EQMM, May 2012

by Dell Magazine Authors

  * * * *

  Salamander was sitting in her seven-by-thirteen-foot cell when Tonsoffun unlocked the cell door and told her that she had a visitor. She curled into a ball on her cot and shoved her hands between her knees. “A visitor?”

  Tonsoffun nodded. “Your reporter friend.”

  Jerker Two-Timing Rhindtwist. “Tell him I don't want to talk to him.”

  Tonsoffun lied. “You have no choice, Froken Salamander. It's a CCPVCD court order.”

  Salamander said she didn't care if it was by order of His Majesty Carl XVI Gustaf himself; she wouldn't talk with Rhindtwist, no matter what. Nosy Selfish Pig.

  Tonsoffun laid a large hand gently on the girl's shoulder. “Please talk with Herr Rhindtwist. You need someone to get you out of this mess and he's your last, best chance.”

  Last, best chance? Salamander was surprised by her reaction to this authority figure and his plea, and took his hand and pulled herself to her feet. “Okay, Tonsoffun. Five minutes. No more.”

  * * * *

  Monday, July 7

  Inspektor Tonsoffun nodded to Manfred von Otter.

  Gedda's lawyer nodded back.

  Tonsoffun turned on his tape recorder. “Monday, July seventh, two thousand nine; oh-eight-fifteen hours. VCD confiscation protocol for Olaf Gedda. Library, mahogany desk, bottom drawer. One Jenni Bick leather fly-fishing log, one photograph album, size A-four, three Manila folders, one marked PERSONAL, one marked WILL, one PARTNERSHIP.”

  * * * *

  Tuesday, July 8

  Sipping a fresh cup of coffee, Rhindtwist asked, “What did you learn from von Otter?”

  “That your wacky friend stands to inherit twenty billion kronor,” Noonesson said. “What more do you need?”

  “Some more evidence, Nils,” Tonsoffun answered and looked at Rhindtwist. “We learned that there are at least two other people who would profit from Herr Gedda's death.”

  Rhindtwist opened a spiral notebook and pulled a BIC Select ballpoint pen from the breast pocket of the denim work shirt that he wore outside his light brown wide-wale corduroy trousers from Orvis. “Names?”

  “There's really only one,” Noonesson said.

  Tonsoffun shot Noonesson one of his familiar dark looks. “She's not alone. Paulsson inherits five billion.”

  “Whoa!” Rhindtwist said.

  “Whoa, is right.” Tonsoffun said, and went on to say that he'd added Gunnar Hakanson to his list. “Hakanson was Gedda's minority partner. Their agreement states that the business passes to him upon Gedda's death. What's more, he's complained to von Otter on a number of occasions that his twenty-five percent share didn't fairly represent what he brought to the table.”

  Rhindtwist wrote three names on his pad, and then a fourth: Salamander, Paulsson, Hakanson, von Otter.

  He punctuated each with a finger on his right hand. “So you've got Salamander, Paulsson, and Hakanson. Anyone else?”

  Tonsoffun shook his head.

  Noonesson shook his head too. “Get a grip! We've got the murderer locked up. It's an open-and-shut case.”

  “I don't think so, Nils,” Rhindtwist said, and turned to Tonsoffun. “Mind if I talk with your new suspects and von Otter?”

  “Be my guest,” Tonsoffun said.

  Noonesson shook his head again. “You're wasting your time.”

  * * * *

  Wednesday, July 9

  At eleven the following morning, Rhindtwist walked towards Dontgivadamm on Garbogatan and turned up the steep cobblestone street on his left and climbed until he located 22 Haagen-Dazs, where he was greeted by Manfred von Otter, who, at six-six, towered over him. “Come in,” he said, and smiled a toothy smile. “I assume you know that I've told the authorities everything I know so I hope this is worth your while.”

  Rhindtwist addressed von Otter formally. “Just a few questions, advokat, for clarification more than anything else.”

  “It's Manfred, please,” von Otter said. “So where should we begin?”

  “We could begin with coffee,” Rhindtwist said.

  “I should have guessed,” von Otter said and poured two cups from a thermos carafe on his credenza. Once seated, von Otter appeared to feel in charge and asked how he could help.

  “I assume you drew up Herr Gedda's will,” Rhindtwist said.

  “Of course.”

  “I'm told it includes bequests of twenty billion kronor for Gotilda Salamander and five billion for Henrik Paulsson.”

  Von Otter sighed. “The girl also gets a life membership in the Scandinavian Lunkersklubb and Henrik gets the small cottage he's lived in for the past twenty or so years.” He paused. “May I call you Jerker?”

  “Of course.”

  Von Otter smiled and leaned forward. “Jerker, you must understand that there's a distinction between drawing up a will and counseling a client about its contents. Some of these bequests represented one of many areas in which Olaf and I disagreed, respectfully, of course. The most egregious was his gift to that gold-digging girl.” He sighed. “I advised against leaving her a cent. Good God, man, what was he thinking leaving her twenty billion kronor? And a membership in the Lunkersklubb? A total sham! The minute Olaf turned his back on her she put down her fly rod and fished with a worm.” He drew a breath to compose himself. “The cottage for Henrik was my idea but, even with that, Olaf preferred his overly generous lump-sum gift to my suggestion of a modest yearly stipend.”

  “Hmm.” Rhindtwist sipped his coffee. “Sounds like prudent lawyerly advice to me.”

  A self-satisfied smile crept across von Otter's face.

  Rhindtwist asked where the rest of Gedda's fortune would go. “The answer is simple: to charities. Twenty-five billion in total. Trout Unlimited will be the primary beneficiary with ten billion. But there are many others like Save the Children, Pearl S. Buck International, and many small organizations no one's ever heard of.”

  “He certainly was a generous man,” Rhindtwist said, “which takes me back to Paulsson and Salamander. Do you think the butler did it?”

  “Certainly not!” von Otter said. “Henrik was very fond of Olaf and wanted for absolutely nothing financially.”

  “What about his relationship with Salamander?”

  Von Otter chuckled. “Let's just say Henrik isn't interested in women.”

  “Hmm. Was he interested, as you put it, in Herr Gedda?”

  Von Otter chuckled again. “No, but no matter. Olaf was too busy fishing with the crazy girl.”

  “Could Paulsson have been jealous of Salamander?”

  “I strongly doubt it.”

  “So you've concluded that it must have been Salamander?”

  “No question about it.”

  “You're sure there could be no one else?” Rhindtwist asked. “What about Herr Gedda's business partner?”

  “I'm afraid you're grasping at straws, Jerker. Gunnar Hakanson's extremely wealthy in his own right. Besides, he was in Finland when Olaf was murdered. That's where I reached him with the sad news.”

  “On his mobile?”

  Von Otter nodded and asked if there was anything else he could do to help.

  “One more question,” Rhindtwist said as he stared into his coffee. “Do you own a gun?”

  Von Otter straightened in his chair. “Jerker, I am a man of the law but, because you asked, yes, I used to own a pistol. It was stolen a couple of years ago. It's a matter of record.”

  “And you didn't replace it?”

  “I abhor violence, especially after what happened to Anna Lindh.* I don't even kill a trout for breakfast anymore and I can assure you that takes a lot of self-discipline.”

  [*Anna Lindh was one of Sweden's most popular politicians, serving as a Member of Parliament, Deputy Mayor of Stockholm, Minister for the Environment, and, finally, Minister of Foreign Affairs from 1998-2003 when she was knifed to death while shopping at the Nordiska Kompaniet department store in Stockholm. At the time of her assassination she was not protected by the Sw
edish Security Service.]

  The two men stood and Rhindtwist thanked von Otter for his time. In turn, Von Otter offered to do anything he could to help.

  * * * *

  Outside 22 Haagen-Dazs Rhindtwist checked his watch. He had an hour before meeting with Paulsson. He walked down the hill, crossed Garbogatan and wound his way along the side streets parallel to Woebegatan until he could turn up Anita Ekberg Gata to the Burger King, where he ordered a Double Whopper with fries and a Coke Light.

  A little before one he parked his silver 2003 Volvo S60 sedan in front of a small thatched-roof cottage that overlooked the Ljusnan River. Henrik Paulsson, a tall, fifty-two-year-old man with a prominent potbelly, stood in the doorway of the cottage and waved at Rhindtwist to come in.

  Inside the cottage's small living room Paulsson offered Rhindtwist a seat. Two espressos sat on a silver tray on the coffee table. Paulsson handed one to Rhindtwist and, as he sat, said, “You understand, Herr Rhindtwist, this will be a very unhappy, difficult conversation for me.”

  “I understand,” Rhindtwist said. “To start, if it's not too difficult, can you tell me about the morning you discovered Herr Gedda?”

  “I am a very disciplined man,” Paulsson began. “Set in my ways, one might say. I arrive at the mansion house every morning except Sundays—my day off—at eight to prepare Herr Gedda's breakfast. You can set your watch by it, some have said. On the Friday of the tragedy I sensed something was wrong. It took me a moment before I realized that I hadn't been greeted by Herr Gedda's customary, ‘That you, Henrik?’ and began calling and looking for him. He was nowhere to be seen in the house so I checked the garden. . . .”

  Rhindtwist told him to take his time.

  “I found him by one of the rose beds.” Paulsson began to cry and drew a handkerchief from his pants pocket. “He loved his roses almost as much as he loved his rainbow trout. It was their colors that pleased him so.” He wiped his nose and refolded his handkerchief. “I'm sorry. I will get through this.” He cleared his throat. “Herr Gedda was lying facedown in a pool of blood.”

  “I know this isn't easy for you, Henrik,” Rhindtwist said, “but was Herr Gedda usually out of bed before you arrived?”

  “Always. He was what some would call a morning person. It was the happiest time of the day for him. If he didn't go fishing, he read and drank the coffee that I'd set for him the night before, or worked in his garden.”

  “Who else knew of this routine?”

  “Everyone close to him.” Paulsson smiled. “In his first meeting of the morning Herr Gedda would jokingly boast that while his guests had been sleeping he'd already caught a trout for breakfast or finished a book or clipped a beautiful bouquet of flowers.”

  “Hmm,” Rhindtwist said. “And who was close enough to him to know this?”

  “Gotilda, Herr Hakanson, and Herr von Otter.” Paulsson paused and added, rather proudly, “And, of course, me.”

  “No one else?”

  “I don't think so. Herr Gedda was a very private man. Those close to him were like his family.”

  Rhindtwist was silent for a moment. “Going back to that Friday morning, was there anything odd about how you found Herr Gedda? Did it look like there'd been a struggle?”

  Paulsson shook his head. “I can't think of anything, but of course I was so shocked by what I'd found . . .”

  Rhindtwist smiled a comforting smile. “I understand, but what about the bucket of worms?”

  Paulsson shrugged and looked away.

  “Did Herr Gedda often dig in his garden for worms? I thought he was a fly fisherman.”

  “I'm afraid I can't answer that question.”

  “But certainly you would have known,” Rhindtwist said, sensing that he'd touched upon a nerve.

  “It was Gotilda's bucket, not Herr Gedda's,” Paulsson mumbled. “I can't add anything more.”

  “Did she have a routine like yours?”

  He nodded. “But she rarely showed up until ten or a little after.”

  Rhindtwist smiled again to have Paulsson lower his guard. “Did you hear a shot that morning?”

  “I may have, but, as you can see, my cottage is a thousand meters from the mansion house. The sounds I heard could have been a backfire.”

  “A backfire?”

  “When she isn't riding her motorcycle, Gotilda drives to work in an old Volkswagen Beetle that backfires a lot. I thought perhaps she'd arrived early for some reason.”

  “Hmm,” Rhindtwist said. “And was she there when you found Herr Gedda?”

  Paulsson sighed. “I can't say for sure.”

  “So I take it you can't tell the difference between a shot and a backfire?”

  “I'm afraid not,” Paulsson said. “In this country, hunting is the province of the wealthy.”

  “I understand,” Rhindtwist said. “Tell me, what was Herr Gedda's relationship with Gotilda?”

  Paulsson flinched. “She took care of his financial and computer tasks and they spent a lot of time fishing together.”

  “What I'm asking is, were they romantically involved?”

  Paulsson stood and moved to the window and looked out over the river. “You'll have to ask her. I was Herr Gedda's butler, not his priest.”

  “Well put, Henrik,” Rhindtwist said. “Only a couple more questions. Did you know that you were in Herr Gedda's will?”

  Paulsson returned to his chair and said he did.

  “When did Herr Gedda tell you?”

  “He didn't. Herr von Otter did.” A dark look crossed Paulsson's face. “He also said that Gotilda is in the will. Is that true?”

  Rhindtwist nodded.

  “For twenty billion kronor?”

  Rhindtwist nodded again. “When did von Otter tell you this? Before or after Herr Gedda was murdered?”

  Paulsson put his hand to his mouth and muttered, “Sometime in the spring.”

  “Do you have any idea why he told you?”

  “I think he was, one might say, disappointed that Herr Gedda hadn't followed his advice and was disturbed by the amount Gotilda was to receive.” Paulsson leaned back in his chair. “Her membership in the Lunkersklubb bothered him as well. You must understand that Herr von Otter is a purist in every sense of the word. He disapproves of fishing with anything but a fly and suspects that, on occasion, the girl fishes with a worm.”

  “And how do you feel about all of this?”

  “About fishing with a worm? I couldn't care less.”

  “I understand,” Rhindtwist said. “I'm asking about the twenty billion kronor.”

  Paulsson sighed. “How would you feel? Twenty-two years of loyal service versus her three and she receives quadruple the financial gratitude that I do? It simply isn't fair. There has to be more to it than meets the eye.”

  “It does raise some questions,” Rhindtwist said, and shook Paulsson's hand and said goodbye.

  As Rhindtwist walked to his car, Paulsson called to him. “I watch Inspektor Wallander on TV and know that the motive's the thing. I'd think 20 billion kronor would lead almost anyone astray.”

  Rhindtwist wanted to tell Paulsson that five billion kronor, damn near 750 million U.S. dollars, wasn't exactly chump change, but he simply waved and climbed into his silver Volvo sedan. With friends like you, Henrik, he thought, Gotilda doesn't stand a chance.

  Thursday, July 10

  Rhindtwist thought it was an interesting turn of the worm that a man of Gunnar Hakanson's eminence would say he planned to be at the Friskis & Svettis gym and could walk over to Umlaut Magazine's office at about eight-thirty, if that wasn't too early. As a result, Rhindtwist and Uggla arrived at eight to make sure coffee was brewing.

  At eight-thirty sharp, an athletically built man dressed in a shiny navy track suit and wearing a pair of red, white, and black Nike Michael Vick Trainers pushed open the door on Fiskgartan, not far from Kukiejargatan, and called, “Jerker, you here? It's Gunnar.”

  Not Gunnar Hakanson, just Gunnar. Not Jerker
Rhindtwist, just Jerker. Rhindtwist was surprised and impressed.

  Uggla smoothed her skirt over her broad hips, pulled her sweater down to emphasize her perky knockers, and fluffed her dyed blond hair as she hurried to greet their visitor. She introduced herself as the managing editor. Her face flushed when Hakanson raised an eyebrow and said, “That's a big job for someone as young as you.”

  Conveniently, she caught one of her high heels in a hole in the carpet and stumbled into his muscular arms. For a moment neither spoke and then Uggla slowly pushed away and showed him to Rhindtwist's office, where she brought them each a coffee, gave Hakanson a coquettish smile, and quietly shut the door behind her as she left.

  Hakanson raised his cup as though he were making a toast. “That's one well-built editor you've got there, old sport. Dipping your pen in the old company inkwell, are you?”

  Rhindtwist shook his head. “Let's get down to business.”

  “It's your krona,” Hakanson said.

  “Let's start with how you learned of Herr Gedda's death.”

  “I got a call from von Otter.”

  “Go on.”

  “What does ‘go on’ mean?” Hakanson said.

  Rhindtwist sighed. “When he called. Where you were. Things like that.”

  Hakanson sighed. “Manfred called me around noon. He reached me in Helsinki. I returned to Stockholm that afternoon.” He sipped his coffee and forced a smile. “That's all there is to it.”

  “How long were you in Helsinki?”

  “One night,” Hakanson said. “A business quickie.”

  “Where did you stay?”

  Hakanson seemed irritated. “Where I always stay.”

  “And that would be?”

  “The Hotel Kamp,” Hakanson said. “You should try it sometime. It's very nice, but maybe a bit pricey for a journalist.”

  Rhindtwist smiled a pained smile. “Apparently you're quite a sportsman. Do you hunt and fish?”

  “Olaf tried to get me interested in fishing, but I'm afraid I don't have the patience for it. I like to go after things, not wait for them to come to me.”

  “So you hunt?”

  “It's a passion of mine,” Hakanson said. “Capercaillie and black grouse, as well as elk.”

  “And you own a gun?”