Nordic Nights (The Alix Thorssen Mysteries)

by Lise McClendon

  Una looked as if I’d slapped her. Maggie put a hand on her good arm, soothing her.

  Luca said, “Poor Mister Helgeson, just getting out of jail will be enough, no?”

  “I should say so,” I said.

  Maggie glared at me. “But you can’t just go on, letting her make up lies, take credit for finding it. You can’t let her defraud the entire country, Alix.”

  “It’s wrong,” Una said weakly.

  “It’s our word against hers,” I said. “And what difference does it make where it was found, really? The point is the same. If she makes everyone believe that Vikings discovered America before Columbus, then the deed is done. That is what Hank wants.”

  “But it’s based on lies,” Maggie said. “Sometime, someday, they’ll find out she’s a fraud, and the whole story will be debunked. She’ll be discredited as a crackpot, and the stone itself will be dismissed as—”

  “As a hoax,” Una said.

  “No one will believe the stone is real,” Luca said.

  “I’m not even sure the stone is real now,” I said, and instantly regretted it. Una’s face hardened at the words. “Mom, we don’t have any expert opinions yet. This Breda fella from Wisconsin hasn’t examined it, nobody really has.”

  “What about that expert the fortuneteller had?” Maggie said.

  “He works for her, for chrissake. She’s paying him to tell her that. And who knows, maybe he’s not even an archaeologist.”

  “The news people would find out if he was just acting.”

  “You think they know the difference between a respected, credentialed expert who has in-depth knowledge and years of experience, and somebody with a Ph.D. who gets a lot of press because he’s accessible and easy to quote?”

  Maggie sat back in her chair, squinting at me. “What does that mean?”

  “Not all experts are equal,” I said.

  “And reporters are stupid. Danny would love to hear you say that.” Luca frowned at Maggie’s words, and I remembered her new friend, the fat reporter.

  “I didn’t say that,” I said. “I just mean they don’t have time or the resources to check the background of every source, every expert. Besides, I’ve already talked to Danny about this. And I’m hoping he’s not going to put it in the paper until he gets more documentation. Danny’s not stupid. He doesn’t want to get suckered by this woman.”

  We had coffee and cleared the table. Luca helped Una back to the couch, even though it seemed her ankle was much better. Maggie and I washed the dishes in silence, chewing on what seemed to me to be an impossible situation. More than anything I was trying to let it go, to focus back to Hank sitting in jail. We needed to get him out. That was our big problem. My mother loved him, he was her husband, and she might never live with him again if somebody didn’t clear Hank’s name. I wiped the plates and tried to think of somebody who could help. Peter Black had apparently bailed out. Maybe without his testimony the case against Hank would be less solid. That was something, but precious little.

  By the time the dishes were done and put away, with Luca and Una talking quietly on the sofa in the warm glow of the floor lamp with the leafy paper shade, Maggie had her idea. By the time she left a half hour later, she’d talked me into it.

  It might make everything right again, she said. It was dumb, it was foolish. Or maybe brilliant. It might solve nothing, it might make things worse. It might get us hurt, it might get us arrested. But, by gum, we were doing it.

  Chapter 18

  Of his lashes the loving gods

  made Midgard for sons of men;

  from his brow they made the menacing clouds

  which in the heavens hover.

  Have you ever noticed that the most improbable schemes seem doable if you break them down into small, bite-size units? We’d spent the evening on the phone biting off chunks. I could see the whole thing in my mind, and if I didn’t think about it all together, but just in small pieces, I felt calm enough to do it. The morning had barely begun, even though the clock said 9:30, when I pushed through the fancy wood doors of the Wildlife Art Museum, built onto the side of the butte that faces the elk refuge. The driveway was long and slick in spots, but they had recently plowed it, so Maggie had no trouble getting her Wagoneer up. She was the designated driver. Somehow that should entitle me to get drunk, shouldn’t it? But no, plans were such that I needed every ounce of courage and reflex.

  The museum looked like a fortress, with a skin of mossy rock and the lumpy architecture of a castle. I glanced back and forth, trying to look as if I was interested in bugling elk this morning. I greeted the cashier with a small donation, kept my jacket on, and strolled idly down the exhibits. My hands itched, and the running shoes that seemed so apt earlier now squeaked on the polished floors.

  At nine-forty-five Danny Bartholomew and Joel Lear entered the museum, chatting idly between themselves about the best spot to set up for photographs. Joel began to set up his tripod and camera in front of a huge photomural of the Grand Teton. The mural stood in for the real view, since the mountain sat behind the butte, out of sight. They chattered and laughed in the nearly deserted museum. Besides me one other customer roamed the hallways.

  Isa was late, making me tense. I went into a corner and took some breaths, untwisted my gut. When she came in, dressed again in white wool, with the black boots and platinum-hard hair, she brought two bodyguards. That was a wrinkle we had only talked about, not exactly planned for. They weren’t particularly intimidating, no linebackers. One looked like a bouncer but was paunchy and bald. The other was younger, maybe faster. I blinked hard behind the Karl Bodmer prints, my mind racing. Her voice, alive with false enthusiasm and condescension, carried easily across the floor.

  “Put the table here, Lloyd,” she instructed. “They want me up against the Tetons here. A beautiful backdrop of rock for another unique rock.” She smiled at Danny, as if doing him a favor.

  Lloyd, the older bodyguard, unfolded the legs of a small table at the spot Isa indicated. The younger man unfolded a blue velvet tablecloth, maybe the same one that had graced the Chamber of Commerce table at the news conference. I strolled across to a sculpture exhibit, herons and mountain lions and more elk in bronze. In the reflection off the glass I saw Lloyd lift the rock onto the velvet. Isa stood behind the table, eyeing it.

  Danny began to talk to Isa, telling her that he was going to let Joel take some shots while they talked. We had discussed this earlier, the flashes distracting her. She shrugged her assent, rubbing her fingertips across the edge of the stone. I still hadn’t seen it up close, wasn’t sure how heavy it was. It didn’t look too heavy, with about two inches of thick gray rock, about the size of a sheet of paper. Much smaller than the Kensington Runestone, which I’d managed to find an article about. That stone was more than thirty inches long and six inches thick.

  Not wanting to attract attention, I decided to make myself scarce for a few minutes. Danny would be going through the basic stuff of the news conference, asking a few more questions, getting the facts. I could skip this. So I walked purposefully into the back corners of the museum, exchanging hellos with an elderly man in hiking togs who seemed fascinated by an exhibit of paintings of coyotes.

  As I wandered back, pausing along the way, I heard a group of schoolchildren enter the museum. Their laughing, pushing, and snorting caused a deep surge of panic for a second. I didn’t want anything scary to happen with lads around. I tried to calm down. It wasn’t as if shots were going to be fired—were they? I struggled to keep doubts from creeping into my thinking.

  The children’s high-pitched voices and excited whispers were good cover. I mingled with them as they raced from place to place, their teachers and chaperones asking time and again, “Please, walk. Quiet now.” I couldn’t hear what Danny and Isa were saying now, but she had her head cocked and waved her long, graceful fingers on one hand as if telling a story. Probably of her long, long walk to the Indian mounds.

  Joel Lear snappe
d photographs, first with one camera that didn’t use a flash, then with another that did. Isa blinked and tried to be professional, but it was obvious the flash bothered her. Go get her, Joel. She kept talking and posing with the stone. The bodyguards watched the kids running around and ogled Isa.

  When Danny drew Isa aside to let Joel take close-ups of the stone, I moved to the exhibit next to the photomural, reading the sign next to it that explained the high-plains climate and habitat in much detail. I looked at the diorama, the different levels of soil, the altitude changes, and what animals lived where and why. Nice bobcat photos. Out of the corner of my eye I watched the two bodyguards. One was blocked from the table by Isa and Danny. The other, the heavy, older guy named Lloyd, stood like a sumo wrestler between me and the rock.

  Joel took his time. He decided to set up some standing lights, the kind with little silver umbrellas. He opened his case, stood up a tripod, attached the light, fixed the umbrella in place. I moved closer to Lloyd. He turned his head toward me, probably saw my brother’s ancient down jacket, took note of the duct tape patches, then continued watching Joel.

  The photographer set up the second light, slowly and methodically. When he got it up, he turned toward his camera bag, picked it up, and spilled about a hundred filters in little square plastic cases all over the polished floor. They rattled and rolled, making a mess. Joel groaned and set the bag back down on the floor.

  “Here’s one, mister!” said a small boy in bright green hiking boots, carrying a filter case back to Joel. Lloyd smiled at the youngster as Joel took the case.

  “Thank you, son. One down,” Joel said, sighing.

  “You need some help?” the boy asked.

  “No, no,” Joel replied, waving him off. “You better stay with your group.” The boy skipped off.

  Joel squatted down next to the camera bag and picked up a case, looking at it carefully as if he was going to alphabetize them as he put them away. Lloyd unfolded his arms. For a moment I thought he was going to let Joel do the whole job himself. But finally, he offered: “This going to take long?”

  Joel looked up, his curly hair dangling in his eyes. “Want to help?”

  Reluctantly Lloyd took a step forward. I had the feeling Lloyd made no moves that weren’t reluctant. Joel pointed out a few cases behind the camera tripod for Lloyd to fetch. The big man squatted painfully onto his haunches, and I made my move.

  Here’s where I should say that time stood still, the earth paused in its rotation, that everything happened in slow motion or like I was walking through honey. But I’m hardheaded, so sue me. It wasn’t like that. My heart was racing like a fire truck, almost as loud too. But I tried not to listen to it, and do what had to be done.

  Without time to see if the other bodyguard was watching me, I grabbed the rock and ran for the door. I could only hope Danny would delay him long enough for me to get out the door. All the camera equipment was between me and them—that had been the plan. The stone was heavier than it looked, a solid chunk of smooth gray rock, not the kind of object one runs easily with. I hugged it to my chest, shoved—gently—a small child out of my path, and was pushing the inside doors open when I heard somebody yell, “Hey! Stop her!” A high-pitched scream, Isa’s, followed.

  Maggie had the Wagoneer running, the passenger door open. I tumbled in, and she took off down the driveway, slipping and sliding around parked cars in the snowy lot.

  “Stay down!” she said. “You got it?”

  Muffled in the seat, I answered, “Does the bear shit in the woods?” My heart was banging. The rock pressed against my ribs. I couldn’t believe it had been so easy, just snatch and run. A cinch. I was sweating like a pig.

  “Heee-haaaw!” She must have looked in her rearview mirror. “Here they come! The fat one’s trying to run down the hill! He had the car keys too, I watched. There’s the other one. They’re hitting each other! The skinny one’s down. God, this is too good.”

  “Watch the traffic on the highway, Maggie,” I cautioned as I felt the Jeep turn.

  “I know, but cripes. I wanted to see them beat the crap out of each other.” She gunned the engine, the old V-8 rattling up to cruising speed. “The coast is clear.”

  I sat up, my hair in my face. “Is it over? Am I still breathing?”

  Maggie grinned. “Gimme five, girl.”

  The kitchen in Maggie’s clapboard bungalow was big and warm, still decorated the way her mother had done it in 1954, same squatty refrigerator, same stained enamel sink, original chrome and swirled plastic table and chairs. Her mother had been fond of the color yellow in all its incarnations: sunflower, lemon, butter, sunshine. On cold winter days like this one, you could see why.

  We split a bottle of Black Dog Ale to celebrate, not wanting to get too carried away since it wasn’t even noon yet. I laid the stone on the yellow tabletop and examined it. The runic lettering was weathered and old. If someone had created it as a prank, they had done a thorough job of it, at the very least running water or rubbing sand over the stone until the edges were worn, the lettering dulled. No carbon dating on rock, so all the clues lay in the carvings. I ran my fingertips along the rough stone, trying to remember enough geology to identify the type. It felt like sandstone, like that along the Yellowstone River, but was gray, with small veins of blue-gray.

  Struggling to remember the exact translation, I picked out some of the runic letters, then spied the closing: “AVM.” These were Latin lettering, recognizable. Strange to see the two alphabets combined, just like on the Kensington Stone.

  “You better call your mother,” Maggie said, setting down her empty glass. “She’s probably worrying, and she’s got enough to worry about.”

  “Yeah, in a sec.” I sat back and drained my glass. What were we going to do next? Getting the rock back was one thing. But what to do with it was another. Maggie and I hadn’t planned that far ahead, unsure of our success in reclaiming our status as rightful owners. In proxy for Una and Hank, of course. Hank was the one who should be called, I thought. But he didn’t even know it had turned up in Isa’s hands. Telling him everything would take a little time.

  I frowned at the drops of ale in the bottom of my glass. Maggie used the bathroom. My stomach began to rumble, complaining for my skipping breakfast. I peeled a banana from the fruit bowl.

  “Do you think we should just sit on this for a while? Let things blow over?” I asked Maggie when she sat down again across from me and began peeling her own banana.

  “What if she reports it stolen? Sends the cops? She knows you, doesn’t she?”

  “We’ve never really met,” I said. I got up to toss the banana peel in the trash, and paced a little. “She might know me. Danny and Joel will cover. So let’s say she recognizes me. Or somebody else does. The cops come to my apartment and search it. It’s their word against mine.”

  “What if they got my license plate?”

  I stared at Maggie. We hadn’t thought this out quite enough, obviously. “We’ve got to stash it somewhere.”

  “Safe-deposit box?”

  “You’ve got one big enough?” She nodded. “But they can get a search warrant for those too.”

  Maggie got up and poured out brown sludge from the coffee maker’s carafe into the sink. “You want coffee? I can make a new pot.”

  “You have any sandwich stuff?”

  While Maggie threw together some sandwiches, I called Una. I dialed my number and listened to the phone ring three, four, five times, then the answering machine picked up. After listening to my own voice, then the beep, I stuttered, surprised: “Mom? Are you there? Are you in the bathroom? Pick up the phone. Mom?”

  I hung up, waited thirty seconds, listening to Maggie hum the theme from Mission Impossible, then dialed again. Same thing, the answering machine picked up. “Mom? Pick up the phone, Mom. It’s Alix. Mom?”

  I slammed the phone down and cursed. “Give me your car keys.”

  Maggie looked up from her sandwiches. “What?” />
  “I’ve got to go home. I’m afraid something’s wrong with Una.”

  She stared at me, then at the rock. “What about—?”

  “I’ll take it with me.”

  She thrust a turkey sandwich in my hand and grabbed her coat. “I’m coming with you.” The phone started to ring beside me, but I ignored it. Maggie tucked the rock under her arm, tossed me the keys, and pushed me out the door.

  The door to the Second Sun Gallery, heavy wood and glass from an era when doors were made to last, hung open, swaying on its hinges. Maggie and I burst into the room. It was brightly lit, inviting if cold, but without customers or salesmen.

  “Artie?!” I called, running to my office. He wasn’t there. No one was in the gallery. “Shit. Artie!”

  I headed for the stairs. “Lock the front door, Maggie,” I called, taking the steps two at a time. I heard the bell jingle behind me, then her footsteps.

  Hitting my door with the palm of my hand, I fell into the apartment, my breath heaving. “Mom? Mom!” I looked in the bathroom, my bedroom. I scanned the tabletops, the counters, for notes. What had happened? Had Artie taken her somewhere? Why had they left the doors standing open?

  Maggie stood in the doorway, hugging the stone, eyes wide. Her breath was ragged. “Where is she?” she gasped.

  “Where is everybody?” I slammed my palm against the counter, causing a cereal bowl to rattle. “I’m calling the hospital.”

  I picked up the receiver to call but didn’t know the number. “Where’s the damn phone book?”

  Maggie set the stone down carefully on the coffee table and frowned at Una’s reading glasses there. A mystery novel left open, facedown, sat next to them She walked around the low pine table and stooped down. I saw Una’s white tennis shoes in Maggie’s hand.

  “Does she have other shoes?” she asked.

  “Boots.” I checked the closet. Her pea coat, white fake fur hat, and boots were gone. “She went for a walk? With a bad ankle?” I searched Maggie’s face for answers. “Find the phone book.”