voice. “If O’Brien had hit a ringer the first time up, he would have demanded I write a feature article about it when we got back home. When he makes good, he expects adulation from the immediate world.”

  I couldn’t have engineered a better segue. “Do you have complete control over what you print in your newspaper?”

  “I’ve always had creative control, but Portia liked to keep her thumb in the pie. She scheduled semiweekly meetings so she could look over some of my more high-profile op-ed and feature stories and give me a yea or nay.”

  “I can’t imagine she’d nix much of what you wrote. I mean, you’re the one with the Pulitzer.”

  “The award didn’t matter to Portia. She was the Hamlets’ heart and soul, which meant she wasn’t above downplaying controversy and suggesting that I—” He cut himself off, his voice growing cautious. “You know something, Emily? I’ve had this conversation once today already, so I’m going to end it here. Discussions about editorial decisions make for boring conversation.” He nodded toward Emppu and Vern. “Old Vern looks pretty steady right now, but who knows how long that’ll last? I’ll tell you one thing: if he sticks it, O’Brien will go ballistic.”

  I regarded Jimbob as he waited his turn behind Vern. “Is it true that Portia could barely tolerate the Barnums?”

  “That’s a question you should have asked Portia—before she died.”

  “She couldn’t have been very happy with whoever voted them in. Pretty gutsy move to oppose the queen bee. Was she surprised?”

  He laughed out loud. “She was apoplectic, but majority rules, so there wasn’t much she could do except pout and act pissy.”

  Vern launched the lasso into the air and pumped his arm as it swooped over all fourteen antler points. “Bull’s-eye!” he yelled, hobbling off balance as he was applauded by the Iowans and booed by his friends.

  Gus grinned sardonically. “The person who coined the phrase ‘Familiarity breeds contempt’ must have lived in the Hamlets. It’s so inspiring to spend your retirement years with people who cheer your failures and boo your successes.”

  “Did Portia ever find out which board members opposed her?”

  Gus frowned, looking a little disturbed by my persistence. “We voted by secret ballot.”

  “But a majority would mean that four people opposed Portia. That’s nearly the entire board. What would you call that? A coup or a rebellion?”

  He narrowed his gaze. “Would you mind telling me where you’re going with this? You ask more questions than the Helsinki police. Forgive my presumptuousness, but it sounds as if you’re digging for evidence that would prove one of us committed murder.”

  “It does?” Damn, I hated it when I sounded so obvious.

  “Is it time for dinner yet?” April Peabody whined. “I’ve had it with the mosquitoes.”

  “We’re going inside,” said June, swatting the air with abandon.

  “It is very hot inside the lodge,” Annika warned, “so until the food is ready, you must stay out in the fresh air.”

  Pssssssssssssssssst.

  “It’s not that fresh!” Lauretta objected, choking on Bernice’s aerosol spray.

  “Do not enter the lodge!” Annika repeated, chasing after the Floridians who were streaming toward the building.

  “All of you just stay where you are!” Joleen bellowed. “Jimbob hasn’t had his turn yet!”

  “That woman never gives up,” Gus grumbled. “If we wanted to see Elastic Man perform, we’d go to the circus.”

  “Is that what he was called? Elastic Man?”

  “That’s what Portia called him, when she was feeling generous. Would you excuse me? He loves making a spectacle of himself, so I’d prefer not to encourage him.” He made a hissing sound as Jimbob eased into a handstand, bent his knees, and removed the rope from Emppu’s hand with his feet. “Good God, the man isn’t a showman; he’s an aberration.”

  As he walked away, I realized I’d discovered the other board member who’d voted with Portia in opposition to the Barnums.

  “Go, Jimbob!” Joleen cheered. “Show these folks how to do it the circus way.”

  I joined Nana and Jackie, who were watching the entertainment beneath their veils of mosquito netting. “See what he’s doin’, dear? He’s gonna toss the lasso with his feet. Your grampa woulda loved this. When he was a boy, he had a notion to run off and join the circus. He wanted to be the fella what got shot outta the cannon.”

  “Little boys can be so dumb,” Jackie tittered. “Can you imagine what that would have done to his hearing?”

  I regarded her indulgently. Had she been like this when we were married? Wouldn’t I have noticed? Or had I simply been in denial?

  “I seen you talkin’ to Gus,” Nana whispered. “He tell you anythin’ useful?”

  “He thinks Jimbob is an aberration.”

  Nana’s eyes brightened as she reached for her notepad and pen. “Does that got one r or two?”

  “That is so unkind,” Jackie huffed. “How can a Pulitzer Prize winner be so intolerant?”

  Nana shrugged. “Maybe he’s a right-wing Republican.”

  With a flurry of fancy footwork, Jimbob flung the lasso off his toes and bounced back onto his feet, reaking into a rebel yell as the noose dropped over the reindeer’s rack.

  Pandemonium erupted. Cheers. Whoops. I let out my signature whistle and clapped until my palms turned red.

  “What’d I tell you?” Joleen hugged Jimbob so hard that I thought I heard his spine crack. “He’s twice as good as those wannabes. Jimbob Barnum, the greatest contortionist ever to work the main ring of P. T. Barnum and Bailey Brothers Circus!”

  “You s’pose he’s related to the original P. T. Barnum?” Nana mused. “I seen a show sayin’ that fella was pretty slick. Kinda like snake oil slick.”

  I inched closer to Nana and Jackie. “I also found out that not one, not two, but four people voted against Portia on the Barnum issue. Four board members wanted Joleen and Jimbob to move into the Hamlets.”

  “Ooo,” Jackie gushed. “What does that mean?”

  “Regime change,” said
Nana.

  “I’m pretty sure Gus voted with her,” I continued, “which means April, June, Vern, and Lauretta voted against her.”

  “And suffered her wrath,” said Jackie. “Can you imagine being on that woman’s bad side? I’d rather have a million needles plunged into my body.”

  “George had that done once,” Nana reminisced. “He said the pain was excruciatin’, on account a Medicare don’t pay for acupuncture.”

  “Do you think Portia found a way to punish the four dissenting board members?” I asked.

  “Either that, or they mighta knowed somethin’ was comin’, so they made one a them preemptive strikes to get her before she got them.”

  “How do you punish an elderly resident of a retirement community?” asked Jackie. “Deactivate their golf cart?”

  “Oh, my God, do you think the other four board members were in cahoots with each other to knock her off?”

  Jackie let out a frustrated sigh as she wrestled with her hat. “Do you see a trap door in this thing? How are we supposed to eat dinner through all this mosquito netting?”

  “I was plannin’ to take my hat off,” said Nana, dead-pan. She tilted her head back to look far up to Jackie’s face. “You’re very tall, aren’t you, dear?”

  “Last one to the lodge has to sit with Bernice!” yelled Dick Teig, initiating a footrace of pounding feet and flying elbows. As people charged past us, I saw Gus and Reno at the far side of the lodge, hats tucked under their arms, engaged in the kind of heated discussion that often takes place between baseball managers and home plate umpires. Arms waved, words flew, and when they suddenly looked my way, I got the distinct impression that the topic under discussion was me.

  I had a really bad feeling that this wasn’t good.

  The “authentic Sami lodge” was a modern spit-polished banquet facility with seating for two hundred guests. The log roof was shaped like a funnel, and in the center of the room was an authentic Sami open-flame grill that raised the indoor temperature to a degree that could melt the fillings in your teeth. Throughout our meal, people kept escaping to the outside for a breath of air, then crawled back to swelter in the smoke-filled haze, leaving many bowls of mushroom soup and plates of reindeer meat, mashed potatoes, and vegetable medleys half-eaten.