Copenhagen Cozenage

by Kristen Joy Wilks

  August scooped me up without a word and carried me to the top of the stairs. He sat at the top of the cement steps with his back against the open cellar door. Careful of my broken arm, he settled me against his shoulder and let me weep.

  August was mumbling something against my hair. “The ransomed of the Lord will return. They will enter Zion with singing; everlasting joy will crown their heads. Gladness and joy will overtake them, and sorrow and sighing will flee away. I, even I, am He who comforts you. Who are you that you fear mortal men…let him who walks in the dark, who has no light, trust in the name of the Lord and rely on his God.”

  A cool, clear calm washed over me. I braced my broken arm with my good hand and sat up.

  God had heard me. He heard my prayer and sent me this insufferable man to carry me up the steps and pray verses over me. The same verses He had sent to me Himself. The verses that I needed to hear, again and again and again. The verses God knew I needed to believe, if I was going to survive. I smudged the tears off my face with a soggy corner of August’s T-shirt and managed to smile up at him.

  He was crying too. His eyes closed, his head leaning back against the door behind us. Hmmm, perhaps discovering that your new photography job has ruined the dreams of a geeky girl from Seattle is more stressful than I had thought.

  I touched his shoulder and he stopped, opening his eyes.

  He looked into my eyes for a moment, squeezed my hand and stood. “Let me get your friend.”

  Freja sat up, slurred something about a herd of elephants in the lounge, and slumped against August’s shoulder as he carried her up the stairs. He set her beside me and rushed to a closet two doors down. He ran back, pushing an old wheelchair with the hotel’s logo printed on the green vinyl seat. He settled Freja and then turned and stared down into my face. I was absolutely certain that my visage was puffy and besmeared beyond repair. But nonetheless, August tilted my chin with two fingers, until I met his gaze.

  My heart thumped along in a wild and haphazard manner, seemingly unaware that it needed to slow down and rest lest it pound itself to pieces.

  “Better,” he said. His blue eyes had lightened slightly and laugh lines crinkled around them, though he did not smile. August stood there for a moment, as though he were about to say something profound. Then he sighed. “I can’t believe you bandaged your arm in duct tape. You have hidden talents, Morgan. I’m impressed.” He took a step back to shut the cellar door, and then paused.

  “You left your shoes again.” He jogged down the stairs and stooped to pick up my delicate white heels.

  I braced myself against the door, sagging and unsteady.

  A crash and a grunt of pain came from the cellar below.

  I scrambled to my feet and stared at August.

  Maks stood, huge and hulking in the dim light. He must have thrown August into flour, for the air was full of white dust.

  August groaned and rolled as Maks lunged for him.

  I took a step forward.

  August saw me. “No!” He coughed out. “Get to the lounge. The police are coming.”

  I stood frozen. August had come for me. I couldn’t just leave him.

  But August dodged back from Maks’s rush and met my gaze. “Please,” he mouthed as the massive man charged down upon him.

  I stumbled and turned to brace against the wheelchair. I would be useless to both August and Freja if I ended up back on the floor bleeding and crying. Using my good shoulder, I shoved the wheelchair down the hall. Oh, God, please help. Maks is going to kill him.

  20

  Fancy Schmancy

  I shoved Freja and the wheelchair into the opulent calm of the Sunday Luxury Brunch. The wheelchair clacked across the smooth pinewood flooring, past tall purple flowers and glowing candles on clean glass tables. Two massive chandeliers glittered above us. Inviting clusters of plush gray couches and the crackling warmth of two blazing fireplaces made the room both high class and friendly.

  That is, unless one entered the lounge hauling an unconscious passenger and bore obvious contusions upon one’s person. Nothing says luxury like champagne, caviar, charcuterie meats, and a screaming woman with blood and whipped cream all tangled up in her hair.

  Axel Rasmussen gaped at us and reached for his phone.

  All the police had was an address. If my grandfather gave his version of today’s events first, Freja and I were in serious trouble. We did not look even remotely sane, not compared to Axel in his tailored gray suit.

  Well-dressed individuals stared at my unsightly hair and a visible shudder ran through the crowd.

  “Someone call the police,” I shouted. “This man tried to kill me.”

  They all kept staring.

  “Look! Look at his drawings. It’s me. He set me up with that stupid dog, all so he could get material for his coffee table books. Now he thinks I have the key to the crown jewels and his personal thug is killing someone in the basement right now.”

  Everyone looked at the sketches.

  The resemblance was difficult to see what with all of the blood and frosting I had accumulated.

  Axel Rasmussen stepped forward, drawing the attention of the brunchers. “Stay, everyone. I know these young women and if you could all remain perfectly still I shall see that they are returned to the hospital immediately.”

  The brunchers set down their phones and looked up at him with clear trusting gazes.

  Freja wasn’t helping my image any either, slumped over in the wheelchair, comatose.

  My grandfather nodded to one of his many assistants.

  The man lifted a walkie-talkie to his ear.

  I pulled the wheelchair back until we were braced against the corner of the room by the elephant sculpture. If I couldn’t prove my story, this was not going to be pretty.

  “Look, just check the basement. There’s a huge guy down there beating up a man named August Bruun.”

  In the silence that followed, I heard the clear, ringing steps of someone approaching the tall French doors across the room. Their elegant gray trim and elaborate window arch with its delicate, oval centerpiece failed to awe and impress me, for I knew the man who opened those beautiful doors.

  Maks walked into the room, alone. Somehow he had showered and changed into a fresh suit. Maks’s face had a few recent contusions, but he looked imposing and capable and far saner than yours truly. How was this even possible? Had I been that slow moving down the hall? Or had Maks practiced speed bathing in some backwoods military institution?

  My grandfather smiled apologetically and gave Maks a significant look. “Would you please see that these young ladies are taken to the hospital before they hurt themselves further?”

  “That’s him.” I pointed at Maks and backed up a step, bumping into the wall. My pulse clattered against my throat. What had Maks done to August?

  Axel Rasmussen sighed and addressed his Goliath. “Have you seen anything odd in the cellar, Maks?”

  “Not a thing, sir. Place is quiet and empty. Nothing but pastries and flour down there.”

  I had nowhere to go.

  Maks advanced across the room. Every single step echoed off the muraled walls and antique china cabinets. I smooshed myself back against the fireplace, but Maks’s huge hand went all the way around my arm. I was completely and truly trapped.

  He urged me toward the door and there was nothing for it but to shove the wheelchair forward and shuffle along. The man was a mountain and a half of muscle. When we got to the doorway, I turned around partway and pleaded with the crowd.

  “Please believe me. These men are deceiving you. Axel Rasmussen and his art are nothing more than smoke and cozenage.”

  Most people turned back to fiddle with the fish and croissants on their plates. A few gave me sad, patient smiles.

  I slouched over the wheelchair. Then I straightened and took that final step through the doorway.

  Something huge came hurtling down the hall, leapt over Freja, and knocked me back into the opulen
t lounge. I cried out in pain and relief. Pain, because there really is no nice way to smash someone to the ground when they have a fracture. Relief, because my attacker was none other than Leroy. I never imagined that his droopy, slobbery face would ever elicit such a thrill of hope. But hope I did.

  For not only did everyone in the room gasp in dismay, they also turned and stared at my grandfather’s sketches. Through the glittering black of an approaching faint, I saw what they saw.

  Leroy was unmistakable.

  Once the crowd recognized Leroy, their gazes naturally strayed to the sketch of yours truly being mugged by a gigantic behemoth of a man. The mugger in the hilarious Axel Rasmussen sketch bore a surprising resemblance to Maks.

  21

  The Keys

  Leroy licked my face and bounded up against Maks as the huge man bent and seized my shoulder.

  Maks staggered back and turned to shove at the dog.

  Leroy remained undaunted. The big dog leaped onto a nearby table and slurped Maks’s face with alacrity.

  Maks ducked aside and grabbed Freja’s wheelchair only to park her a few feet away.

  Leroy thumped down off the table and gave Freja a few enthusiastic licks and wags. While Leroy slobbered the unconscious woman, Maks scooped me over his shoulder.

  My grandfather called out, drawing the people’s gazes away from his sketches. “I have contacted the authorities. There is no need to dial the police. Mental health professionals will be here within the next three minutes. You can all go back to your meal.”

  I struggled in Maks’s arms. It was like trying to push away from a glacier. But my laughable efforts did alert Leroy to my peril.

  Leroy’s head snapped up and he bounded to smother Maks with debilitating wags and kisses.

  Maks made a deep growling noise and kneed the dog onto his shaggy rear.

  Leroy yelped.

  Maks shoved past the dog and made a break for the door.

  August stood in his way. One eye was purple and swollen. There was blood along his hairline and on the knuckles of both hands. He trailed duct tape and his good eye burned with a cold fury I had never imagined on his dimpled face.

  Axel Rasmussen coughed into his hand. “So everyone, this last sketch depicts the final straw in my heroine’s horrendous dog-sitting experience. Notice how the blues of the sky, water, and pirate ship mural all—”

  Maks turned so that I was draped over the shoulder closest to August. Then he shuffled forward and I was his human shield.

  August took three slow breaths, lowered his eyes, and stepped aside.

  What? I mean, I didn’t want to get punched in the face any more than the next girl. But letting Maks just haul me off wasn’t my idea of saving the day.

  As Maks pressed past him in the hall, August picked up a crystal vase from a decorative alcove and smashed it across the back of Maks’s head. Maks wobbled and groaned.

  I was pinned against the wall as he slumped sideways.

  Gasps filled the room.

  August snatched me out of harm’s way as the giant man slouched to the floor. August hobbled over to one of the cushy gray couches and slowly sat, cradling me in his arms.

  We stared at each other, bloodied and trembling with pulses pounding over the horror and violence and pain.

  I let my head fall against his chest. August’s soft blue T-shirt brushed against my cheek. I ignored the slight coating of flour and listened to the slow steady thump of his heart.

  August squeezed my hand, glanced over at the unconscious Maks, and reached into his jeans pocket. “Before I get completely distracted duct taping Maks, I have something for you.” He produced a delicate gold watch key with a flourish. “I believe you misplaced your key.”

  The room stilled.

  Axel Rasmussen surged toward us. Before his third step had a chance to echo, a sound broke the stillness.

  Every phone in the lounge beeped, three times. As one, the brunchers had noted the gleam of greed in my grandfather’s eye as he gazed upon the key. They dialed accordingly, 112.

  So that was the Danish equivalent to 911.

  We had won over the crowd.

  22

  Cinderella’s Slipper

  I held the key in my palm and glanced up at August. “Thank you.”

  Chalk it up to adrenaline, pain, or a bad case of dehydration. But at that moment, August looked just like Snarvich The Reticent rescuing the beautiful Okturra from the giant rats of Zoon. I sighed and scooted a little closer. After all, the man had rescued me from a lifetime in a mental institute.

  “You’re welcome.” He searched my face. Despite the black eye and a dusting of flour on his clothes, his hair shone golden beneath the lamp light. Well, the parts without frosting.

  “Morgan.” His voice was a whisper as he cupped my jaw, sliding his thumb along the ridge of my cheekbone. His hands seemed larger than I remembered. Square and solid against my skin. “Besides the broken bone, wheel chair chase, and the fact that someone will have to rip that mess of duct tape off your arm…how are you?”

  “Fine,” I breathed, the word almost lost behind the pain and the crazy beating of my heart.

  August sagged back against the designer couch and closed his eyes, resting his head on my hair.

  I got the distinct impression that he was praying again, but some conversations are private. I could give August and God this time alone. I had begun to drift when August settled me on the couch and stood.

  He secured Maks with duct tape remnants and retrieved Freja. The immediate danger was past, but Freja did not look well.

  August talked in hushed tones with the businessman who brunched beside us.

  “The ambulance will be here soon.”

  August settled beside me. “Morgan, was your grandmother named Silje Østergaard?”

  I nodded against his shoulder. “I think it was her maiden name, though.” The driving ache of the broken bone brought a rush of nausea that had me gritting my teeth to keep the bile down.

  “Then your grandmother is my mysterious benefactor.” August pulled out an ornate pocket watch and in one swift movement separated the golden key from its side.

  Two police officers and a man carrying a straitjacket stepped into the main lounge.

  Leroy left off licking the semi-conscious Maks and rushed to assail them.

  The officers pushed past his wriggling form and scanned the room.

  “Morgan Nicole Ravn, would you please come with us.” It was not a request.

  Instead of parting to allow the officers through, the brunchers turned as one and pointed to where Axel Rasmussen crept past the bloodied Maks. He’d made it two steps when a giant mass of fur and drool hit him between the shoulders with both front paws. Being accosted by a large animal is hard on an eighty-something-year-old man, villain or not.

  The police were able to surround my scheming patriarch long before he got back on his feet.

  August and I told our stories while an EMT got my arm stabilized enough for a ride to the hospital.

  Five different people had incriminating photos on their phones of Axel trying to get my key and Maks hauling me away.

  However, it was August’s testimony and bank account that sealed the deal. It’s hard to argue with a five thousand dollar payment for one day’s work and August’s copy of the online ad.

  The EMTs were about to usher us outside, when I turned to the officer in charge. “Don’t you want to know if the jewels are here?”

  He paused, and then gave a nod toward the little corner table.

  August took me by the arm, the non-bandaged one, and we hobbled to the elephant together. Each of us took a key and inserted it into the elephant’s reaching trunk. They clicked into place. We turned our keys and heard a thud and the grinding of gears. The elephant’s entire trunk slid free, shattering upon the floor. August and I stood staring at a dark recess where the trunk had been and bent to look inside.

  A lady’s dress shoe sat on a faded circ
le of red satin. It was a delicate sling-back made of creamy white leather with a thick, boxy heel. Tiny flowers were stamped into the strap and across the toe. August picked up the shoe. It must have belonged to the Cinderella Bandit, the jewel thief who had left her shoe behind. But why keep the other shoe?

  “Do you think?” August looked down at me.

  Before I could reply, Leroy lunged between us and snatched up the shoe. He bounded off across the lounge and crouched beneath the buffet table wagging. Much chasing and wrestling and shedding ensued.

  One of the officers grabbed the piece of antique footwear just as Leroy gave a final crunch and the whole heel splintered in his jaws. The scolding died on the officer’s lips when he brushed the splinters aside. He bent down and picked up a golden chain formed of alternating elephants and towers. At the middle of the strand hung a larger elephant of enameled gold with a tower and turbaned driver on its back. Sunk into the elephant’s side was a cross formed of five large, table-cut diamonds.

  My grandmother had done it: stolen the Chain of the Order of the Elephant in 1958, leaving conspiracy theorists and her con-artist lover scrambling for clues.

  I supposed the government had tested the necklace she dropped and probably knew, but they’d managed to keep the secret for almost seventy years.

  My grandfather sat on a stretcher sucking down oxygen. Why had she married the man? She had trusted a stranger, the child of her runaway daughter, more than her husband.

  I turned away. That was a mystery I would never know. Still, despite the terrible legacy, I was honored to be the one she had turned to.

  A museum representative arrived post haste to claim the royal treasure. He assured me that if the necklace proved genuine, August and I would return it to the treasure vault at Rosenborg Castle with all pomp and ceremony.