Nordic Nights (The Alix Thorssen Mysteries)

by Lise McClendon

  I sank into an armchair next to a soaring red sandstone fireplace with half a tree trunk for a mantelpiece. Maggie looked up, surprised to see me. Earl’s feet barely touched the floor, but side by side on the couch they looked the same height. No wonder they were sitting.

  “Hi, you two,” I said around my shrimp roll. “See who’s here?”

  “What?” Maggie frowned, then looked over her shoulder. “Oh, yeah, that woman from the bead shop. She gets around, doesn’t she?”

  “Going to get your fortune read, Earl?” I asked.

  He smiled at me, a little annoyance around the mouth. “I guess I’ll pass tonight. Go ahead, though, it sounds like a lot of fun.”

  The conversation died about then, at least between me and them. Maggie was having too much fun to get the hint from my sudden appearance. Their voices lowered again to intimate whispers. I communed with the fire for half an hour, wishing I had a fireplace at home half as beautiful as this one. I thought about my little woodstove in my art shack, about Carl so warm and tanned in midwinter despite his confusion over helicopters. I thought about Bjarne too, his sweet breath in my ear. It was a pleasant reverie, and when I saw Peter take long strides toward the kitchen, box of runes in his arms, black sleeves flapping, I had to rouse myself to jump up and follow him.

  At the door to the kitchen I paused, hoping he hadn’t taken the back door. He was sitting on a red plaid sofa, his black head lowered over the box of runes. I walked quickly over, sat down next to him.

  “Evenin’, Peter,” I said. “We meet again. Must be some kind of cosmic destiny.”

  Peter looked up briefly but said nothing. He was straightening the runes, replacing them in some land of order. Their smooth wood edges glowed in the soft firelight, the silver twinkled as he turned them over.

  “A beautiful set. Is it old?”

  “Very old.” Peter’s voice was low, clipped. “Please go away from me. I do not wish to speak to you.”

  “Is this the set that Hank supposedly stole from Isa’s room?”

  Peter’s hands faltered as he reached to close the lid on the elegant dark trunk. He didn’t look at me, and I could only guess that Isa had coached him about questions. His manner was so studied, his answers so rote. He latched the brass clasps on the trunk and stood up, careful to keep the box horizontal. He gave me a dismissive side glance.

  “Can’t we talk, Peter? I thought we had—”

  “Good-bye.” He disappeared out the kitchen door, which led to a parking area sparsely lit by pole lanterns. Beyond the Mercedes and Range Rovers a fancified barn hulked in the moonlight. The tall figure of the assistant blended into the shadows until the dome light of the station wagon popped on. He placed the box gently on the backseat, fixing it somehow—with a blanket?—then slipped behind the wheel. The fight went off, plunging the lot into darkness again.

  I half expected Isa to be right behind him; they seemed almost joined at the hip. But there she was, visible through the door to the great room, mingling, laughing, throwing her head back in such a studied way, her perfect white hair, her pale white skin, her flowing white robe, all of her so, so much like a caricature of a real person, I wanted to pinch her to find out if she was made of sugar. Maybe throw a bucket of water on her and see if she melted.

  I watched her awhile, then looked through the glass, fogged by my breath, at Peter. Were those the so-called stolen runes? How many other sets could Isa have that Glasius might want? Peter had said they were very old before he remembered he had accused someone of stealing them. Was it a mistake, or was it a different set? I kicked myself for not making him talk. I could go out to his station wagon right now, force him to spill his guts. I didn’t think it would help somehow. She had him programmed now; maybe she had seen me talking to him at the motel.

  Not for the first time their relationship struck me as odd. How long would Isa make him sit out there? Sure, it got warm today, but the temperature must be near zero now. Just a little nippier than balmy Florida, or Cuba for that matter. He is her lover, huh? So he says.

  Chapter 16

  Better burden bearest thou no wise

  than shrewd head on thy shoulders;

  in good stead will it stand among stranger folk

  and shield when unsheltered thou art.

  Maggie dropped me off in the alley. She hadn’t had much comment about my seeing the old set of runes, catching Peter in a lie. She hadn’t even raptured about finally getting to meet Harrison Ford.

  “So, is it true that you should never meet your heroes, then?” I asked, pausing with my hand on the door handle, unwilling to step into the chill quite yet.

  “Hmm?” She rubbed her mittened hands on the steering wheel of the Wagoneer. “You mean Harrison? I guess. Now when I watch his movies it won’t quite be the same. I’d rather remember him as Han Solo, you know?” She turned to me, eyebrows scrunched together. “That Earl turned out to be a scumbag,” she said flatly.

  “Oh.” So that was it. “Sorry.”

  “Single Girl Rule Number Seven: Any guy who wants you to blow him in the guest bath on the first date doesn’t have much potential.” I gave a half-laugh; it isn’t really that funny, if it happens to you. Maggie tapped the steering wheel. “Listen, I’ll bring back your stuff in the morning, okay? I can’t believe I made you switch and all, just for me and my stupid ideas. I feel like a jerk now, I’m—”

  “Forget it, Maggie. It was no sweat to be you for one party. It was fun.” I put my hand on her arm to reassure her. “Besides, I saw Mistress Isa and Peter again. And their runes.”

  Maggie blinked. “And?”

  “And—I don’t know what. Why were Glasius and Hank in her room? If they were there to steal runes, why was Glasius killed? I think they know.”

  I left Maggie with a promise to watch Blade Runner with her very soon. The back stairs were cold, but my apartment was quiet and peaceful and warm. After hanging up my down jacket— we did switch our coats back—I called the hospital and talked to Una for a minute. She was resting comfortably but most eager to get out of the “sick hotel” tomorrow. Hank’s hearing was at ten, so I would pick her up on the way.

  After I hung up, I punched the message button on the answering machine and heard Sigmund’s voice again, then a message from the professor in Wisconsin. He sounded very excited, in a professorial kind of way. I stood by my bedroom window that overlooked the square, turned the volume up a little on the machine. The draped sculptures, the umbrellas dusted with frost, and the still, white snow made an eerie landscape, a surreal wasteland.

  “Miss Thorssen, I have sent you a fax, but let me tell you this discovery has potential to be a very important finding. Of course, I need to inspect the stone itself, but the language, the script on the stone, is very similar to the Kensington Stone, in ways that would be difficult for anyone but the most sophisticated forger to accomplish—and he’d have to be an expert in medieval languages. There is the mixture of Norwegian and Swedish, very subtle, but the kind of thing that would happen with both Swedes and Norwegians on a long voyage such as this. The Latin ending is just like the Kensington, which we know is from a time when Christians had only been influencing the region for a few short centuries.”

  He took a breath. “The soonest I can get away here is Friday. I’ve made a reservation on a flight that gets in at ten-thirty in the evening, your time. Well, we’ll talk later.”

  Professor Breda hung up, not quite done with his excitement and sounding a little frustrated to be talking to an insensitive machine. I ran downstairs to get the fax, trying to decide at the same time if I should call him tonight to tell him there were a few glitches in his plan, namely the rock was stolen and Hank was in jail and Una in the hospital. But it was after eleven, and later in Wisconsin, so I ripped the paper off the fax machine and stared at his symbol-by-symbol interpretation.

  It was short, sweet, and to the point. “2 [left of] King Magnus Vinland [exploration] captive weak. AV[e] M[aria].” The p
rofessor had added comments about the Norwegian versus Swedish parts, the similar grammar and spelling to the Kensington Stone. And the Latin, Christian ending. I wandered out into the darkened gallery, clutching the slick fax, trying to make the runic symbols say more, be more. It seemed like so little to go to prison for, so little to be run over by a truck for. Just a hunk of rock with squiggles on—

  The crack of the shot rang out a split second before the plate glass on the front window of the gallery took the bullet. I instinctively hit the wood floor, banging my knees as my socks slipped out behind me on the way down. The second shot went through the weakened glass, continuing over my head into the back wall. Army-crawling toward the front of the building, I plastered my body against the short wall below the plate glass and covered my face. Thirty seconds, forty-five. The rush in my ears, the adrenaline pumping my blood around my body, made the silence seem electric. How long should I wait? Every second seemed hours.

  I moved a little, took my hands away from my face. Was he done? Up on my elbow, I raised my head an inch, then two. The third shot erased my growing assurance that it was over. I shrank back to fetal position, feeling the shower of tiny slivers of glass. Only when the sirens began did I loosen a little from my curl. Imagine my surprise when they passed right by and faded away into the night.

  After half an hour of cold, cramped fear I scrunched over to my office, by way of the edges of the room, and closed the door that joins the gallery proper. Shivering, pissed off, and sore all over, I stood up and turned on the light to make a personal assessment. Aside from a bruised knee and a lot of dirt, I was fine. I peeked out at the window. A bull’s-eye, with two minor shots, radiated right under the arch of lettering that spelled out Second Sun Gallery in gold It looked like target practice, but I tend to take things like this personally. The boardwalk was deserted on both this side of the street and the other. The shadows around the draped sculptures were deep and dark, the pines thick with snow. No one to be seen, not even a car moving around the square.

  Cautiously waiting another fifteen minutes, watching for movement outside, listening, I found a large piece of cardboard in the storeroom and grabbed the duct tape. Unwilling to stand up, exposed in front of the window, I taped the edges back in the office, scooted around the walls, then used the broom handle to push the cardboard up against the broken window. It wasn’t pretty, but it would help until morning. When the coast would hopefully be clear.

  Back in my apartment I sank onto the sofa and wiped the sweat off my forehead and upper lip. I felt the exhaustion of post-anxiety, and also the elation of survival. I closed my eyes for a moment and took three deep breaths to relax, then decided a glass of wine was called for. I drank the wine quickly, took a hot shower, and crawled into bed, hoping for sleep.

  The ceiling cracks hadn’t changed since my last sleepless night. I should have called the police, I knew. But it was so late, and that would only make it later. What could they do for me tonight? Give me some unnecessary advice about standing in front of windows? Ask me who my enemies were? Tell me that random vandalism wasn’t personal and to quit thinking somebody disliked my business, hairdo, politics, body odor, family—

  My family. What had Luca said? They warn you with little things, like breaking your arm or burning your property; then, if you don’t listen, they move on to dangerous stuff. But what was I supposed to listen to? Who was warning me, and against what?

  Somebody must think I know a lot more than I do.

  Snow coated the Justice Court steps, making Una’s progress torturous, even on my arm. The sky was coated like a milky tongue. We’d gotten two or three inches overnight, and the chill, familiar and bracing, was back.

  Una’s ankle was taped now, the swelling down. It still hurt like the devil, she assured me on the way out of the hospital. Her doctor told her to keep off it for at least a week. And here we were, trying to walk up snowy steps and around slick boardwalks. So much for obeying orders. Her arm was in one of those fancy plastic casts that don’t weigh much so you forget your arm’s broken. A bright blue sling wrapped around her neck held the arm close to her body. The fact that the bad arm and the bad leg were both on her left side made the hobbling go even slower.

  I got her situated in the courtroom with a half hour to spare before the hearing; the courtroom was filling up. Danny Bartholomew waved at me, his reporter’s notebook flipped open. Next to him sat a man with an open sketchbook, filling in the outlines of the witness stand. I nodded at Danny but didn’t want to talk to him right now. He’d be calling me later, no doubt, for details.

  I wandered out into the lobby of the courthouse, looking for Penn. The reporter Luca had befriended passed by me, glowering. Right after him, a veritable parade of local personalities streamed in: Cosmic Connie resplendent in tie-dye, Charlie Frye, police chief, two members of the town council, the night clerk at the Wort, Luca, who paused to squeeze my arm, Isa Mardoll, and Peter Black. I saw these last two as I turned around at the drinking fountain. She in white, he in black, they ducked into the courtroom. I was ready to follow them when Roscoe Penn came out from the side door of the lobby and walked toward me.

  “Roscoe, good, I have to talk to you.” I took his arm to stop him from entering the courtroom.

  “Later, please. I have a hearing right now; I’m needed in court” He looked annoyed, glancing at his watch.

  “I know, Roscoe—my stepfather, remember? Listen, I found something out Glasius Dokken and Hank, my stepfather, were—”

  “Is this necessary?” Roscoe pulled his arm away.

  “Yes. You have to ask him this on the stand. It’s important.”

  “Thirty seconds.” He was timing me, the bastard, on his Rolex.

  “Hank Helgeson, your client, is my stepfather. He and the Norwegian were looking for an antique set of runes. They’re little pieces of wood with letters inscribed on them. Glasius thought they were stolen. He went to Isa Mardoll’s room to get them. But, according to Hank, they didn’t find them and left empty-handed. I was told by Peter Black that they were stolen, but then I saw them myself last night, in Peter’s possession.”

  Roscoe smoothed back his gray mane. “That’s it?”

  “It establishes why his fingerprints were there.”

  “They could also be there because he killed Glasius Dokken in the act.”

  “Roscoe! In the act of what?!”

  “Of stealing these, these—”

  “Runes.”

  “These runes. But, oh, I see what you mean. He wasn’t stealing them from Glasius.”

  “No. Maybe Isa Mardoll killed Glasius to keep him from stealing her property. I don’t know.”

  “Interesting. And who is this Isa person?”

  I let out an exasperated sigh. It was 9:53. “It was her hotel room!”

  “Right, right.” He puffed out his chest. “Time’s up.” He had a jacket like a Navajo rug on today, with bright red boots that Gloria would probably sell her mother for. As we stepped into the courtroom, I had trouble taking my eyes off them; they shone like hot peppers on his feet. I turned away, paused for a moment, making an effort to keep the door from slamming shut but really wanting to give Roscoe Penn a head start down the aisle. A girl can’t be too careful about her reputation.

  As if a switch had been turned on inside him, Roscoe Penn morphed from a fuzzy-brained Hollywood cowboy into a sharp-tongued orator with razor reflexes and a nose for blood. He cajoled, he sweet-talked, he sliced, he diced. Outside the courtroom he was only half alive; here he was filled up with the legal juices that fired on every piston, zero to sixty in ten seconds. He was a high-performance vehicle, and here was the racetrack.

  Judge Juliette was more in a mood for his pyrotechnics today, and he cruised and purred through the night clerk at the Wort Hotel, making him stammer and question his identification of Hank Helgeson. Hank sat slumped in orange again, a picture of mental fatigue. No wonder the clerk didn’t recognize him. The prosecutor put the policeman who
had first arrived on the murder scene on the stand, then the evidence man who told about the fingerprints in the room, matched to Hank, Glasius, and Isa. Then he moved on to other incidental witnesses—the coffee shop waitress, a customer in the lobby, the guy who owns an all-night convenience store down the street from the Wort Hotel. Peter took the stand, and nobody brought up the runes, not even Roscoe Penn. I began to squirm. Peter gave his testimony as if by rote: he heard the two men talking, searching, only one man leaving. Roscoe tried to punch holes in Peter’s story, but it held water pretty well.

  But first Hank Helgeson had to take the stand and explain himself. Una held her breath, waiting for him to continue with the stubborn act and make them all suffer. She was ready to suffer, having spent two days in the hospital worrying about him. God forbid she should worry in vain. Norwegians are always ready to suffer, it suits them so.

  I was holding my breath too, I realized. Peter’s testimony had been damaging. It put Glasius and another man in the room, and Glasius definitely did not leave. Hank moved slowly to the witness stand. The air in the courtroom stilled, pencils stalled on paper.

  The DA, Mr. Robbins, wasn’t a flashy guy, but he had obviously spent the weekend rounding up witnesses to make his case. He wasn’t about to let things slip away now. Slender with slicked-back brown hair, he wore a navy blue suit and red tie. He approached Hank on the stand, saying his name very loudly, jerking Hank to attention.

  “We’re all interested in your response to the question put before you last Friday. The question you decided at that time you couldn’t answer. Are you ready now, Mr. Helgeson?” Robbins stood in front of the witness stand, his hands clasped behind his back. Hank didn’t answer, just hung his head, dejected. “Mr. Helgeson?”