The girl at the desk was already dialing and several people had run out the door in the direction Pix had indicated. They made the journey much more quickly than Pix had and came back shouting. Her head began to ache with the sound of Norwegian swirling about her. On their trip, she and Sam had shared a train car with a ladies’ choir group from Drammen and after fifteen minutes the singsong had lost its tuneful appeal, punctuated as it was with sharp intakes of breath and many tsk, tsk, tsks. Pix and
Sam, smiling and nodding, had backed out the door and walked the full length of the train to other seats. Pix was having that same feeling now and broke in. “I’m going to my room, if that’s all right. I’m a bit tired.” Instantly, the young man who had been so solicitous came to her side, offering his arm. Pix took it and together they made their way to the elevator. It opened just as they got there, revealing Jan and Carl—Carl in proper pajamas and robe, Jan in sweats—both looking completely bewildered. Pix sighed and let the young man lead her back to her seat. They’d want to question her.
She waited while the guides dashed to the fjord and back. Carl looked as if he had lost last night’s dinner on the return trip and Jan was trembling. Pix thought it must be unusual for there to be a corpse of any kind on a Scandie Sights tour, the odd heart attack perhaps, but two—Erik surely counted—could only be classified as inconceivable.
“Was he alive when you found him?” Carl asked. “I mean, did he say how it happened?” Lawsuit was written bold across his face.
“No, he was quite dead. I imagine he had been lying there all night and no one happened to see him because of the position of the rocks, and also, why would someone be walking there?” As she offered this useful observation, she realized it presented an obvious question for herself, so before anyone could think to ask it, she rose, wobbling a bit—unfaked—and said as firmly as she could, “I really must lie down. This has been extremely upsetting.” Her friend, as she now regarded him, once again seized her arm and cast baleful glances at the guides. She’d have to find out his name and write the hotel a nice letter. He took her to the door of her room, asked once more if he could do anything for her, and disappeared down the hall. Pix opened the door, thought of her mother, presumably asleep in her own room, and headed for bed. Bothering only to kick off her shoes, she pulled the featherweight comforter over her shoulders and fell sound asleep.
Someone was knocking on the door. Pix rolled over and poked her husband, “Get that, will you, honey?” she mumbled. She poked again when the knocking continued and, getting no response, opened her eyes. Sam was an ocean away. She got out of bed and went to the door. She felt drugged. It was Mother—Mother and Marit with a breakfast tray.
Marit set the tray on the desk as Ursula grabbed Pix, hugging her tightly.
“We’ve been so worried, but we didn’t want to wake you. What happened!”
Pix realized that the two women thought there was some connection between her search of the boat and the discovery of the body and she hastened to correct their misapprehension.
“I couldn’t search the closet. First, there were two men on board; then it started to rain and I had to come back. Since I was up, when the rain stopped, I went out again, but then I found Oscar.” She eyed the tray greedily. She was starving—hence the Reader’s Digest version of what had been a very long and complicated night.
“Vær sâ god,” Marit said, waving at the tray, using the universal phrase, a kind of Norwegian equivalent of shalom. It meant everything from “Come and get it” to “You’re welcome,” with varying degrees of “Have some more,” “Go in,” or “Look at anything you like” in between.
Pix needed no urging and was soon digging into a perfectly boiled egg, freshly baked whole-wheat rolls, farm butter, cheese, and, of course, herring and lox—or rather, “laks.” There was a croissant on the tray looking totally out of place, but she wolfed that down, too. After having poured a second cup of coffee, she felt herself again, although these days that was subject to constant redefinition. She told them about getting locked in the sauna, meeting Carol Peterson, then happening upon Oscar Melling’s lifeless body.
After discussing the sauna episode, which Marit was inclined to think was an accident, although Ursula, for once, was unsure, they got on to Mrs. Peterson.
“What do you suppose the woman was talking about?” Ursula asked.
“Do you think she had anything to do with Mr. Melling? Maybe she had already seen the body and didn’t want to get involved?”
“But she kept talking about what someone else had done, a crime, but I think that wasn’t meant literally.” As she spoke, Pix recalled Carol in Oscar’s arms, whirling about the dance floor. He had a certain appeal. She remembered how courtly he had been to her mother. Obviously, his manners had another side—the argument with Arnie Feld had occurred just before the dancing. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. More likely the erratic effects of alcohol on an aging nervous system.
“Everyone is upset, of course. Carl spoke to the group after breakfast and then Marit and I went to church. The tour is sticking to the itinerary and that’s why we woke you up. You can relax on the boat, but I didn’t think you’d want to miss the farm. Marit’s going to keep her ears open while we’re gone and talk to some of the staff. Make sure this really was an accident, as Carl said.”
“I’m going to be very worried and maybe a little cross.” Marit smiled. “‘Are you sure it’s safe to walk on that path so close to the water?’ I’ll ask. See what they say. The police are here, and I’ll find a nice young one who will tell me more than he should.”
Pix was beginning to think they should incorporate themselves.
“Okay, but I have to have a shower and wake up. When does the boat leave?”
“You have thirty minutes. Because of all this, we’re not going until ten-thirty. I’ll wait for you on the dock.” She paused and added, “Pity you weren’t able to get a look into the closet last night.”
Pix gave her mother a very firm kiss and ushered the two women out the door.
Ten minutes later, she was washed, dressed, and hurriedly punching several hundred numbers into the phone. It was time to call Faith.
Faith Sibley Fairchild had spent the previous afternoon sitting in her backyard in Aleford, watching her children dig in the earth that her husband, Tom, had optimistically tilled for what he called their “market garden.” So far, the only seeds sown were a row of peas, delineated by a wavy length of string. The children had been instructed to stay away from the growing plants and thus far they had been content to dig where Tom planned to put his tomato seedlings. Faith was always happy to, receive fresh garden produce—the ultimate luxury was visiting friends who grew their own corn, brought the water to a boil, and dashed outside to grab the ears, stripping them on the return trip before flinging them in the water for exactly four minutes. However, Faith was not a gifted gardener. Something about compost, earthworms, and chinch bugs put her off. She preferred to do her harvesting at the Wilson Farm stand or Bread and Circus.
Now shortly after four o’clock in the morning, her dreams were filled with buds and tendrils—and soup. While she’d idly watched her children, Faith had been leafing through her recipe notebooks, looking for an alternative to lobster bisque as a first course for a wedding she was catering later in the month. The menu had been fixed—and altered—for months. The bride, apparently having nothing on her plate except wedding plans, had taken to treating Have Faith’s kitchen as a kind of club, dropping in for coffee and tastes of whatever Faith was cooking, to go over things “for the last time, I promise.” Yesterday, she had announced that lobster bisque was too pink and she wanted something different. Faith mulled over fresh avocado soup, garnished with a spider’s web of thinned-out sour cream and spiked with a bit of white rum. In case the bride ruled it out as being too green, Faith was prepared to offer potage de champignons sauvages as
a backup. The young woman was pretentious enough to relish the name in French
, and Faith herself preferred it for the untamed flavor it promised. Wild mushroom soup sounded much more prosaic.
When the phone rang, her first thought upon sitting bolt upright in bed was that the bride had changed her mind again. “Duck consomme,” she mumbled, reaching for the receiver. Tom had not stirred. The only things that woke him were a slight cough from one of his children or a whispered request from his wife.
“I know it’s the middle of the night, or rather, very, very early in the morning, but I had to talk to you.”
Faith was fully awake in a flash.
“What’s going on? I’ve been thinking of you constantly.” This was true. Pix and soup.
“I don’t have much time—the boat is leaving in about fifteen minutes, but first you’ll have to swear you won’t tell Sam. He’ll just get worried, and there’s no reason to Promise?”
Faith had no problem keeping secrets, especially those of her friends. And she was not a believer in telling things for people’s own good under any circumstances.
“I promise. What’s going on? Have you found Kari?”
“No—but I did find a body early this morning.”
“Oh my God! Whose?”
“An elderly gentleman named Oscar Melling. He was a grocer from New Jersey.”
To Faith, a native New Yorker, Jersey was known for only two things—its tomatoes and the place where her aunt Chat had inexplicably chosen to move after a lifetime on the West Side of Manhattan.
Pix was still talking. “He was in the fjord. Not actually in the water, but on the shore. He had been drinking pretty heavily throughout the evening and must have fallen.”
“Had he hit his head? Was there a lot of blood?”
“He fell partly facedown and there was some blood, also an empty aquavit bottle. Nobody thinks it was anything but an accident, but…”
“You don’t agree. Otherwise, why would you be calling me?” Faith finished for her.
Pix realized with a start that Faith had put into words what had been nagging at her since she’d found Oscar. It had to have been an accident. The man was drunk, yet…
“It’s just that so many strange things have been happening on this tour. Starting with Erik’s death and Kari’s disappearance.” Pix rapidly ran down some of the rest: the argument she’d overheard in the woods at Stalheim—not untoward by itself, but when linked with the sense she had of being followed and the bearded intruder on Jennifer Olsen’s balcony the night before, enough to produce unease, especially as the man she observed driving away so hurriedly in Stalheim had also sported a beard. Then the swastika on the grass the next morning in front of the hotel, Jennifer’s sad history, Marit’s revelation about Hanna, and Pix’s own imprisonment in the sauna at Kvikne’s. Without pausing for breath, she gave a thumbnail sketch of the Petersons, especially the newest member, Lynette, and described the strange conversation she’d had with Carol just before finding the body.
“I know it sounds like something from one of those soap-opera digests, but it’s all happened since I got here.”
“I believe you—” Faith started to offer some advice, but Pix interrupted.
“Oh, I almost forgot. Mother thinks she’s found a secret hiding place on our Viking fjord cruiser, and that was why I was up and about so much last night. I’m leaving a lot of the details out, like the Japanese man, but we’re visiting a farm today, so I don’t want to be late.”
“Sounds entrancing.” Faith could smell the goats.
“It will be. You can’t imagine how beautiful this part of Norway is. Really, the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. And the food has been extremely good.”
Faith didn’t want to waste either Pix’s time or money debating a cuisine of root vegetables, fish, and the odd berry versus French or Chinese.
“Okay. You need to start trying to make some sense out of all this. I think you’re right. Tours can be ghastly, but this one is not your ordinary one from hell—whiners, dingers, and worse—it’s in a category by itself. When you come back from your idyllic interlude, sit down and think about it all. If you make a list, burn it afterward. Oil, drugs—remember what a long seacoast Norway has. Something’s staring you in the face. Get Ursula to find out what’s bothering the Peterson woman. She’s good at getting people to tell her things. And above all, don’t take any more saunas.”
Pix hung up, then put on her jacket. She was feeling better. And maybe Oscar’s death was an accident after all.
On her end, Faith put the phone down reluctantly. She was filled with conflicting emotions. Pix was a big girl, a very big girl if you considered her height, and she could take care of herself. But she was also a trusting soul and did not possess Faith’s innate skepticism. This was why Faith was worried. Pix believed people. And most of the time, the trait served her well, but there had been some disasters. More than once, Sam had had to rescue her from friendships that were covers for self-centered imposition. “You have enough to do for one family. There’s no reason Lydia Montgomery can’t take her own dog to the vet”—and worse. Pix was always chagrined, vowed to be a better judge of character—and, she always led with her chin again the next time.
The other emotion Faith was feeling was out-and-out jealousy. Here was Pix having all the fun, up to her ears in potential international intrigue. And what Japanese man? Faith didn’t know the Hansens, so it was easy for her to concentrate on the sleuthing aspects the trip afforded and not feel the pain Pix was seeing on Marit’s face every day. But even if Faith took a plane that night, by the time she got to fjord country, the tour would be over and the members scattered to the winds. Faith would just have to let Pix handle it herself. She hoped she’d call again. She also hoped she wouldn’t see Sam or any of the other Millers for a day or two. To put it mildly, Sam would not
be at all happy that Pix had found a body. The one in Maine had been enough.
Sleep was going to be impossible now. She had too much to think about. If Oscar Melling’s death “wasn’t an accident, it was murder.
Pix arrived at the boat, calling out apologies to the guides
and stewards who were patiently waiting on the dock.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I…”
Jan smiled. “Slow down. No one is in a hurry. You’re on vacation, remember?”
It was hard at times. Besides, she wasn’t.
Sonja and Anders pulled up the gangplank and untied the lines. Soon they were in the middle of the Sognefjord and Pix made her way below to the large cabin, where she knew she’d find Ursula. It was slightly overcast and there was no one on the upper deck. The door to the cabin that adjoined it was closed.
At least some things were predictable. At the bottom of the stairs, the farmers from Fargo were in the stern, placidly smoking their pipes. Mr. Knudsen and Mr. Arnulfson wished her a good morning. She detected a slight air of excitement among the men, anticipation. At last—dirt, farm machinery, manure.
The cabin was crowded. It seemed that the entire tour had opted for togetherness, yet there was no jollity. Oscar’s death had cast a pall on the group. Even the cardplayers seemed distracted. As Pix walked past, she noticed both Golubs were staring out the window and not at their hands.
The Petersons were clustered around a table. Carol was gripping a mug of coffee so tightly, her knuckles were white. And Roy…Roy!
“Are you all right?” Pix blurted out.
Roy senior was sporting a shiner, a hell of a shiner—puffy, black-and-blue, with the promise of more colors to come—that particularly unpleasant-looking zinc yellow, chartreuse, and carmine.
“Walked into a damn door,” he mumbled, and turned his head away.
Carol looked even more woebegone than she had earlier, if that was possible. She’d barely gotten herself together—her lilac pants suit was rumpled and her hair uncombed. Her lipstick was crooked. Lynette, on the other hand, looked almost obscenely gorgeous, radiating the beauty a good night in bed, and just enough sleep, endowed. She was
obviously pleased about something.
“Good morning, Mrs. Miller. How are you? We missed you at breakfast.”
Possibly the news that Pix had discovered Oscar’s body had not been widely broadcast. Well, she wasn’t about to say anything. The last thing she wanted were ghoulish questions about the poor man’s appearance.
“Fine, thank you. The farm should be very interesting. I hope we get some sun.” Pix decided to ignore the breakfast remark. Let them think her a sluggard.
Close to the front of the boat, her mother was sitting in solitary splendor. She reached out for Pix, drawing her into the next chair. “I was afraid you wouldn’t make the boat on time, but Carl said they’d hold it for you. They are rather dear, don’t you think?”
Pix told her mother she’d stopped to call Faith; then she gave Ursula her assignment for the day. It wasn’t going to be easy to get Carol Peterson alone, but Mother had her ways. Once cornered, Carol had no more chance of holding on to her secret than Pix had in days of yore—actually, not so yore. Something about Mother looking one right in the eye—it had the effect of instantly causing the mouth to open and tell all, like pushing the correct spot on an old desk to reveal the hidden drawer.
“It’s so quiet in here,” Pix commented.
“Of course it’s quiet. There’s been a death,” Ursula said.
Pix wondered how long it would take for Oscar Melling to move from “rotten apple” to “poor, unfortunate elderly gentleman,” “one of the old school,” “a character, but
you had to hand it to him, built his own business from nothing,” et cetera, et cetera. All those neutral platitudes that got said once someone was dead. She gave a little shudder. Her sound sleep, then talk with Faith and the race for the boat had effectively suppressed the image of that grotesque form on the rocks. A stranger. She hadn’t known him, but they had formed an intimacy. She was the first to know he was dead—perhaps.
The Body in the Fjord ff-8 Page 15
