Nordic Nights (The Alix Thorssen Mysteries)

by Lise McClendon

  “I’ve got it,” Bjarne called out. “Don’t move, Alix, I’ve got it!”

  Too surprised to move, I was now concentrating on the intense and increasing pain in my ribs. I put my hands back under the square black metal of the trailer neck and pushed. It wasn’t until later that I realized Bjarne had the whole thing off me by then, and all I did was give it an extra lift. With a clank and a clunk, he dropped the latch against the ball and pulled back the handle to lock it.

  Una kneeled beside me. “Oh, honey, are you okay? I’m so sorry.” I grunted and nodded to her. “I don’t know what happened. I must have kicked the block. It happened so fast, I—Are you sure you’re okay? I’ll take you to the emergency room.”

  I slid gingerly on the dusty cement floor, out from under the trailer. Una helped me sit up. I know I winced, because the pain stabbed me. “Does it hurt?” my mother asked. “Where?”

  I grabbed the pickup bumper and hauled myself up. Bjarne had stepped over the hitch and took my other arm. Between him, Una, and the bumper, I was standing.

  “My ribs,” I said. “It only hurts when I laugh.” I tried to smile at them, but breathing also hurt. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  “I broke a rib once skiing,” Bjarne said. “Fell on a log in the trail. It hurt like hell for a few days.”

  “And then it only hurt like purgatory?” I croaked.

  “What did they do for it, Bjarne?” Mom asked.

  “Put the strip of cloth round and round.” He demonstrated in the air. “Keep it still, secure, you know? And they told me to lie down and rest for a few days.”

  “Ace bandage,” I said. “I have one at home.”

  “I’ll take you back and get it wrapped up,” Bjarne offered. “Unless, you, Mrs. Helgeson—?”

  “I’d be glad to,” Una said, her eyes shifting back to the boat and the pickup. “I just have to rig up the sail. It’s ready to go. I just have to attach it to the mast. And I was going to stop over and see Hank and tell him about it.” She peered into my face. “Will you be all right with Bjarne?”

  “Sure, Mom. Finish up here. I’ll be fine.” I let loose a genuine smile now. Breathing had returned, more or less. “Really, it’s not a big deal.”

  I headed for the door, relieved not to have my mother fussing over me like I was six years old again. Some people may get off on that, but it only makes me uncomfortable, embarrassed, and snappish. The last thing my mother needed today was to play nursemaid to a grouchy grown-up daughter.

  Bjarne put his arm around my shoulders as we walked to the door. “Does it hurt too much?” he asked, his breath sweet with peppermints, his golden forelock grazing my ear as he bent to open the door.

  Not that I had any ulterior motives for sending Una on her way. Not that I had anyone else in mind as nursemaid. Not at all.

  We stepped into the new-fallen snow. “I guess I’ll live.”

  By the time I stood in front of the tiny bathroom mirror and pulled up my sweater to get a look at my white midriff, I had decided that the ribs weren’t broken. I had walked the stairs just fine, taken a series of big breaths, and even gotten into and out of the Saab without major pain. I was feeling a little silly about having Bjarne dote on me. I rummaged around in the tiny wooden cabinet, a former icebox, in my bathroom for the Ace bandage. The flesh-colored cloth was covered with green fuzz.

  I set the bandage on the sink and stretched to see in the mirror the spot on my stomach where the trailer had hit. It was tender to the touch, and turning bluish. A bruise, not cracked ribs. It hadn’t hit me hard enough, despite the weight of the trailer. Catching it, however briefly, must have saved my ribs. I dropped my sweater, fluffed my dishwater-blond hair, and peered closer in the mirror.

  The flickering fluorescent light made my eyes look bluer than they were. Also my skin, which was in serious winter pale mode. I rubbed my cheeks for a little color and bit my lower lip to pink it up too. The bump on my rose hadn’t gone away miraculously, nor had the bend that sent the sharp tip of it off to the left. My bangs were in my eyes, needing a trim. The earrings I had put on last week, simple silver hoops, looked tarnished. I rubbed them with a washcloth to shine them up, bared my teeth, and decided they needed a brush.

  Teeth clean, I picked up the Ace bandage and picked off lint. The apartment was quiet outside the bathroom door. I wondered if Bjarne was still there and realized that I was hoping he would leave. I was wasting time in here, picking lint. Putting the bandage up to my nose, I suddenly smelled Paolo. He had worn this bandage on his ankle for a few days last summer after he twisted it. The green lint was from his socks. I could smell his distinctive odor, a blend of musk and chili peppers and foot talc. When I looked up in the mirror I began, inexplicably, to cry. I hadn’t cried for Paolo in months, but still his foot odor sent me over the top! Get a grip on yourself, Alix. I wiped the tears. Now my eyes were red and swollen.

  “Bjarne?” I called through the door. “Are you still there?”

  “Yes, I am here.”

  “I’m going to do this myself. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Mind? No, but I can help.” He was right outside the door. “Let me in. I’ll help you.”

  His voice was so close. I thought about his touch on my ribs, my neck, and shook my head. I leaned my forehead on the door and took a deep breath, testing the ribs again. “It’s okay, Bjarne. Really. I know you have to go get ready for the race.”

  A pause. Then, soft: “Alix?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  “No! It’s—the bathroom. It’s really dirty. I’m so embarrassed to let you see it.” I glanced at the toilet, gleaming from Una’s cleaning frenzy. Even the shower curtain had been scrubbed.

  “Oh. The bathroom.” I could hear his breathing. “Last night, Alix. I’m—it didn’t mean anything.”

  It didn’t? My eyebrows were crunching now. I cleared my throat and tried to mean it. “I know.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me, Alix. I’m not the kind of guy who jumps women. You believe that?”

  I rolled my eyes. Here I was, hiding in the bathroom like a weenie teenager. I turned my back to the door. “I believe you.”

  “Good, because I really like you. You know that?”

  “Bjarne? Are you still going to play King Harald in the parade?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Then I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Tonight, then,” he said. His footsteps faded toward the door. It opened, closed. Down the stairs the footfalls dropped away. The bell on the front door tinkled. I held the Ace bandage to my cheek for a moment, then dropped it back in the old icebox. The bruise on my ribs was purple now, and swollen. I twisted at the waist a couple times; the pain was minimal. The ribs couldn’t be broken. I patted some cold water on my eyes and went back to the gallery.

  A half hour later the snow still fell thick and fast when I sent Artie out for food. Business in the gallery had been steady, if not fast; he had sold several prints. I stepped into the storage room after he left to look for some replacements. Picking out a woven hanging and two small pen-and-ink drawings, I pulled the string on the light as I closed the door behind me. Arranging the wall space of the gallery was one thing about the business I really liked. Much more fun than keeping the books. I got out a hammer and nails and the small can of touch-up paint for the walls.

  I had the wall hanging almost up on the center of the side wall when Una returned. Silently she held up the corner of the weaving as I pounded in the last nail. Her face was gray and expressionless as I thanked her and stepped down off the chair.

  “I saw Hank,” she said. She didn’t look at me or ask about my ribs. Her hair was damp from the snow, her fur hat peeking from her purse instead of on her head. Her pea coat’s shoulders were still white.

  “Did he say anything?”

  Her jaw clenched. “Stubborn Swede.”

  I waited, turning the hammer over in my h
ands. The gallery was empty now, the lull before the apres-ski crowd rolled in. Faintly the sound of chisels on ice pinged like a faraway, off-kilter clock. Una padded in stocking feet over to Paolo’s desk and set down her purse. She turned to me suddenly. “He was there. Last night.”

  “In Isa Mardoll’s room?”

  Una nodded. “He won’t tell it to the judge, he says. Because he didn’t kill Glasius.”

  “If he didn’t kill him, what difference does it make?”

  She frowned. “There’s something else, I don’t know what.”

  “Like what?” I spun and gazed at the wall hanging, a woven mixture of mountains and clouds, not a monumental piece in my book, but salable. It hit me: “The reason he was there, you mean. Did he tell you?”

  “I asked him. He said it was between him and Glasius. Now with Glasius gone, he’s the only one to…” Her voice trailed off.

  “To what? To keep the secret?”

  She shrugged, nodded. “Stubborn, stupid Swede.”

  I put the hammer and jar of nails on the desk. “Mom, did you and Glasius and Hank go see Isa Mardoll yesterday afternoon?”

  She looked me in the eye, then broke away, silent.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Did you get your fortune read?”

  “No. Nothing happened.” She slipped out of her coat, hanging it on the back of the desk chair. “We went to that Cosmic place, like you said. We were there about ten or fifteen minutes, then we left.”

  “What did Glasius do while you were there?”

  “He watched that Isa person. Hank did too. Maybe Glasius talked to her. I thought she was silly, waving her hands around, such a pale, unattractive woman. I looked at beads. I bought one for you.” Her face lit up for a moment as she remembered the gift. Her purse, however, was large and overloaded. She sighed in frustration looking for it.

  “It’s all right, Mom. Give it to me later.”

  “It’s blue and white, with stars like your apartment. I got you a prism too, for your window. Now where—”

  “Mom, please.” I put my hand over hers, stopping the frantic search. “We’ll look for it later.”

  She dropped her hands to her sides and shut her eyes. A second later they flew open. “How are your ribs? Did Bjarne wrap you up? Do they hurt?”

  I waved my hands. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.” Artie opened the door, a small white sack in his hand. He shook like a bear, sending snow flying, and grinned at us.

  Una continued: “I think you should see a doctor, Alix. An injury isn’t something to fool around with. Just look at your nose, you—”

  “Mom, please.”

  “What’s the matter with you?” Artie said, getting into the act.

  “Nothing, nothing’s the matter,” I said, a bit sharply.

  “Whoa, sorry to be concerned, Miss Thorssen.” Artie put his hands up in mock defense and backed away. “Anybody want a cookie?”

  A welcome intruder, the floral delivery guy, stomped his boots outside on the wooden step. The bell chimed again, and in a moment I was holding a huge bouquet of yellow roses covered with plastic and dotted with snowflakes. The delivery guy, a college student like Artie, pulled off his cap and recited: “Yellow rose, remind me of my faraway love, the turn of his cheek, the sound of his laughter. Yellow rose, do not let me soon forget.” He bowed grandly, snapped his cap back on. I could have sworn he clicked his heels together as he turned and exited.

  Artie chuckled. “Drama major at Yale.”

  “First week on the job?” I asked, still smiling at the jaunty deliveryman now skipping across the street to his van.

  “Second. I give him a month.”

  “They’re beautiful, Alix,” Una said, untwisting the tie that held the plastic. “Who are they from?”

  I slipped off the plastic and wadded it in the trash. Una handed me the card, sitting on a little plastic holder among the perfect buds. The message was brief and to the point.

  Miss you. Love, Carl.

  Chapter 7

  From the grand old Viking centuries Up-Helly-Aa has come

  Then light the torch and form the march,

  And sound the rolling drum;

  And wake the mighty memories of heroes that are dumb;

  The waves are rolling on.

  —Shetland festival song

  The parade was set to begin at six. The ice sculptures, some finished, some half done, were lit dramatically against the black sky. High clouds from the snowstorm were easing off into the stratosphere but covered the stars. The snow stopped about five, making the day’s accumulation about six inches. I spent a few minutes shoveling the steps and sweeping the windblown snow off the covered boardwalk in front of the store, and set up four old lawn chairs for Maggie, Artie, Luca, and me. The shopping crowds swelled about an hour before the parade as tourists jockeyed for the best viewing spots and dawdled over trinkets. I was helping Artie ring up some jewelry when Maggie showed up. She gave me a big hug and slipped off her fur mittens.

  “I hope you have some quilts we can toss over us. It’s damn cold out there tonight,” she said. Her cheeks were rosy, highlighting her shiny black hair.

  “I made some coffee,” I said, pointing over to the pot. “Warm yourself, girl.”

  Maggie didn’t take off her long blanket coat as she poured herself coffee. I finished gift-wrapping a small earring box and handed it over to a sweet lady from Indiana. I checked the time and told Artie I had to run upstairs and change. I motioned Maggie to come up with me.

  The apartment was quiet. I took a deep breath, enjoying its sanctuary, until the thought that Hank’s incarceration was the main reason for the peace. Una, brave survivor, had bundled up in his heavy wool coat and two sweaters to pull the Viking ship in the parade. I tried to talk her into letting me or Artie go along, but the most I got was her allowing Artie to help guide her out of the garage. That took all of ten minutes, he said, and he was back at the shop selling his personal charm within a half hour. I hoped everything was going well at the lineup site in the big parking lot by the Chamber of Commerce building. Una was stubborn and independent, but I could hardly fault her for it, since I’d been known to be described that way myself. Arguing with her about needing help was a serious insult that only reminded her of her age.

  “Need something to eat? Help yourself,” I told Maggie, disappearing into the bedroom to pull on my woolies. I yanked off my jeans, pulled up the long johns, added a turtleneck and the big red sweater, found a pair of wool socks without holes, one gray, one red, and put the jeans back on. Maggie was cutting up the leftover cheese from Glasius’s reception when I came out.

  “So are the flowers from Bjarne?” she asked. ” ‘Cause if they are, I’ve got to have a little talk with Carter about not taking me for granted. You know, I am still pissed about yesterday, and I never stay pissed.” She shoved a cracker and cheese in her mouth and munched.

  “Not Bjarne. They were from Carl,” I said.

  She raised her eyebrows and said something that sounded like, “Oh?”

  “He’s not very happy at the helicopter school. He’s always so grumpy when he calls. I guess he kind of realized it.”

  Maggie swallowed. “Not happy why?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t like it.”

  “Or maybe he just misses his little honey bunny.”

  I smiled. “Maybe.” I grabbed a stocking cap and my warmest mittens. “Ready?”

  “Quilts,” Maggie reminded.

  I grabbed two army blankets and a ratty old quilt that had been Grandma Olava’s off the shelf in the closet. I handed the blankets to Maggie. As we opened the door to go downstairs, we saw Luca, halfway up.

  “Come on, come on! It’s starting.” She waved us down as she turned. We clattered down the old wooden staircase, through the gallery, and out onto the boardwalk. Luca and I pulled our chairs close together and shared Olava’s quilt. Maggie dropped a blanket on the
extra chair for Artie and bundled up under the other. In the street, on the other side of the square, a torchlight procession led off the parade. The torches were held high by student athletes like Olympic flames. I recognized a couple of stars on the high school ski team who’d had pictures in the paper, a fellow who played on the farm league hockey team, and the Chamber of Commerce director, of whom I wasn’t particularly fond. Maggie nudged me as they rounded the corner and she spotted the director.

  “Look at that outfit. Doesn’t she have any shame?”

  Gloria Worster—rhymes with “booster”—was wearing the biggest, furriest apres-ski boots this side of Aspen. Each one looked like a small English sheepdog. Above skintight black pants she wore a gold-sequined black jacket with red, glittery fringe down the arms and a big furry white hat, like Una’s, only real fur and much more of it, almost a drum major’s hat. She swaggered down the street, swinging her rear end with abandon.

  Maggie stifled a laugh. “Where’s her baton?”

  Luca leaned over me, toward Maggie. “Is she one of those twirler girls?”

  Maggie laughed again, unable to speak.

  “In her own mind,” I told Luca.

  Artie stepped out of the gallery, turning to lock up, then scooting his chair closer as he sat down. “Cheez, it’s freezing. Whose idea was this, anyway?”

  “There she is,” I told him, nodding to Gloria. “In all her glory.”

  “Look, here comes Bjarne,” Maggie whispered. On a float pulled by a black pickup truck with four back tires, Bjarne stood on a flatbed decorated to look like—well, that was difficult to tell. It was all white; maybe it was just supposed to be Norway in the winter. He was wearing a huge fur coat, hide boots with long, crisscross laces, a fake metal breastplate that had the unmistakable sheen of aluminum foil to it, and a big metal helmet with horns. The outfit looked so bulky, it was a wonder he could reach into a bucket at his feet and pick up gold-wrapped chocolate coins to throw out. Children young and old raced to pick them up from the street As the float moved right in front of the gallery, he looked up and gave an overhand throw directly toward us. The coins clattered against the boardwalk, and one landed right in Luca’s lap.