Nordic Nights (The Alix Thorssen Mysteries)

by Lise McClendon

  The mural was Glasius Dokken’s interpretation of Asgard, the place of the gods. This wasn’t the comic-book version, though. That one, in the Mighty Thor comics I had read for nearly twenty years, was my place of fantasy and escape when my father died.

  Asgard in the mural was a cloudland where the golden gods lived and administered their blessings and curses. There was the Rainbow Bridge, a flaming stream of color called Bifrost. The bridge connects Asgard with Jotunheim, the place of the giants. On it stood Heimdall. In the comics he is the guardian of the bridge. He played the same role in Glasius’s mural—strong, a son of Odin who created the different races of man—warrior, peasant, serf. Glasius had painted him sturdy and strong in a hide jerkin with a huge battle-axe at his side.

  In the great hall Gladsheim were Odin, Freyr, Thor, and Freyja, goddess of fertility. Gold was everywhere in Asgard, from Thor’s magic hammer to Freyja’s tears to the bricks in the paved streets to horse bridles and chimney stacks. Everything was lovely in Glasius’s Asgard, peaceful at first glance. Then outside the glow, beyond the stone wall, threats hovered. There was Loki, the Shapeshifter, who practiced deceit and devilment. There were the giants plotting revenge for some slight. And the dark elves, or were they dwarves? Hard to tell. Lots of them, though, blacksmithing and making magic.

  What had Glasius written about this mural? I picked up the brochure and read his quote of a historian: “The great gifts of the gods were readiness to face the world as it was, the luck that sustains men in tight places, and the opportunity to win that glory which alone can outlive death.” The Vikings were keen on glory since they didn’t believe in an afterlife per se. Fame and glory, and as much gold as one could plunder, were all that was left. It was a sorry fate, but the Vikings didn’t despair. They filled their lives with adventure and courage and the great wonders of living.

  Ready to the face the world as it was. Man, that was a hard thing to do. This morning, on my coffee buzz, the world seemed a pretty tough place to do business. The phone rang, bringing the world’s business back to me.

  It was Luca. “Oh, good heavens, what happened?”

  “I wish I knew,” I said, waving to three heavily made-up ski bunnies in million-dollar outfits. They stamped their feet on the rug to warm up, fannies jiggling in stretch pants. “And Hank. He’s sitting in jail.”

  Luca made more upset noises; I spun more homilies. There isn’t much to say when someone suddenly dies and you didn’t really know them. We expressed our bewilderment and hung up. The phone immediately rang again.

  “Miss Thorssen.” The voice was deep and slightly accented. “My name is Harry Jorgensen. I am the Norwegian consul in Billings. I have been asked to look after Glasius Dokken’s effects.”

  “Good,” I said. “I’ve got his murals here, and I don’t know what to do with them.”

  “We’ll take care of it. It may take us a few days or even a week to gather together all the loose ends. I’m planning on coming down there next week.”

  “What shall I do with the murals?”

  “For now? Leave them where they are. The gallery is secure?”

  “Absolutely. Just put in a new alarm system.”

  “Good. The police chief tells me Mr. Dokken’s personal effects are needed for a short time. For evidence, I suppose. So there is no point in getting the ball rolling too early. We can mail the paintings home soon enough.”

  “Mr. Jorgensen, do you know how big the paintings are? Glasius has—had—huge crates for them. I don’t think they can be mailed.”

  “I see. How did they get to you?”

  “With Glasius as excess baggage on his flight. I’m not sure I’d let them go home unescorted.”

  “Hmm. I’ll think about that. Is there anything else I should know about? Other interests of Mr. Dokken’s in Jackson?”

  “I don’t think so. He wasn’t even here twenty-four hours.” But he’ll never really leave, I thought morosely, rubbing my nose bridge for what would surely be the first of many times today.

  “I’m afraid this may cause quite a stink diplomatically. Glasius Dokken was considered a national treasure in Norway.”

  “So I gathered. I’m so sorry about all this.”

  “So am I. So are we all.”

  I had succumbed to rubbing my forehead now and staring at the desk, so that I didn’t hear Una come into the gallery. She chatted with the ski bunnies until she saw me hang up the phone.

  Mom looked a little haggard, but she had freshened her makeup to cover up the bags under her eyes. The hot pink lipstick was brazenly optimistic but matched the turtleneck sweater over her jeans. She fluffed her bangs. “I’m going over to the garage to check the longboat. I’ve decided to pull it in the parade tonight myself. I have to check the hitch and make sure I know how to work it.”

  I stood up. “Wait a minute. You’re driving the pickup in the parade?”

  “Hank wanted a little more gold around the inside of the prow,” she continued quickly. “That’ll only take a minute. Then I have to wipe down the sides once more. There was so much dust in that garage. You couldn’t know about that when you rented it for us, Alix, but it did make for a lot of cleaning, then—”

  “Time out!” I hollered. The ski bunnies stopped whispering about a set of green-glazed pottery and stared at me. I lowered my voice, moving closer to my mother. “What’s for lunch?”

  “Lunch?”

  “Yeah, you know, food in the middle of the day.” I knew nothing could stop her more easily than the mention of a needed meal. “I’m pretty hungry.”

  Una blinked at the still, white gloom outside, then at her watch. Her eyebrows drew close, then she shrugged. “The dumpling soup is in your refrigerator. Heat it up yourself. Don’t wait for me, dear.”

  And with that she grabbed her navy wool pea coat and little white fur hat and was gone. The ski bunnies smiled big, perfect smiles at me, made a show of examining a print of a cowboy in sexy chaps, admiring his bulges, then loudly exclaimed about the time. As they left, Artie dragged in. His hair was frozen in spikes, his hiking boots untied.

  “Sorry I’m so late,” he muttered, hanging his head. He danced for a second in front of the desk, then bounded off to hang up his jacket.

  “You’re not late. I told you to sleep in.”

  He returned, rubbing his cheeks. “What’s going on?”

  “I need you to hold down the fort, Artie.” I filled him in quickly about the state of Hank. “I’ve got some errands to run. I’ll be back in about an hour.”

  Snow began to fall as I walked the two blocks to the Wort Hotel. It began slowly but escalated to huge, thick flakes covering whatever wasn’t already covered in no time flat. The ice carving in the town square went on unabated, the chipping creating a weird chorus flattened by the falling snow. I detoured through the square, unable to stop my fascination with the emerging forms. The first one I passed looked like Harvey the not-quite- invisible six-foot rabbit. That is, until you saw that between his big ears was a pair of pronghorns. The chef busy hacking away on the jackalope hailed from a famous steakhouse on the way to my favorite paddling spot on the Snake River. Well, last summer’s favorite. Since the Big Kahuna whipped the paddle away from me and smashed my nose with it, my enthusiasm for kayaking has dimmed. I waved at the chef and gave him the thumbs-up.

  I passed Dieter’s cornucopia and what looked like a buxom lass jumping out of a cake, although the bottom of it was unfinished. Also a musher and dogs—in ice—and a couple of unidentifiable blobs that needed work. I was supposed to judge this group on Sunday; I hoped some of these guys got a move on.

  And there, at the end, was Merle’s phallus. It hadn’t changed. Merle was nowhere to be seen. The two snowballs, each about two feet in diameter, still hugged the base. What was I going to do about Merle? I paused, contemplating the giant projectile, as the three ski bunnies, late of the Second Sun, trooped by. I tried to move to one side and blend in with the snowflakes, but they saw me. One of
them squeaked and pointed out the phallus to her friends. High-pitched giggling ensued. I tried not to look over at them. They wandered off, still laughing. One touched me on the arm as she passed. I turned to her perfect skin and red lips and fluffy blond hair as she whispered: “This even beats that cowboy picture in your shop. God, I love this town.”

  The Wort Hotel is an unpretentious brick square, about three stories high and stretching half a block on the back side of the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar and other squareside businesses. It doesn’t have a fancy canopy or twinkle lights lining the drive, because there isn’t any drive. If you’re lucky, you find a spot to double-park and unload your bags, then proceed up the six or eight steps to a spacious, warm lobby. Since I had no idea what room Isa Mardoll was staying in, I dawdled a bit, looked into the restaurant, a classic red vinyl booth space with fancy glass partitions between patrons. I didn’t see anyone I recognized, so I took the stairs to the second floor, looking for a sign of the police. It didn’t take long.

  Charlie Frye stood waving his hands in front of Tad Robbins, the assistant DA at the hearing this morning. I stopped where the hallways turned, backed up so they couldn’t see me, and tried to listen. I heard only snatches. Then the talking ended. I peered around and saw Tad Robbins walking toward me, head down, hands in pockets. I guessed he hadn’t found anything new at the crime scene. Charlie Frye turned back to the room, leaning both potato-farming hands on the door frame. I passed Tad Robbins and came up behind Charlie noiselessly.

  “Is Miss Mardoll in?”

  Charlie Frye jumped out of his reverie. “Christ, girl. Don’t—” He began to make the usual noises, then remembered he hated me. His face hung with disgust. He was a tall, thin man with a steel gray buzz cut and jowls, political crony of our esteemed mayor, who owned an Old West girlie saloon. The mayor had somehow been reelected last fall. Charlie’s eyebrows pointed down his nose. “What do you want?”

  “I’m looking for Isa Mardoll. Is she here?”

  “What do you think? This is a crime scene, so scoot along.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “No, I do not. Get out of here, Alix, before I throw you out.”

  “Mr. Frye. Is that a threat?”

  He turned to face me, reddening. “No, sugar, that’s a promise.”

  I took a step backward, content to goad him but not too sanguine about violence on my person. “Gee, Charlie, you sure know how to put the brute in brutality.”

  He clenched his jaw, then his fists, as I smiled and turned down the corridor. As I passed the next door down the hall, I saw a crack of light; then it closed softly before I could see more. Room 219, I saw, filing it away.

  I returned to the Second Sun through the heavy snow with a white bag containing a takeout turkey-and-sprouts sandwich from the Bunnery. The snow had changed the town, as it always did, into a fairyland of white, clinging to pine needles and fence posts, to dog fur and windshields, to broken dreams and lost chances. It covered everything ugly and old and used up and made it new again. Snow had more power than God, I thought in my irreligious moods. It made all the bad stuff at least appear to be good again. A crystal blessing, a moment of purity that cleansed and healed. It didn’t last long; soon it would be tracked up and dirty, like life. So I stopped for a second on the boardwalk and stuck out my tongue. I caught nine snowflakes, licked my lips, and went inside.

  As I shook my slouch hat over the mat and slipped off my boots, I saw Bjarne talking to Artie. The skier, wearing virtually the same outfit as yesterday but with black tights and a red jacket, was smiling at something Artie was telling him. They stood in front of Glasius’s murals, moving to one side as a young couple maxed out in Gore-Tex edged by them. I picked up my boots, slipped out of the old down jacket, and padded into my office. Bjarne was there, in the doorway, when I turned around, fingering the wet ends of my hair.

  “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be training for the race tomorrow?” I asked.

  “I heard about Glasius,” Bjarne said, his voice soft. “It is terrible.”

  I sat down in my chair, all the airiness of new-fallen snow gone. “Yeah. And they think my stepfather did it.”

  Bjarne sat down on his heels in front of me, resting his hands on my knees. “But he didn’t?”

  “No, he didn’t. He’s a little excitable, but he’s not a killer. Besides, they were friends.”

  “Well, don’t worry. The United States is a fair country. The truth will come out.”

  I smiled at him, with his blond forelock dipping down to one eyebrow. His eyelashes were damp and clumped together. “Thanks for coming by.”

  He gave me a quick kiss, just a reminder of last night, patted my knees, and stood up. I had turned to offer him half the sandwich when the phone on my desk rang. Una was having trouble with the hitch on the pickup and wanted my help. I told her I’d be right over, as soon as I ate my sandwich. I turned back to Bjarne, who was leaning against the door frame and looking out at the snow through the plate glass.

  “Turkey and sprouts?” I offered.

  He shook his head. “I had a big lunch already. Thanks.” He motioned toward the window. “Nice snow for the race.”

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I love snow. It must be the Norwegian in me.”

  He smiled and walked around to the desk, perching his Lycra-clad fanny on it. “It’s not really that Norwegians love snow. They understand it. They accept its good and its bad. They live with it. They know it the way a man knows the contours of his lover’s body, knows what is enough and what is too much.”

  I stopped chewing for a second, staring at the painted snow in the painting over my desk, a warm flush rising to my cheeks. Finally I swallowed the bite of sandwich in my mouth and wrapped up the remains. “I—I have to go help my mother with the longboat. She’s going to do the parade tonight. Unless I can talk her out of it.”

  “Mr. Helgeson is still in jail?”

  I nodded. “I guess she feels like she needs to do it for him. He worked so hard on it.” I stood up. “Do you want to go see it—or do you have to get back?”

  “Lead the way.”

  Hank’s Viking longboat was a living memorial to the genius and beauty of the ancient Norsemen. Authentic down to the iron rivets, or clinkers, that joined the overlapping wood sides, it curved to each pointed prow up from a keel plank that was shaped and coddled lovingly to provide a unique line. The prow arched in a graceful curve to a dragon’s head etched in gold and black. The mast wasn’t exactly authentic, because it was hinged near the bottom to drop flat onto the deck for transport. It was small, as Hank had said, only twelve feet long, whereas the famous Gokstad Ship (excavated from its burial mound in 1880, a thousand years after it sailed the North Sea) was sixty feet long. The oak hull of the Gokstad, lean and sleek, weighed seven tons and used sixteen pairs of spruce oars. Hank used spruce, but had only six pairs of tiny oars.

  Across the railings on the sides of Hank’s boat were hung banners with the Swedish and Norwegian flags and several other colorful designs. The ship sat on a specially adapted boat trailer that cradled the sides with wood that matched the boat itself.

  Bjarne stopped at the tall, heavy doors of the rented garage on Kelly Street near the hockey rink, and sighed. He gazed open-mouthed at the boat. “Is beautiful,” he said quietly. He walked up and touched the finely sanded planks of lapped siding, then ran his hand along the railing that curved up to the prow. “A fine, fine ship. Fit for the high seas!”

  “All we need is Leif Eriksson, but he’s in the clink,” I said.

  Una poked her head around the business end of the trailer. “There you are. I’m having a devil of a time with this hitch.” Bjarne and I stepped around the prow of the ship to inspect the problem. Una stood with dirty hands on her hips and a sheen of dampness on her nose. She blew at her bangs impatiently. “Look at me. I’ve gotten myself filthy already. Hank had this set so you just drove the pickup hitch under the trailer, released
the wood block, and it would slide into place. I’ve helped him do it a hundred times.”

  Bjarne knelt next to the trailer joint. “This wood block?” A chunk of pine held up the trailer. Una said yes, then scurried off to wash her hands. Bjarne yanked on the latching mechanism of the trailer a few times.

  “Is this the way it works?” he asked.

  I gave the latch handle a few obligatory pulls. “I guess. My dad had a drift boat for fishing, but it’s been too long since I worked one of these.”

  Bjarne stood up. “What happened to it?”

  “Dad’s boat? We sold it after he died. Nobody liked fishing like he did. I still fish sometimes, but not from a boat.”

  “I like to fish for salmon in the fjords,” Bjarne said, mimicking a cast. “Big, big salmon.”

  “Every fish is big to a fisherman.”

  He laughed. “No, these are big salmon.” He showed me a three-foot measurement, and I rolled my eyes.

  “Did you figure it out?” Una said, dabbing her hands on her jeans as she walked back from the rest room.

  “Is the latch broken?” I asked.

  Una frowned. “I’m not very mechanical. That’s Hank’s thing.”

  I lay down under the trailer latch, peering into the gizmo that grabs the hitch ball on the truck, trying to see how it worked. “Wiggle it,” I told Bjarne. I could see how it was supposed to move, but it wasn’t. Una got me a screwdriver, which I jammed into the latch, trying to look creative in my blunderings. Bjarne wiggled the handle of the latch again. This time it moved past the previous blockage, making a scraping noise.

  “That’s it!” Una said, clapping her hands. “Then we just slip it over—”

  “Wait!” Bjarne and I said at once. I lay at an angle, half under the hitch and half under the trailer itself, as the wood block gave way. The trailer groaned steel and shifted. I put my hands up to shield myself just as it clanged against the hitch and bounced off. Una gave a little screech as the weight of boat and trailer fell across my abdomen. My hands held it for a second, then collapsed. I felt the wind knocked out of me first, then two ribs took the shock.