Nordic Nights (The Alix Thorssen Mysteries)

by Lise McClendon

  “Yessir?” Hank’s voice was weak.

  “Speak up, please, Mr. Helgeson,” Judge Juliette said.

  “Were you in the hotel room, number 221 at the Wort Hotel, on the evening of January nineteenth?” Robbins asked.

  Hank looked up at my mother and me in the first row. I gave him a stern look and small nod. He looked at the judge as if assessing her humor this morning, then back at his questioner. Finally he said, “Yessir.”

  A rustle went through the courtroom. The judge allowed herself a small smile. I let out my breath and swallowed. He was going to cooperate. Una squeezed my hand.

  “Can you please tell this court what you were doing there?”

  Hank squirmed in his seat and sat back. His voice was flat.

  “Mr. Dokken wanted to get back something he said belonged to him. Or to his country.”

  Robbins spun around, gave his assistant a frown. This was news to them, apparently. “And what was that?”

  “A set of runes.” Hank peered into the prosecutor’s face now, enjoying the sense of power this new information gave him. “You know what runes are?”

  Robbins straightened. “I ask the questions here.” He cleared his throat. “Can you tell the court what these runes are?”

  “Small pieces of wood with inlaid silver. A set of old Norse letters from the Viking days. Glasius says they were that old, almost a thousand years.”

  “Let’s back up a minute, Mr. Helgeson. You and Mr. Dokken broke into this hotel room together? Entered without a key or permission?”

  Hank shrugged and hung his head again. “It’s easy.”

  The judge looked dismayed. “Answer the question, please, Mr. Helgeson.”

  He looked up at Robbins then. “Yes.”

  “So you broke into Miss Mardoll’s room. Then what?”

  “We looked for the runes. But we couldn’t find them. They weren’t there.”

  “Was anyone else in the room with you?”

  “Just Glasius.”

  “Miss Mardoll was not there?”

  “No, sir.”

  “All right. Then what happened?”

  “I got nervous, and I left.”

  “And Mr. Dokken stayed behind?”

  “Yessir. I went down to the coffee shop to wait for him.” His eyes picked out the waitress who had testified to serving him. “Then it closed down, so I left the hotel and walked back to my daughter’s apartment. But I decided to go back because I didn’t feel right leaving Glasius there by himself. When I got back to the Wort, the door to Room 221 was open, just a little. I knew I’d closed it.” Hank paused, took a breath. “I pushed it open. I was scared now, it was so late.”

  When Hank didn’t continue, Robbins prompted him “And what did you see in the room, Mr. Helgeson?”

  Hank breathed out, hard. “Glasius. Lying on his face. With that ice pick in his back.”

  “It was at this point that Sergeant Ashford came into the room?”

  Hank nodded, then said yes.

  “Mr. Helgeson, did you kill Glasius Dokken?”

  Hank jerked his head up, alarmed. “No sir, I did not.”

  “Isn’t it true that you would have liked those runes for yourself? That you in fact have been researching runes for the last six months, hoping you could get your hands on a set of your own—”

  “No, where’d you—”

  “Mr. Helgeson,” Robbins thundered, “isn’t it true that in an argument with Mr. Dokken over that very set of runes you were both looking for, you stabbed Mr. Dokken and stole the runes for yourself?”

  “No sirree, I did not!” Hank was red in the face.

  “Isn’t it true that in September of last year and several times since, you have consulted a Professor Harvey Breda, a world-renowned expert on Norse runes at the University of Wisconsin?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Did you not tell your neighbor, Mrs. Ethel Tillot, that you felt like you were, and I quote, ‘eating, sleeping, and breathing runes’?”

  “Well, that was—”

  “Did you say that to her, Mr. Helgeson?”

  “I guess so. Yes.”

  “Would you say you had an obsession with old Norse runes and that you would do anything to get your hands on them?”

  “No! I mean, sure I’m interested in them and everything, they’re my heritage, but I wouldn’t do anything—”

  “Wouldn’t you have killed to get those runes, Mr. Helgeson?”

  “No sir. No sir. I wouldn’t kill anybody. I never touched him. You gotta believe me, Your Honor!” Hank turned to the judge, pleading with eyes and voice.

  Roscoe Penn did his flamboyant best, but the damage was done. Pleading, puppy-dog eyes or not, Henry Helgeson did not make a good impression on the judge. But she delayed making her decision on the spot, leaving us all up in the air for at least one more day. Penn stayed upbeat, reassuring my mother that he had an “in” with Judge Juliette Foss. Una didn’t look as if she believed it.

  My mother and I had a cup of tomato soup together in my apartment as I smoothed out the fax from Professor Breda on the coffee table. It was noon and gloomy outside, as gloomy as inside. I could hear Artie downstairs, so I knew at least the gallery was open. I wondered what he thought about the window. I hadn’t had the energy or the nerve to tell my mother about the incident yet. I had called Maggie first thing this morning to get an appraiser over for an estimate on a new window. Damn. Two new windows in a year. At least my insurance agent was my best friend. And I did lend her my persona on occasion.

  Almost as soon as I set the telephone on the coffee table so Una could reach it easily from the sofa, it rang. She set down her bowl and spoon and answered it as I put my own bowl in the sink and wiped my mouth on the dish towel. She said hello, then just listened, her jaw jutting out She held the phone out toward me without a word.

  “For me? Who is it?”

  She shook her head. Bjarne probably, and she couldn’t understand him. I took the receiver.

  “X, is that you?”

  “Hi, Erik.” I gave Mom a look, but she refused to meet my eye, staring at something over the sofa back, then adjusting the pillows under her ankle. “Find out anything?”

  “Yeah, I checked out the experts. There’s one at the British Museum in London who’s supposed to be the best. Jane Ann Nightingale. About this Breda at Wisconsin—”

  “He faxed me his interpretation. He seems to think it could be the real thing.”

  “Hmm. He’s got a pretty good rep, but he is the grandson of one of the first scientists who examined the Kensington. He’s not exactly unbiased. I don’t think this rock is anything to get excited about, Alix. It’s a hoax, just like the Kensington.”

  “You think the Kensington is a hoax? I thought you said some scholars believed it might be real.”

  “Some scholars. But the vast majority of the scientific community thinks it’s just a well-done prank. That’s probably what this other one is too. Maybe it’s a hundred years old, not seven hundred, not a thousand.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Hank still in the can?”

  “Yeah, the hearing was this morning. The judge hasn’t made her decision yet on actually binding him over for trial. Maybe this afternoon, Roscoe says.”

  “Roscoe Penn? Well, this is serious.” He paused. “Mom’s out of the hospital, I see.”

  “Yeah. On the couch with her foot up.”

  “She’s okay?”

  “Well enough. I’ve got my eye on her.”

  “I’d have you give her my love, but I know how that would be received.”

  “I’ll do my best. Call me tonight, okay?”

  I hung up the phone and found a blanket and the remote control for my mother. Situating the oyster cracker box where she could grab it, I asked her if she was comfortable. Her answer, affirmative, was clipped. I would wait awhile before bringing up Erik’s name.

  I paused at the door at the sound of her voice. “He doesn�
��t believe in the rock, does he? You believe it’s real, don’t you? After what Professor Breda said?”

  I turned, frowning. “Well, I don’t know, Mom.”

  She looked at me, jaw tight, eyes hot, holding me in her sights until she had interpreted my disbelief and had time to become infuriated with another of her children. Then she turned away, flicking on the television to the noon news.

  The gallery was busy, for a Monday: relief. I didn’t have to think about Una solemnly alone with grief and pain, cycling endlessly through the soap operas. Artie bombarded me with questions about the window, right in front of Luca. What could I say? I lied and told them I found it that way early this morning and taped up the cardboard. Had I called the police to report it? he wanted to know. When I hemmed and hawed Artie marched right over to the phone and dialed up the cops himself.

  Bundled up for the long winter’s night, Luca unwrapped her black scarf and cocked her head at me. “What is it? You were here when this happened, no?”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “You hear it? Boom and bang?”

  I was saved from answering by the sight of two distinguished-looking gentlemen in gray suits and wing tips turning into the door. The cold wind caught their coiffed hair, setting it up on end like a boyish prank, then it settled to their touch as they stepped inside.

  The younger, and shorter, of the two looked at me quizzically. “Miss Thorssen? Harry Jorgensen from the Norwegian Consulate. May I present Helmar Ruud of the consulate office in Chicago.”

  We shook hands. Both men spoke excellent English; Harry was apparently an American, albeit of Norwegian descent, like myself. Helmar was the real thing, with an accent not quite as thick as Glasius’s. The pause that crept up on us made me feel sad suddenly. Glasius had come here with such high hopes, such an enthusiasm for his work. He was so darn cute. And here were his murals, so exquisite, so fine. The last of his works.

  “Well,” said Harry, “so these are the murals, Helmar. Have you seen them?” He led the consul away. Helmar admired the depiction of the Viking ship. It was during his examination of the rigging on the ship that the bullet hole was discovered. Centered between the mainsail and the jib, the hole appeared to be a second moon in the distance until one pressed one’s nose against the canvas. Helmar was astonished, Harry was pissed off. Me? I tried to explain about the gunshots. Vandalism, I said. Probably took potshots at several businesses. Artie, off the phone now, concurred. The policeman he just talked to had alluded to windows shot out all over town last night. Even as the two men calmed down, I wondered about that explanation. It was no drive-by. Not with three shots meticulously aimed at the same spot in the glass. No, somebody meant it, and meant it good.

  The Chicago consul was talking: “I would take them back on my next trip, but that won’t be until summer, I’m afraid.”

  “Would you consider going, Miss Thorssen? ” Harry Jorgensen asked, blue eyes flashing.

  “To Oslo?”

  Helmar clapped Harry on the shoulder. “Excellent idea. You know how to ship large paintings by air, do you not?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Haven’t you always wanted to go to Norway, Alix?” Artie chimed in. Luca smiled and patted and encouraged me. What could I say? My stepfather facing a murder trial and my mother an invalid? Naw. I told them I’d do it if they were flexible about the time. No problem, they said. They went away happy, despite my breach of security and the small problem of a round hole in fine art.

  Luca ran off for a late lunch with Conrad Baker. Probably pumping her for information about Hank Helgeson. I opened my mouth to warn her but changed my mind. What did she know about my stepfather? Only what she learned the night Glasius died, at her dinner party. Let her talk. It didn’t matter now.

  “How’s the hand?” Artie asked, leaning over the glass jewelry counter.

  “What? Oh, good, thanks.” I had almost forgotten about my burned hand, that’s how much it had improved. I had rewrapped it last night after my shower, re-gooed it with ointment. “What’s happening today, Artie?”

  He laughed. “You’re kidding, right? Well, it’s the end of the Weekend from Hell. We’ve had fires, gunshots, stabbings, and lewd ice carvings.”

  I smiled and gave a half-baked laugh. If he only knew. Theft, lust; what did we have left, gluttony? The thought made me hungry. I dug around in my desk drawers for a sack of candy left over from Christmas and poured it into one of the pottery bowls we were supposed to be selling. Artie and I silently unwrapped fancy chocolate truffles and devoured them. As we crumpled up the shiny purple wrappers, I, for one, felt a whole lot better.

  I went back to my desk to begin to plow through the stack of messages that had built up. Second down on the heap was Danny Bartholomew at The Jackson Hole News. He had called right after the hearing. I put in the call. After last summer I felt a debt, a bond, to Danny. Everyone else could wait.

  He was in a hurry. “I’m just going out the door but, oh, hell, wait a second.” Rustling of paper. “Okay. Do you have any more details about the night of Dokken’s murder? What he ate for dinner? What kind of socks he wore? I’m desperate here.”

  “Well, I can tell you what we all ate for dinner at Luca’s. Paolo’s mother’s recipe of black beans with chilies and cinnamon over rice. And I can’t tell you a thing about his socks.”

  “Okay, somebody called him a curmudgeon. Comment?”

  “What’s that mean, grumpy? He was very sweet, Danny. My mother and Hank liked him instantly. About his paintings he was very particular, a perfectionist. Have you seen them?”

  “Very briefly. Viking stuff?”

  “A depiction of some of the old sagas—um, there’s a big sailing ship.”

  “Like the one that burned? That was your stepfather’s, right?”

  “Yeah. A terrible thing.” I paused. “I need to talk to you about all this stuff, Danny. There’s been some—I don’t know. I’m kind of worried.”

  “About what? No, don’t tell me now. I’ve got to go to this press conference, of all things. You know that white fortuneteller, Mardoll?”

  “Isa? What’s she doing?”

  “Having a press conference. Boss thinks it’s something about the murder, since it happened in her room. I don’t know what to think, but I have to go.” He paused. “I suppose I should ask you to come, since it might relate to your stepfather.”

  “I suppose you should.”

  “This got me in dutch last time.”

  “Danny! This is different. Don’t ask me if you think I’m going to get you in trouble. I’ve got an invalid mother to take care of, you know.”

  So he told me: Isa Mardoll was having a press conference, starting immediately, at the Chamber of Commerce conference room. I’d have to talk to Gloria about that decision later. Right now I grabbed my coat, kissed Artie good-bye, and ran.

  Chapter 17

  Heed my words now, for I know them both:

  mainsworn are men to women;

  We speak most fair when most false our thoughts,

  for that wiles the wariest wits.

  Danny was in the throng when I arrived, straining his short neck to see over television cameras and other tall photographers. His ratty fleece-lined jean jacket lay on the brown, industrial carpeting in the airy conference room. This was where the Nordic Nights committee had met all fall, but it had been transformed today. The long table had been pushed to one end and turned, draped with a dark blue cloth. Behind it stood Isa Mardoll in all her white glory. As I examined one more creamy outfit, visions of her dry-cleaning bill danced in my head.

  “Quite a turnout,” Danny mused, clicking his ballpoint. Isa had gathered a crowd on short notice. I had to hand it to her.

  “What’s the deal, has she said?” I asked. Isa had her head down, talking privately to another woman.

  “They’ve been waiting for this camera crew that just showed up,” Danny said, pulling on his black beard. “Looks like CNN.”

  �
��Really?” I had a hard time believing CNN would be interested in fortunetelling. I nudged him. “Here she goes.”

  The other woman turned toward the reporters and cameras as the TV lights went on, harsh and glaring. Dark-haired with bright red lipstick, she didn’t even blink. But when she opened her mouth to speak, I realized she was the woman—Lucinda, had Earl called her?—who had cursed out Maggie for stepping on her foot. Her hair was in a French twist today, very chic.

  “Ladies and gents, my name is Lucinda Wooley. I’m a news producer for CNN. Thank you for coming. I’m not here to make a statement, only to introduce a friend of mine who has come across something so truly unique that it is a once-in-a-lifetime event.”

  The runes, I thought. She’s going to give them back to Norway. What a gracious thing, and good PR.

  Lucinda looked at an index card cradled into her palm. “Isa Mardoll is a resident of St. Paul, Minnesota. She studied medieval literature at Carleton College and worked toward her Ph.D. at Stanford. She has taught old Norse and Norwegian literature and studied with many experts in the field. She can both read and write old Norse, which comes in handy sometimes.” Lucinda paused and gave Isa a small smile. “I’ll say no more. Let me introduce Isa Mardoll, who can tell you her story herself.”

  Isa moved a step forward. The blue pendant around her neck twinkled. Her features were washed out by the lights; Lucinda should have mentioned more mascara.

  “Six months ago, last summer,” she began slowly, making eye contact with everyone just as if they were an audience at her readings, “I came across something truly remarkable. Unique, as Lucinda says. Well, almost unique, as you’ll see. But first, I must start at the beginning.

  “In the north of Minnesota there are many lakes. Land of Ten Thousand Lakes, I’m sure you’ve heard that. Potholes left by retreating glaciers, chunks of ice left to melt and dig their own nests in the earth. I have a special spot there I go to every summer, a cabin by a small, insignificant lake. Just a pond, ringed with birch trees and pines, a favorite landing spot of Canadian geese, great blue herons, and Kingfishers.

  “Every day when I am staying at my cabin, I walk. Sometimes just around the small lake on the deer paths. Other times I strike out for a rise, a bluff. Every day, without fail, rain or shine. But one day was very different from all the rest. One walk truly changed my life.”