by Maddy Hunter
“Who could she possibly have been talking to locally?” asked Tilly. “Bernice doesn’t know anyone in Finland, and she’d never pay for long distance.”
“The front desk. She was on the phone with them for two solid hours complaining her little heart out. The desk clerk actually documented it, because he thought the hotel could use her call to instruct new employees about how to be diplomatic with cranky Americans. Since Bernice couldn’t have been on her room phone and strangled Portia at the same time, they had to cut her loose.”
“They’ve already established the time of death?” I asked. “That was fast.”
Jackie looked unimpressed. “It was a no-brainer. There was a narrow window between the time the last person signed out of the sauna and the time when you found the body, so that had to have been when the killer struck. And the great irony is that if this had happened next week, the police would have caught it all on videotape because the city is installing surveillance cameras throughout the entire underground concourse. But the system isn’t operational yet. Can you believe the bad luck? I can’t think of an instance of poorer timing.”
“Custer leading his troops into battle at the Little Big Horn,” said Tilly.
“The Titanic steaming through that ice field in the North Atlantic,” said George.
“Melanie Wilkes havin’ that baby a hers on the very night the Yankees was attackin’ Atlanta,” said Nana.
We stared at her in silence.
“What?” she complained. “Don’t Southern fiction count?”
“Out of curiosity, Jack, how did you come by all this detailed information?”
“Annika has a drinking buddy on the force, so she pumped him for details. I appreciated your offering to come to the station with us, Emily, but Annika was right to discourage you. We needed someone who could shmooze in the mother tongue.”
“Did you come up with an airtight alibi, too?” asked Nana. “We was wonderin’ where you was all afternoon and evenin’.”
Jackie removed a fistful of loose papers from her purse. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the perfect alibi: shopping receipts stamped with the date and time of purchase. Isn’t technology wonderful?” She fanned them out like a magician performing card tricks. “The police got out a map and pinpointed my movements from early afternoon until I left the cyber café and hit the ATM. According to their calculations, I was nowhere near the hotel when Portia was murdered, so I couldn’t have done it—which has taught me a crucial lesson.”
“Use the buddy system when you’re in a foreign country?” asked George.
She flashed a broad smile. “It pays to be a shopaholic.”
I shifted my gaze to the computer perched on the corner desk. “Why did you stop at a cyber café when your laptop is already set up?”
“My screen kept freezing on me this afternoon, and I had to check Amazon for my book ranking. Obsessing about your Amazon number has become the most popular addiction to have among published authors. It sits right at the top of the list, just above chain smoking, binge drinking, and cross-dressing.”
“Were you happy with your rank?” asked Tilly.
Jackie raised her arms in a victorious V. “One million three hundred and ten. I’ve moved up six whole points since yesterday!”
Gee, if the world didn’t end, she might be able to claw her way to number one in—I did some quick mental math—four hundred seventy-six years. Hot damn!
“But would you believe I don’t have a single Amazon review yet? The book has been out for two weeks! What are people reading? Comic books?”
“Diet books,” said Nana. “Readin’ about how to shed them extra pounds is way cheaper than liposuction.”
Tilly boosted herself off the settee. “If Bernice is back, perhaps we should drop by to see how she’s faring. Police interrogation can be traumatic, even for crusty cynics who lack social graces.”
“Now, now,” Jackie cautioned. “I think everyone might be wrong about Bernice. We had time for lots of girl talk on the way to and from the police station, and I saw a whole different side of her. She was chatty, agreeable, and surprisingly funny.”
“Bernice?” said Nana.
“Bernice Zwerg?” said George.
Jackie buffed her nails on her tank top. “We actually bonded this evening. I think she’s become much more pleasant since her bunion surgery. Who could possibly be in a bad mood wearing open-toed wedges with ankle straps?”
“Bernice Zwerg,” repeated George.
“Come on, George,” Jackie scolded. “Have a little sympathy. She suffered a terrible indignity when those Floridians ratted her out to the police. Can you believe that Hamlets bunch? Malicious little back stabbers.
“You’d have thought that throwing Bernice under the bus would have satisfied their bloodlust, but nooo, they had to throw me under there with her.” Jackie narrowed her eyes into the kind of squint that could result in serious crow’s-feet. “Which one of those miserable, two-faced hypocrites gave my name to the police? I tried to get it out of Bernice, but she refused to tattle because she said she didn’t want to ruin my opinion of the person.”
Wow, Nana was right. Bernice really could think on her feet. “Uhh…to be honest, Jack, there were so many people talking over each other, I’m not sure who first mentioned your name. Is that how you remember it?” I asked Nana, giving her the eye.
“I never heard nothin’, except for Dick Teig belchin’ a few times. George didn’t hear nothin’ either, did you, George?”
He tugged on his earlobe. “Waxy buildup. Didn’t hear a thing.”
Tilly regarded us as if we’d all lost our minds.
Uh-oh. Tilly wasn’t going to play along.
“Unfortunately, I was so distracted trying to elevate my feet that I failed to hear who threw Jackie to the wolves. Sorry.”
Jackie sighed with disappointment. “It doesn’t matter. I’m just worried about publicity. Can you imagine what Hightower would do if they learned that one of their soon-to-be-famous authors was implicated in an international murder?”
“They’d probably sign you up for guest appearances on Today, Dr. Phil, and Oprah,” I wisecracked.
Jackie stared at me, transfixed. “Emily, you’re a genius!” She dug out her cell phone and punched in a number. “I can see it all now. Book sales will skyrocket. I’ll hit number one on Amazon. I’ll go into an immediate second printing. Hollywood will decide to make a movie of my life. Maybe I’ll be asked to play myself. If it becomes a documentary, they might even film all of you!”
“I’ll need to get my hair done,” said Nana.
“My God, Jack, would you calm down? I was just teasing.”
“But you’re absolutely right, Emily! I need publicity, and you know what they say: bad publicity is better than no publicity at all.” She looked suddenly crestfallen. “Damn. They shunted me to Mona’s voice mail. What time is it in New York anyway?”
I rolled my eyes. “I apologize for being the voice of reason in this discussion, but wouldn’t it be better for your professional image if you made an appearance on TV because you helped solve an international murder rather than because you were a suspect in one?”
Her eyebrows inched upward in thought. “Good point. Do you suppose if I solved the murder, they’d book me on 60 Minutes instead? Think of it. Sunday night. Prime time. I bet their viewing audience is in a demographic that buys lots of books.”
“I wanna see you get interviewed by the nice young fella on that mornin’ news show,” said Nana, “but I’m not sure it’ll happen, on account a they mostly use him when they wanna make government leaders and Hollywood superstars look stupid.”
“Okay, I’ll do it!” Jackie executed a little patty-cake clap. “Finding Portia’s murderer could be my best career move yet.”
“Does she get to find the killer all by herself, or do we get to help?” asked Nana.
“If we get to wear disguises, can I have something that comes with a full head of h
air?” asked George.
“How about one of those rainbow-colored wigs that NFL football fans wear?” asked Tilly. “You could pose as a man with no taste.”
Jackie raised her hand. “Technical question. Do you have any suspects besides me and Bernice? Because if you tell George to tail me, I’m gonna recognize him if he’s wearing a rainbow wig.”
I could have sworn she’d said her IQ had risen when she’d become a woman. “Okay, here’s the thing: the police’s theory that Portia was killed by disenfranchised youth doesn’t cut it for me.”
“Me, neither,” said Nana. “We seen a lot a dead bodies on our trips, and most of ’em got that way because someone they knew wanted ’em outta the way.”
“Exactly,” I agreed. “Some of the motives seemed pretty lame, but the killers didn’t think so. The important point is, the assailants always knew their victims.”
“Which supports the contention that Portia might have been killed by a member of the Hamlets’ contingent,” said Tilly.
“I dunno.” George stroked his bald spot, which was essentially the entire space between his ears. “Those Florida folks seemed to buzz around her like bees around the queen. Looked to me like everyone was in love with her.”
“Or pretendin’ to be in love with her,” said Nana. “You s’pose it was all for show?”
Tilly nodded. “I did notice the major sucking up going on throughout our city tour this morning. Perhaps it’s a flaw in my personality, but I’m always suspicious of world-class brown nosers. And they all seemed to be like that—vying desperately for Portia’s approval. Does anyone besides me wonder why?”
Jackie let out a melodramatic gasp. “The Klicks! They weren’t sucking up when Portia scolded them at the outdoor market today. Lauretta gave her a really evil look and said something like, ‘You don’t scare us. Not anymore.’ Do you think that’s significant?”
“I wouldn’t pay that no mind,” said Nana. “Could be that with the world endin’ in a few days, Curtis and Lauretta figure they don’t got nothin’ to lose by gettin’ lippy.”
“Or it could mean something else entirely,” I said with sudden inspiration. “What if Portia wasn’t the benevolent ruler that she appeared to be? What if the Hamlets people fawned over her not because they liked her but because they feared her?”
Tilly thwacked her cane on the bed. “By God, I knew there was something unnatural about the way everyone treated that woman. Dictators rule by fear. It makes perfect sense, Emily. Bravo.”
“I don’t get it,” Nana objected. “What do folks got to fear from an old broad like Portia Van Cleef?”
“I’m not sure, Nana, but that’s what we need to find out. Are you with me?”
Nods all around.
“Okay, here’s the plan—”
Jackie raised her hand again. “If we do disguises, can I be blond?”
CHAPTER 6
When we flew over the Arctic Circle the next morning, I looked out the window expecting to catch a glimpse of glaciers, igloos, and the polar bears who do the Coca-Cola commercial. What I saw instead were dense forests and gleaming lakes that stretched as far as the eye could see. Hmm. Either Lapland had just experienced a catastrophic thermal event, or I’d apparently confused it with the North Pole.
“Isn’t there supposed to be snow?” I asked Annika as we stepped off the plane into the ninety-degree heat at Ivalo.
“It melted.”
Oh, my God. Scientists had warned us, but we wouldn’t listen. “Global warming?” I choked out.
“Spring thaw.”
I kept stride with her as we crossed the tarmac to a one-story wooden structure the size of a Photomat booth. If the terminal was any indication, Lapland obviously lacked the appeal of more populous destinations like Prairie View, Kansas, or Chesuncook, Maine. “Have you heard any more about Portia?”
At breakfast she’d announced that once Portia’s autopsy was complete and her body released, her casket would be flown back to Florida. “The head office is taking full responsibility for making the arrangements,” she’d assured us. “We will see that she’s returned to the bosom of her family with all the speed and dignity that is due a Midnight Sun Adventures guest.” I figured the “speed and dignity” guarantee was supposed to compensate for the company’s refusing to grant refunds to close friends who might want to accompany her body back to the States.
“I told you everything I know earlier, Emily, but I’ll be talking to the head office again later today, so I promise to keep you informed. This holiday should have been the trip of Portia Van Cleef’s lifetime. I can’t believe what has happened.”
I wondered how one said, “I can” in Finnish.
“How is your group coping?” she asked.
“They didn’t know Portia, so it’s not as traumatic for them as it is for her friends.”
“Her traveling companions have my deepest respect. I was prepared for some of them to fall apart, but that hasn’t happened at all. You Americans are a stalwart bunch. No tears. No emotional tantrums. No drama. The Finns are often accused of being dour and emotionless, but you wear the label much better than we do.”
I guessed that was a compliment—kind of.
As we boarded our big yellow air-conditioned touring bus, I watched my spy team spread out and maneuver themselves into position.
“Isn’t it supposed to be cold above the Arctic Circle?” asked August Manning as I sat down beside him. His face was red and sweaty, and matched the tartan on his flannel shirt. “The travel agent said to expect highs in the fifties. I wonder if she bothered to look at the weather forecast?” He gave his whiskers a vigorous scratch. “If it gets any hotter, the beard’s going to be history.”
“I brought boiled wool,” I commiserated.
“Yeah, but it’s not attached to your face.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for the heat,” our local guide announced over the loudspeaker. His name was Helge, his English was impeccable, he lived across the border in Kirkenes, Norway, and he was wearing a pair of shorts and sandals that looked as if they’d been mothballed in his attic since the ice age. “Typically, it never gets this hot in Finnish Lapland, and I have the skin to prove it.” He struck a pose that showcased his paste-white legs and feet. “But the happy result is that because of the heat, we have no mosquitoes this year.”
“Portia would have been thrilled to hear that,” August told me in a low voice. “She hated insects. Made me wonder why she ever moved to Florida. We have some butt-ugly bugs in the Sunshine State.”
“Where was she from originally?”
“I know she lived in Massachusetts for awhile. She went the debutante route and ended up marrying a Boston blue blood with political connections. Hell of a nice guy.”
“Did one of you call him to break the news, or did you leave it to the tour company?”
“Neither. Clayton’s long gone. A polo accident years ago.”
“Does she have any family?”
“Not in Florida. No kids, no pets, no lovers that I know of. Portia didn’t like unnecessary attachments cluttering her life, but she never met a board of directors that she didn’t want to serve on.”
“If you were here in winter,” Helge continued as we pulled onto the road, “you might enjoy a dog-sled safari through the wilderness, but summer is more suited for trekking. The four-to six-day treks are the most popular, and there are huts and campsites in the national park that can be used for sleeping, though people tend to sleep less when the sun never sets. You must carry all your food with you, but the river water is safe for drinking and the campsites are free. The huts may be rented for a minimal fee.”
“Why would anyone want to spend four days trekking through the wilderness?” Dick Teig threw out.
“For health and exercise,” said Helge. “It’s a national pastime.”
“Baseball is a national pastime,” argued Dick. “Hiking to nowhere with a backpack full of beef jerky and peanut butter cr
ackers is just plain warped.”
Spoken like a man with a fifty-two-inch waist whose main cardiovascular activity consisted of punching buttons on the remote control.
“Let’s hope this doesn’t give Reno any bright ideas,” Gus confided. “He’s such an exercise junkie, it wouldn’t surprise me if he tried to do the four-day trek in twenty-four hours. God only knows where he’d end up, and in what shape. He keeps forgetting he’s sixty-seven instead of twenty-seven.”
“He probably doesn’t get a chance to do much wilderness trekking in Florida.”
Gus laughed. “He could trek, all right, but he’d have to do it in a swamp or a strip mall.”
I glanced down the aisle to see Jackie sitting with Reno, which had to be awkward considering the nasty crack he’d made about her novel. “What kind of exercise is his specialty? He looks like a tennis player, or maybe a swimmer.”
“He’s a runner. Sprinter. He does a lot of track and field for senior sports events, and travels all over the world. You wouldn’t believe the ribbons and medals he’s collected. He built an addition onto his house just so he could display them. If you’re looking for modesty, you can skip over his address.”
“Is he married?”
“Married twice; divorced twice. That seems to be the norm these days.”
“For you, too?”
“I never took the leap. Too married to my work to commit to someone who might take me away from it.”
“What kind of work did you do?”
“The same kind of work I still do. I’m a journalist, but I’ve switched from feature articles for the Washington Post to being editor-in-chief of Everything Hamlets. It’s a much easier gig. I set the deadlines, decide what’s newsworthy, and get to play boss with six staffers who always dreamed of writing the Great American Novel. They’re not Hemingways or Steinbecks, but you couldn’t find a better bunch to compile daily calenders for social and sporting events. I write the obituaries, feature articles, and op-ed pieces. I seem to have developed a few opinions in the last sixty-eight years that are itching to find their way into print.”
