Death Under the Bridge

by Cate Martin

  "Attempted arson?" Andrew asked. "Sounds like a pretty big lapse."

  "Well, call it drinking with the Sorensens to the point where arson sounds like fun," I said. "My grandmother knows his parents, actually. I'm sure when I talk to her about this, she'll want to check in and make sure he's doing okay. He'll get the help he needs."

  "If you say so," Andrew said doubtfully. Then added, "I guess your grandmother is good at that sort of thing."

  "She is," I agreed, feeling more inadequate than ever. Magic was only the tip of the iceberg when it came to what I had yet to learn to take up her role as volva. "Not to change the subject, but can you tell me anything at all about Garrett Nelsen? I know you said you didn't know him personally, but just in general, who was he?"

  "Well, like I said, he kept to himself," Andrew said. "The fights in school between Sorensens and Nelsens, he was never a part of any of those. He didn't really go in for sports either. He used to hang around the wood shop, but I never saw him make anything. He just liked to admire other people's work. I only mention that because lately he's been selling really cool art to some of the local shops, and I have no idea where he's been getting it from."

  "What kind of art?" I asked.

  "Wood carvings. Some of them are big, like carved from entire logs, and some are little tchotchkes, but most of the pieces are about a foot or two high." I could see out of the corner of my eye that he was demonstrating the size with his hands, but I didn't look away from the road for more than a quick glance.

  "What are they?" I asked.

  "Animals, mostly, but also some fantastical things like trolls and dwarves and very dour-looking elves," he said. "I've been seeing them pop up all over just in the last year. I don't know where he's getting them from, but I don't think he's making them himself. Like I said, I never saw him touch a tool in the wood shop in school."

  "So he's like a dealer," I said.

  "I think so," Andrew said. "There's a shop in Grand Marais that has a lot of his work if you want to stop."

  "You mean stop following the Sorensens?" I asked.

  "I don't think they're going to run," he said. "It seemed to me that fleeing was something that sounded like a good idea early this morning when, frankly, they were probably still a little drunk from last night. I think they're in their right minds now."

  "Yeah, I got that sense too," I said, although I wasn't as willing to chalk it all up to beer.

  "We can watch them make the turn towards Runde and then stop off real quick," he said.

  "All right. Let's do that," I said.

  We reached the highway a moment later and watched as the Sorensens signalled their turn, then headed south towards Runde. But I drove on ahead, following Andrew's directions to a small art store only a block off the lake shore. I parked on the street, and the moment the car engine stopped, Loke sat up in the back seat.

  "We're home?" he asked.

  "Just making a stop," I said, and got out of the car. I turned to look back at him. "You coming?"

  "Yeah," he said, rubbing at his eyes before reaching for the latch to push the seat forward.

  The wind had picked up, and the air was moist with lake spray as we stepped out of the car. It was brisk, but not exactly cold. We crossed the street and entered the shop. I hadn't caught sight of the sign, and at first it looked like it sold nothing but cheap tourist crap. But Andrew brushed past the shelves of shot glasses, Christmas ornaments, and other assorted Lake Superior-themed knick-knacks through an open doorway to a second room.

  The wares on sale in this room were like night and day with the first. This was real art, and most of it was seriously cool even to my jaded eyes. The shelves were organized by artist, with their name and sometimes a photo or self-portrait of some kind on a plaque. I was distracted by a display of blown glass in abstract shapes that reflected every shade of blue, gray and green that the lake contained. They were like waves frozen in time, but I thought twice about touching them when I saw the price tag.

  Yep. This was clearly serious art.

  "Ingrid, over here," Andrew said, and I left the glass behind to join him at a series of shelves in the darker back corner of the room. The display was startling; at first glance, I thought the shelves were filled with living animals. Only when they failed to move did I realize they were carved from wood. But they were so lifelike, with expressive eyes and clever poses, I was half-convinced they kept moving whenever I wasn't looking directly at them.

  "Those are all carved from local wood," a woman said from behind us. She was an older woman with a chaotic mass of gray curls around her thin face and glasses on a chain perched on her nose. She had just emerged from some back room with a cardboard box in her arms and had stopped before passing us. "Let me know if you have any questions." The name stitched on her smock said Laverne.

  "We will," I promised. She smiled, then continued carrying the box to the tourist part of the shop.

  "See, the plaque says Garrett Nelsen Woodworking, but there's no photo," Andrew said. This plaque was different from the others, like the artist had carved it himself, the letters that spelled his name jagged like Norse runes. Then I leaned in to get a better look at some sort of swirling pattern after the last letters of the name.

  "What's that?" I asked, hovering a finger over the swirl without quite touching it. It looked like a whirlpool, but like the animals it was like every time I looked away it started whirling again.

  "I think it's the artist's logo," Andrew said, picking up a little troll figure wearing a hat that looked like a huge mushroom. "Look, it's on all of them." He turned it over and showed me the same pattern carved in the base of the troll figure. I took it from him to get a better look. My fingers got a little charge when they touched the wood. It felt warm, like it was alive, but that was probably just from Andrew's own hands.

  "This is nothing like that whistle we saw in the ground," I said. "I couldn't make out the whole logo, but it definitely wasn't this."

  "No," he agreed. "But then the whistle was nothing like these pieces either."

  "It looked like wood," I said.

  "It was, but cheaper stuff," Andrew said. "It was clearly mass produced."

  "Maybe just a coincidence that it was there, then," I said. I didn't like the way none of our clues were connected at all. It was maddening.

  I didn't realize that Loke hadn't followed us out of the touristy part of the shop until just that moment when he emerged with an amused grin on his face. But that amusement died the moment he saw us, or more specifically, saw the wood pieces behind us.

  "Andrew," I said. "Can you ask about the price on that piece? There isn't a tag." I could feel that tag under my fingers but scraped it away with one nail before handing it to him.

  "Oh. I thought I saw one before?" he said, turning it over in his hands. "I guess not. I'll go check."

  "Thanks," I said, fighting the urge to add that there was no hurry.

  The minute he was out of the art room, I turned on Loke. "Tell me."

  "This is Villmarker art, and it definitely doesn't belong here," he said.

  "Why not?" I asked.

  "There are rules about what we give in trade and what we take," he said. "This much stuff, and the quality of the art? You know it's only a matter of time until someone wants to track down the artist."

  "They'll think it's Garrett Nelsen," I said, pointing at the name plaque. Loke narrowed his eyes at it.

  "I don't think the council will think that's good enough," he said.

  "You hate the council," I reminded him.

  "I do," he said, and his grin came back. "Did I sound judgy just then? Honestly, I just want to find this artist and shake his hand. He found a way around them. Bravo."

  I wasn't sure if he was joking - he sounded genuinely annoyed - but before I could ask anymore questions, Andrew was back. He put the piece back in my hands, naming a price that was very nearly everything I had left in my checking account.

  "But the smaller p
ieces are a little cheaper," he said, gesturing towards an assortment of dwarves in mining poses.

  "No, I think it's this one," I said, turning the troll around and around in my hands. I really liked him. His face was totally so-ugly-its-cute, and his high-water pants and tunic with rope belt were incredibly detailed. The mushroom hat was eye-catching, but his boots too looked like some sort of fungal growth.

  But I think I had bonded with him when I had touched him. Something had passed into me in that moment. For all I knew, every piece would give me that little charge when I touched it. But that was a really good argument to not keep touching things. I couldn't afford to buy them all.

  "I like it too," Andrew said. "Look at his nose. He looks like he's just about sneeze."

  "Fighting a sneeze," I said, looking the troll straight in the face. "My goodness. He must have had some sort of model. A troll-looking person, maybe. It's just so... specific. Individualistic."

  "I can show you tons more just like it," Loke whispered close to my ear.

  "No, I'm getting this one," I said with finality.

  "Why?" he asked. "I don't mean this one. I mean any one."

  "Evidence, maybe," I said. He looked like he thought that was a very bad answer. Andrew, again, just looked confused. But I hugged the troll tight. "I'm going to show it to my grandmother. She can help me decide where he goes."

  "He's a little big for the mantle," Andrew said as he led the way to the other room, to Laverne and the cash register. "Of course your grandmother does have a massive mantle, so maybe not."

  "I'm not joking," Loke whispered to me again. "I can show you tons."

  "And you will," I said. "But this one is mine."

  "Is this another compulsion?" he asked semiseriously.

  "No," I said. "It's just me buying some cool art."

  I was almost positive that was true.

  Chapter 12

  I decided to park my car in the back of the meeting house parking lot rather than putting it back in Jens Swanson's garage. I had abused his hospitality enough.

  Loke and Andrew followed me to my grandmother's house, but when we went inside, we found no sign of her. Her bedroom door was shut, but then it nearly always was. Mjolner was sitting on the rug in front of the cold fireplace, grooming himself. He didn't look up when we came in.

  "I think she's still sleeping," I said. "I wanted to show her this piece, but I don't want to wake her."

  "No messages," Andrew said, looking at his phone. "I guess that means no one has heard anything from the police yet."

  "Well, it's only been a few hours," I said. "Did you have to get to work or anything?"

  "Yes, actually," Andrew said. "I have a thing. Unless you needed something else?"

  "Just to be sure Keith and Ralf are back," I said. "It's not important. I'm sure they are."

  "I'll text Tobias," he said, his thumbs already tapping away.

  "Great," I said. "But I don't need you to stay while you wait for an answer. I know how unreliable cell connections can be in Runde. Just let me know when you hear anything, okay? Text me."

  "Sure," Andrew said, still typing on his phone. I steered him toward the door as gently as I could. He finished the text to find himself already standing on the front porch. "Oh."

  "Thanks for the help this morning," I said brightly. "And if you see your dad, tell him the car is running great."

  "Okay, sure," he said. He looked past me at Loke still standing in the kitchen. The look of surprise on his face was morphing to some other thing just as I closed the door.

  "Subtle," Loke said.

  "We need to get up to Villmark, and we can't do that if he's tagging along," I said.

  "Sure," Loke said. "It's just, he probably thinks we're a thing now."

  "No, he doesn't," I said. "Who would believe such a thing?"

  "Didn't you see the look on his face when you slammed the door? Wounded."

  "I didn't slam the door," I said, but I couldn't deny I had been rudely abrupt.

  Well, I would happily make it up to him later.

  "So, when are you planning on putting that statue down?" Loke asked. I hadn't realized I was still holding the troll cradled in my arms like a baby.

  "Oh. I was planning on bringing it up to Villmark with us," I said. "It might come in handy while we look for anything similar."

  "I promise you, this isn't going to be a tough search," Loke said. He strolled over to the window and peeked out into the front yard. "He's gone. We can go."

  I left my grandmother a note telling her that Keith and Ralf were back - I hoped that was in fact true - and that Loke and I were going up to Villmark. Then I grabbed my walking stick, and we headed out the door.

  The sky was still overcast, and the air was getting chilly, especially near the waterfall where we were coated with spray. I was grateful I had thrown on my windbreaker in the rush to leave the house that morning.

  I stopped inside the cavern behind the waterfall to wipe the droplets off of the troll with the front of my shirt. "Are you going to call for the Thor?" I asked.

  "What do you mean?" Loke asked, then answered his own question. "Oh, that business the others do." He sucked his teeth, a quick tisking sound. "Not necessary."

  "But what if the cave is blocked?" I asked, even as I followed him through the cavern to the narrower cave beyond. He grinned at me and made a little wave with his hand. I thought he was joking at first, but then I heard the sound of stone grinding on stone. "Can anyone do that?" I asked.

  "No," he said with an even wider grin. "I can teach you. But I'll probably want something in trade."

  "I'm good," I said.

  The fire in the room beyond was low embers again, barely illuminating the space, but we walked through it without pausing. I wondered who was on guard duty and whether they knew we were there. I was pretty sure they didn't. I didn't think the spell Loke used to move freely between the two towns was just to move stone. He moved back and forth a lot with no one caring.

  We emerged in the meadow at the top of the waterfall and continued on for the short walk through the woods before reaching the east end of Villmark. The people were out and about, working and shopping or just standing and chatting. A few who recognized me gave me nods of hello, but people tended to ignore Loke.

  "Does it bother you?" I asked.

  "Hmm?"

  "The way people here pretend not to see you," I said.

  "Oh. I hadn't noticed," he said.

  I doubted that was true. And yet, I knew very little about him. Not even his family name, or if he had a family, or any real friends in Villmark. Thorbjorn got along with him all right, but Thorbjorn got along with everybody.

  "What is your last name, anyway?" I asked.

  "It's just over here," Loke pointed, ignoring my question and leading me to the left of the well at the center of town, towards the marketplace.

  Well, I could take a hint. "Which shop are we going to?" I asked. I had been to the marketplace before with my grandmother. It was a side street off the main road lined with shops. In all but the worst weather, there were booths as well, selling mainly fresh food.

  I could smell freshly baked bread already. Despite the amount of sausage and eggs I had eaten for breakfast, my stomach grumbled.

  "It's at the far end," Loke said, and now that I had dropped the personal questions, he slowed his steps to a more leisurely walk. "Lots of people in Villmark carve in wood, but anyone who trades what they make, they trade through Magna's place."

  Magna's shop was not exactly on the main road or even right on the marketplace road, I realized as Loke led the way down a half flight of stairs to a basement shop. The marketplace road ran parallel to the slope of the hill, so the back of the basement was probably a walk-out, but this was still the first Villmark basement I had been in. Loke gave the door a little kick, as if he knew it would stick when he tried to open it, and then we were in a darkened space, the low ceiling held up by thick wood rafters every few feet.
Very convenient for bumping one's head. I was just short enough not to worry, but Loke had to scrunch up his lanky frame to walk down the sloped aisle between rows of crowded shelves.

  "Wow," I said, looking around. "I had no idea there'd be so much." He turned to look at me, raising his eyebrows. "Okay, you said tons. I'm sorry. I thought you were exaggerating."

  "As if I would ever stretch the truth," he said, in that tone where it was impossible to decide if he was joking or not.

  The shelves were packed close together in rows, but after the last pair of shelves we were in an open space more brightly lit by a wall of windows on the far side. There were two long worktables running across the room, and assorted tools were hanging both from the rafters that were now a respectable height overhead and on the walls to either side.

  A middle-aged woman was working at one of the tables, carefully tapping a hammer on the end of a chisel to carve something into the handle of an axe that she held steady in a vise grip. Her long whitish blond hair was braided, but that braid was left to hang down the middle of her back much as my grandmother wore hers. There was a strip of leather worked through the braid like a younger girl might do with a ribbon. She was wearing darker leather pants and a leather apron over a stained white shirt, and her sleeves were rolled up to leave her forearms bare.

  Her skin was so darkly brown, and her muscles and bone structure were so strongly defined, she almost looked like she had been carved of wood herself.

  She didn't look up when we came in, just continued with her work, only occasionally pausing to blow a curl of wood out of her way. A man stood a step back from the table, and he gave us both a nod of hello, then turned his attention back to the woman.

  Loke hopped up on a stool and folded his arms to wait. I turned back towards the shelves to look at what she had on display. There were many tools like axe handles or kitchen spoons or bowls or storage chests. There were also carvings of animals and even trolls like the one I held in my arms. They were all lovely, and clearly very well made.

  But none of them felt like they were moving when I wasn't looking at them. None of them felt alive.