Norway to Hide

by Maddy Hunter

  “If we was sittin’ here in the all-together, I’d think we was in that hotel sauna,” said Nana, mopping her throat with a tissue.

  “I’d think I was in heaven,” said George, the clear plastic of his nose guard fogging up.

  “George Farkas, you are such a rascal.” Jackie rubbed a playful hand over George’s little bald head. “Men of your generation don’t admit stuff like that. They get way too embarrassed.”

  “I’ve been reading your book, so nothing embarrasses me anymore.”

  “Eating in the nude is common practice among African bushmen,” Tilly informed us. “They’re so comfortable with their bodies, they don’t quite realize they’re naked.”

  “Must save ’em a bundle on their dry cleanin’ bills,” said Nana.

  Jackie pushed her bowl of cloudberries aside and stood up. “George just reminded me of something. I have to call Mona. Every time I’ve phoned her today I’ve gotten shunted to voice mail, so I’m getting really pissed.”

  “How many times have you tried?” I asked.

  She stared into space as she calculated. “Twelve.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “If we hadn’t sat in the sauna so long, I could have called more.”

  “Jack, no wonder she’s not answering your calls. You’re bothering her too much. Can you give it a rest? I bet she’d appreciate an occasional call much more than a barrage. She might even break down and talk to you.”

  She glowered at me. “Excuse me, Emily, but I’m perched on the edge of literary stardom, and you’re telling me that Mona thinks I’m a bother? I don’t think so.” She grabbed her mosquito hat. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be outside.”

  “I’m real partial to that girl,” said Nana as Jackie stalked toward the exit, “but she don’t got a clue.”

  “With bazooms like that, she doesn’t need one,” said George.

  “I hope all of you have enjoyed your meal,” Annika told everyone as she joined Emppu and his family near the cookfire. “If you would like more to drink, there are beverages for sale by the door. The heat is a little overwhelming inside, so I encourage you to overindulge with liquids. If I may offer my opinion, the Finnish beer is especially good.”

  “Alcohol is the last thing people need in this heat,” whispered Tilly.

  “I’ll try the beer if I don’t have to pay for it,” Bernice called out.

  Annika smiled stiffly. “I also recommend the water, which is free. Please settle back now as Emppu’s wife and daughter perform a musical selection for you. This will be an authentic Sami song that urges all peoples to treat Nature with respect or suffer consequences, which usually involve boils, pestilence, and some form of horrific death. Enjoy!”

  The two women stood side by side in their long skirts and decorative blouses, chanting in lively tones as they beat out a rhythm on handheld drums that looked as if they’d been crafted from reindeer skins. I was touched by the music’s soulfulness but grateful I couldn’t understand the chant. I wasn’t sure what a boil was, but I was certain I didn’t need to hear about it on a full stomach.

  Jackie crept back to the table as the drumbeats ended and the room erupted in applause. “Did you get through?” asked George.

  She tucked in her bottom lip as if to prevent it from quivering. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “This next song relates the heroic feats that Emppu’s ancestors performed during the reindeer migration hundreds of years ago,” announced Annika.

  The drumbeats resumed at a quicker pace. The women’s voices throbbed with emotion, their expressions growing animated. I swayed with the rhythm, as did Nana and Tilly, but other guests yawned, looked bored, changed seats for a better view, or got up to buy drinks or visit the facilities.

  None of this boded well for a late evening.

  The entertainment continued with songs that celebrated Emppu’s first visit to a snowmobile dealer, his discovery of polar fleece and gum rubber boots, and his purchase of an Oral-B electric toothbrush, which is when I realized what Sami chanting really was.

  It was a blog!

  A digital tone from my shoulder bag sent me scrambling for my cell phone, prompting tsks and dirty looks from the guests at nearby tables. “I’m sorry,” I apologized. “I forgot to turn it off.” I slunk down on the bench, burying my head under the table. “Hello?”

  “Emily? This is your mother.”

  I lowered my voice to a whisper. “I can’t talk right now.”

  “Would you take it outside?” the guy behind me grumbled.

  “Hold on, Mom.” I slithered out from beneath the table and skirted the perimeter of the room to the exit, stepping out into the audible buzz of swarming mosquitoes. Uff-da. “Can I call you back?” I asked as I flapped my hand in front of my face.

  “This can’t wait, Em. I have wonderful news. You know the church on—KRRRRRK—Well, I spoke—KRRRRRRRRK—KRRRRRRRK—good news?”

  “Mom? I’m catching every fifth word. Are you there?”

  “KRRRRRRRK.”

  Nuts. If she’d found another church, that really would be wonderful news. “Don’t hang up,” I urged as I hiked across the clearing in search of better reception. “This place is full of dead spots.”

  I circled to the back of the lodge. “Are you still there?”

  “Krrrrk—ily?”

  “This isn’t working, Mom. I’m going to hang up and—”

  At the edge of the woods, I saw a man in light trousers and a white shirt lying facedown on the ground, his mosquito hat covering his head, his body unmoving.

  A chill raced up my spine. Oh, my God.

  Heart pounding, I ran across the uneven ground and fell to my knees beside him, rolling him onto his back. But when I saw Emppu’s lasso wrapped around his throat, I knew it was too late for CPR.

  “Can you hear me now?” Mom’s voice chimed happily from my phone. “Did you run into a dead spot?”

  I turned my head away, gasping for air.

  Oh, God. I’d run into a dead Pulitzer Prize winner.

  CHAPTER 9

  “I have reviewed the initial statement you gave to Officer Kynsijarvi, Ms. Andrew. Thank you for your cooperation. Would you mind going over a few minor details with me? It’s very late, so I’ll try to be brief.”

  I was in one of the hotel’s private offices, sitting opposite Officer Jukka-Pekka Vitikkohuhta, who commanded the position of authority behind the desk. He was around my age, with intense eyes and a whipcord body that looked as if he might spend his off hours shooshing down ski slopes in spandex and designer goggles. His English was well enunciated and precise, but his voice was hoarse from the interviews he’d been conducting since he’d arrived from Ivalo. He and two fellow officers were shuffling guests from conference rooms to a main lecture hall, and once they were done with me, I figured they’d make a decision about what to do with us.

  “Did you see the deceased leave the lodge at any time during your meal?” he asked me.

  “I didn’t see him at all while we were eating.”

  “Did you notice anyone else leave the room?”

  “Everyone. People were up and down all evening. Buying drinks, getting fresh air, changing seats, using the facilities. You would have needed a score card to keep track of everybody.”

  He made a notation on his notepad. “Did any of your table companions leave the premises?”

  “Jack. I mean, Jackie. Ms. Thum. When the entertainment began, she went outside to call her editor. She wasn’t gone very long, because I suspect her editor shunted her to voice mail again.”

  Officer Vitikkohuhta smiled at the mention of Jackie’s name. “My officers and I had never met a published author before tonight. She was kind enough to autograph my notepad”—he flipped to a back page and held up her sprawling signature—“and she signed Officer Hamalainen’s forearm. Officer Kynsijarvi had her autograph his athletic sock. He hopes to auction it over the Internet.”

  “He might want to
hold onto it for a while,” I suggested. “She hasn’t hit the bestseller list yet.”

  “Officer Kynsijarvi will make it work. He was once offered two hundred American dollars for a stale marshmallow that looked like Raphael’s Madonna and Child.”

  “Seriously?” I had stale marshmallows back home. Was I turning my back on a fortune by ignoring the resale value of snacks I’d kept beyond their freshness date?

  “Sadly, he was never able to complete the sale.”

  “Did the buyer suddenly come to his senses?”

  “No. His wife used it in a cup of hot cocoa and it melted.” He referred back to his notes. “You were outside talking on your cell phone when you discovered the deceased. Is that correct?”

  I nodded. “I was getting mostly static, so I was trying to find a spot that had better reception.”

  “Perhaps you could tell me, do you know of anyone in your tour group who had reason to want Mr. Manning dead?”

  “He seemed to be fairly well liked, but I know some of the guests didn’t see eye to eye about a variety of things.”

  “I’m told there was a confrontation in Helsinki between your group and the Floridians about seating in the outdoor market. Could someone in your group have taken exception to having his chair stolen from beneath him and gotten even with Mr. Manning?”

  “No! That was just a minor blip on the radar. I’m sure my group forgot all about that. Besides, Gus wasn’t in on the chair stealing. He was standing up.”

  Officer Vitikkohuhta scanned his notes, his expression tightening. “There was ill will between August Manning and Mr. and Mrs. Barnum. The deceased apparently found the couple distasteful, and they resented him for it. You were aware of that?”

  He already knew? Relief flooded through me—I wouldn’t have to be a stool pigeon. “Joleen mentioned a slight personality conflict earlier today.”

  “Mr. Manning and Reno O’Brien were seen arguing outside the Sami lodge. Did you witness that?”

  “I saw them, but I don’t know what they were so ticked off about. I thought they were good friends.”

  He flipped to a dog-eared page and read his notes aloud. “Mr. Manning apparently made a derogatory comment about a Boston team never being able to win a World Series, and Mr. O’Brien took exception to it. Something about a curse.”

  “Curse of the Bambino,” I informed him. “It’s a baseball thing. Dinosaurs will make a comeback before the Red Sox ever win the pennant.”

  “Mr. O’Brien is an expert in strangulation techniques, but an ex-policeman would never kill someone using a method he knew so much about,” he theorized. “It would be far too obvious. In fact, someone might be trying to frame Mr. O’Brien by making it look as if only he could have committed the murders. I believe this is what you call a red herring.”

  Or a con job.

  “Your group dislikes Lauretta and Curtis Klick because of their disturbing predictions, and they’re unhappy with April and June Peabody because watching the sisters eat apparently gives everyone heartburn.”

  My, my, my. People had certainly been chatty with this guy.

  “But the revelation I find most interesting is that several of your Floridians serve on the board of directors of their retirement community, and now two of them are dead. Do you know what this means, Ms. Andrew?”

  “Someone is targeting board members?”

  “It means there is a killer in your midst and until we are able to identify him, you should assume that all guests are in danger.”

  “Even if we’re not on the board?”

  “Membership on the board might be coincidental.”

  “Even if we don’t live in Florida?”

  “Until we discover a motive, you are all at risk.”

  So even if the Klicks were wrong and the world didn’t end, we still might not make it to the end of the trip. Nice. On the upside, at least I wouldn’t have to hold my wedding reception in a livestock auction barn. “Are you planning to assign a special detail to protect us while you look for the murderer?”

  His mouth widened into a grin. “We are not that kind of police force. Perhaps you are thinking of the Swiss Guard?” He placed a sheet of plain white paper and a pen on the blotter and indicated that I should slide my chair up to the desk. “Would you mind providing me with a sample of your handwriting, Ms. Andrew?” He placed another paper on the blotter.

  I eyed the typewritten text. “This is what you want me to write? ‘Twenty-five bottles of beer on the wall. Meet me in St. Louis. Take me out to the ball game. East side, west side, all around the town. Sixty minutes, a news magazine.’” I frowned. “You do realize this last sentence has never been set to music?”

  “If you would please copy all five sentences, then you will be free to leave.”

  Had they found a note on Gus’s body? Something written by the killer? Was that the reason I was being asked to copy pre-1950 song lyrics?

  “How long does it take for handwriting samples to be analyzed?” I asked when I handed the paper back to him.

  “Longer than it takes to provide the sample. Just one more formality, Ms. Andrew. Would you please hold out your hands, palms up? Thank you. And now turn them over? Very good. Please understand that I’m required to do this with everyone.”

  “I don’t suppose you could tell me if you ran across anyone with fresh scratch marks.”

  “You’re quite right. I can’t tell you.” He nodded politely. “Officer Hamalainen should be just outside the office. He’ll escort you to the lecture hall.”

  “Can you at least tell me how you managed to pump so much information out of people in such a short amount of time? The policeman in Helsinki wasn’t nearly as successful.”

  He looked embarrassed. “I would like to take credit for superior interrogation techniques, but the truth is that most guests were not very forthcoming. I didn’t hit the mother lode until a woman with a voice like a rusty pipe walked through the door and underwent a system dump. I would almost guess she was retired CIA or FBI, or perhaps had watched too many James Bond movies.”

  I sighed. “Was her name Bernice Zwerg?”

  He consulted the same dog-eared page on his notepad before regarding me in astonishment. “How did you know?”

  “‘Take me to St. Louis in twenty-five minutes,’” said Osmond, reading from the inside cover of a candy wrapper.

  “You can’t get to St. Louis that fast,” objected Dick Stolee. “The Atlantic Ocean gets in the way.”

  “Maybe it’s written in code,” suggested Lucille Rassmuson.

  “Is there a St. Louis in Lapland?” asked Alice. “Does anyone have a map?”

  The lecture hall was set up amphitheater style, with bright overhead lighting, comfortable theater seats, and collapsible desktops for note taking. Annika and Helge were conspicuously absent, but the Floridians were spread out across the lower tier of seats, the majority of them slumped over their desktops, snoring. My Iowans hung out in the nosebleed section, scribbling on trash. I curled up in the seat next to Osmond, wondering if he’d invented a new version of charades. “Is this a private party or can anyone join?”

  “Did that policeman ask you for a writing sample?” Dick Teig asked me as he pressed an ice pack to the nose that still bore the imprint of April Peabody’s purse.

  I nodded. “Five sentences, four of them song lyrics.”

  “And they didn’t make no sense,” said Nana, “so we’re guessin’ the strangler wrote Gus a note usin’ some a them words, and we’re tryin’ to figure out what it mighta said. Could give us a clue about who done it.”

  “I had the same thought!” Which suddenly terrified me. Uff-da, I was thinking like a septuagenarian. That couldn’t be good.

  “Who wrote that one?” Dick Teig asked Osmond.

  Osmond scrutinized the candy wrapper. “Can’t tell. I don’t recognize the writing.”

  I glanced anxiously at Nana. Was it hers? Had her handwriting deteriorated even more? Maybe I needed t
o get her to a doctor.

  Osmond read the next one off a wrinkled tissue. “‘Take twenty-five bottles of beer to me in sixty minutes.’”

  “That one is stupid,” sniped Bernice. “It doesn’t have a destination.”

  “It does so,” Dick Teig chortled. “My mouth!”

  He and Dick Stolee dissolved into laughter as Tilly raised her walking stick and thwacked it against her desktop, sending a loud crack through the room.

  “Quiet in back!” a startled Floridian yelled. “You got something against sleep?”

  Tilly nodded to Osmond. “If you would be so good as to read the next entry,” she instructed, her gaze frosty as she eyed the Dicks. “If this were South America, you’d be pirhana bait.”

  Dick Teig’s ice pack flopped onto the floor, which sent both Dicks into another fit of laughter.

  Poor guys. They were so tired they were even more punchy than normal. But it was after midnight. Who could blame them?

  Osmond waited for silence before reading from a small pink envelope. “‘Meet me on the east side in twenty minutes.’”

  Eyebrows lifted. Heads nodded. “I like that one,” Margi commented. “It sounds like something a real murderer would write.” Her eyes widened as she surveyed the group. “Gee, do you think one of us killed him?”

  Suspicious stares darted all around before Bernice crowed with laughter. “Duh? If one of us had killed him, the note wouldn’t have said east.”

  “Why not?” asked Lucille.

  “I know!” George said with sudden excitement. “Because the body was found on the west side of the lodge. No homegrown Iowan would make a mistake like that.”

  “So whoever wrote the note doesn’t know east from west?” asked Helen.

  Dick Teig slapped his thigh. “That eliminates all of us. Guess none of us killed the guy.”