Nordic Nights (The Alix Thorssen Mysteries)

by Lise McClendon

  The woodstove was cold as a tomb. I bundled up some old newspaper, laid on a few splits, and lit it up. Woodstoves, although labor intensive because they are always needing hands-on fuel and careful tending, touch something basic in me. The warmth from a woodstove is like no other, except maybe mother’s warmth. The intensely personal heat from the beating of a mother’s heart: maybe that was why I’d gotten a bright red enamel stove. It had been so long since my mother held me to her breast, the woodstove would have to suffice.

  My mother. In the hospital with a broken arm, a battered leg. In pain. Should I be there, hovering? Should I be trying to get the truth out of her husband? Should I be at the gallery tending to tourists? Should I, should I…

  Sighing, I sat down in the one chair, a battered castoff with wobbly legs, faded red velvet upholstery, and curved wood arms. The heat was meager but building. Why was I here? I didn’t want to look at my paintings. Please. They were just therapy for Paolo’s passing. They had served their purpose but weren’t going to see the light of day anywhere, anytime. I couldn’t even bring myself to look at the stack under a drape in the corner.

  The fire had caught the logs, a cheery golden glow. Closing the door to the woodstove, cracking the damper, I turned to the worktable. It was clean, empty of paints and brushes, which I had taken home to keep from freezing. The oval palette was leaning against the orange window frame, smeared with color but resting. As the air warmed, the peculiar odors of the art studio trickled up my nose: the pungent oils, the piney solvents. The smells were comforting if nothing else. For a moment I closed my eyes and was reminded of Paolo, in his first gallery in the Village. Where we met. How exciting those times were, and how far away. He was gone now, and I had to trudge forward without him.

  I reached for the telephone and surprised myself by knowing the number by heart. Carl answered on the first ring.

  “Hey,” I said. “Thanks for the flowers. You have the day off?”

  “Not really. I just traded with another guy so I could take the afternoon off. I couldn’t take a whole day today.”

  I hesitated. He didn’t sound as down as he had, but a complete attitude recovery hadn’t taken place either. “It’s not going well?”

  “Oh, it’s all right. It’s me. I can’t figure out why I’m here. Do I really want to fly helicopters?”

  “Do you?”

  “I don’t know. Some days I do, some days they scare me shitless.”

  Carl scared? I tried to remember another man who admitted as much to me. “A healthy respect for helicopters seems to me to be a very smart line of thinking.” I cleared my throat. “Hey, some stuff’s been going on here I need to talk to you about.”

  “Yeah?” His voice was sharp, alert for once.

  I filled him in quickly about the fire last night, made light of my burned hand (but did mention it, in an attempt to overcome some of my dysfunctional stoic Norsky qualities), and then told him about Una’s accident.

  “What did the officer say at the scene?” he asked, police to the end.

  “What officer? Oh, I didn’t talk to anybody.”

  “Did they take a report? Was it a hit-and-run?”

  “I was so worried about Mom, I didn’t ask.”

  “Well, ask. It makes a difference, doesn’t it? Was she intentionally run down, or was somebody just careless on the ice? Did they stop and help her or leave her lying in the gutter?”

  A shudder went through me. “God, Carl.”

  “If you’re going to find out what’s going on, you have to ask, Alix.” He took a deep breath, his voice softened. “Are you all right?”

  “I don’t know.” I felt a wave of nausea flow over me and recognized it as fear. “My hand is okay. But Mom and Hank—-”

  “Goddamn it,” he spouted, startling me with his anger. “I have another four weeks here. You know I’d come, Alix.”

  “No, no, don’t come, Carl. I just needed to talk about it, get some perspective on it.” Whatever it is. “Do you think something’s going on?”

  “Hell, yes. I’d be suspicious. Hank is in the can for a murder he says he didn’t do, his boat’s torched, his wife is run down. Possibly run down,” he added for my sake. “What’s this about? Do you have any idea?”

  “I think it has to do with a set of runes. They’re Norwegian, very old. I think Hank stole them from the lady’s room where the artist was killed. Anyway, they say they’re missing.”

  “Who says?”

  “The lady, she’s a fortuneteller. And her assistant.”

  “Are they telling the truth?”

  “How the hell do I know? I don’t really believe Hank right now. He’s still covering for something or somebody, maybe himself. My brother calls him the Swedish meatball. He’s got an iron grip on some things and pretty slippery on a lot of others.”

  Carl sighed. Something creaked—bedsprings. I imagined him lying there in camouflage pants, no shirt (because of the desert heat), black hair buzzed to an air force clip, mustache trimmed neatly, muscles rippling. I kicked the damper of the woodstove closed with my foot. It was getting hot in here.

  “I wish I was closer,” he said quietly.

  “Yeah, me too. I’ll call you in the morning, okay?”

  “I’m flying in the morning. I’ll catch you later on.” We said good-bye. Sometimes I wonder whether talking to Carl is good or bad for my perspective. And I had no idea where his head was at. I shut down the stove and stepped back out into the snowy alley, the moisture on my cheeks freezing instantly. Hell, at least it was warm where he was.

  A dozen tinkling bells rang as I pushed open the door at Cosmic Connie’s. The smell of incense, that old standby patchouli, lay heavy in the air. The lighting was low: gooseneck lamps over the bead counters, a fan with lights with purple paper shades, a rose-colored fringed lamp by a plump, overstuffed chair. That’s where I found Connie herself, curled up with her feet under her, sipping tea. The only sound was recorded flute music, eerie and soft.

  Five o’clock and dark outside, but the stores stayed open until seven at least in the winter. This should be a busy time, apres-ski, but Connie’s place was, to put it mildly, dead.

  Smiling, I nodded at the proprietress as I shut the door behind me. She set down her teacup on a small side table draped with a batik cloth. “Alix! So good to see you.” Her voice seemed forced, insincere. I noticed her teeth suddenly, outlined darkly as if they were rotting, or perhaps had rotted and been replaced. I wondered how I had missed them before.

  “Connie.” She didn’t get up, and I felt disinclined to approach her throne, so I stood awkwardly in the center of the room “No fortunetelling tonight?”

  She sighed and twisted a strand of her lavender hair through her fingers. “Mistress Isa canceled on me. Can you believe it? I had twenty people in here at four o’clock, and I had to send them all away mad.” She stood up suddenly and fumbled around for her sandals. She wore a long, flowing dress today, white with tie-dyed spots of green and yellow. Her socks were pink. She would blend in well with my studio, I thought.

  “So I’ll have to disappoint you too. But you aren’t alone,” she said, frowning and flinging back her waist-length hair. I wondered idly if she’d followed up on her obvious attraction to Bjarne and how it had gone. She didn’t seem his type at all. I blinked, looked at my clogs. I had no reason to wonder, or even care, about Bjarne’s social life. Did I?

  I cleared my throat. “Do you know where Mistress Isa is? It’s very important that I talk to her.”

  “Sorry.” Connie snorted in disgust. “We are not talking. No, ma’am. We are not communicating in any way, shape, or form. She left me in the lurch, and for all I know she’s on her way back to Minnesota by now.”

  “Oh, I see.” I stuck my hands in my pockets and admired the mural on the back wall with its swirling planets. “She’s from Minnesota, is she? Whereabouts?”

  “St. Paul, I think. Is that where you’re from?”

  “No, but
I have relatives in Minnesota. Home of Nordic purity, you know.”

  Cosmic Connie picked up a chartreuse feather duster and flicked it here and there, over the glass cases and windowsills. “Yeah, well, she thought she was some fount of purity, I guess. Too good to do what she promised. Bitch,” she added, half under her breath.

  “Do you have an address for her back in St Paul? In case I want to get in touch?”

  Connie went to the cash register and began pawing through a desk drawer underneath it. It took her ten patient minutes to come up with a scrap of a magazine page with a tiny ad offering the services of Mistress Isa, at a post office box in St. Paul, with a telephone number. I thanked Connie, wished her luck, and left.

  On the way back to the gallery I stopped in at the Wort Hotel just to double-check. As I suspected, Isa had checked out, as had Peter Black. That was Peter’s last name, the clerk told me without my even asking. Isa Mardoll and Peter Black; two phony names if I ever heard one. She was one long, cold item, and he was without a doubt black. The clerk had no idea about their plans, but saw them loading their suitcases into a battered station wagon.

  Business at the Second Sun was only mildly better than at the bead shop. Two groups of customers browsed aimlessly, talking loudly. Artie had had a good afternoon, though, selling three large framed prints. I had begun clearing the register, sure that the day was finished, when a woman brought over a sweet black-and-white raku pot to the counter. She wanted it wrapped and shipped. We took her money, told her we’d take care of it, and closed the gallery.

  “Where did you take off to and never come back from, missy?” he said, hands on hips and a mocking smile on his elfin face. “I’ve been, like, swamped here, girlfriend.”

  I filled him in about my mother’s accident. He gave me a big hug and was mortified that he’d admonished me even in jest. “I’m so sorry, Alix. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Work tomorrow? Please?” I said, wrapping the pot in tissue and setting it in a box filled with excelsior.

  Sunday was Artie’s only day off, and I knew he relished it. He paused before answering, but put on a smile at last. “Sure thing. No prob, Bob.”

  “I’ll give you a week off, well, half a week off, later on. I promise, Artie.”

  “It’s a deal. Hey, some guy came by and checked out Glasius’s murals. Said he was from the Norwegian consulate or something?”

  “What did he want?”

  “Wanted to talk to you. But he’s sticking around till Monday, he said. He can’t get anything done tonight or tomorrow, so he’ll call Monday morning.”

  I nodded. “Are you sure it’s okay about tomorrow?”

  He waved it off. In the past we would just close up if things outside got hectic or if we wanted to go skiing on Sunday. Now, though, especially while the shop was busy, I couldn’t afford to do that. I’d learned that a locked door once means fewer customers many times over down the road. If you want ‘em to buy, you gotta be open, Paolo used to say, and only now did I listen to his faraway voice. Paolo who taught me so much, everything but how to keep him with me.

  Artie snapped tape on the box, stuck a mailing label on it, and grabbed his ski jacket, a fancy East Coast Gore-Tex job that probably would have cost him a week’s wages if his parents hadn’t given it to him. I didn’t begrudge him anything, though; Artie was a find. I’ve never been as lucky with help, and probably never would again. I waved him off from my office as I settled in by the telephone.

  The photographer’s name—the one I wanted to doctor that shot of the torch chucker—was Joel Lear. He was a struggling wildlife photographer, not as famous as Tom Mangelsen, who had a huge gallery in town, but getting there. To keep solvent Joel did custom work for other people.

  Joel answered the phone in his darkroom and said my timing was good. He had the chemicals juiced. I promised to bring the negative right over. Before I left, I made the mistake of running up the stairs to change into my jeans and wool sweater again. The phone rang. I thought it might be the hospital, so I picked it up.

  “So there you are, sitting around at home on a Saturday night again,” Maggie whined, her voice droll, no doubt a beer in her hand.

  “Not exactly.” I was still zipping up my pants, the phone wedged under my chin. I decided not to burden her just yet with the story of my mother’s accident.

  “So you’ve got a date?”

  “Not exactly,” I repeated.

  “You’re getting cryptic on me, Thorssen. What are you hiding? A new guy? Somebody cute? Don’t tell me, you’ve got a date with Bjarne with the hair and the cute little ass, right? Tell me, or I’ll have to whip you with a wet noodle. Is it Bjarne?”

  “Take a breath, Maggie,” I told her. “I’ve got to go see my mom. She’s in the hospital. She got sideswiped by a truck and broke her arm.” So much for later.

  “Oh, shit. Is there a hex on your family or what? Is she okay?”

  “She’s okay, I think. Do you want to go visit her tonight with me?”

  “Sure. Of course. I mean, I was going to try to get something lined up with Carter and Bjarne for us, but that’s—”

  “—dumb,” I finished.

  “I didn’t see you at the race this morning.”

  “I couldn’t make it. How’d it go?”

  Maggie sighed. “Bjarne won his race. You should have been there. Carter was busy doing whatever a race official does with his little stopwatch and flags and stuff. I didn’t get to talk to him much. I don’t know about him and me, we can’t seem to get it together.”

  “He’s just busy, Maggie. Wait until Nordic Nights is over. He’ll have time for you. Who wouldn’t? A gorgeous, sexy gal like you.”

  “Oh, I knew there was a reason I called you.” She started to giggle. “I have to tell you what I did last night. This is so funny.” I pulled on the down jacket, yanked the pac boots over my jean bottoms, and laced them.

  “Maggie? Can you tell me later? I’m just running out the door with Luca’s photos. I’m going to get one of them blown up.”

  “Oh, God, sure, I’ll tell you when you pick me up to go to the hospital.” I loved Maggie’s take-charge assumptions. They did make things simpler. “What time, hon?”

  “Eight, okay?”

  “Let me see, I have to file my nails. Yup, that’ll do. See ya then.”

  I was out the door, clutching the negative in its plastic case, hoping the chemicals were still juiced at Joel’s.

  Chapter 11

  What welcome word rewards thy toil?

  Tell while aloft thy long tidings: sitting, one oft his errand forgets,

  and lying, tells lies altogether.

  The image floated up through the developer slowly, as if emerging from a fog. The darkroom was eerie, blood red light with strange magenta shadows. Joel had curly black hair and, tonight, a red face. He had gotten contacts since I saw him last, and he looked more grown-up, more worldly. Maybe even a little gray in his hair.

  Joel worked the face of the person by the torch, and we hovered over the developer tray and watched that area intently to see if anything would show up. He sloshed the chemicals back and forth, then rubbed the face with his thumb.

  “Hmmm. That place is burned out from the torch. We’ll get a few lines, but not what you would call true definition. Sorry.”

  He picked up the corner of the paper and let it drip, stuck it in the fixer. I stared at it, the fumes Roto-Rooting up my nose, eyes blinking. “Nothing?” I asked, glancing up at the red light bulb.

  “Hang on a sec,” Joel said, bouncing on the balls of his tennis-shoed feet as he pulled the print out of the fixer, washed it, and hung it up on a clothesline. He turned on real lights as the red bulb went out. “Okay, now take a look.”

  The eight-by-ten print showed the stern of the boat on the snowy street, the sail a wide swath of golden white billowing under the streetlight. The trailer’s wheels gave the boat the look of a squatty lizard instead of a sleek, oceangoing vessel, but st
ill the illusion with the sail was nearly complete. The mast cut the square of silk into neat halves. To the right, on the boardwalk, onlookers stood in the shadows. On the left, a few hardy souls stood in the gutter next to a pile of snow. I looked closer. There was the baggy jacket and black-patched pants of the snowboarder who had told us about the torch flying over his head.

  And there was the torch. But who was holding it? A cluster of people melted into each other around the torch: the bulky brown coat might now be fur, maybe. The beret now seemed to belong to someone else. Another person was short and almost hidden. All three had their faces obliterated by the bright glow of the torch. None had arms visibly holding it. “Not too clear, huh?” he said.

  “Well, you tried.” I looked at Joel, disappointed. I had hopes of this photo nailing somebody, or at least giving us a lead. “Can I have this? At least I can give it to my stepfather to show him how nice the boat looks. I mean, looked.”

  “Sure, but you want me to dry it? I can drop it off tomorrow.” Joel nodded toward a big silver dryer. I told him fine, no rush, and shuffled off into the night.

  Maggie and I finished the Mexican food I brought over in ten minutes, each of us wolfing down a bean burrito with extra guacamole. We hardly sat down at the table. We were on our way to the hospital when she remembered the story she wanted to tell me.

  “It doesn’t seem so funny now, for some reason,” Maggie said. “Now I feel kinda depressed because your mother is lying in the hospital, hurt, your stepfather’s in jail, your hand is burned, and we don’t have dates and it’s Saturday night and I heard there’s a great band at the Stagecoach.”

  “Just tell me the story,” I said. We were almost to the hospital, driving out Broadway in the direction of the entrance to the Elk Refuge. The night was clear and cold with a million stars. The moon wasn’t up yet, lazy bum. But without him we could see stars and galaxies and swirling masses of cosmic gas and dust city dwellers couldn’t imagine.