Death & the Viking's Daughter

by Loretta Ross

  Her mother gave her a tight smile. “Well, he’s certainly something, isn’t he?”

  “That’s carefully noncommittal.”

  “I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with him. It just seems to me that you’re rushing into things. Just how well do you know him anyway?”

  “You mean like in the Biblical sense?”

  “Wren Elizabeth!”

  “Hey now! Don’t middle-name at me! I’m an engaged woman. I’m allowed to make grown-up jokes.”

  “Not around me you’re not.”

  Wren grinned, but was more than half serious when she spoke again. “It wasn’t very nice of you to trick him on the phone like that.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do. I’m talking about answering my phone and pretending to be me when he called the other day.”

  “I never said I was you.”

  “You never said you weren’t, either.”

  Emily frowned and “hmphed” and peered out the side window. Wren knew her mother knew she was right. They came to a little gas station on the left-hand side of the road. There was no turn lane, but they were on a straightaway now and the coast was clear so Wren turned into the lot, circled around, and made a right turn back onto the highway, going back the way they’d come.

  Emily Morgan rattled her new sundae dishes in her lap. “What do you know about this ex-wife of his?”

  “Madeline?” Wren frowned and chose her words carefully. “She’s very beautiful. Probably not as bad a human being as she seems to me, but she’s shallow and self-centered. And she’s realized she screwed up and wants him back. I don’t think she understands yet that it isn’t going to happen.”

  “Are you sure?” her mother asked. “That it’s not going to happen, I mean.”

  “I’m sure. Death was a Marine. Semper fi. Loyalty is important to him. He’s not going to forget her betrayal. He’s a good person. He doesn’t hate her, but he’s done with her.” Wren sighed. “Madeline abandoned him when he was at his lowest and needed her the most. Death’s forgiven her for that. I haven’t, and I never will.”

  They rode in silence for several minutes.

  “Okay,” her mother said. “Now explain to me how she wound up with Eric Farrington.”

  Wren laughed. “She was trying to make Death jealous. She just latched onto the first willing, vaguely male, marginally human creature that came along. Been trying to pry him loose ever since.” She fell silent for a moment, thinking. “You know, I don’t think she even knows that we’re engaged yet.”

  Emily looked over at her with eyebrows raised. “He hasn’t told his ex-wife that he’s getting remarried?”

  “No. Well, you see, Randy wanted to do it. And Randy’s been working so many hours, I don’t think he’s had a chance.”

  “Why should Randy be the one to tell her?”

  “Because he despises her. He and I are in agreement about her leaving Death injured and alone, plus he and she never got along before. They have a long, bitter history. When we thought Randy had been killed last summer, Madeline told me it was karma because she didn’t like him, so he deserved to die.”

  “She sounds charming,” Emily said drily. “And what did your young man see in her again?”

  “A lot of good things that weren’t really there,” Wren said frankly. “That and boobs.” She grinned at her mother. “He was only a teenager when they got married. He’s matured a lot since then, in all the best ways.”

  She flipped on the turn signal and made a left that would take them back into East Bledsoe Ferry.

  “He’s a good man,” she added. “He’s a good man and I love him, and if you’ll only give him a chance, I know you’ll come to love him too.”

  thirteen

  Death’s phone rang Monday morning at straight-up nine a.m. He glanced at the caller ID before picking it up.

  “Hello, Mr. Warner? This is Death Bogart. How can I help you?”

  “We’re hoping you can take on our case again.”

  Death raised his eyebrows. “It’s not resolved? The lab techs were cleared?”

  “Oh, no. They took the painting. They admitted it under questioning. However, they claim to have no idea who hired them, nor what ultimately became of the real portrait. They were approached via text message. The police traced the phone number that sent it, but it was a cheap cell phone—I think, on television, they call it a ‘burn phone’? It was only used to contact them and hasn’t been used since. They agreed to switch the painting. Their defense is that it’s not really a valuable painting anyway and they were being offered a lot of money.”

  “That doesn’t make it right,” Death said. He always felt that if someone’s scruples could be bought, they weren’t worth the price.

  “No, of course not. However … they agreed to switch it, and on the morning of the transfer they found part of their payment and written instructions in their lockers at Eiler Labs. The forged painting was already in the van. They did as they were told and, after they’d x-rayed the copy and revealed that it was a forgery, they put it back in the van with the real painting still inside also. They went across town to a little pizzeria for lunch and when they came out, the real painting was gone and the rest of the cash was in an envelope in its place.”

  “So you want me to pick up the investigation again?”

  “Yes, if you could see your way clear to. The police will keep looking, of course, but it’s not a high priority case for them. So I’d like for you to find out who hired those men to steal that painting. And I’d really, really like for you to get it back.”

  “I finalized the auction bill and sent it to all the local papers, plus KC and Springfield,” Wren said. “The teenagers are going to be out putting up fliers after school today and I told them, because of the amount of collectibles and nostalgia items, to be sure to get them to all the antique malls and flea markets.”

  “Sounds good,” Roy said. He finished setting up a second folding sawhorse, mate to the one Wren had already erected a few feet away. Then the two of them lifted a sheet of plywood to lay across them and create a makeshift table.

  A blaringly loud horn sounded through the Ozark Hills Supper Club and they both jumped. After a few seconds, it cut off and Sam came in looking pleased with himself.

  “Could you hear that?”

  “Yeah,” Wren said.

  “I may never hear anything else,” Roy groused, “but yeah.”

  “One of the things that increased the death toll when the Beverly Hills club burned was that there wasn’t an audible fire alarm. So I got us all air horns. Of course, we’re not going to have anything like the crowd that was there that night, but I don’t want to take any chances with the crowd we do have.”

  “Well,” Wren said, “speaking as someone who’s going to be part of that crowd, I approve of that sentiment.”

  “Did you see all the Vikings?” Sam asked. “There’s something going on next door.”

  The three of them went out front. It was a bright, frigid morning. The temperature was in the upper thirties and Wren shivered. Her breath fogged the air in front of her face. Dead leaves crunched underfoot and the trees between the club and the village were mostly bare now.

  The Vikings’ parking lot was full and warriors and farmers and maidens in Iron Age attire milled around, collecting things from the trunks and back seats of their vehicles.

  “We should go let them know there’s going to be an auction over here on Sunday,” Roy said.

  The three strolled over to the gathering crowd and several of the Viking reenactors came to meet them. Wren saw Neils Larsen and his son among the crowd. The Larsens saw them too and came over to talk.

  “You’re still here,” the old man said. “I thought you might have gone by now.”

  Neils was dres
sed in dark brown homespun breeches and a yellow tunic. He had a heavy blue cloak thrown over it, a simple leather cap on his head, and a long walking stick fashioned from a branch. He leaned on the stick now, swiveled the toe of his boot in the gravel, and looked down at the ground before raising his eyes to meet Roy’s.

  “I’m sorry I created such a fuss,” he said.

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” Roy replied. “We’re just glad to see you doing better.”

  “We’re having an auction this Sunday,” Sam said. “There are bound to be a lot of people here, and a lot of vehicles. If you’d like, we’ll block off your lot with trestles so no one parks here.”

  “It should already be full of our cars,” Jacob Larsen said. “We’re planning a harvest celebration. We’ll have to come over and see what you have for sale.”

  “That place was something when it was open,” Neils said. “It was never as crowded as Bender seemed to expect it to be, but sometimes, on a Friday night when there was a good band playing, it was a party. At least until the Beverly Hills club burned. It was common knowledge that this place was patterned after that one, and after the fire the crowds he was getting just stopped. The last few times I was here, the place was so empty it echoed.”

  “You know, Bender should be down for the harvest,” Jacob Larsen said. “Maybe he’ll come over and see his old business get sold off again.”

  “If he does,” Neils said drily, “he’ll probably try to claim everything that goes on the block. Bender is a bit of a Grabby Gus,” he explained to Wren and the Keystones.

  “Oh, I met him last Friday,” Wren said. “A little old man in an electric scooter, right? He came to the weekly consignment auction. He told me he’d lost a ring here when he was the owner and if we find it he wants it back.”

  “Sounds like him,” Jacob said. “Did you meet his son?”

  “No, I didn’t notice him.”

  “Oh. Well, you might not. He just kind of drifts along behind his father. He’s easy to miss. He never says anything or does anything unless his dad tells him to.”

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Wren said, “but my fiancé and I walked around your settlement after they took you to the hospital, just to make sure there weren’t any untended fires or things standing open or anything. We just wanted to make sure everything was okay, since we knew you didn’t expect to be leaving like that.”

  “Oh, that’s fine,” Neils said. “I appreciate it. You know, I thought that someone had been there. I left the door to my workshop open, and it was closed.”

  “Yes, that was Death and me.” Wren hesitated. “I know I shouldn’t have looked. I’m sorry. But I noticed a notebook lying there. Do you write poetry?”

  “I attempt it from time to time, yes. That was a little thing I’m working on. Just a short verse in the Viking tradition, following the heroic patterns regarding meter and rhyme and alliteration. Only in English. And somewhat simplified, if I’m being honest.”

  “You don’t write in Old Norse?”

  “Not so much. I do speak it a little, and I may translate that piece into it when it’s done. But it’s a difficult form and I find it easier to work in my native tongue.”

  “Well, what I saw looked lovely. It was about your daughter, wasn’t it?”

  Larsen nodded. “I understand my ‘ghost’ was a little boy playing dress-up?”

  “Matthew’s very sorry he startled you.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” Larsen said, echoing Roy’s words. “I suppose we see what we want to see. And I still want to see Ingrid, very much.”

  “What was she like?”

  He smiled. “My little shield maiden,” he said. “You know, women weren’t allowed to fight or carry weapons in Viking society, legends notwithstanding. But they could defend themselves if someone was so lowly and dishonorable as to attack them, and they could be fierce. She punched a football player in the throat when he got fresh with her. Did you know that? A football player. Twice her size and she dropped him to his knees.”

  “Good for her. Women weren’t warriors?”

  “No, not generally. Gender roles were strictly defined, but even so, Viking women had a lot more power and autonomy than their contemporaries in other societies. They couldn’t fight or take part in politics, and they essentially belonged to their fathers or husbands, but they handled the family finances. They could own property, and a divorce was fairly easy for them to obtain and could impose a significant financial burden on their former husband.” Neils favored Wren with a sweet smile. “Of course, you’ve already broken Viking law.”

  “I have? How?”

  “You’re wearing men’s clothing and you’ve cut your hair.”

  “Technically, that’s not true,” Wren countered. “These clothes belong to me. I’m a woman. Therefore, I’m wearing women’s clothes. And I didn’t cut my hair. I had a long braid and a crazy guy cut it off.”

  “See now,” Neils said, “in Viking society that would have gotten him heavily fined and probably beaten. Possibly killed, if your husband had a bad temper or you goaded him into it. Viking women were notoriously bloodthirsty and tended to be instigators.”

  The old man dropped his gaze. When he spoke again his eyes were distant and his voice was soft and introspective. “Maybe they just wanted justice. Maybe they just wanted someone to recognize that they were honorable women and to treat them with dignity. You know, they called Ingrid an instigator. All she wanted was for someone to defend her honor. But none of us ever did.”

  Edgar Morgan wasn’t getting any younger. A lifetime spent largely outdoors had left him in good health overall, but arthritis was beginning to take its toll. His fingers grew stiff and sore when the weather turned cold and his right knee ached so that sometimes he could hardly walk.

  The staircase up to his future son-in-law’s office was long and steep, so he took it slow and leaned on the handrail. He remembered that Death Bogart had suffered some combat injury that compromised his lung capacity, and he’d seen for himself how the young man sometimes struggled quietly after overexerting himself. These stairs must be difficult for him, also.

  Edgar wondered if this choice of an office was a failure of forethought or an act of defiance.

  The door at the top of the stairs was closed but he could see a blurred figure behind the frosted glass window. He tapped his knuckle on the glass and a voice bade him enter. He went in and found Randy Bogart slouched behind the desk with his cheek propped in his hand, studying an open gift box with a troubled expression.

  “Hey, Mr. M! What brings you here?”

  “Just stopped by for a visit. Is your brother here?”

  “Nah. He went back up to the city. The museum guy called him. The two techs who swapped those paintings don’t know who hired them and he wants Death to try to find out and maybe get the real painting back.”

  Edgar pulled out one of the visitor’s chairs and dropped into it. “Well, that’s good, right? He seemed to want to finish up the investigation.”

  “Oh yeah. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d kept at it on his own. But this way’s better. This way he gets paid.”

  “So what are you up to?”

  Randy sighed. “Did you ever want to do something mean? I mean, really want to? But you know it’d be mean and you’d feel bad, even if the person you were doing it to wasn’t a nice person and really deserved for you to do mean things to them?”

  Edgar laughed. “That sounds like a loaded question. I think you’d better tell me exactly what you’re talking about before I answer it.”

  “Well …” Randy sat up straight. “You know that Death and Wren haven’t made any kind of formal announcement yet? Wren wanted to tell you and her mom before they told anyone else. The Keystones know and of course I know—I helped Death pick out the ring, so technically I knew before Wren did. Anyway, the
point is that a lot of people still don’t know they’re engaged. One of those people who doesn’t know, so far as I know, is Death’s ex-wife, Madeline.”

  “That’s a lot of knowing and not knowing you’ve got going on there. You and Madeline don’t get along?”

  “Have you ever heard the expression that two people ‘cordially despise’ one another?” Randy asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Well, Madeline and I despise each other, and there’s nothing cordial about it. She wished me dead, did you know that? When she thought I’d been killed, she told Wren that she was happy.”

  “That would tend to make you not like someone,” Edgar agreed.

  “Oh, I didn’t like her before that. Death could have taken her to the cleaners when they got divorced. He could have kept their house and everything. My grandmother was a lawyer, and before Death and Madeline got married she got them to sign a prenup that said neither of them could claim anything paid for with the other’s earnings. You know how she got Madeline to sign that?”

  “How?”

  “When they got married, Death was headed to Twentynine Palms, California. That was where he was stationed right after basic training. Grandma pointed out to Madeline that if she became a fashion model or a famous actress while they were in California, Death would be entitled to a share of everything she made. She didn’t sign that prenup to protect him. She signed it because she thought she was going to get rich and famous and she wanted to be able to drop him for a rich, famous husband without having to give up anything.”

  “Why didn’t it work out between them, do you know?” Edgar asked.

  Randy sighed and shook his head. “Man, I want to tell you. It wasn’t Death’s fault, I can tell you that. It just feels wrong talking about my brother behind his back.”

  “I can respect that.” Edgar nodded toward the box on the desk. “So you’re going to tell Madeline that Death and Wren are engaged? Do they know you’re planning to tell her?”

  “Yeah, they said I could.”