Seven Bundle

by Various Orca

  “Because Gudrun’s grandfather and my grandfather were friends.”

  He smiled. “Your grandfather, the Canadian Air Force pilot.”

  “Yes.”

  “How is Sigurdur?”

  “He’s in the hospital for tests. I think his family is worried about him.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. Yes, I knew Gudrun very well. As I said, I worked closely with her.”

  “And what do you think happened to her? Do you think she jumped?”

  He peered at me. “Frankly? No. I know what people said. And I knew that Einar wasn’t happy about her working, especially when she left the women’s pages of the newspaper and started to do regular reporting. The hours were unpredictable. She wasn’t always home when he wanted her there. Gudrun lacked confidence when she started working here. She was so timid, afraid to ask questions. I used to say that she was like a beautiful flower without fertilizer. The work was the fertilizer. It made her bloom. She thrived on it. And then she wanted more. She wanted bigger stories, meatier stories. Something that she hoped would prove to the bosses that she could handle the tough stuff.”

  “Like the story she was researching when she died?” I said.

  “Ah. Baldur and the Russians.”

  “You know about it?” Freyja told me that the newspaper’s editor had denied any knowledge of what she’d been working on.

  “I found out after she died,” Geir said. “Einar told me. He knew about the story. I think he was the only person who did. Like I said, she was keeping it to herself until she broke it. She worked that story day and night, researching the Russians—well, as best as one could. It’s not that easy to get information on what goes on in that country. But she was dogged. Is that the right word? Dogged?”

  “Determined, you mean?”

  “Very determined. She had half a dozen notebooks filled with notes. She never left them at the office, she was so paranoid.”

  “Paranoid?”

  “She didn’t want anyone here finding out what she was doing. I think she was afraid someone more experienced would take the story away from her. She wrote her notes in French.”

  He must have seen the puzzled look on my face.

  “A lot of Icelanders speak more than one language besides Icelandic. Most speak Danish because of the historic link with Denmark and because many were educated at universities in Denmark. And a lot of people speak English these days as well. Then maybe some German or some other language. Gudrun was fluent in French. When she wanted to make sure that no one was looking over her shoulder, she wrote in French. I think she was also worried that the Russians had informers, but I don’t know how realistic that was.”

  “So you don’t know what she wrote?”

  “I don’t know French.”

  “I do,” I said.

  He looked interested.

  “These notebooks she had—did the police look at them?”

  “The whole half-dozen,” he said. “I handed them over myself. But they must not have found anything helpful because nothing came of it. And there was nothing that showed that she had been pushed—or that she’d jumped for that matter. The place where she died, it’s all water and rock.”

  “I’ve been there.”

  “Then you know. Her car was found nearby, but there were no other tire tracks that they were able to find. No fingerprints. No trace that anyone else had been there with her that night.”

  “There’s not much around there,” I said. What an understatement. There was nothing at all around there. “What do you think she was doing at those falls in the middle of the night?”

  “That’s where the suicide theory comes in,” Geir said. “What indeed would she have been doing there? She might have gone there to meet someone, but that was never proved. Or she might have gone there for some other reason.”

  “Like, to jump. Or to look at the falls and then slip.”

  “You sound as convinced as I am,” he said with a wry smile.

  “What do you think happened?” I asked.

  “Her family thinks she was murdered. They think she went there to meet Baldur and that he pushed her over the falls to stop her from writing her story.”

  “I heard he wasn’t home that night.”

  Geir gave me an odd look. “You know quite a lot about the story.”

  “Like I said, my grandfather and her grandfather were friends.”

  “Baldur was not home that night. He says he was down by the ocean, thinking. It’s well known that he often went down to the water to think. No one saw him, of course. But, again, there was nothing at all to tie him to Barnafoss, and the police didn’t turn up anything in Gudrun’s notes that would have given him a motive to kill her.”

  “But you think he did it?”

  “I think someone did. The likely person is Baldur. If Gudrun was right about him, he certainly had a motive. He had no alibi. The police had him in custody for a while. It’s just his luck that they couldn’t prove he had anything to do with what happened that night. They had to let him go.”

  “Maybe they didn’t know what they were doing. With so few murders here, they can’t have much homicide experience.” Tryggvi had told me that.

  “The officer in charge, an Andersson, I think, was trained in America.”

  “Was he trained by the FBI?” I asked.

  Geir nodded. “That sounds right. He seemed to know what he was doing.”

  Right, to distinguish him from all the other cops named Tryggvi. I didn’t get it. These Icelanders kept saying they didn’t have last names like the rest of the world, but when you asked about someone, the way I’d asked Tryggvi about Gudrun, they used a second name to make sure I understood who they were talking about. It was nuts.

  “What about the fact that Baldur disappeared almost immediately. Didn’t that make anyone suspicious?”

  “It made me suspicious,” he said. “It made Einar suspicious. Sigurdur too. No one knows where Baldur went. No one has heard from him. Not even his wife.”

  “She thinks he’s dead.”

  “She may be right.”

  “She thinks Einar killed him.”

  “I know. She used to call me all the time to get me to work on a story about him. But Einar was at home that night. Sigurdur took an oath. If you ask me, it’s the Russians who are responsible. They don’t like people poking their noses into their affairs. And they don’t like business partners who give people an excuse to poke around in their affairs.”

  “What happened to the project they were investing in with Baldur?” I asked.

  “It stopped for a while. But I hear it’s gearing up again. Somehow, don’t ask me how, the Russians have money to invest when no one else does. You can only imagine where it came from.” He glanced at his watch. “You must excuse me. If I find out anything about your mystery woman, I will call you. If there’s anything else—”

  “Yeah. You can tell me why names here are so messed up. How can you tell who belongs to what family?” It would never have occurred to me that Gudrun Njalsdottir was married to Einar Magnusson and that their daughter was Brynja Einarsdottir.

  He laughed. “It takes getting used to, I’m sure. Both ways.” When I looked puzzled, he said, “People who move here have to get used to it. So do people who move away—they have to adopt a new name system too.”

  “An easier one,” I said.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Not all women in North America change their names to their husbands’ when they marry. Sometimes they use two names.”

  He had a point. But my mom hadn’t been one of those women—because the Major wasn’t the kind of guy to entertain such a notion.

  I thanked him and left.

  I walked back to my car and sat behind the wheel trying to decide what to do next. I could head back to the house and take a closer look at that turf hut. Or—I glanced at my watch; it was still early—I could drop by the hospital and see what was what with the old man. There was no chance that Brynja was
going to want to come back with me. She had already made that clear. On the other hand, there was every chance that Einar would ask me to take her home.

  I decided to head back to the house. Alone.

  I pulled out of my parking spot and retraced my route out of the city. I’m good at navigating. I have a good memory. The Major knows it too, which is one of the (many) things about me that drive him crazy. He’s always at me with, “Why is it that you can remember every engine part and exactly where it goes or all the words to those god-awful songs you listen to, but you can’t remember who won the War of 1812 or how to find the circumference of a circle?” Quick answer: because some things matter and some things don’t. Care to guess which is which?

  I parked my car and headed across the lawn to the turf hut.

  As I reached out to pull open the solid wooden door, I noticed that an arc of ground in front of it had been scraped clean of grass from the door being opened and closed. I tugged on the door. It didn’t give. I thought it must be secured in some way, but I didn’t see a lock. I pulled again, harder this time. It opened.

  I slipped inside.

  The hut seemed even smaller inside than it had looked from the outside. It was no more than 8 feet wide and maybe 10 feet deep. The ceiling was low; there wasn’t enough headroom for me to stand up straight. There was no light inside, either, other than what came in through the door. But this had to be where the old man was pointing. There was something in here that he wanted to show me, and judging from what he had said and the fact that he’d called me by my grandfather’s name, it had to have something to do with my grandfather and the woman in his journal. The old man knew who she was. He’d been stunned to see her face. He desperately wanted me to keep it secret from Brynja and her father. He knew about something bad that had happened, and he’d wanted to tell my grandfather—maybe because he thought it was his last chance.

  Old tools and implements—farm implements of some kind, I guessed—leaned against one wall. Ropes hung from the beams in the ceiling. Tangles of wooden blocks—they looked like they’d been made out of driftwood—dangled like bunches of bananas from another beam. Against the other wall were wooden buckets, rusty iron wheels, some more scrap iron and a little stack of what looked like carved bowls with lids on them. I picked one up and lifted the lid to look inside.

  “It’s an eating bowl,” someone behind me said, startling me so badly that I dropped the bowl onto the packed earth floor. I spun around and saw Tryggvi in the doorway, bent over so that he could look inside. “I didn’t intend to startle you,” he said. “Einar asked me to drop by and pick up a few things for Sigurdur. They want to keep him in the hospital for a few days.” He glanced around. “What are you doing in here?”

  “Just looking around.” My heart was just starting to slow to its normal pace. “So is he okay?”

  “Sigurdur? I don’t know.” He bent and picked up the wooden bowl and lid that I had dropped. “This is from the old days,” he said. “My afi—you know what that is, afi?”

  “Grandfather,” I said.

  He seemed pleased. “My afi used to tell me stories about what it was like when he was young. He said they broke their backs farming all summer, and then they went to sea to fish all winter. If they were lucky, they made it back.”

  I thought about Gudrun’s father, who had died at sea.

  “He told me about these too.” He turned the bowl around in his hands. “In the old days, people used these bowls instead of plates. Everyone would get a bowl of food in the morning. The lid was supposed to keep it warm during the cold winter days. What was in the bowl was your ration. You ate it throughout the day, and when it was finished, that was it. You had to wait until the next day.” He dropped the lid on top and handed it back to me. “People back in America would think they were starving to death if all they got was a bowl of food this size to eat every day, isn’t that right?”

  I supposed it was.

  “And those there?” He pointed to the pieces of wood strung with rope and hanging in bunches from the rafter. “Those are loom weights. Back then, almost all the clothes were made from wool. Everyone had sheep. Everyone knitted. The women spun the sheep’s wool to make yarn and thread. The men—like my afi—spun horsehair. It made good strong rope.”

  He looked around at the other stuff in the shed.

  “Well, I’d better get going,” he said. He ducked out of the shed and then stood in the doorway, waiting for me.

  I peered around again. Maybe there was something in here that meant something to the old man, but I sure couldn’t see what. I glanced at Tryggvi. He was waiting for me to emerge. I decided to come back later.

  Just as we left the shed, a Lexus SUV pulled up beside what I assumed was Tryggvi’s personal vehicle, and Karl got out. He was dressed in civilian clothes.

  “Yo, boss!” he shouted.

  Tryggvi glanced at him in annoyance.

  “They said you were out here. A guy named Oli showed up at the station an hour ago,” Karl said as he came toward us. “Says he has some information about that rash of tourist break-ins.”

  “Someone else will have to talk to him. It’s my day off and I’m busy,” Tryggvi said.

  Karl shrugged. “Okay. But he says if you’re not there in the next thirty minutes, he’s walking and you can figure it out on your own. Now, I don’t know about you, but all that negative publicity we got this summer sure didn’t make the local merchants happy, to say nothing of the town council. And heaven knows what they’re thinking of us in Reykjavik…”

  Tryggvi’s annoyance deepened into a scowl as he thought this over.

  “I need you to run an errand for me then,” he said brusquely. He told Karl what Sigurdur needed, and with another glance at me, he strode to his car and drove away. Karl continued on toward the house. I trotted after him, digging in my pocket for my key to the house. But he didn’t need it. He tipped back a big rock near the front steps and pulled out a key to unlock the door.

  “I’m going get the old man’s things from his room,” he said.

  “No problem.”

  I flopped down on the couch in the living room to wait. Karl appeared ten minutes later with a small suitcase.

  “Hey, I have an idea,” he said. “Why don’t we run into the city? I’ll drop this stuff off for Einar and show you around. What do you say?”

  “Actually, I was planning to hang around here, maybe do a little reading.” I nodded at the book on the coffee table that I had begun and abandoned.

  “Aw, come on,” he said. “It’s my day off. And I don’t get to spend a lot of time with folks from back home.”

  “I’m from Canada,” I reminded him.

  “Same thing. Hey, have you tried the hot dogs here yet?”

  “No, but—”

  “You gotta try them. Icelandic hot dogs are famous. Bill Clinton loved them.”

  Yeah, well, Bill Clinton loved Big Macs too. And a lot of other things that weren’t necessarily good for him or his career.

  “Come on. I insist.” He was grinning like a kid. “I’ll take you to see the original geyser. And Gullfoss—the Golden Waterfall. My treat.”

  “Well—”

  “You got plenty of time to read later. I need a break and for once I’d like to be able to talk to someone who understands ballpark franks, the Dodgers, the Knicks and the Giants—and by Giants I don’t mean those crazy invisible people that lived under rocks either.”

  I said yes only because he kept pestering me the way I used to pester the Major when I was a little kid and didn’t understand the concept of Immoveable Force.

  We got in the Lexus SUV.

  “Nice ride,” I said. “Cops must do okay over here.”

  “Nah,” he said. “Everything over here is expensive. Apart from sheep and fish, they have to ship everything in. But after the big bust, there were a lot of people with cars they still owed money on, so I picked this baby up for a song. And I take good care of her. That’s the
Icelandic granddad in me. You take good care of your things and they’ll take good care of you. Mind if I put on some music?”

  I said I didn’t and instantly regretted it. It turned out Karl was a major Rush fan. Talk about your golden oldies! Geddy Lee was older than my dad. But then the Rolling Stones were still rocking it out, and Mick and Keith were older than Grandma Mel.

  Karl shouted over Geddy’s shrieks all the way into Reykjavik, telling me about the old days in Iceland and the boom days and then the crash. From the way he talked, I guessed none of it had affected him. But that’s the way it goes, right? Back home and in the States, the worse things get for regular people, the more prisons they build and the bigger and better armed the police get. Makes sense, right? You cut back recreation programs for kids, make sure the best they can hope for in life is to bag burgers or stand at registers cashing through cut-rate goods from China, and then you act all surprised when they take whatever cash they have, get zoned out of their heads and get themselves into trouble. Gotta get tough on that youth crime. Gotta crack down on the little hooligans.

  “What about kids here?” I asked.

  “What about them?”

  “You have a youth crime problem in Iceland?”

  He laughed. “Everybody’s got a youth crime problem. But what the kids get up to here isn’t half as bad—heck, it’s not even a quarter as bad—as what I used to see back in the Bronx.”

  I bet.

  “You want to come up?” he asked when he finally pulled up in front of the hospital.

  “Nah.”

  “Right,” he said with a grin. “You’re afraid Einar’ll chew your head off for aiding and abetting, huh?” When I looked surprised, he said, “Brynja ratted you out.” He got out of the car and swung the little suitcase out of the backseat. “Back in a flash.”

  It took longer than a flash.

  And he didn’t come back alone. Einar and Brynja were with him.

  I braced myself.

  It wasn’t Einar who was angry. It was Brynja. And she was angry with me, which I didn’t understand until Einar had shoveled her into the backseat and then stepped away from the car to have a chat with Karl.