The Body in the Fjord ff-8

by Katherine Hall Page

  Wearily, she turned to the small group standing with her. “I could use a drink,” she said.

  It was Norway. Nobody said, At this hour of the morning?

  After the discovery that the silver had been replaced by rocks—“We didn’t want to take any chances,” Kari explained—they had given the inspectør enough information about what had happened so he could file charges against Carl Bjørnson and arrest Sven and his wife. All the airports, ferry terminals, and railway stations were alerted. Now, an hour later, Marcussen rejoined them on the porch of Kvikne’s.

  The fjord looked as majestic as ever. Pix wished she had had more time—and had been less occupied. She should get home as soon as possible. School was almost over and she had to get Danny ready for camp. The scotch had left a warm, comfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach. She was tired, yet not sleepy. She had to go home, but the fjord in front of her was saying something else, something like, Sail on. The possibilities are limitless. This was no mere wanderlust. This was something deeper.

  “So, you didn’t trust us,” Marcussen said, interrupting her confused thoughts.

  It was Kari who answered. “Would you?” she flashed back. “My grandmother has been telling me what has been in the newspapers and some of the police theories.”

  He didn’t answer. He was feeling pretty good himself, even without malt liquor. The bureau responsible for the

  investigation of illegally transporting artifacts out of the country had been ecstatic on two counts. They had been trying for several years to discover the source of Norwegian antiques, primarily from the west coast, that had been surfacing in British auction houses and dealerships. Carl had extensive knowledge and exquisite taste. He’d taught Sven what to look for and the two, with Carl’s father, had hefty accounts in a British bank. To have broken the ring meant the return of the items, where they could be traced, and fines levied on those who had sold them to Sven in the first place. They’d found Sven’s wife at the farm, anxiously awaiting word. After discovering that Sven had apparently not planned to take her with him, she was more than eager to talk—and she was the bookkeeper. After a prison term, it appeared she’d be back on the farm with the goats for a long time, dreams of wealth and glory squelched.

  Then there was the elation over the discovery of the Viking silver. This was an exciting event, particularly the way it had been snatched from oblivion. Ja, the bureau was extremely happy.

  “You should have told us what was going on. Things might not have gone the way you planned and they could have left the country with the silver, but thank you,” Marcussen said.

  “As soon as we knew Carl was still here, we knew everything would work out. Pix is a great planner.” Kari beamed at her friend.

  “I thought we ought to have two schemes, in case one didn’t work. Not wanting to put all our eggs in one basket? We were absolutely sure he had hidden the Viking things somewhere near the boat or on it, so he could get to it easily. He wouldn’t dare to have it in his room with maids coming in and out. Sven didn’t have it, because we had searched him, his suitcase, and car. Anyway, it was being delivered here. We also figured Carl wouldn’t dump the jewelry—in the fjord, say. He is really a terribly greedy person. It took awhile, but we found the silver in the bonfire and the bag with the other jewelry under the life jackets in a storage container. He no doubt planned to slip it in with the rest of the luggage, as usual.”

  Kari took up the story. “I really expected him to crack when he saw his secret compartment was full. He knew we had put the bag there, but people like Carl never believe they can be caught, and he just kept going. I’m sure he thought the inspectør was going to let the boat sail. Then, after everyone was on board, he would have made some excuse to get off for a moment and retrieved the knapsack from the bonfire.”

  “I wonder why he didn’t let Pix spray the fire. The silver was evidence against him,” Ursula said.

  “I’d like to think it was his national pride, a noble in-stinct—remember, it was a Bjørnson who wrote our national anthem, ‘Ja, Vi Elsker’—no relation, I hope,” Marit answered. “But I think he couldn’t help himself. He saw all his money about to be burned up and he went a little crazy.”

  Pix agreed with her. There was nothing noble about Carl, and she sincerely hoped the author of “Yes, We Love,” which always brought a lump to her throat, was a far-far-distant kinsman.

  She didn’t want any more to drink. Maybe a little lunch, but she knew her duty. She had to call Sam—and Faith. Maybe Faith first.

  It had not been easy explaining to her husband that she had once again been in danger. Or that she had found another body. The police were keeping the Melling/Eriksen case open, but Marcussen had told them that the authorities were increasingly sure it had been a tragic accident.

  Pix had calculated her calling time carefully and knew that Sam would be hastening out the door to drop Danny at school before going on to work. It wasn’t that she wanted to keep anything from her husband; she simply didn’t want to go into detail.

  As it was, he went from total disbelief, to fear, to anger, to grudging acceptance in the space of two minutes. His comments were telegraphic. “Kari is alive and well. You and Ursula are safe. Those are the main things. We’ll talk when you get home. You know I love you, Pix—and you love me, so why do you do these things to me?”

  “I don’t mean to,” Pix had protested. It wasn’t as if she had planned her own abduction or decided to find a corpse. She was a bit miffed. Love had nothing to do with any of this.

  Her husband’s heavy sigh was clearly audible across the transatlantic cable, satellite, or whatever was carrying their conversation. “I know, I know. Got to run. We’ll talk.”

  There it was again—“We’ll talk.” More like a talking-to. Now she did feel tired.

  The call to Faith went much better. Tom took Ben and Amy to day care and nursery school, so Pix knew Faith would be sitting in the kitchen at her big round table, perhaps with another cup of coffee, savoring the silence. Most mothers Pix knew did this. Five minutes peace. An empty house—granted, the beds weren’t made, laundry done, or dishes washed—but you were the only one there.

  Faith had listened attentively, asking a question every now and then and making many sympathetic murmurs.

  “Obviously you have to stay another week.”

  “I can’t. I’ve been gone too long already.”

  “Nonsense. They’ve been doing fine without you. No one is indispensable, although you come pretty close. Samantha and I can get Danny’s camp stuff ready. He won’t be leaving until after you’re back, in any case. The big wedding we’re catering is not for two weeks, so there’s no reason on earth why you can’t have some time for yourself. It sounds as if you’ve earned it.”

  There they were, those magic words: “time for yourself.”

  Throughout the trip, Pix had found herself treasuring the anonymity, the time free from domestic responsibilities—the time for herself. And this in spite of the stress of

  Kari’s disappearance and two corpses. What would it be like without these complications?

  A gift from the gods—that’s what. She could spend some more time on the fjords. Take some walks. Go to Oslo, maybe Bergen. Visit museums. Eat whatever she wanted—alone.

  “I’ll talk to Sam this morning.” Faith was already making a list. “Plan on it. You can come back the day before Samantha graduates. She’s so busy saying good-bye that she barely knows you’re gone. And believe me, you don’t want to be around.”

  Which is how Pix found herself a week later sitting on the terrace of Marit Hansen’s house in Tønsberg, eating more reker and mayonnaise, drinking white wine. It was Midsummer Eve, St. Hans-aften, and they were waiting for the bonfires to be lighted. Kari had gone off with a group of her friends to Nøtterøy, one of the nearby islands, for a picnic. They would stay by their bonfire, singing and telling jokes until morning.

  Marit’s Midsummer Eve celebration had tran
sformed a huge mound of shrimp in a large green glass bowl into a heap of shells in another. Shrimp and white wine—there was nothing better. The Dahl sisters, who had stayed on in Oslo, came down to Tønsberg by train for this farewell celebration. Ursula had been particularly insistent about inviting the sisters. It had proved a congenial group and they lingered long over the meal.

  “They should be lighting the bonfires soon,” Louise said. “It’s getting quite dark.”

  Dark for the time of year. Pix had become used to the long, bright nights that made time stretch lazily forward. It was going to be hard to go to sleep at a decent hour.

  Marit stood up. “Could you make some room for dessert? Kari baked some pepperkaker and we have multer, unless you’re tired of them. We also have ice cream.”

  Tired of cloudberries? Not likely. Just the sound of the word whetted an appetite.

  “Let me help you,” Pix said, taking the tray from Marit’s hands.

  “Coffee for everyone, too?” Marit’s voice went up, but it was a statement.

  The Hansens had built a new house after the war—in Kaldnes, across the canal from the main part of Tønsberg, the oldest town in Norway. The house was perched high, looking in one direction across the water to the town itself, distinguished by the spire of the domkirken and the thirteenth-century citadel high on the hill at Slottsfjellet. Straight in front of the house, dominating the rocky ridge, high above the trees, was an enormous arrow, an iron weather vane, a landmark for miles around. It was Svend Foyn’s weather vane—the man who had invented the harpoon gun and revolutionized early whaling, a well-beloved native son. He had erected it on this hill so he could look up from his house on the other shore and always know which way the wind was blowing. The arrow pointed due west at the moment and Pix thought wistfully of flying in that direction in the morning. It was time. Time to go home. Sam had called earlier to verify the flight. “I miss you terribly, darling. And we really need you.” Pix focused on the first part of his statement and let the rest, with its implications of travail, lie for the moment. She missed them, too. She went into the house with the tray, lingering at the door to look back at her mother and the two Dahl sisters, comfortably ensconced around the table, Marit’s deep purple pansies tumbling out of the planters, soft velvet in the increasing dark.

  “It’s so beautiful here,” Erna said after Pix and Marit left. “Sometimes I wish we could stay in Norway permanently, except we have so many friends in Virginia—and our jobs.”

  Erna was a hairdresser and Louise a legal secretary, Ursula recalled. But the words Mrs. Rowe spoke had little to do with the twins’ vocations or place of residence.

  “Why did you do it? Were you born at the home? Were you Lebensborn babies? Was that it?”

  Erna clutched her throat and turned to her sister, whose expression had not changed at all. No one said a word.

  Louise looked up at the iron arrow, which was moving ever so slightly. The sky was Prussian blue and a few bonfires dotted the shore far below. The light hit the water in pools, creating islands where none existed.

  “When we were little, Mother would wake up screaming. She seldom slept a night through—ever. But for a time, the nightmares stopped. We weren’t Lebensborn children, but her first child was. We were born just after the war. Our father was Norwegian, but his family made him leave her when they discovered her past. She tried to find our sister—the baby had been a girl, but it was too late. She hadn’t wanted to give her up, go into the home, but she had no choice. Her family had turned on her. The village shaved her head. We would hear her cry out, ‘Nazi whore,’ and we knew that was what she had been called.”

  “People can be horrible,” Erna said. There were tears in her eyes.

  Louise continued. “She took us to the United States as soon as she saved the money. She wanted to go someplace where she didn’t know anyone and where there wasn’t a Scandinavian community, but she was always homesick. Our house could have been here. We ate Norwegian food, spoke Norwegian, and kept all the customs. It made her feel better. I saw an ad for Scandinavian foods by mail from a town in New Jersey and sent for the catalog. She looked forward to getting it each month and would plan for days what to order.”

  “She was a seamstress and supported us. We grew up and supported her. It was a kind of life. Not happy, not sad. We knew about our sister, and when we got older, we offered to try to find her, but my mother was afraid of disturbing the child’s life—she was always to be a child. ‘She might not know and I could destroy her happiness. I’ve made enough mistakes,’ Mother said.

  “Then in one issue of the food catalog the conceited fool Melling put a picture of himself as a young man in

  bunad, our national dress. It was to celebrate Constitution Day, the seventeenth of May. Our mor looked at the picture, whispered, ‘It’s him,’ and fainted.”

  Erna was wringing her plump hands. “We didn’t know what had happened. She was never strong, and she wouldn’t talk about it. Norwegians are very good at keeping their mouths shut,” she added. “It went on for months. We watched her disappear before our eyes. She refused to see a doctor and ate only when we became so distressed, she felt she had to please us. The nightmares got worse, and finally she told us the whole story.”

  Louise was venomous. “She was a child herself. Barely sixteen, high-spirited, and restless living on the farm. There was only hard work and boredom. Oscar Eriksen was a neighbor, handsome and with some money. Not a jarl’s family, but not a cotter’s, either. He began to court my mother and convinced her to run away with him to Bergen. Once there, he took her to a rooming house. He raped her, then explained that she was to make herself available to the German officers who came. No decent Norwegian man would have her now, he said, and it was her duty to produce a child for the new world order, the Third Reich. She was terrified, but knew she could not go home. Her parents were very strict, very religious. When she did get pregnant, he arranged for her to go to Stalheim, where she received very good care. Then the baby was taken from her and Oscar himself drove her to her village, pushing her out of the car in front of the church. He’d made sure everyone knew what she had done. He portrayed himself as her rescuer, bringing her home to ‘good’ people.”

  “A sadist,” whispered Ursula. It was worse than she could have imagined. How had the woman managed to keep the will to live?

  “It wasn’t until much later that the truth about Oscar Eriksen came out—his lucrative business in supplying healthy, beautiful young Norwegian women for this experiment. By then, it was too late for my mother.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She ran—living in the forest for a while, then did whatever she could to earn enough to feed herself for the rest of the Occupation. It couldn’t have been much. There was very little food in Norway for anyone. She was never strong afterward. She married a man from the northern part of Norway and they lived there. We were born. She thought she was safe, but it is a small country, after all, and the story came out. So she had to leave for good.”

  What kind of man abandons his wife and children over something like this? Ursula wondered. A proud man. A narcissistic man. A hard man.

  “What are you going to do?” Erna whispered, her voice barely audible. Louise didn’t ask. She sat straight and looked Ursula in the eye. It was not a challenge, nor did she beseech. It was a look of resignation.

  “Do?” Ursula repeated. “I think quite enough has been done already, don’t you? Evil will out.”

  Louise nodded. Some strands of her straight gray hair fell across her face and she pushed them back. “I believe that, but we had to do it—for her.”

  “And for Norway.” Erna’s voice was firm.

  They could hear Marit and Pix laughing in the kitchen, the bright lights from inside the house streaming out to the terrace, sending their faces alternately into shadows and brightness.

  Louise asked Ursula, “How did you guess?”

  “I have spent the whole trip w
atching. I’m not as active as I once was. I leave that to my daughter. I came to Norway to help my friend find her daughter and the best way I could think of was to try to keep a close eye on everyone on the tour. You two were different. You appeared to be having a good time, caught up in the discovery of your roots, but I soon detected a carefully concealed anxiety below the surface. What are these women so worried about? I wondered. And I kept watching. In the days following Eriksen’s death, the worry began to lift. You weren’t euphoric, but you were calm. A job accomplished.

  I talked to Marit, who is also a keen observer. She told me that she had noticed red paint under Erna’s fingernails and it seemed odd for a beautician. They weren’t paper cuts. They had to be from the swastika, and whoever painted that was linked to Melling. Tonight I took a chance.”

  Louise nodded and reached for her sister’s hand.

  Marit came out onto the terrace, bringing an old bottle of cognac with the coffee. She carefully filled five delicate handblown glasses, so thin, the liquor seemed to quiver in the air. Ursula nodded slightly at her old friend and smiled. Marit stood up. “I wish to make a toast. To the new generation of ‘Cartwright sisters.’ We may not have crossed the vidda on horseback, but I think we have taken another kind of journey together. Vær så god.”

  As is the toasting custom in Norway, she selected one individual and looked straight into her eyes before taking a drink.

  She picked Pix.

  Epilogue

  “Didn’t you tell me there was someone named Sidney Harding on your trip?”

  Faith Fairchild, carrying a newspaper, walked into Pix Miller’s kitchen late one afternoon a week after Pix’s return from Norway.

  “Yes. Why?” Pix had to get Danny to soccer and drop off Samantha’s bathing suit, which she’d forgotten, for a pool party. She was also trying to think of something she could feed her husband for dinner that did not have red sauce or come with chopsticks.