Waltzing Matilda (Emma Frost Book 11)

by Willow Rose

  A lot of thoughts flitted through Didrik’s head when he put the key in the old hand-carved wooden door and opened it. But death was not one of them.

  “You!” was his only word when his eyes met the ones belonging to a guy he remembered from school. A boy, really, as he always thought of him. The boy had the nerve to be sitting in his new leather chair—“The Egg” designed by Arne Jacobsen—and wearing his despicable grubby old blazer from the boarding school. The boy was about to make a complete fool of himself. Didrik shut the door behind him with a bang.

  “What do you want”? He placed his briefcase on the floor, took off his long black coat, and hung it on a hanger in the entrance closet. He sighed and looked at the man with pity.

  “So?”

  * * *

  All the girls at Herlufsholm boarding school had whispered about the boy when he first arrived there in ninth grade. Unlike most of the rich high-society boys, including Didrik Rosenfeldt, who was both fat and red-headed, the boy was a handsome guy. He had nice brown hair and the most sparkling blue eyes. He was tall and the hard work he used to do at his dad’s farm outside of Naestved had made him strong and muscular, and Didrik and his friends soon noticed that the girls liked that…a lot.

  The boy wasn’t rich like the rest of them. In fact, his parents had no money. But in a strange way, that made him exotic to the girls. The poor countryside boy, the handsome stranger from a different culture who might take them away from their boring rich lives. They thought he could rescue them from ending up like their rich drunk mothers. How his parents were able to afford the extremely expensive school, no one knew. Some said he was there because his mother used to do it with the headmaster, but Didrik knew that wasn’t true. This boy’s family was—unlike everybody else’s at the school—hardworking, earnest people. The kind who people like Didrik had no respect for whatsoever, the kind his father would exploit and then throw away. He and his type were expendable. They were workers. And that made it even more fun to pretend he would be the boy’s friend.

  Despite that he was younger than they were, they had from time to time accepted him as their equal in the brotherhood.

  But, because of his background, he would always fall through. And they would laugh at him behind his back, even sometimes to his face. Like the time when they were skeet shooting on Kragerup Estate, and Didrik put a live cat in the catapult. Boy, they had their fun telling that story for weeks after. How the poor pretty boy had screamed, when he shot the kitty and it fell bleeding to the ground. What a wimp.

  * * *

  “So, what do you want? Can’t you even say anything? Are you that afraid of me?” Didrik said arrogantly.

  The pretty boy stood up from the seven-thousand-dollar chair and took a step toward him, his right hand hidden behind his back. Didrik sighed again. He was sick and tired of this game. It led nowhere and he was wasting his time. Didrik was longing to get into his living room and get a glass of the fine nine-hundred-dollar cognac he just imported from France. He was not going to let a stupid poor boy from his past get in the way of that. That was for certain. He loosened his tie and looked with aggravation at the boy in front of him.

  “How did you even get in here?”

  “Smashed a window in the back.”

  Didrik snorted. Now he would have to go through the trouble to get someone out here to fix it tonight.

  “Just tell me what you want, boy.”

  The pretty blue eyes stared at him.

  “You know exactly what I want.”

  Didrik sighed again. Enough with these games! Until now he had been patient with this guy. But now he was about to feel the real Rosenfeldt anger. The same anger Didrik’s dad used to show when Didrik’s mother brought him into his study and he would beat Didrik half to death with a fire poker. The same anger that his dad used to show the world that it was the Rosenfeldts who made the decisions. Everybody obeyed their rules because they had the money and the power.

  “You’re making a fool of yourself. Just get out of here before I call someone to get rid of you. I’m a very powerful man, you know. I can have you killed just by pressing a number on my phone,” he said, taking out a black iPhone from his pocket.

  “I know very well how powerful you and your family are. But we are far away from your thugs; and I will have killed you by the time they get here.”

  Didrik put the phone back in his pocket. He now sensed the boy was more serious than he first anticipated.

  “Do you want to kill me? Is that it?”

  “Yes.”

  Didrik laughed out loud. It echoed in the hall. The boy did not seem intimidated. That frightened him.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You are such a fool. A complete idiot. You always were.” Didrik snorted. “Look at you. You look like a homeless person in that old school blazer. Your clothes are all dirty. And when did you last shave? What happened to you?”

  “You did. You and your friends. You ruined my life.”

  Didrik laughed again. This time not nearly as loud and confident.

  “Is it that old thing you are still sobbing about?”

  “How could I not be?”

  “Come on. It happened twenty-five years ago. Christ, I didn’t even come up with the idea.” Didrik snorted again. “Pah! You wouldn’t dare to kill me. Remember, I am a nobleman and you are nothing but a peasant who tried to be one of us for a little while. You can take the boy away from the farm, but you can’t take the farm out of the boy. You have always been nothing but a stupid little farmer boy.”

  Didrik watched the boy lift his right hand, revealing a thing from his past, something he couldn’t forget. With a wild expression in his eyes, he then moved the blades of the glove and took two steps in Didrik’s direction with them all pointing at him. It scared the shit out of him. It had been years since he last saw the glove and thought it had been lost. But the pretty boy had found it. Now the ball was in the boy’s court.

  “I can give you money.” Desperately, he clung to what normally saved him in troubled times. “Is it money you want? I could call my secretary right now and make a transfer.”

  He took out the iPhone again.

  “I could give you a million. Would that be enough? Two million? You could buy yourself a nice house, maybe get some nice new clothes, and buy a new car.”

  The boy in front of him finally smiled, showing his beautiful bright teeth. Phew! Money had once again saved him. At least he thought. But only for a second.

  “I don’t want your blood money.”

  Didrik didn’t understand. Who in the world would say no to money? “But…”

  “I told you. I want you dead. I want you to suffer just as I have been for twenty-five years. I want you to be humiliated like I was.”

  Didrik sighed deeply. “But why now?”

  “Because your time has run out.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The boy with the pretty blue eyes stepped closer and now stood face to face with Didrik. The four claws on his hand were all pointing towards Didrik’s head. The boy’s eyes were cold as ice, when he said the words that made everything inside Didrik Rosenfeldt shiver: “The game is over.”

  Chapter 3

  Lari Soerensen enjoyed her job as a housekeeper for the Rosenfeldt family. Not that she liked Mr. Rosenfeldt in particular, but she liked taking care of his summer residence by the sea. They barely ever used it, only for a few weeks in the summer and whenever Mr. Rosenfeldt had one of his affairs with a local waitress or his secretary. He would escape to the house in Karrebaeksminde for “a little privacy” as he called it.

  But otherwise there wasn’t much work in keeping the house clean, and Lari Soerensen could do it at her own pace. She would turn on the music in the living room and sing while she polished the parquet floor. She would eat of the big box of chocolate in the kitchen. She would take the money in the ashtrays and the coins lying on the shelves and put it in her pocket, knowing the family would never miss it. Sometimes
she would even use the phone to call her mother in the Philippines, which normally was much too expensive for her. Her Danish husband didn’t want to pay for her phone calls to her family anymore, and since he took all the money she got from cleaning people’s houses, she couldn’t pay for the calls herself.

  It was a cold but lovely morning as she walked past the port and glanced at all the yachts that would soon be put back in the water when spring arrived. All the rich people would go sailing and drinking on their big boats.

  She took in a breath of the fresh morning air. She had three houses to clean today and she would begin with Mr. Rosenfeldt’s, since he probably wouldn’t be there. It was only five-thirty, and the city had barely awakened. Everything was so quiet, not even a car.

  She had taken a lot of time to get used to living in the little kingdom of Denmark. Being from the Philippines, she was used to a warmer climate, and people in her homeland were a lot more open and friendly than what she experienced here. Not that they were not nice to her—they were. But it was hard for her to get accustomed to the fact that people didn’t speak to you if they didn’t know you. If she talked to a woman in the supermarket, she would answer briefly and without looking at Lari. It wasn’t impolite; it was custom. People were busy and had enough in themselves.

  But once people got to know somebody, they would be very friendly. They wouldn’t necessarily stop and talk if they met in the street. Often they were way too busy for that, but they would smile. And Lari would smile back, feeling accepted in the small community. If people became friends with someone, they might even invite them to dinner and would get very drunk, and then the Danes wouldn’t stop talking until it was early in the morning. They would tell a lot of jokes and laugh a lot. They had a strange sense of humor that she had to get used to. They used sarcasm all the time, and she had a hard time figuring out when they actually meant what they said or when they were just joking.

  But Lari liked that they laughed so much. She did too. Smiled and laughed. That’s how she got by during the day, the month, the year. That’s what she did when the rich white man from Denmark came to her house in the Philippines and told her mother, that he wanted to marry Lari and take her back to Denmark and pay the family a lot of money for her. That’s what she did when she signed the paperwork and they were declared married, and she knew her future was saved. She smiled when she got on the plane with her ugly white husband, who wore clogs and dirty overalls. She even smiled when he showed her into the small messy house that hadn’t been cleaned for ages and told her that was her new home. That her job would be to cook and clean and be available to him at any time. She was still smiling, even at the end of the day when she handed over the money that she earned from housecleaning, while her husband sat at home and was paid by the government to be unemployed. And when Mr. Rosenfeldt grabbed her and took her into his bed and had oral sex with her, she still smiled.

  Yes, Lari Soerensen always smiled. And she still did today when she unlocked the door to Mr. Rosenfeldt’s summer residence.

  But from that moment on, she would smile no more.

  Chapter 4

  I awoke feeling like I was lying under a strange comforter in a foreign place in an unknown city. Slowly, my memory came back to me, when I looked at my sleeping daughter in the bed next to me. When I came home from work she told me the first day of school had been a little tough. The teachers were nice, but the other kids in the class didn’t want to talk to her and she had spent the day alone and made no new friends. I told her she would be fine, that it would soon be better, but inside I was hurting. This was supposed to be a fresh start for the both of us, a new beginning. I now realized it wouldn’t go as smoothly as I had hoped.

  My dad had prepared a nice breakfast for us when we came downstairs…coffee, toast, and eggs. Soft boiled for me and scrambled for Julie. We dove into the food.

  Before mom died, he wouldn’t go near the kitchen, except to eat, but things had changed since then. He’s actually gotten pretty good at cooking, I thought, while secretly observing him from the table. Ever since his fall down the stairs last year, he had to use a cane, but he still managed to get around the kitchen and cook for us.

  “You know, Dad, with me in the house, you could catch a break every once in a while. I could take care of you and cook for you instead.”

  He didn’t even turn around, but just snorted at me. “I know my way around. You would only mess the place up.”

  Then he turned around, smiling at Julie and me, and placed a big plate of scrambled eggs on the table in front of us.

  I sighed and rubbed my stomach.

  “Sorry, Dad, I’m too full. Julie, go get your bag upstairs. We’re leaving in five.”

  Julie made an annoyed sound and rushed up the stairs.

  My dad looked at me seriously.

  “She misses him, you know,” he said, nodding his head in Julie’s direction. “Isn’t it about time she got to call him, and talk to him?”

  I shook my head. I hated that she had told her granddad she missed her father. Since I couldn’t leave my job until late in the afternoon, he had suggested he would pick her up every day and they could spend some quality grandpa-granddaughter time together, catching up on all the years they missed of each others’ lives. I liked that, but I didn’t care much for him meddling in my life.

  “I can’t have him knowing where we are.”

  My dad sighed. “You can’t hide down here forever. If he wants to find you, he will. Whatever happened to you up there, you have to face it at some point. You can’t keep running from it. It will affect your daughter too. No matter what he did, he is, after all, still her dad.”

  Now it was my turn to sigh. “Just not right now, okay?”

  As I got up, Julie came down and dumped her bag on the floor before sitting down again and taking another serving of eggs.

  Where she would put it in her skinny little body, I didn’t know, but I was glad to see her eat, despite being so nervous about another day alone in the schoolyard with no one to play with.

  “She must be growing,” my dad said with a big smile. “That’s my girl,” he said, and winked at her.

  I looked at the clock and decided that I too had the time to sit down for another minute. The radio played an old Danish song from my childhood. My dad started humming and tried to spin around with his cane. He almost fell, but avoided it in the last second, and we all laughed. I began to sing along too and Julie rolled her eyes at me, which made me sing even louder. The old cat stopped licking herself and stared at us from the window. She would probably be rolling her eyes too if she could.

  * * *

  It was one of those beautiful mornings, but a freezing cold one too. The sun embraced everybody, promising them that soon it would triumph over the cold wind. Soon it would make the flowers come out of hiding in the ground and with its long warm arms it would make them flourish and bloom. I really enjoyed my drive along the ocean and the sandy beach. The ocean seemed angry.

  I had promised headquarters to do a story today, an interview with an Italian artist, Giovanni Marco, who lived on Enoe, a small island close to Karrebaeksminde. It was connected to the mainland by a bridge. The artist had made a series of sculptures that made the public angry because of their vulgarity. The artist himself claimed that it was his way of making a statement, that art cannot be censored. He had displayed the sculptures in the county’s art festival, shocking the public and making people nauseous from looking at them.

  He was the same artist who once had displayed ten blenders, each with one goldfish in them in a museum of art, waiting to see if anyone in the audience would press the button and kill the fish. He loved to provoke the sleepy Danes and outrage them. At least they then took a position and cared about something. I remembered he said he wanted to wake them from their drowsy sleep walk. I was actually looking forward to this interview with this controversial man on the beautiful island.

  * * *

  Giovanni Marco liv
ed in an old wooden beach house that looked like it wouldn’t survive if a big storm should hit the beach. Fortunately, big storms are rare in Denmark. We had a big one in 1999 as strong as a category one hurricane. It was still the one people remembered and talked about. It knocked down trees and electric wires. At least one tree hit a moving car and killed the driver inside. That was a tragedy. It could definitely get very windy, but the artist’s house would probably stand for another hundred years.

  Barefooted, he welcomed me in the driveway with a hug and a kiss on my cheek, which overwhelmed me, since I had not been happy about male physical contact lately. So I’m sure I came off stiff and probably not very friendly toward him.

  He was gorgeous and he seemed to know that a little too well. I never liked men who thought too much of themselves, but this one intrigued me anyway, which made me nervous and uncomfortable in his presence.

  His blue eyes stared at me while he invited me inside. It’s rare for an Italian man to have blue eyes like that, I thought. Maybe he had Scandinavian genes. Maybe that’s why he had escaped from sunny Italy to cold Denmark, where the sun would hide all winter. His hair was thick and brown and his skin looked very Italian. But he was tall like a Scandinavian. And muscular. I hated to admit it, but it was attractive.

  Inside, I was stunned by the spectacular view from almost every room in the house: views of the raging ocean, of the wild and absorbing sea. I used to dream about living like that. Well, I used to dream about a lot of things, but dreams have a tendency to get broken over the years.

  Giovanni, in a tank top and sweatpants, smiled at me and offered me a cup of organic green tea. I am more of a coffee person, but I smiled graciously and accepted. We sat for awhile on his sofa, glancing out over the big ocean.