Nordic Nights (The Alix Thorssen Mysteries)

by Lise McClendon

  “What about coming inland? Has anything ever been proven?”

  “Oh, you mean like the rock carvings? They found that one in Minnesota—the Kensington—a hundred years ago and thought it was a hoax. Then they thought it wasn’t a hoax, that there had been explorers later, after the Vikings killed themselves off. Late Middle Ages.”

  “So they think it could have happened?”

  “It’s doubtful. There was something new about it recently. Can’t remember what. It’s controversial. Some historians think it could have happened. What’s this about?”

  I told him the short version. More groaning, more cursing.

  “You’ve got to be kidding. Hank thinks he found a runestone?”

  “Actually Mom found it.”

  “And now it’s missing, they think somebody stole it? Whatever for?”

  “I guess the only reason would be because they think it’s significant, authentic, whatever. To be the discoverer of the Viking Vindicator.”

  Erik sighed, then cursed. This was Erik’s usual state when dealing with the family. If he hadn’t been such a Viking buff, I wouldn’t even have told him about it. “Let me do some checking, find out who the top guys in the field are now.”

  “Hank called this Breda, at Wisconsin.”

  “Never heard of him but, well, I’ll call you back.”

  We hung up. The sound of melted snow dripping off the eaves was punctuated by falling icicles. The sun brightened my apartment, but only indirectly; I had no south windows. I looked out my west window toward the square, curious if the ice carvers were still at work. One man hunched over a large sculpture, but there was no sign of Merle. The thermometer said it was twenty degrees. Still cold—but with sunshine beating down, things were going to melt. The streets already had the transparent look of slush. Today at four I had to judge the ice carving. If the weather held.

  The phone rang in the kitchen. The voice was soft and accented. It was Bjarne, wondering why I hadn’t made it to the race yesterday. It took a second to put my mind in reverse.

  “Sorry. I, ah—” So much had happened in the last twenty-four hours I hardly knew where to start. “You know about the fire, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes. That was terrible for your father.”

  “Stepfather. Yes, it was awful. And he’s still in jail, so I felt a little guilty going out, even to watch you race.”

  “A true Norwegian sentiment, let me tell you. Better to sulk around the house.” His voice was teasing, sweet. “Now, you come today.”

  “Today? But—”

  “No buts. I race at one o’clock today, and you must come. I strained a muscle in my calf yesterday. Remember what my fortune said?”

  “Something like … when you need the power, it will be there?”

  “Yes, if the need be great enough. Well, it is great, but I don’t want to rely on Thor of the runes. I want a Thorssen there too.”

  “I’ve never been a good-luck piece before. What would I have to do?”

  “Oh, give me a kiss, that’s all. Just a simple kiss.”

  “For luck?” I breathed, fingering the edge of the kitchen counter like it was a newfound instrument of success.

  “For luck. You’ll come?”

  “Oh, Bjarne. I wish I could. It’s just I have too much to do today. I really can’t. But I’ll wish you luck from afar, okay?”

  A pause. Was he pissed? “I wish you’d come,” he said at last, his voice low, disappointed.

  “Sorry, Bjarne. Good luck.” I hung up the phone, sighed loudly, and eased my chin down to my hands with my elbows propped up on the counter. He certainly did want me, that Lycra-legged Romeo. Just a simple kiss. Mmmm. I could taste it.

  A swallow of coffee. That helped. Because I had to go visit the jail again, not one of my favorite places. But I told my mother I would. A last slug of coffee for courage. And maybe for luck too.

  For luck, Bjarne. For luck.

  Chapter 13

  If Fire the lady, had her wits about her,

  full well understood she what in stealth they whispered.

  Sunday at the Teton County Jail was visiting time, a time to make amends to the brother you turned in for selling cocaine out of the bedroom, a time to cry over the uncle who couldn’t stop drinking and driving, a time to beg for mercy and forgiveness. I didn’t want to do any of these things with Henry Helgeson. But the group in the waiting room seemed ready, if not willing or able: nervous, teary wives, thin, drawn girlfriends with tattoos, a mother staring numbly at the beige wall.

  When my name was called, I followed the woman officer to a small interrogation room where Hank sat in a standard metal chair. He didn’t look as bad as my imagination had pictured him still pink cheeks, still plump, still bright eyes unbeaten by the mounting legal machinery against him

  I sat down. The officer shut the door and remained in the small room, breathing down my neck I glanced back at her to register my complaint against privacy, but she kept her eyes on Hank and her hand on her gun.

  “Mom can’t come today, Hank,” I began. His head began to bob up and down philosophically. “Did you hear?”

  “I don’t blame her,” he started. “It’s a burden, I—”

  “Someone sideswiped her with a truck, Hank. Listen.” I moved closer. “She’s got a sprained ankle and a broken arm, but she’s okay.” He looked so bereft that I patted his arm. “She’s all right,” I whispered.

  “Sideswiped her?”

  “While she was down at the old garage, cleaning up the boat. She was going back inside, and a pickup truck came out and almost ran her down.”

  Behind his glasses, Hank’s eyes fixed on my face and began to blink his second chin quivering. “A truck was in the garage? Not my truck?”

  I shook my head. “Another truck.” I fixed him with a cocked-head look. “Una had to tell me about it, Hank. She had no choice. Because, well, the rock is gone.”

  He stood up, still blinking like mad. He took two steps around his chair, headed for the corner, and was there in two more steps. He clamped his hands together behind his back until his knuckles turned white.

  “What rock?”

  “Hank, she told me. All about it. I want to help find it, if I can, but I need your help. Maybe this whole mess you’re in is about the rock. Somehow,” I added softly.

  He refused to turn around. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. No idea at all.”

  “The Viking Vindicator. The one Una found at the Fort Union dig. With the runes? The rock possibly proving that a Viking troop came through these parts a hundred or more years before Columbus—”

  “Possibly?!” he shouted, spinning. His eyes caught the woman officer, and he paled. “You are sworn to secrecy, woman! Nothing said in this room shall leave it! Nothing!” He gripped his chair back as spittle shot from his mouth. “And that goes for you too!” He waggled a finger at me.

  I sat back as he struggled with his emotions. He took a gulp of air as the redness seeped down off his jowls into his neck.

  He plopped into his chair, lips tight. I put an elbow on the table. “I need to know who you talked to about the rock, Hank. Who might have known.”

  He crossed his arms and looked at the wall.

  “Hank, please, I think I can run this down for you, maybe get it back.”

  He harrumphed. No fury, no threats. Just a harrumph.

  “Talk to me, Hank.”

  As the pause stretched, my own stubbornness set in. I refused to beg him to help himself. I had offered, I had cajoled, but I would not pry information out of a stubborn cuss like Hank Helgeson.

  I stood up. “I’m going now. Una is at St. John’s, if they let you call. Consider my offer for her sake.”

  The whole frustrating business with my stepfather had taken less than an hour. I stood in the sunshine outside the county courthouse, where the sidewalk had turned into a small river of melting snow. As the runoff swirled around my pac boots (where my feet were now slow-cook
ing), I stared at my watch. In five minutes Bjarne would start his race. If I hurried, I could at least catch the end of it. Splashing and jumping puddles, I reached the Saab Sister with the sun on my shoulders, eager to leave the dreary hopelessness of the jail behind.

  The Tetons glittered in the sun, their pine-cradled slopes giving way to alternating granite cliffs and glacial snowfields above the sagebrush plains of the valley. The red gondola bobbed up the cables, carrying sardined skiers to the peak of the ski area, where, from the looks of it, they would be fighting their way through a cloud.

  Teton Village, all parking lot and chalets, held little wonder for me anymore. Oh, there were memories: the March day we all skied in black garbage bags in the rain, my friend the ski patroller who was hit by lightning while we cowered in the cafeteria, hoping everyone was off the mountain, the days of powder so fine and rarefied that it was hardly necessary to ever ski again.

  I paused in the back of the parking lot and stared up at the slopes. I had skied one day this season: New Year’s Day. Maggie had dragged me up with the promise of champagne in her bota bag. She was good on the promise, but the champagne made me queasy, and I quit early.

  I took a deep breath of mountain air and began walking across the parking lot. The air smelled more of exhaust fumes and wood smoke than pine forests. The lot was full of cars and puddles, and it took ten minutes to negotiate the huge area and walk across to the Nordic race.

  The crowd bellowed as I approached, walking gingerly through the slush. This weather couldn’t be good for racing. It would slow the course with wet spots. I looked up from watching my footing to see what they were bellowing about; in the distance a skier charged out of the trees and began the last stretch of the race. The crowd had gathered on the finish line, surrounding the timers with wet wool and fur collars and more boots than a Canadian trading post.

  A cloud passed over the sun as the lone figure, still too far away to identify, moved toward us. His diagonal stride chopped the air, arms swinging with long red poles. Then behind him from the trees another figure burst into view, skating to catch up in electric blue Lycra. The first man, in black, jerked his head back as if he had heard his approacher, then redoubled his efforts. They were both moving fast yet had a quarter mile at least to go before they crossed the finish line.

  Now another skier shot out of the pines. At this distance they all looked alike, but something about the third man—the thatch of blond hair? Each had muscular thighs, lean, strong shoulders, perfect builds. The woman next to me in the crowd turned to a friend: “Isn’t that the Norwegian? Mmmm, tasty.” I gave her a look. She was perky, young, and wearing a fur-lined purple suede jacket.

  Pushing through the large crowd, I tried to see the racers. The man in black, in the lead, was being seriously challenged by the guy in blue. The people began to cheer for him, shouting, “Go! Go! Catch him! Faster—he’s right behind you!” They were a hundred yards away when Bjarne made his superhuman try at winning. He came out of nowhere, in third place, in an orange-and-red-swirled Lycra bodysuit, his face beet red. Most were watching the other two, and his move was so sudden that a combined groan and gasp went up from the crowd.

  The man in black put his head down and plowed for the finish. Electric Blue was on his left, crowding in for the kill. Bjarne was as red-hot as his Lycra on the right, striding long and hard, knocking into the leader’s poles with his own. The crowd was wild, cheering, hollering, our throats sore from shouting, the excitement building. A few more yards—

  Then in a heap of color and clatter of hollow wood and fiberglass, the racer in blue fell, tangled, twenty feet shy of the finish line. We all sucked in air in disbelief that he had faltered so close to his goal as the other two stretched and leaned and made it over the line. The man in black held his lead, but Bjarne was close behind. He was second! And missed winning by a hair. A swelling of pride filled my chest, and a stupid grin stuck to my face. I knew him! Yeah, Bjarne, that bighearted challenger, I knew him. Wow.

  I stuck my hands in my pockets. All around me people hugged each other or clapped their hands and cheered some more. The man in blue was helped, cursing, to his feet by the medical crew and checked over for injuries as they whisked him out of the path. More skiers were coming now, a pack of four all trying to break free of each other, all hoping for that last burst of speed that would propel them beyond what they thought they could do.

  Craning my neck, I spotted Bjarne bent over, hands on knees. Gasping or barfing. I wondered about that pulled muscle he’d mentioned. Maybe the heat of competition made you forget all the pain, forget everything but winning. Bjarne was some competitor. I could understand why he was favored for the next Olympic team. He had reached deep into his guts and found another ounce of courage, another ounce of determination. That made him a world-class racer.

  The flock of four was approaching the finish line now, still packed tightly, as if there were security in numbers. The man with a slight lead—only half a stride—now pushed harder. But that made the man next to him push, and the other and the other.

  The crowd yelled at them: “Do it, now! Go for it! Harder, harder!”

  “Courage!” I hollered over the din.

  The fabulous foursome finished together, unable to break their pattern. They would have different times, but they would be thought of as the boys who couldn’t break out, who lacked some last iota of strength to be different, to win. Yet they had done their best. They had tried. At least they hadn’t fallen down on the finish line. That guy would be chastising himself for a while.

  As I looked again in Bjarne’s direction, I couldn’t see him at first. Odd, in that fluorescent outfit, but there were many brightly frocked skiers around by now. Then a flash of neon orange and red peeked through the crowd across the finish line from where I stood. Bjarne had his skis off now, his gloves in a heap at his feet. A woman threw her arms around him. She had a long navy coat with a hood, so I couldn’t see her face. They embraced briefly; his face disappeared into her hood. A well-wisher, I thought. He is such a sweet guy, so warm.

  Then he made the smallest motion. Just a flick of his hand across her cheek or lips. A smile on his face and a touch of her cheek. So intimate. He knows her. No, more than that. They are lovers.

  A chill went through me, and my feet wouldn’t move. They are lovers. How could I be sure? But I knew; there are just some things a woman knows. Practice with Paolo had sharpened my man-observation skills, and a cheek caress was one of the most intimate things a man could do in public. People kiss all the time, and it’s meaningless. They hug, hold hands, shake hands. But a caress of the cheek was right up there with fingering your lover’s forelock. It meant something.

  I backed out of the crowd, my head down so Bjarne wouldn’t see me. When I had turned and walked ten yards, I saw her, coat flapping against tall black boots. Who did she think she was— Dr. Zhivago’s lover?

  I clenched my teeth. My God, I was jealous. This was ridiculous. She headed for the parking lot. I was just going the same way, I told myself, picking up my heavy boots. Trying to hurry was impossible with these things. I swore silently, making an oath to buy something more streamlined. It wasn’t hard keeping the woman in sight in the lot filled with rental cars and muddy pickup trucks and every color Explorer known to Ford. Her head bobbed along in the hood, one hand holding up a corner of her coat from puddles.

  She ducked around a camper and didn’t come out the other side. I kept walking in a line parallel to hers, about twelve car widths down the rows. She must have gotten in her car. I paused beside a silver Toyota with a bumper sticker that read, “Democracy Is Not a Spectator Sport,” and pretended to be looking for my keys. I practiced this a lot in my everyday life, and it didn’t take much to make it look sincere.

  A station wagon bumped down the row behind my back. I took a furtive glance and ducked. The driver was intent on missing the potholes filled with muddy water. Next to him sat the woman, her hood down and her platinum hair
pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck.

  The rusted tan station wagon had Minnesota plates. It was driven by Peter Black.

  Fifteen minutes later I turned at the Pearl Street light next to the grocery store and pointed the Saab Sister in the direction of the station wagon. Traffic wasn’t too heavy, but huge lakes had formed in low spots, and rivers gushed down the gutters. Ahead the station wagon turned right on a side street. Two blocks back I swished through a puddle, slowing so as not to spray the pedestrians, then hurried to turn where they had.

  So Peter and Isa hadn’t left town. Peter said he was supposed to testify at Hank’s hearing on Monday. Was there another reason?

  I passed a small trailer park full of crowded, rusty mobile homes, then two cottages with funky linoleum siding, then the Squirrel’s Nest Motel. “Cheep and Cleen,” the fading red sign proclaimed. And full of nuts. There was the station wagon, empty.

  The Saab crept past the motel. Fifteen rooms facing the street, ten down, five up. I kept going and turned around at the dead end next to the mountain. As I passed the Squirrel’s Nest again, I saw Peter in the parking lot, carrying a bag into the room. Isa stood in black boots, jeans, and a creamy white turtleneck sweater, holding the door open. She patted his back as he went through, and she shut the door.

  As I pulled back onto Pearl Street, west toward Teton Village again, I wondered about Isa and Peter. Was he just her assistant, a helpful, thoughtful, loyal bearer of boxes and runes? Had they been staying in the same motel room since the fiasco at the Wort? Were finances tight or were they lying low at the Squirrel’s Nest?

  So many questions without answers. Such a fascinating couple, the White Queen of the Runes and her black Peter.

  But now I had a skier to talk to.

  Chapter 14

  Choose a shield for shelter, a ship for speed,

  a sword for keenness, a girl for kissing.

  The Edelweiss had Warren Miller’s ski movies on the big-screen televisions, and as usual much beer drinking was taking place. By the time I arrived back at Teton Village, it was almost three and the apres-ski crowd had begun to fill the chalet-style bar that sat at the bottom of the ski runs, next to the tram building. The warm wood paneling and large windows made the Edelweiss much more than a saloon, though, and a convivial spirit of well-exercised muscles and vacation leisure filled the place.