Norway to Hide

by Maddy Hunter

  Lauretta popped out of her chair, trembling with righteous indignation. “If you were a God-fearing man, Reno O’Brien, you wouldn’t be so quick to mock us. Repent before it’s too late. Repent lest you be condemned to the everlasting fires of Hell for all eternity!”

  “I plan on finishing this trip,” Bernice called out, “but not with these nutcases. Send the Floridians home! One of them’s a killer. Why should us Iowans have to spend our vacation worrying about getting strangled, when you can send the nut jobs home and take care of the problem real easy?”

  That brought June Peabody to her feet. “She’s only saying that because she’s still ticked off about the seat-saving business in Helsinki. You should send the Iowans home. They hold grudges!”

  “You should talk!” Dick Teig ejected himself from his seat like a fighter pilot whose plane had been hit. “Your sister tried to kill me yesterday. Look what she did to my face!”

  Two black eyes. Swollen nose. Bruised cheeks. The poor guy looked like a member of the eggplant family.

  “She tried to kill me, too,” Curtis piped up, “only I was smart enough to duck.”

  “Are you saying my Dick isn’t smart?” demanded Helen. “Hey, Shorty, we’re not the dummies who forked out eight thousand bucks to see the world end. If we’d known that was going to happen, we’d have stayed home and seen it for nothing!”

  “Send them home,” barked Bernice.

  “Send them home,” countered April. “If they weren’t here, I bet the killing would stop.”

  Annika stepped to the podium. “Due to the unfortunate circumstances surrounding this tour, the head office has issued a temporary policy change. Since your patronage is so important to us, Midnight Sun Adventures is prepared to refund the entire cost of your package, plus provide discount vouchers redeemable on your next Midnight Sun adventure. So you may leave now without penalty.”

  Whistles. Hoots. Clapping.

  “Oh, sure,” crowed Bernice. “Give us a chance to hang ourselves, why don’t you? The minute we volunteer to leave, you’ll be all over us. Just because we’re old doesn’t mean we’re brain dead. If we opt to leave, it’s as good as admitting we’re guilty. What killer isn’t going to want to be a billion miles away from the scene of the crimes?”

  Bernice was addicted to C-Span, so she was good at making rhetorical hash out of any issue.

  “That is not the case,” Annika said nervously, indicating that it actually might be the case. “Mrs. Barnum has indicated a desire to leave. Is there anyone else who would care to join her?”

  Joleen raised her hand less enthusiastically. “If it’s all the same to you, I’m thinking I might not want to leave after all.”

  “Very well,” said Annika. “Anyone else?”

  An uncomfortable silence filled the room as the Floridians sat on their hands, trying to look nonchalant.

  “So you all want to continue?”

  Nods. Murmurs. Head bobbing.

  “Nice way to deal with undesirables,” quipped Dick Teig, slapping Bernice’s back. “Convince ’em to come with us.”

  “Do the Iowans also wish to continue?” asked Annika.

  “We’re Norwegian,” Margi Swanson said proudly, “so there’s no way you’re going to keep us from seeing the motherland, especially if the world’s about to end.”

  “It is agreed then?” asked Annika. “No one from Emily’s group chooses to depart?”

  “Me and Dick were talking at the police station this morning,” Dick Stolee spoke up, “and we figure we’re pretty safe. They’re not killing us. They’re only killing each other.”

  Oh, yeah, that was a big comfort.

  “How are you handling Gus’s body?” Vern Grundy spoke up. “What happens to him once we leave?”

  Officer Vitikkohuhta took over the microphone. “His body will remain here until we notify his family and arrangements can be made to transport his remains back to the States.”

  “Who are you going to notify?” asked Reno. “Gus didn’t have family.”

  “He had a sister,” Vitikkohuhta informed us. “I have been unable to speak to her directly yet, but I have left a message.”

  “He never told anyone he had a sister,” Reno puzzled. “I wonder why she never came to visit?”

  Vitikkohuhta shrugged. “She was listed on his tour form as next of kin.”

  My brain kicked into overdrive. “Could you tell us her name?” I called out.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Andrew, but as you are all aware, the information on the tour form is confidential. When I speak with her, I’ll ask permission to share her name with your group.”

  “Maybe he had a falling out with her,” suggested Vern. “Would have been nice to meet her. You suppose she was the wordsmith that Gus was?”

  I didn’t know if she was a wordsmith, but for some illogical reason, I’d bet her name was May.

  “Are we free to leave now, Officer?” asked Vern. “Annika might be too polite to say, but we have a schedule to maintain.”

  “About our schedule.” Annika looked apologetic. “I have had to make a slight adjustment. Instead of leaving today as planned, we will remain in Saariselka and head out early tomorrow morning in time to board the Norwegian coastal steamer before its departure from Kirkenes at thirteen hundred hours.”

  “What about the lunch we were supposed to have today with the Eastern Sami family?” complained June. “The brochure said they were going to serve several courses of their traditional food.”

  “What about the iron ore mines?” asked Osmond. “I even brought a magnet along to see if it would stick to some of the scrap ore.”

  “Are you telling us we won’t be stopping at the Grenseland Museum?” Vern grumbled. “That’s the only reason I’m on this tour. It’s supposed to have the finest collection of World War II artifacts anywhere in Scandinavia.”

  “There are resistance museums in many of the port towns,” Annika assured him. “They are not the Grenseland, but I promise you will not be disappointed with their exhibits.”

  “Why do we have to sit in this hellhole for another day?” Bernice demanded.

  “Because I still have unfinished police business to attend to,” said Vitikkohuhta. “Would the group from Florida kindly file out to the parking lot and board the waiting bus?”

  “Where are you taking us?” asked Joleen.

  “Will we be back in time for lunch?” inquired April.

  Vitikkohuhta allowed himself a tight smile. “We are going to Ivalo, where you will do me the honor of providing me with your fingerprints.”

  I leaned back in my seat and smiled. Hot damn! He got my brain waves.

  “We already gave you writing samples,” fussed Jimbob. “Why do you need our fingerprints?”

  “Because even though you depart for Norway in the morning, you have not outwitted me. Our extradition laws with our neighbor to the west are very favorable, so do not be too quick to congratulate yourselves.” He paused, his gaze touching every face in the room. “You can run, but you cannot hide.”

  CHAPTER 12

  “During the war, the town was occupied by one hundred thousand invading Nazi troops, who were bombed almost daily by the Russian military.” Helge spoke with emotion as we motored down a quiet residential street in Kirkenes late the next morning. “After the war, only forty buildings remained standing. The rest of the town was reduced to rubble.”

  Just like Windsor City.

  “How far away is the Russian border?” Vern Grundy called out.

  “Fifteen kilometers. Kirkenes is essentially a lawn ornament on Russia’s front yard.”

  We’d departed Saariselka in the wee hours and driven straight through to Norway, not stopping for our usual midmorning snack, so I was starving.

  “The two-level homes on your left were pre-built in Sweden in 1945 and paid for with funds provided by your American Marshall Plan. They were erected quickly for immediate occupancy and originally housed four families, but they hav
e since been completely remodeled and converted to two-family homes.”

  The houses were as square as Rubik’s cubes, severely plain, and crowded together like Boston brownstones. They were landscaped with only an occasional fence, bush, or tree, and painted an array of high-gloss colors that were apparently the rage in Norway: caramel, butterscotch, candy apple, and Grey Poupon. My stomach growled as we passed one that was painted like a giant Sta-Puf marshmallow.

  Yup. High gloss paint was definitely more appetizing than brick.

  “How come so many folks paint their houses red?” asked Lucille Rassmuson. “We don’t see much red in Iowa. We’re not comfortable drawing that much attention to ourselves.”

  “Are they red?” Helge did a double take out the window. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “That is so like a guy,” Jackie whispered beside me. “The only time they notice color is when it’s attached to a pair of breasts.”

  “You noticed color when you were a guy,” I reminded her.

  She patted my thigh. “That should have been your first clue that something was wrong.”

  Downtown Kirkenes could easily have passed for Hometown USA. Wide boulevards. Attractive storefronts. Automatic teller machines. Sidewalk planters overflowing with colorful summer flowers.

  “When we arrive at the coastal steamer terminal, please make sure that your luggage is offloaded from the bus before you board the ship,” Helge cautioned. “You may then proceed to the reception desk on the gangway deck to receive your cabin assignments and key cards, and then to deck four, where your luncheon buffet will be served. Annika and I regret that today’s itinerary had to be canceled, but we thought it more critical that you arrive in Kirkenes on time so you could begin the sea portion of your tour.”

  “Do you suppose the ship offers manicure services?” Jackie asked me as she gave her nails a critical look. “I’m tired of fluorescent pink. I think I need something more subdued, like Purple People Eater or Green Tambourine.”

  “I thought you weren’t speaking to me.”

  “Damn. I keep forgetting. Sorry.” She stared out the window, fidgeting for a half minute before turning back to me. “Emily, you know when a girl says she’s not talking to you? How long does the not-talking part usually last?”

  “It’s killing you, isn’t it?”

  “I’m such a failure!” she sobbed. “I’m so far behind the learning curve, I’ll never catch up to the rest of you. I don’t understand any of the nuances, Emily. If a girl gets mad at you, she’s supposed to act snotty and tell you she’s not speaking to you. If a guy gets mad, he lets the air out of your tires, drinks all your Bud Light, and hides the remote control. It’s over and done with! Doesn’t that make more sense? Why do women have to threaten the no-speaking thing?”

  I shrugged. “It’s part of our software package.”

  “Do you know why guys never threaten to use the silent treatment? Because they don’t get a word in edgewise most of the time anyway, so no one would ever notice.”

  I was impressed with her insight. “My dad hasn’t spoken for years. Well, other than, ‘Mornin’, ’ ‘Evenin’, ’ and ‘How’s it goin’?’ My mom must be hearing voices in her head, because she sometimes scolds him for hogging the conversation. Dad is master of the opportune moment. A couple of well-placed words can sound like a whole lot more.”

  “I’ll never get the hang of it,” Jackie sniffed. “I’ve thought about therapy.”

  “Therapy might work.”

  “But who do I see? A man or a woman? If I don’t choose right, the damage could be irreparable.”

  “Where’s that famous confidence of yours, Jack? You have a degree in theater arts. You’ve appeared on Broadway. You’re a natural! Trust me, with a little practice, you, too, can turn into a bitch of some renown.”

  “Really? You’re not just saying that to make me feel good?”

  “Let’s try it again. You’re not speaking to me: what do you do?”

  She lifted her nose into the air, turned away coyly, and regarded downtown Kirkenes for nearly a minute before heaving a sigh. “Screw it.” Fisting her hands on her hips, she turned back. “So exactly when were you planning to tell me about the change in your wedding plans?”

  “I didn’t tell you?”

  “No, you didn’t tell me. I felt so out in left field when Mrs. S. started talking about it at the jail. We’re roomies. Best friends. How could you leave me out of the loop?”

  “Oh, my God, no wonder you weren’t speaking to me. I thought I told you. I know I meant to. It’s all my fault. I was totally not thinking. I’m so sorry!”

  “Well…” She softened her voice and lowered her gaze. “I suppose you have been a little distracted by weather disasters and dead bodies. And you haven’t seen much of me because of my stint in jail. Oh, my God, Emily, it’s not your fault at all. It’s mine. I’m so sorry!” She flung herself at me, sobbing. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  “That’s perfect, Jack! See? You’re getting it. Women always blame themselves for all the bad stuff that happens.”

  “Really?” She straightened up and executed a dainty clap. “I should document this. An honest-to-goodness female reaction.” She paused thoughtfully. “Do you think I’m getting some of this through osmosis?”

  We passed through a chain-link security fence that enclosed the port facilities and followed the designated road around the parking lot. “And I want you to know that I’m going to give your mother all the help she needs with the alternate wedding plans, Emily. What a nightmare she’s been handed, with your gown under rubble and your invitations ending up in Kansas City.”

  “They probably blew north rather than south.”

  “With your invitations ending up in Milwaukee. Will you give me her phone number so we can kibitz? Can you imagine what incredible ideas the two of us will be able to come up with?”

  God help me.

  “She doesn’t still hate me, does she?”

  “She never hated you, Jack.”

  “She could never remember my name. What would you call that? Oh, never mind. Do you have any romantic beaches around Windsor City? Something with a gazebo and palm trees?”

  “We have Monsoon Lagoon Water Park.”

  “Hmm. That could work. Does it have a slide?”

  We slowed to a stop on the asphalt, and our driver cut the engine.

  “And Emily, you don’t even have to ask me to stand in for your poor, crippled maid of honor. I gladly volunteer to be your second choice. And I’ve already been thinking about a color scheme for my gown. Picture this for an autumn wedding: a floral pattern that combines pumpkin, mustard, and a dash of zucchini on a leaf lettuce background.”

  “Are you thinking bridesmaid gown or salad bar at Pizza Hut?”

  “Ooo, how about a crinoline? We’ll look like Southern belles at a garden party! How do you feel about that?”

  I stood up as the door whooshed open. “How do you feel about flannel?”

  The MS Nordmarken was cruise ship sleek for a working steamer that delivered cargo and passengers up and down the coast of Norway. However, there were no private balconies, no signs of water slides or miniature golf courses, no glass-enclosed fitness rooms overlooking the bow. There were plenty of lifeboats attached to the upper decks, which were painted the same neon orange as the rope I’d found tied around August Manning’s neck.

  I shivered as my cell phone went off.

  “Emily, darling, where are you? Are you able to talk? I have your information.”

  “Etienne! I’m at the steamer port waiting for my luggage to be offloaded from the bus, and I think—Yup, there it is.” I watched the driver remove my tapestry roll-away from the cargo bay and set it on the asphalt. “So what did you find out?” I retreated to a less crowded area of the parking lot, where a trio of hikers with backpacks and bedrolls were tossing around a Frisbee.

  “Joleen and Jimbob Barnum. Jimbob is a descendant of P. T. Barnum and, due to a fam
ily trust, is a man of considerable means.”

  Wow. Nana had been right. “How considerable?”

  “The article I read referred to him as ‘independently wealthy.’ He and his wife are retired circus performers. Or more correctly, Jimbob was a contortionist par excellence who performed in the main ring under the Big Top, and Joleen was part of the accompanying sideshow, appearing as both the Bearded Lady and the Fat Lady.”

  “You’re kidding. Joleen used to be fat? She isn’t anymore.”

  “Perhaps she is one of the millions of Americans who has discovered Weight Watchers. Your Barnums have established a foundation that makes it possible for differently abled children to attend circus performances, rodeos, and monster truck events, and for two weeks a year, Jimbob performs for all the children at St. Jude’s Hospital.”

  “They’re really community minded, aren’t they?”

  “I would characterize them more as budding philanthropists.” I heard a paper rustle on his end. “Curtis Klick. According to the records I accessed, he’s the former owner of a small business establishment called Visions.”

  “Is that like a LensCrafters?”

  “It’s like a strip club. ‘All Nude Girls All the Time.’”

  “WHAT?”

  “In Las Vegas.”

  “No way. You must have the wrong Curtis Klick. My Curtis is a pint-sized zealot who’d probably rather cut off his right arm than drink, swear, smoke, or shmooze with nudies.”

  “He was forced to close down after a patron slipped on a boa feather and sued for damages. Mr. Klick was woefully underinsured, so the patron ended up in traction and Curtis ended up in bankruptcy.”

  “I can’t believe it. Are you absolutely sure? I thought that guys who ran seamy establishments like that were—You know, like—”

  “Parasites feeding off the underbelly of society?”

  “Taller.”

  A pause. “Ah, I see. Hence the ‘small’ in the term ‘small business owner.’ You Americans can be very literal, Emily.”

  I startled as the hikers’ Frisbee swooshed onto the asphalt and skipped across my feet. “I still can’t believe that Curtis had an X-rated past,” I said, picking up the Frisbee and sailing it back to the hikers.