“Did you see her tonight? Saving the boat from the fire?” Luca said, patting his arm “She is a hero!”
Con looked at her hand on his arm, then up at me. “I missed that. Parades never did much for me.”
“Well, the pictures will show it,” Luca said. “I will get them developed in the morning.”
“If you want, I can do that for you,” Con said.
Luca frowned, fingering her camera. “It’s all right, I—”
“There’s not an edition tomorrow, is there?” I asked.
“Not until Sunday,” Con said.
“I think she wants to see them first,” I told him.
“Time to go, Alix,” Maggie announced behind me. “Your mother is beat, I’m beat, you’re burned. Let’s get out of here.”
I stood up, still palming the ice bag, still in the old down jacket, now in need of more duct tape for the holes made by flying sparks tonight. My body suddenly felt creaky and sore. The adrenaline had fled, leaving behind the dregs of excitement, fright, and quick action: aching muscles, sore back, burned hand, general exhaustion. I took a final sip of wine and waved to Rusty. “Coming, Luca?”
“I think I’ll stay another few minutes, Alix. My car is right outside.”
I smiled at her, glad she was meeting people here in her adopted town she loved so much. Con Baker seemed nice enough, even if he was a little overeager to get his paws on those pictures. We walked out into the night that smelled like a smudge pot on a cold night in an orange grove, dirty, leftover heat butted against frigid air. Maggie’s Jeep was a block away. We rode in silence to the hospital, got my hand bandaged to everyone’s satisfaction, and went back to the gallery. Maggie dropped us off in the alley. I handed Mom my key. She unlocked, waved to Maggie, and led me upstairs to bed.
Chapter 8
Ale I bring thee, thou oak-of-battle,
With strength and brightest honor, ‘tis mixed with magic and mighty songs,
with goodly spells, wish-speeding runes.
I stepped out of the bathroom in my sweats and clean wool socks, too tired to wash the stench of burning silk from my hair, to find my mother tossing the comforter over the fold-out couch. She held it horizontal in the air over the mattress; then it floated to rest, like the down inside it. She patted it into place, plumped the solitary pillow, and turned back the corner.
“Thanks, Mom,” I said, sitting on the edge, waiting for the aspirin to take effect. Una stood in front of me and held out her hand.
“Let me see it,” she said.
“It’s fine, really.” But she wouldn’t take no for an answer. Reluctantly I held out my bandaged hand. Without the ice it had begun to ache. “Nothing to see.”
She examined the gauze wrapping as if to check on the neatness of the job, perhaps to give the emergency room an evaluation later. Her sigh was audible but not relaxing.
“What I don’t understand is why someone would harm that beautiful ship,” she said. I shook my head. I hadn’t the faintest idea myself.
“I would have thought it was an accident, all those torches around. Except for that snowboarder,” I said. Una moved into the kitchen and began cleaning up, although nothing was dirty. “First Glasius, then Hank arrested. Now this. Do you think somebody’s trying to tell us something?”
Una frowned, looking up from the counter she was wiping. Her gray hair was still neat. She had changed into a long white and blue flannel nightgown with stand-up lace at the neckline. She might have been a fairy-tale godmother except for the lines of worry across her face. “Tell us what?”
I crossed my legs on the soft down comforter, settling in. It was late and I was tired, but I wouldn’t be sleeping for some time if the burn kept hurting like this. “I keep thinking there’s something else that went on that night. The night Glasius was killed.” I paused. Una kept wiping, her eyes on the gold flecks in the cheap plastic laminate countertop. I pushed on. “Maybe we could go over that night again.”
Una shrugged. “What’s to go over?”
“Well, what did you and Hank and Glasius do after you left the Second Sun?”
“Before dinner? I told you. We went over to that bead shop you told us about. Glasius was intrigued with anything having to do with the runes and—”
“Wait a minute, it was his idea to go?”
“Not exactly, Alix. It was your idea.”
“But he wanted to go?”
Una nodded. “He thought it would be interesting because the runes are so Norse, you know. He was some sort of expert on old Norse things, because of his research for the murals, I suppose. He didn’t talk much to me about it. He told Hank though.”
“Where did you have this conversation?”
“In the gallery. Before we left. You mentioned the bead shop, and we talked for a moment, then we left. We walked over because it wasn’t very far. I told you what happened when we got there. I looked at beads. That woman is a little too New Age for me.”
“Mistress Isa?”
“Uh-hmm. That white skin and hair. She reminded me of one of those blind albino moles that lives underground and never sees the sun.” Una shivered, twitching her shoulders.
“But Hank and Glasius watched the reading, didn’t they?”
“Oh, yes. Glasius had her tell his fortune. Yes, I’m sure he did. I didn’t watch, but afterward he told Hank what each of the runes that he had picked really meant.”
“He didn’t think her interpretation was right?”
“No, he laughed about it. Thought it was clever but ridiculous.”
“Do you remember what runes he picked?”
Una shook her head. “I wasn’t close enough to see. Oh, he and Hank were laughing about one of them later. It was something to do with her, that woman.” Una stopped wiping and stared at the painted stars along the ceiling edge, trying to remember. “They called her a hag, a white witch. Does that make sense?”
“A hag? She’s too pretty to be a hag, don’t you think?”
“I guess, but that’s what they said. Maybe hag was—I think it was part of the runes that she read to Glasius.”
I moved around the sofa to the low bookcase that backed up to it, kneeling to find a mythology book that included a listing of the runes. Maggie had given me one a couple years before that had some of this modern interpretation of the runes in it, but I had never bothered to read most of it. It was a slender green volume on the bottom shelf: Norse Myths Today. I nested back in the covers and used my gimpy left hand to hold open one corner while I flipped the pages with my right. About two-thirds of the way through the book, pictures of rune carvings on whalebone coffins and slabs of granite began to show up in the illustrations.
Runes are curious tall letters with no curved arms, the easier to chip into hard surfaces. With their rudimentary alphabet, each letter expressing a vocal sound, the Vikings made lasting memorials in wood, rock, and bone. The runes themselves came to be seen by common people as a source of great knowledge, since only a few knew their meanings. From knowledge it is a small leap to magic, to religion, to the gods.
“Do you see it?” Una said, hanging up the dishrag on the faucet and drying her hands.
“Let’s see,” I muttered, skimming through the runes, from Kano and Jera to Dagaz, then—“Hagalaz. Was that it?”
“Sounds familiar. But what does all this matter, Alix? What difference does a rune make? Glasius is dead. Hank is in jail.”
The answer to that was, well, as opaque as the bandage on my hand. I skipped through the meanings for Hagalaz in the little myth book. Hagalaz: Wasn’t that one of the runes that Bjarne had picked for his reading? I thought she said it had something to do with the weather. Now I saw that she must have just made something up. Did she get some sort of weird vibes that day? And what of Glasius’s fortune? Una moved out of the kitchen while I read.
“Why are you frowning like that? What does it say?” She sat next to me on the fold-out.
I shut the book. “It’s a bunc
h of stupid mumbo-jumbo. That’s what Bjarne said about it, and he’s right.”
“What does the book say, Alix?”
“Okay, I’ll read it. But I don’t believe it. Not for a minute.” I opened the book again and found the page. Hagalaz or Hagal: A sudden disruption in routine or life’s journey. A turn in the path. Can be full of negative and destructive power, especially when linked to other runes. An interruption or delay in your path. Illness or injury.
Una went to bed, and I tried to sleep too. If I slept on my left side, my ribs hurt; if I slept on my right side, my bandage dangled. I would drift into unconsciousness and scratch my face or push back my bangs, then wake up when the bandage swiped my forehead. I had dreams of fires at sea, of Vikings in fur coats plying icy oceans, of Merle standing with a giant ice phallus on board a longboat. Fire and ice. The white queen and her black helper. Contrasts, opposites, light and dark, heat and cold. Burning flesh and soft snowflakes.
I woke up tired.
fresh white snow in the square made the town a fairyland overnight. It must have begun snowing again after we’d gone to bed. I pulled on my boots about eight to shovel the steps leading down to the street. They extended beyond the boardwalk’s overhang and had potential for dangerous slipperiness. Holding the shovel wasn’t much fun with a burned hand, and I cursed and brooded over the torchbearer who had ruined the parade. What was the point in burning a thing of such beauty as Hank’s longboat? The only thing I could think of was its connection to Hank and his troubles. Was it a message to Hank? A signal to those of us who carried on for him during his “isolation?” A signal, meaning what? Stop participating in parades? Stop helping Hank?
The gallery floor needed mopping. Ugly, muddy stains from the reception and yesterday’s wet, snowy weather dotted the wooden planks. One set of footprints, big and dirty, led right up to Glasius Dokken’s murals. I filled the green plastic bucket with warm water and grabbed the mop. Half an hour later the majority of the dirt was gone. Another hour with clean water and some Murphy’s Oil Soap, and it would have looked great. But my hand was really hurting by now. I dumped the water, stashed the mop, and squeezed out a damp rag to catch what I’d missed. Artie found me on my hands and knees, dabbing up some mud in the corner.
He poured himself coffee after sleepy, perfunctory greetings. I threw the rag back in the bucket and dried my hands.
“Do me, too, will you?” I said, nodding at my coffee cup. As Artie handed me the steaming coffee, he spied the bandage.
“Is it bad?” he asked, frowning.
I shook my head. It was clear this was going to be a near-constant refrain for a few days, and it was already boring. “Look, can you handle stuff this morning at least? I have some things to check out.”
“About the fire?”
“Maybe. I don’t think it’ll be busy until later today. There’s some freight to unpack, some ceramics back in my office. And the jewelry can be filled in again. We sold quite a bit yesterday.”
I gave Artie a few more things to do to keep him busy during the slow morning hours, grabbed my coat and boots again, and was out the door. By now the sun had poked her reluctant head through the clouds, blinding passersby with the reflection off the snow. I pulled out my Ray-Bans, balanced them on the crooked nose, and trudged across the street. My ribs ached a little if I walked too fast, so I slowed as I reached the ice sculptures. I didn’t have the concentration this morning to examine them. The thought of what Merle might be carving was too much to contemplate. I just hoped he changed his mind and pushed the whole issue into the nether chambers of my mind.
Despite blasted cold and nearly a foot of new snow, the sleigh rides for tourists, beginning on the south side of the square, went on as scheduled. They were a Christmas leftover. The old-fashioned sleigh, pulled by a big black horse complete with jingle bells and a bobbed tail, had been outfitted with a sign proclaiming “Nordic Nights: The Winter Fun Carnival.” The horse looked cold, steam snorting from his nostrils and a light frost on his mane, as he waited for lucky, demented passengers on this cold Saturday morn. He made me think of Valkyrie, my own wild horse, pastured on Maggie’s land near Wilson. She had been glad to see me the night Glasius was killed. Of course, I had the oats she liked that night. With this cold, I needed to get out there again today. Rubbing my horse’s nose always cheered me up.
I looked at my watch. It was past nine o’clock. Bjarne was supposed to be racing at ten, and I had told him I’d go out and watch. The promise and other things I had planned for today tossed around in my mind, sorting themselves out. I’d made that promise before Glasius was killed, before the fire, before Hank was arrested. I picked up my feet, stepping over a huge plow pile onto the boardwalk heading toward the Wort Hotel. I would just have to miss the race. A wash of disappointment went over me. Bjarne was attractive, yes, and I liked his sly Norwegian laugh and muscular body and floppy blond hair. I sighed, passing a gift shop window filled with Indian pots and Tshirts and colored rocks. I hoped he would understand.
Room 219 of the Wort Hotel looked like any other door on the long hallway, except for its proximity to Isa Mardoll’s hotel room next door. The yellow crime scene tape still decorated the door to Isa’s room, but the police had gone, the door was locked. (Yes, I tried it, always hoping for the occasional miracle.) I paused in front of Room 219, listening. Hearing nothing, I rapped my knuckles loudly on the wooden door.
I didn’t hear footsteps approaching the door, but finally a muffled voice said, “Yes?”
I cleared my throat and replied. “I was hoping to talk to you? If you have a moment?”
A long pause. The housekeeping cart went by, rattling, pushed by a pale, sad-looking woman who probably didn’t make enough to keep her children from going hungry. I smiled at her, but she didn’t look at me. I thought the occupant of Room 219 had gone away, but the voice returned: “What is this concerning, please?”
“About what happened next door. I was hoping—ah,” I stumbled, trying not to sound like the police, who had no doubt already been here. “I’m a relative of the man who was arrested.”
The door opened, the chain rattled in place. A dark face peered around the edge. I blinked at it, surprised. It was the face of the black man, Isa Mardoll’s assistant.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Alix Thorssen. My stepfather is Hank Helgeson, who was arrested that night. Could we talk?”
The black man didn’t say anything. He looked away at his room, then back at me, his dark eyes unreadable in the dim hallway light. He didn’t shut the door, which I took as a positive sign.
“If you’d like, we can meet somewhere. Down in the coffee shop? Or at my gallery, the Second Sun? Anywhere you say.” I smiled, trying to look as nonthreatening as possible. The man looked scared, timid. “It’s Peter, isn’t it?”
He looked at me, solemnly, then nodded almost imperceptibly.
“I came to Cosmic Connie’s with some friends on Thursday, for a reading,” I explained. “I remember you from there.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Is Isa in there?”
Peter stepped back from the door and shut it suddenly. Damn. I had mentioned Isa like a dope. Here he was all ready to talk, and I blow it. I knocked lightly again, not expecting an answer this time.
“I just want to talk about that night. I want to help my stepfather if I can. Can you meet me down in the coffee shop?” I waited for an answer, hoping he was still by the door. The wood of the door’s panels creaked slightly, as if he was leaning against it. “I’ll be in the corner booth on the far right, if it’s empty. Otherwise the far left. Okay?” I paused. “Ten minutes,” I said, feeling like I needed to give him the shoe-phone number in case he chose not to accept this mission. Oh, brother. I just hoped he would show up.
I padded slowly down the carpeted stairs into the Wort’s warm, open lobby and bought a paper. The only one that was current was the Casper Star-Tribune. I carried it under my arm into the coffee shop and nodded to the hostess that I would take
the corner booth. It was empty. She left a menu, poured me some bad coffee, and left me alone.
Opening the paper, I read the headlines without interest. Kosovo, oil prices, the cold weather. I brought myself up to date with Ann Landers and Doonesbury, read an editorial about funding for education, and had almost set the paper aside when a small headline on the front of the second section jumped out at me: Fire Mars Jackson Parade. My eyes were glued to the first paragraph when the black man slid into the booth across from me.
“Coffee?” I asked nonchalantly, setting the paper aside. He shook his head, giving the room sideways glances. “I’m glad you came.” I smiled and took a sip of coffee.
He was the strong, silent type. Tall and thin with close-cropped hair, he wore a thin, blue V-necked sweater, the kind boys wore in the sixties, with a white T-shirt and black cotton pants. His hands were large and beautiful, his jawline prominent, and his skin like the glowing night sky. I fidgeted a little, made myself relax. He wasn’t here for niceties, so I plunged in. “I wanted to know if you knew what happened next door, in Isa’s room, that night? Did you hear anything?”
He looked at me straight in the eye, perfectly still, his black eyes surrounded by vivid white. It was a dazzling moment that shook me with its gravity. “I heard them,” he said, his low, Caribbean voice rumbling even as he tried, unsuccessfully, to keep it to a whisper.
“Heard who?” I whispered myself.
“The two men,” he said. “They came into the room and bumped into things. They talked. I heard them through the walls.”
“Glasius and Hank,” I said, mostly to myself. “Then what?”
“They were looking for something. They open drawers and suitcases.”
“You could hear this?” I asked. “Through the walls?”
He blinked. “They found something. Then they begin to talk loud. Argue.”
“I see. They argued. Then what?”
“Then it stop. I hear door open and close. No more talking.”
I sank back in the red vinyl booth, putting my hands on the laminate tabletop. So that was the way it was. “So the police talked to you?”
Nordic Nights (The Alix Thorssen Mysteries) Page 10