The Body in the Fjord

Nine

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but we have to do what the inspekør says. I’m sure everything will be cleared up quickly so you can be on your way. Yes, Mr. Harding?”

Carl Bjørnson was addressing the Scandie Sights tour in the Dragon Room of Kvikne’s Hotel after breakfast on Sunday morning. He had informed them that the police had requested no one leave Balestrand. Carl and Jan had decided to break the news following the meal, not before. “Hard to be too upset after a Kvikne’s breakfast,” Jan had observed philosophically.

Sidney Harding, however, had not been appeased by the cloudberries in cream or the more than usually abundant herring preparations.

“I demand to speak to someone from the embassy immediately! You can’t hold us here against our will. We’re U.S. citizens.”

“We have relatives waiting for us in Kristiansand,” Carol Peterson said crisply. “I don’t understand why we can’t go about our business. It’s not as if any of us know where the uh…woman is.” Ursula gave her a piercing glance. She knew the missing word was stupid, or worse.

A voice was heard at the door.

“Kvikne’s Hotel is not exactly a prison.” It was Johan Marcussen. He was holding a cup of coffee. “And we

were in touch with the American embassy immediately, of course. They agreed with us that the sudden disappearance of an American citizen following so closely on the death of another in the same tour suggests extreme caution regarding the safety of the others. Certainly we hope some of you may have an idea where Mrs. Miller could have gone, but mainly we’d like you just to stay here and relax together for a little while longer.”

He made it sound like a bonus, something arranged merely for their pleasure.

“If I’m not on a flight out of Oslo by tomorrow morning, everyone from the king on down is going to know about it,” Sidney Harding fumed.

“I’m sure they will,” Louise Dahl whispered to Ursula, who was standing next to the sisters. They had had breakfast together, and while expressing their deep concern for Pix, both had also tried to reassure her mother. “She probably went for a hike in the mountains and got lost. It happens all the time, and there aren’t so many people to ask. They’ll find her. Don’t worry,” Erna had said.

But Ursula was worried. So was Marit. There was a lot the Dahl sisters didn’t know.

Carl continued to speak. “We will have a walking tour of Balestrand meeting in the hotel lobby in one hour for those of you who are interested. The architecture is quite special, as this was a favorite spot not only for English sportsmen but for artists and writers from many places.”

“Can it, will you, Carl,” said Roy Peterson senior. “No one cares. We just want to get the hell out of here.”

Jan cast a desperate look at his fellow guide. The evaluation sheets were going to be X-rated. “The hotel has—” he started to say, jumping in to help.

“Well, I want to go on the tour, and I think all of you are pigs.” Jennifer Olsen didn’t mince words. “Two women are missing. Two men have been killed, and what you’re worried about is catching a plane and”—she gave

Carol a withering look—“some relatives you’ve never met. Worried you won’t be able to sponge off them?”

Carol started to move toward Jennifer with obvious intent. Her fist was in fact raised.

“Ladies, ladies.” Carl the peacemaker stepped between them. “We are offering the tour as a diversion, to help pass the time. The hotel has many other activities, as you know. Why don’t we arrange to meet here again after lunch. I’m sure there will be some news by then.” Oil on troubled waters. He nodded at Jan and the two started to leave the room.

But Inspector Marcussen had the last word. “Activities on land. No boat trips.”

That morning, Ursula Rowe had awakened early, even for her. She lay in bed for a while, thinking of the pain her old friend Marit was suffering. Hans was gone—and Hanna. Kari was all Marit had left. In a country that seemed to abound in relatives, Marit had few. Her brothers had settled in the United States and they were both dead now—Marit’s ties with their families reduced to a Christmas card each year. It was the same with Hans’s family. When Kari was first reported missing, her grandmother had heard from some concerned cousins, but there was no one she could really turn to in her loneliness and fear. No one except Ursula. These last days, the two women had spent most of their waking hours together, talking of the past, their childhoods together. Happy times. Marit had told Ursula that she had the feeling if she could just wait, everything would be all right, but the waiting was agony. So she had known from the beginning that she needed Ursula—and Pix—with her.

Old women don’t require much sleep, Ursula told herself as she got out of bed. Maybe it was because she didn’t want to waste the time left to her; maybe her body didn’t need it anymore. She might doze in the day and turn in early, but she wakened often and arose with the dawn.

Yes, she was worried about Pix. Perhaps it had been foolish to send her by herself to investigate the closet on the boat. Ursula should have gone, too. She put on her robe and went across the hall to tap lightly on her daughter’s door. She would surely be back by now. There had been no response, so Ursula had knocked harder.

Again, the door remained shut. She went back to her room and called Pix’s room number. She let the phone ring fifteen times, hung up, and tried again. Then she called the front desk for them to try. They did not receive an answer, either.

“Please have someone come up with a key immediately. I want to be sure my daughter is all right.” Ursula had felt her throat constrict with apprehension, yet her tone suggested only instant compliance. A security guard had appeared and together they opened the door.

Pix’s bed had been slept in, but she was not in the room. Ursula looked and quickly noted that her daughter’s jacket was gone, although apparently nothing else. She had thanked the guard and then awakened Marit.

“I can’t imagine that she is still at the boat, but we have to check. We’ll check the grounds, too.”

The two women, wearing several layers against the chill morning air, had walked straight to the dock. It was deserted, as were the grounds they passed through. The clerk at the desk had given them an odd look but made no comment beyond saying, “God dag.” Guests sometimes did strange things, and dawn strolls were comparatively tame.

All the doors on the Viking fjord cruiser were locked. They knocked and called Pix’s name but got no response. They checked the area around the hotel. Captivated by the light, maybe Pix had decided to take some photographs of the old houses. On impulse, they went into the church, St. Olav’s.

Here, Marit had turned to Ursula. “We have to tell the police.” Ursula sank to her knees, said a prayer for

her daughter—and Kari’s safety—allowed herself a sob, then got up and followed Marit to the phone box in front of the post office. The conversation was brief. “They will find the inspektør and we are to wait in the hotel lobby.”

Thirty minutes later, Marcussen had entered with the smell of sleep and only a hasty wash still on him.

Although he had already received the message, Ursula had needed to say it directly herself. “My daughter, Mrs. Samuel Miller, the one who found the body of Oscar Melling, is missing and we think it is very serious.”

So had the inspector. After obtaining some more information, he’d disappeared into the room behind the front desk, leaving an officer with them. After a while—a wait that seemed interminable to Ursula—he had returned to tell them a search of the area would be under way as soon as possible and that he himself was going down to the boat with the captain.

Now as the tour members filed out of the Dragon Room, Marcussen motioned for Ursula and Marit to stay.

“As you must have assumed, we have nothing to report yet. I’m very sorry. Will you come with me where we can talk in private? There are some things I don’t understand.”

Some? thought Ursula ruefully as she followed him out the door.

Pix Miller was not a drinker. Yes, she was partial to a dram of scotch now and then, particularly Laphroaig, but hangovers had been few and far between. The one she had now, she thought, not even able to open her eyelids, unaccountably turned to lead, was the mother of them all. The grandmother, the great-grandmother. Her leaden lids flew up. Wait a minute—she wasn’t sure if she was speaking aloud or not because of the pounding in her head—I wasn’t drinking.

The coffee. The farmer. That sweet little flaxen-haired wife. She wasn’t back in their hytte or whatever it was,

nor on their streamlined water taxi. Where the hell had she

awakened this time?

At least she’d awakened.

It was dark and cold. She moved one arm carefully, then the other, and wiggled her legs around, checking to see that everything worked. It did. Someone had thrown a blanket over her. Unfortunately, it did not afford much warmth. She still had her jacket on and she buttoned it to her neck. Her hand groped the ground next to her. It was dirt, but as her eyes became accustomed to the dark, she could tell she wasn’t outdoors. She sat up unsteadily and touched the wall beside her. It was rough-hewn stone—another cabin or farm building. Pix was becoming uncomfortably intimate with Norwegian rural architecture, although the opportunity for a monograph in the immediate future was slight. In any case, she would have preferred to study the subject in a crowded folkemuseum.

The effects of the drug had not worn off—her headache was worse, if anything, and the thought of food was quelled as soon as it arose lest it lead to immediate vomiting. But her mind was beginning to clear. A perfect setup. The farmer with his water-taxi service was a familiar figure on the local fjords and among certain people it would also be known that he would pay a good price for Tante Inge’s coffee spoons, too. Scandie Sights stopped to visit the farm throughout the summer, but the goods were probably delivered at other times. Maybe arranging the farm visit had been the source of the initial contact: like-minded people meeting one another. It must have been the farmer on Jennifer Olsen’s balcony at Fleischer’s Hotel, mistaking it for Carl’s room next door. The argument Pix overheard the following evening at Stalheim had either been over the screwup, or maybe something more—splitting the take? And it had been the dark-bearded farmer on the boat in Balestrand the other night when Pix first tried to search the closet. Dark-bearded. Pix heard Carl’s voice screaming after her as she tried to escape. “Stoppe”

had been clear. Also “Sven.” Dark hair, east coast—a city boy, his wife had said, the right age—could the farmer be Kari’s father? Had she discovered his identity and what he was doing?

The ground was hard and damp, yet sitting up hurt more. She debated putting the blanket under her, then decided it would quickly absorb moisture from the earthen floor and would do more good draped across her.

She knew she should get up and start to search the place for a door or window—some way to get out—but she couldn’t summon the strength at the moment. If she could sleep, she might feel better when she woke up. Next time, she’d tell Faith to put some analgesics in her survival kit—that is, if there was a next time.

Pix drifted off into a half sleep. Images of Carl laughing, his face grotesque, passed through her mind. Was Jan a part of it, too? And Sonja, Anders? The captain? Was Scandie Sights itself a front?

She thought she could sleep. It was the most sensible thing to do, and Lord knows, that was what she was. “Pix is so sensible,” everyone always said. “So dependable.” It sounded like a dog, a hund….

Mice. She wasn’t a mouse, but the place had mice. She didn’t mind mice, yet the idea of those scratchy little feet running across her midriff was not appealing. But no, not mice. Something bigger than mice. A cat? She searched her mind for recollections of Norwegian wildlife. A fox? A troll?

A person. Someone had coughed. Not an animal cough. A definite human cough. Then a voice speaking rapid Norwegian.

Pix replied with one of her few Norwegian phrases—she was really going to have to get some tapes—“Jeg snakker ikke norsk. Snakker du engelsk?”—I don’t speak Norwegian. Do you speak English?

The person did. “Don’t move. I have a gun.”

Oh no, not again, thought Pix, lying absolutely still.

“There was nothing in the closet, Mrs. Rowe. Yes, it did sound a little hollow in the back, but Captain Hagen told us that the boat has been remodeled so many times in its history that half of it sounds hollow. In this section, they’ve made bathrooms from what were the crew’s quarters—these were coastal boats, used for the mail and other deliveries. The closet backs onto a bathroom and it’s probably where the pipes are, but we are continuing to search the boat. We have not seen any signs of a struggle. In fact, no signs that anyone had been there, and it was all locked up tight last night, as usual. The captain checks himself last thing.”

Pix had not shown Marit and Ursula, Faith’s bon voyage gifts. If she had had to say why, she would have acknowledged a recurrence of the adolescent impulse that prevents teenagers from telling their parents anything that might reflect unfavorably on a particular friend. Jeez, all Mother has to do is find out Faith gave me skeleton keys and she’ll never let me go over to her house again. It was absurd, of course. Pix had also felt somewhat reluctant to share the information that the wife of her mother’s spiritual adviser had slipped a can of Mace-like hair spray in for good measure. While Faith was not the leading light of the Ladies Alliance, she was a member in good standing, donating many jars of toothsome peach/cassis and wild strawberry jam to the Autumn Harvest Fair. The notion that the minister’s spouse was actively encouraging malfeasance among the parishioners would not go over as big as the jams, always popular items with their HAVE FAITH labels, the name of the catering company.

“If it was locked, then she must not have been able to get on the boat at all.” Ursula’s anxiety increased. Pix had surely left the hotel on a mission—a mission dictated by her mother. Apparently, she’d never gotten there, let alone accomplished it. How could she have disappeared in the short distance between the hotel and the boat? Why hadn’t she returned immediately when she discovered the boat was locked?

Marit spoke her fears aloud. “But where can she be if she’s not on the boat, or somewhere in Balestrand?”

“According to the night desk clerk, no one left the hotel until the two of you went out this morning, and she swears she wasn’t away from her post, not even for a minute. They’re quite strict about it here. And we had a man stationed by the door. The clerk says he fell asleep, which he admits, but between the two of them, I’d say it was impossible for your daughter to have left by that door, and the other exits were alarmed.”

“Then you think she still may be in the hotel?” Ursula had had high hopes of the boat, imagining Pix, perhaps tied up, but safe and sound in the closet.

Marit gasped. “The sauna! Remember she’d gotten locked in the sauna the other night.”

Ursula was halfway to the door. They were in the same large meeting room Pix had been in, only this time there wasn’t any coffee or cookies.

“Mrs. Rowe, the sauna was one of the first places we checked. It was empty.” Ursula walked back to the chair she’d been sitting in. If she felt like slumping, she didn’t. She’d left her cane in her room, too.

“I know how hard this is—for you both.” Marcussen looked at the two elderly women in front of him, each missing a loved one. Marit Hansen reminded him of many Norwegian women he knew. The set of her mouth, the way she walked. This was a stubborn woman, a strong woman. He was interested in her American friend. Both Americans had come across the ocean at a moment’s notice to do what they believed the police had not been able to do—find Kari Hansen. They all had no doubt they would be successful at unraveling the mystery. Now Mrs. Miller was missing and he could see the doubt in both her mother’s and Fru Hansen’s eyes. They had failed—and thus far, so had he.

He infused his voice with a confidence he was far from feeling. “Let’s start again. Tell me the whole story from

the beginning—from Kari’s call at the station in Oslo…” Officer Jansen came in with a tray. “

Kaffe

?”

Pix was aware of movement and a shape moving toward her.

She infused her voice with as much bravery as she could muster, “I’m an American tourist and my name is—”

“Pix!” the voice shrieked. Arms were flung about her and she was enveloped in a warm, if slightly uncomfortable, embrace. “What are you doing here!”

It was Kari. At last.

“I have the same question for you,” Pix said, joy washing over her—and relief. She could just make out the girl’s features in the dark. Kari’s face looked thinner, and older, but it had been some years since Pix had seen her.

“Wait—let me get my blanket. You feel cold.” Kari bustled away, obviously much more familiar with the layout of the place. She wrapped the blanket around Pix and the two huddled close together.

“I heard them bring you in. They left food if you are hungry. But I didn’t know who you were and I was afraid to find out. It could have been a trick, or someone who didn’t know I was here and might not be happy to find out. It seemed smart to wait, but I got too curious.”

“You don’t have a gun.” Pix was not in the slightest bit hopeful.

“No,” Kari said sadly. “Otherwise, I would have been out long ago.”

“Where are we?” Pix asked. First things first.

“I was drugged when they brought me here, but from the size and construction, it could be one of the old huts where the farmhands stayed when they brought the goats to the summer pastures, or it could be a hiker’s hut on the vidda. Whatever it is, it must be very remote, because it has no furniture and hasn’t been fixed up at all. Now people are using these as hytter, you know, and I would expect a table, chairs, and some bunk beds. A fireplace.

There is nothing here. Because it’s so cold, I think it must be the vidda, but if we are high up in the mountains, that would be cold, too.”

“And there’s no way out.”

“The shutters must be barred shut from the outside and the door is locked. I tried to dig with my hands and the clip from my hair, but it was no use. And no loose stones. Believe me, I’ve pulled at every one of them.”

Pix felt herself start to panic, but it dissipated at once. She’d come to Norway to find Kari and here she was, alive and well. Mission accomplished. Getting them out of a locked cabin God knows where would surely prove less difficult. And now there were two of them. Her headache was better and she was beginning to feel her energy returning.

“You must tell me everything. Have you seen my grandmother? Do you know about Erik?” Kari’s voice ended with a sob.

“Your grandmother is fine—worried, of course, but convinced you are alive. She’s with my mother at Kvikne’s Hotel. And yes, I’m so sorry—I do know about Erik.” Pix put her arm around Kari.

“I’ve cried so much, I didn’t know I had any tears left, but I suppose I always will.”

“Do you want to talk about what happened?” While Pix did not want to dredge up the tragic memory, she was eager to have the mystery solved. “Why don’t you tell me the whole thing, starting from your call to your grandmother from the station. Erik was still alive then, right?”

“Yes.” Kari took a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose. Pix resolved to find out what else the young woman had in her pockets, yet for the moment, all she wanted was to discover the events of a week ago that had led to a death and abduction.

“You must have found out about Carl; otherwise, you wouldn’t be here,” Kari said matter-of-factly. Pix nodded in the dark, before realizing subtle gestures were out.

“Yes. He had me—us—completely fooled.”

“Me, too. Erik knew Carl from last summer. They were on the same boat then, also. You know, Erik is like me, an only child, and he never had a big brother to do things with. Suddenly, everything was Carl this and Carl that. I must admit I was a bit jealous. They were going fishing. They were going out on the town in Bergen between tours. But then I met Carl, or Charles—he uses both names. His father is English.”

“I knew that, but not about the names.”

“Oh yes, he loves English people—more than Norwegians. But I didn’t find that out until this summer. That’s what started the whole thing. He has two passports. It’s completely legal. He was born in Britain. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Anyway, last winter the three of us—and sometimes he’d bring a girl along—did lots of things together. He had plenty of money. I assumed his family was rich, and it was fun to be taken to restaurants like Theatercafeen and not think about a bill. He always insisted on paying. He knew so many things, especially about art and antiques. After a few days, he’d disappear on one of the winter tours and then come back to sweep us off our feet again. I was so stupid!”

Kari started to cry again. “If I had had more sense, Erik would be alive today!”

And Erik had been lacking in judgment, too, thought Pix, but she kept her mouth shut. She could picture Carl’s seduction of these two—a handsome, witty, charming older brother with deep pockets. What young person could resist someone like that? Where was the harm? How can one bite of an apple hurt me?

“This part is hard to admit. I had a kind of crush on Carl, too. Erik is the only man I ever loved or ever will love, but Carl was very flattering—not in a crude way, but he made me feel special. Now I know it was all an act.”

“Why was he courting you? I know he was illegally taking antiques out of the country, but I wouldn’t have

thought he’d want to divide his profits with anyone other than the farmer.”

As she spoke, Pix thought, The farmer! Sven! Was Kari aware of this?

Quickly, she added, “The farm on the fjord that the tour visits. The man and his wife are in on this with Carl. They collect the things for him.”

“I know,” said Kari sadly. “I know it all. And yes, Erik was helping them, too.”

Pix didn’t know what to say and the two sat in silence for a moment.

“It’s a very hard thing to find out someone you love, someone you planned to spend your life with, is a weaker person than you thought. Not a bad person, just a weak person. I didn’t find out what was going on until this tour. I was putting my knapsack in the closet on the boat in the staff room, when it slipped from my hands and fell against the back wall. The wall fell forward and I found all these suitcases filled with antiques. I put everything back and told Erik. He told me not to say a word, that he would think what to do. I assumed it was the captain. I was always a little afraid of him, that bushy black beard, and he never said much.

“I was after Erik to tell the police and let them figure it out, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He said it would be bad for the company. Finally, I decided to call my friend Annelise, who is working at the museum in Bergen, and see if she knew of any recent robberies from a museum or someone’s private collection. That’s why I called my grandmother.”

“But you never called Annelise.”

“No, when I was on the phone, Carl came to get me, and he must have overheard me ask for Annelise’s number. He knows her, too, from last winter, when she was living in Oslo. He told me to hurry onto the train; then he talked to Erik and told him he had to keep me quiet. For insurance, he called Sven, who got on the train at Myrdal.”

The train. The stage was set. All the characters were on board.

“Carl told us to sit in the other car. He said that there wasn’t room in the tour’s, but there was. Erik tried-again to convince me that we shouldn’t get involved, that it was none of our business. He didn’t say it was Carl who was doing this. Then finally, he told me everything and we had a big fight. I lost my temper and said things I would give the world to take back. I never thought they would be some of the last words I would say to my Erik.”

“What did he tell you?” Kari was going to need a great deal of time to heal. She’d had a week alone in this dark cell to obsess about it. Now Pix wanted to get the facts, then get them out.

“Toward the end of last summer, Carl asked Erik to put some things in his knapsack and give them back to him when they got to Bergen, where Carl was taking the ferry to Newcastle. You know, there is very little security on it and Carl—now Charles, with his British passport—was well known to the British customs people. They always waved him through with whatever he had. I don’t know why he involved Erik. He’s an evil man and I think he wanted to control Erik, have something on him, corrupt a good person. He paid him well and Erik did it again. I asked him why he didn’t come to me if he needed money, not that I have much, but he could have had it all. He said I didn’t understand. I said it was dishonest and that he had to stop. I told him that I was going to tell the police unless Carl gave everything back. Erik said that would be stupid—people had already spent the money Carl had paid for the things and they didn’t want them anyway. What was the harm? he kept saying. I couldn’t believe it. It seemed like we were talking for hours. One of the women on the tour came into our car—a nice person, Mrs. Feld—and I was embarrassed that she might have seen us quarreling. When she left, I started to cry. I couldn’t make Erik understand. Finally, he said he did and he’d go along with whatever I said, but not until after the trip was over. He didn’t want to upset the tour. I had to be content with that, and it might have ended there, but Carl was nervous. Sven came along and began talking alone to Erik. I had met him on the first trip when we went to his farm and I was surprised to see him on the train, but I assumed he was just coming from Oslo like everyone else.”

“Then what happened?”

“Erik came back to the seat looking very pale and very scared. Sven had threatened him. Erik begged me to promise I wouldn’t say anything about what Carl was doing and he, Erik, would stop immediately. He was so agitated, I got scared, too. ‘What is it?’ I kept asking. Then he blurted out that Sven was working with Carl and was picking up some Viking silver from someone the last day of the tour. He said if anything messed that up, he’d kill us.”

“Viking silver! What would that be worth?” For Carl, it would mean a hasty retirement as tour guide and a life of ease on some nice square in London. Of that much, Pix was certain.

“It would depend on what there was, but at least a million dollars.”

No wonder Sven’s threat had been so severe. From his sixties mode of dress and simple life on the farm, it had appeared that he was not caught up in material possessions in the nineties, but care he did—and the fancy boat had been a dead giveaway, Pix reminded herself. He and his lovely young wife would never have to make gjetost again—or eat it. Where would they go? The Caribbean? So good for the children.

“But what farmer would have anything to sell from the Viking times? Wasn’t it all buried in graves?” Pix was thinking of the three large ship burials on the east coast, particularly the Oseberg find, a Viking woman’s tomb, perhaps Queen Åsa of Vestfold’s, with its rich treasures. A find even half the size of this would have made international headlines and been impossible to keep secret.

“The Vikings did put their goods—things that would be needed in the afterlife—in the ship burials. But they didn’t put in many silver ornaments or coins. These were considered part of the family’s wealth, like the land. After all, what use would someone have for these things in Valhall? Or maybe that’s just what they told themselves.” Kari gave a slight laugh.

Practical people, like their descendants, Pix reflected—why waste a perfectly good amulet, especially when silver was a scarce commodity.

“So what did they do with it?”

“They did bury the silver, but in hoards—secret hiding places. Every once in a while, someone comes across one of these. It can be in coins, ingots, jewelry.”

“And instead of turning it over to the proper authorities, this person is passing it along to Sven and Carl. No wonder they wanted to keep you quiet until the end of the tour.” And that’s why Kari and she had been locked up. When Carl heard Kari ask for Annelise’s phone number, he’d suspected Kari was onto him, and he had taken drastic, immediate steps.

“Exactly. They will all be wealthy men. But Erik, to his credit, didn’t want any part of it after Sven told him—and he told Sven this. ‘Viking things are different,’ Erik said. I don’t think he realized that the other antiques they were taking out of the country were as important to our history as the Viking find. He thought of them as common objects that everybody had around. He really didn’t know very much about it. But he thought the Viking silver should stay in Norway. Now it was a crime. Before it was just getting around a stupid law, like…well, brewing your own beer.

“When we were getting close to Kjosfossen, he had decided to slip off the train in Voss and tell the police, even though it meant he would have to confess what he had done. I was very proud of him.”

Pix was glad that Kari had this last memory. Erik had been weak and foolish, yet he had resolved to do the right thing. She could always remember that.

Now they were coming close to the moment of his death. Pix wanted to find out—and didn’t. She took Kari’s hand. It was a lot warmer than her own.

“The train stopped so people could take pictures and we got out to answer any questions or provide help. It was also our job to be sure no one was left behind. We were always the last by the waterfall. Carl and Sven came close behind us. I was very scared, but Erik wasn’t. I think it was because there were so many people and he thought, What can they do to us? He knew he was going to the police, but they didn’t, and of course he wasn’t going to say anything. Then it got horrible. Carl was totally crazy. I had never seen him this way. By that time, we were the only ones left. Carl began to scream at Erik for betraying him, for telling me. He said he thought of Erik as a brother, but that he was not to speak to him again, except when he had to. Then he began on me, said that I was a whore and no man would ever have me for a wife. Erik told him to stop, but he kept going. Sven just stood to the side, saying nothing.”

Pix could imagine the scene very well. She remembered Carl’s transformation, the sudden flare of temper at the Glacier Museum as he berated the other guide. Mother had said he was a passionate person. She had been right.

“Carl began to laugh. ‘The joke is on you, Erik.’” Kari lowered her voice. “He said, ‘I know for sure what she’s like, because I slept with her!’ Of course it was a lie, and I yelled this to Erik, only he pushed me aside and went for Carl. Sven tried to break it up, but he tripped and fell. Carl pushed Erik away. The train was starting to move. And Erik fell into Kjosfossen.”

Her voice was flat and after the last words, it was hard to know what to say. As Pix squeezed the girl’s hand hard, Kari began again.

“We all stood absolutely still. Then Carl said, ‘Oh shit! Look what you did! to me and he ran toward the train. I

started to follow, but Sven grabbed me. The next thing I knew, I was on the farm. I don’t know how he got me from the train tracks there, but Carl must have called Sven’s wife from Flåm. My head had a lump, so I know he hit me.”

“Carl made another call, too.” Pix told her about the message the stationmaster at Voss had received that they were eloping and Carl’s telephone conversation with her grandmother later that night at the hotel in Bergen.

Kari stood up and paced rapidly up and down. She was incensed.

“How could anyone have believed, that! The whole time I’ve been wondering how Carl could have covered up our disappearance, but this idea never occurred to me.”

“Because, my dear, you don’t have a criminal mind.” Pix was angry, too. The man was a monster. “But,” she reminded Kari, “your grandmother didn’t believe it. She knows you.”

“The police must have, then. What has been going on?”

Pix told her as delicately as possible the theories in various papers, reassuring her that it was already old news. Kari paced even more furiously.

“They think I killed Erik! And ran off someplace! How could I? My knapsack with all my money was on the train still, under my seat.”

Pix told her the bad news. “I’m afraid Carl and Sven thought of that. The knapsacks were left where they were and ended up in the lost luggage back in Oslo, but yours was missing your wallet and passport.”

“So, I’m guilty.” Kari sat down, then jumped up again. “If I ever see Carl again, I will kill him!”

Pix needed to get something cleared up. “Why did you and Erik have your passports?”

“Erik told me to bring mine, that you never knew when you might need it.”

Shades of Faith Fairchild, Pix thought. Oh Faith, where are you when I need you now!

“I think he may have been planning to surprise me with a trip at the end of the summer, after our jobs ended. Maybe to Greece or someplace like that.”

Greece. Sunny places. Olive groves. Pix thought of the picture of Kari’s parents. She hadn’t told Kari about the newspapers dredging up the circumstances of her mother’s death. She also didn’t think it was the time and place to talk about Hanna’s origins. She did want to know about Sven, though.

“Kari, did Sven look familiar to you? Is it possible that you knew him before? He threatened you, but he brought you here, and you mentioned they were giving you food. He hasn’t harmed you. Maybe because he knew you?”

“Why do you ask? It’s true he said he would kill us, but that is very different from doing it. I saw his face when Erik went into the water, and he was horrified. Why kill me? Murder is very serious, very different from what he’s doing with Carl. Just before they pick up the Viking silver, they will probably bring food and water here. Enough until some hikers find us. Or maybe they’ll drug us again and leave the door unlocked. I’ve thought about it a lot. There’s not much else to do here.”

Pix decided to leave the matter at that for now. Yet Kari was being rather naïve. With that much money at stake, Pix was sure the leap from one crime to another would not be a big one.

“I don’t think we can depend on their good natures. At the least, it would be just as easy to leave us here. I hope you’re right and they will come one more time to appease their consciences, if they have any. Then we can be ready for them. And now we have to flunk of a plan.”

Pix always felt better when she thought she knew what she was doing.

The day had gone by very slowly, despite the tour of Balestrand and other diversions offered by the hotel and Scandie Sights. By dinner, tempers were short and the various tour members were either sitting by themselves or in small isolated family groups. Inspector Marcussen looked at the tables as he filled his plate with medisterkaker from the array of hot dishes at the hotel’s smörgåsbord. The fragrant meat cakes were accompanied by sauerkraut flavored with caraway seeds. Having already finished several helpings of herring and other fish, he couldn’t think of a better Sunday-night supper. The Scandie Sights tour members, however, with the exception of the younger Petersons, seemed to have lost their appetites.

After dinner, he would tell them they were free to go in the morning. He couldn’t legitimately keep them here any longer, although he was sure that both the answer to Oscar Melling’s death and Mrs. Miller’s disappearance was known to someone in this room. If he could, he’d keep them in this pleasant jail until that person broke and confessed. But it was impossible. Sidney Harding had besieged his embassy with calls and several other tour members had made a single protest. Marcussen was officially ordered to let them go. Also, the hotel needed the rooms. It had been a minor miracle that they had all been able to stay put for even this long. He sighed. Could he be wrong? Jansen was convinced that Oscar Melling’s death had been an accident and the injury to his back somehow obtained in the fall. And Mrs. Miller? Had she given in to a sudden impulse and wandered off? His wife had once described a sensation she got at times, that she could just keep driving and not return—cross the border and eventually be in Venice. He had been shocked, then amused. Now that the children were grown and out of the house, he hadn’t heard any more about it and they had gone to Venice together last fall. He tried to remember how old Mrs. Miller’s children were. Some still home, but no one at that demanding toddler stage. Carl Bjørnson, one of the guides, had privately confided that he and the other guide had thought Mrs. Miller troubled since her arrival—often agitated and given to long, lonely walks at odd hours. Carl was sure she would turn up, an amnesia victim or some other such thing.

But her mother and Fru Hansen were convinced that someone had done something to her. They were seated at a table, their food in front of them, but eating nothing, deep in conversation. He knew they believed that Kari Hansen’s and Pix Miller’s disappearances were connected—Oscar Melling’s death, too. He considered his food. The meatballs were so good, he thought he might be able to eat some more. The mother’s theory was all very far-fetched. After a meal like this, he was inclined to agree with Jansen that the women had been watching too much American television. Marcussen was opposed to television and worried that his future grandchildren wouldn’t be counted in Norway’s 100 percent literacy rate if things continued the way they were going with all these new channels. Mrs. Rowe and Fru Hansen were leaving the dining room and stopped to speak with him.

“I hope you are enjoying your meal, Inspektør” Fru Hansen said, eyeing his plate. He suddenly felt a bit overindulgent.

“Everyone will be free to leave the hotel in the morning. I intend to announce it after dinner,” he told them abruptly. “I’m sorry,” he added, and put his fork down, leaving the rest of his helping untouched.

“We imagined that you couldn’t detain people for too much longer,” Ursula said sympathetically. “Of course, Fru Hansen and I intend to remain until my daughter is found.”

They said good night and left the room. Another group was coming in. Marcussen looked after the two women, handbags on arms, straight spines, no ladders in their hose. They could be here for a long time, he thought dismally, and decided to forgo dessert.

Myrtle “Pix” Miller had never been more awake and alert in her life. She could hear Kari’s regular breathing from across the room. They were taking the watch in turn. Kari had shown Pix the small chink she had found between the boulders, which had been wedged tightly together during the original construction and made more impenetrable, settling into the ground over the years. They had not taken her watch, so looking at a tiny patch of sky, she’d charted the passage of time, painfully aware of how slowly it was moving.

“After Midsummer Eve, after the children are out of school, I’m sure there will be people on walking trips, but now even if we could make enough noise to be heard through these walls, there’s a very slim chance that anyone would be near enough to hear us,” she’d told Pix. Midsummer Eve, Pix thought dismally, was still a week away. She willed the door to open, willed them to make one last food drop, avoiding the possibility of more blood on their hands. Blood—it made her think of the swastika at Stalheim. Carl had seemed genuinely surprised at her assumption that he had killed Oscar. If Oscar had figured out what Carl was up to, he would have been more likely to offer him a North American outlet than blackmail him, Pix now thought. Yet if not Carl, then who killed the old man—and who was the graffiti artist?

Kari had explained to Pix that it was always either Sven or his wife who came to leave some food and a thermos of coffee. The door was quickly opened, a sack dropped in, and he or she was off again. It all took only a few seconds. When Pix had been brought in, Sven had his gun out, telling Kari to get in the far corner of the hut. Once more, his exit was swift. There had been no possibility of rushing out the door or overpowering either person at any time.

“Pix,” whispered Kari. “Someone’s coming. Get ready.”

Yes, there was the sound of a car. The engine stopped. A door slammed—one door.

Someone was fumbling with the lock and then light streamed in. Pix was momentarily blinded.

It was Sven, who was carrying a plastic bag, which he hastily set down inside the door. As he turned to leave, Kari called in a feeble voice.

“The woman. The woman you brought here is dead.”

“What!” cried Sven, rushing to where Pix lay. “This can’t be…”

As he leaned over to check, Pix let him have it full force with Faith’s superhold hair spray. He screamed and fell back. Kari was waiting with the Thermos and brought it down on his head hard, twice. The man fell to the ground. Quickly, they searched his pockets, taking his wallet, keys, matches, some coins, and a knife. There was nothing else.

They left the food. With luck, he’d be there long enough to get very hungry.

Outside, after locking the door, they fell into each other’s arms, laughing deliriously. The low stone hut had a sod roof. It looked so innocuous—a flower or two sprouting amid the grass, and a well-worn wooden door.

“We did it! It was so easy! You’re a genius, Pix!” Kari hugged her again.

Modestly, Pix said, “You were pretty handy with that thermos.” She made a mental note to write to the company, thanking them for the versatility of their product. She had almost gotten away by throwing hot coffee at Carl, and now they had gained their freedom using the handy vacuum bottle again.

“Now,” she continued, “let’s see if we can retrace his route and find the nearest police station or phone.”

“Police!” Kari’s expression changed. “No way! They’ll never believe me. We have to see this through to the end. I need to clear my name.”

“But we have Sven and they’ll arrest Carl. Inspector Marcussen will believe us.”

“The things that were in the closet are at the bottom of the fjord or hidden in some other place. Sven’s wife will miss him soon and come to investigate. They’ll deny we were ever here. Say that we’re crazy. It will be my word against Carl’s and Sven’s. They’ll probably accuse Erik, if anything. Remember, the police already think I may have killed him. And there will always be a cloud

hanging over me and my grandmother. Suspicion is a terrible thing.”

It was late in the evening, Sunday evening, and the sun still felt warm. They were alive and free, but Pix was forced to agree with Kari. It wasn’t over.

Ten

Kari drove like a woman possessed. Pix wondered whether this was her normal style or an aberration produced by the present situation. Whatever it was, she was going to have to tell the girl to slow down or neither would have a tale to tell to any grandchildren.

The first part of the trip had been less dramatic. They’d had to drive carefully to follow the marks made by Sven’s drive across the flat expanse that lay before them when they’d emerged from the hut. The hut was the only sign of civilization as far as the eye could see. Behind them, a wall of rock stretched across the horizon; its dramatic cliffs looked seamless.

“It’s Hallingskarvet,” Kari had said. “The railway lies to the south of it, across the vidda. You came that way in the train.”

“And what is that?” Pix had asked, pointing straight ahead to one of the largest snowcapped mountain ranges she’d ever seen.

“Oh, that—that’s Jotunheimen, the home of the trolls and giants, but I don’t think they’ll bother us,” she added mischievously. “It’s quite far away. I’m assuming road number fifty is in that direction. If I’ve guessed wrong, we’ll know fairly soon, because there aren’t any other roads for quite a distance. But Sven had to get here easily,

and he left a good track to whatever road he did take. The ground is soft now from the snow melting in the mountains.”

After several trips, the car had indeed left a distinct path, one that traced an old route across the countryside. The grass was green, but the only wildflowers Pix saw were arctic varieties. In places, the ground was completely covered in heather, its pale lavenders and pinks adding color to the gray fields strewn with boulders.

“When we get to the main road, all we have to do is guess the right way to turn. It shouldn’t be hard. We just head west.”

“How far do you think we are from Balestrand?” Pix asked, giving herself up to the navigator.

“It’s hard to say. But we will definitely be there before morning.” They had driven on for a bit; then Kari complained: “What’s bumping against the back of my seat? Can you move it?”

Pix twisted around to look.

“It’s a suitcase. He must have planned to drop the food off and then meet Carl someplace. Damn, we didn’t think of that. They were going to pick up the Viking stuff on the last day of the tour, which is today. It would be too much to hope that Carl would have stayed on in Balestrand. I would have thought they’d meet at the farm, except Sven wouldn’t have his suitcase with him if that was the plan. I don’t think they trust each other enough to let one person go off with the silver. They’d stay together until they got their money.”

“And even without the added liability of having kept us prisoners, Carl, Sven, and his wife will have to get out of the country with the Viking silver right away. It will be too risky to stay.”

Pix agreed. “Yes, so that suggests Sven was on his way to Bergen and the ferry across the North Sea to Newcastle. Do you have any idea where they’d meet in Bergen?”

“No, but we can head straight for the ferry. Unless we can come up with a better plan.”

“Whatever we decide, there’s something we need to do as soon as possible. It’s time to call Mother.”

Kari grinned. “And Bestemor. Now, what’s in his suitcase?”

It was at this point that she saw the paved road ahead, let out a whoop, and hit the accelerator. Sven had treated himself to a brand-new BMW and it responded immediately. Pix did, too.

“Pull over and I’ll get the case. I don’t want to take my seat belt off.” She was feeling extremely middle-aged. She used to drive pretty fast herself when she was younger. Now thoughts of mortality—and wanting to know the ends of a great many stories—slowed her down.

The suitcase yielded little except for the knowledge that Sven favored boxers and was carrying his passport. He also had a framed photo of his wife and children.

“The rat!” Kari exclaimed, the needle of the speedometer quivering forward. “I bet he’s leaving them!”

“Pond scum—or fjord scum,” Pix added. Her children, she thought with a pang, would appreciate the nicety of her distinction. The suitcase, down to the box of condoms, tucked in with a flask of brandy, had all the earmarks of a future bachelor’s, including the picture of former loved ones as a sweet memory. Would he have said he was a widower or what?

“I think the future Sven had planned for himself didn’t include a wife and children, especially not the children.” She wasn’t sorry for his wife. Since Pix had arrived on the tour, so many people had been wearing so many masks, and the disguise of the happy farmer’s wife, living off the land for generations, seemed particularly repellent. She wondered if any of it was true.

“Do you think Mrs. Sven really did grow up on the farm? Was it a lie, or were her parents and grandparents at their hytte?”

Kari flew around a curve in the road, disturbing some birds, which were searching for food along the side. They scattered into the air with much screeching and flapping of wings.

“I never saw anybody else, but I wouldn’t think she’d lie that way. It would be bound to get back to somebody in Vik or one of the villages nearby. She probably did grow up there and probably hated it.”

Pix thought of Sonja. She’d grown up in a tiny village, Undredal, and was definitely not going back.

“And was it just Carl from Scandie Sights, or Jan, too? Maybe the other stewards? He could have gotten to them, the way he had with Erik.”

“I would be surprised. Jan will go into his family business, the oil business. Carl used to make fun of him, but I think he was jealous of his position. I know everyone thinks we are all the same in Norway, but there are some families that are maybe a little above the rest of us—a little older, and a lot more money. Jan’s is like that. He does the tours because he enjoys them and his father thinks he should do something to practice his English. As for the stewards—Anders, I would doubt, and Sonja is too stupid to keep her mouth shut. Carl would never involve her.”

So, there was no love lost here, as well, Pix thought.

“She doesn’t seem particularly fond of you, either.”

Kari tossed her head. The car swerved.

“She was after Erik all last summer. She made a total fool of herself, and poor Erik was very embarrassed. I had to go to Bergen and put a stop to it. She has Anders now. He might be nice, but nothing like Erik. Oh Pix, I can’t believe I’ll never see him again! And what will I tell his parents? The truth might kill them, too.”

It was hard. Pix was tempted to advise a severely edited version, with the cooperation of the police, but there were too many secrets, too many lies in life—especially family life.

“You tell them what you told me. They will know that at the end Erik was doing as he had been taught, and that will be a comfort to them.”

They drove in silence for a while. It was past midnight. Pix

was dying of thirst and hunger. She had taken the sandwiches the farmer’s wife made—what was her name anyway?—from her pocket and left them at the hut. The sandwiches she had pressed on Pix along with the coffee as she rushed Pix to the fjord taxi. They couldn’t take the chance that Mrs. Sven might have added knockout drops to the smør.

The Côte d’Or chocolate bar! She dug it out, unwrapped it, and handed half to Kari.

“I’ve never tasted anything so good in my life,” the girl said.

“I’ll tell Faith,” answered Pix, savoring each mouthful.

They finally came to a phone—and a Coke machine—outside a small gas station. Pix was charmed to note it had a sod roof. Her family, those increasingly mythical creatures, would enjoy this country. Jan had patiently explained about sod roofs the day they were on his bus. The roof framing was covered with layers of birch bark, then sod in the old days. Now people used heavy plastic sheeting under the sod and trimmed the edges with the birch to suggest authenticity. “And we don’t bring our lawn mowers up,” he’d joked. She hoped he was what she and Ursula had thought. Okay, his family was in the oil business, but that didn’t mean he was passing industrial secrets to a tour member or anybody else. Carl had always seemed a little too perfect, too polished. Jan, she reminded herself, had on unmatched socks the first day. Kari hit the brakes and they jerked to a halt outside the station. There were no signs of life, but Sven had thoughtfully left a full tank of gas and they didn’t need to fill up.

“This is a very popular place in the winter for cross-country skiing, and hiking soon of course. In between…” Kari shrugged and pointed to the dark station.

Having felt justified in taking a loan from Sven’s coins as well as using his car, they headed for the phone and machine. Kari thought it best that she be the one to call Ursula—speaking to the desk clerk in Norwegian, simply asking for “Fru Rowe.”

The clerk answered and put the call through to the room.

She had been instructed to let the inspectør know if either Fru Hansen or Fru Rowe received any calls, but she didn’t think he meant her to disturb him. She conscientiously noted the time and put the message in an envelope with his name on it for the morning.

Ursula picked up the phone on the first ring.

“It’s me.” Kari was careful not to identify herself, and the gasp from Ursula told her she didn’t need to. The clerk could still be listening in, although Kari doubted it. It would have been very rude. “I’m fine. So is the other lady, who is with me. And we’ll see you soon. I don’t want to take much time, so here’s what we want to know—and maybe there’s a little something we hope you two can do.”

They couldn’t drive any longer. It wasn’t fatigue, hunger—or thirst. The Coke machine had taken care of that. It was the fjord—glistening, dead calm, straight in front of them—the end of the journey, or part of the journey.

“Now what?” Pix said, stepping out of the car. She had taken over the driving so Kari could rest.

“We find a boat.”

Of course. Pix added piracy to the growing list of crimes—breaking and entering, larceny—she found herself perpetrating in this law-abiding nation.

No one had conveniently left their keys on board any of the craft moored at the dock, so it appeared they would have to row to Balestrand. Pix spent her Maine summers either on the water or in it, so she was a strong oarswoman. Kari, too, had learned the art on the fjords of the east coast around Tønsberg, rowing to the nearby islands.

On the way, they had driven through Stalheim, and Pix shivered when she saw the hotel perched high above the valley. From Stalheim, they had followed the twisting road down to Vangnes, on the shores of the Sognefjord, coming to a stop at this deserted pier. Balestrand lay directly across the water.

For Balestrand—and Kvikne’s Hotel—was their final destination, after all. Odin and the others in the Norsk

pantheon had smiled on them. Carl Bjørnson was still there. Everyone was still there, detained for their “safety” by the good inspectør. Detained so he could try to find out what was going on was more like it, Pix thought. But for whatever reason, Carl and the Viking silver were still safe in Norway, although Carl would not be safe for long if all went well. Pix had taken the phone and told Ursula what to do, carefully speaking in such a way that anyone listening would hear only a superficial conversation about getting together. Again, she had had a plan. “It’s all these town meetings, having to think of ways to raise money for things, like the library and the schools. I tend to think in index cards,” she’d explained to Kari, who continued to be impressed by her friend’s ingenuity. And it’s living with Faith, Pix added to herself, Faith the person. She was beginning to feel a little like Kari’s Faith the person—and it didn’t feel bad.

They had untied a lapstrake wooden rowboat, double-ended, with the long oars favored by Norwegian mariners. It was a beautiful boat, well maintained, and Pix made a mental apology to its owner, promising to have it back as soon as possible.

Pix had always found car travel conducive to serious conversation, intimate conversation. Something about the enforced closeness, the inability to leave. Something about talking or listening to someone with his or her eyes presumably on the road. Nothing face-to-face. This had been when her father had told her things about his childhood she’d never known, sad things. It was when Sam had proposed and they’d pulled over—to be face-to-face. She had thought this car trip would be the time when she could talk to Kari about Hanna and what Marit had revealed about Stalheim, but Kari had been asleep when they passed by. Now in the boat, in the soft darkness, Pix wanted Kari to know what Marit had told them.

“You were sleeping when we went through Stalheim. It’s such a beautiful place, such a wonderful hotel. It’s hard to think of it in any other way, hard to imagine what it was like during the war.”

“Marit told you?” Kari was rowing and she lifted the oars out of the water.

“Yes. My mother was terribly sorry that your grandparents hadn’t shared this with her years ago. She wouldn’t have thought anything other than how lucky Hans and Marit had been to find a baby to adopt.”

“I was very angry when she told me, but I didn’t let her know. Did she tell you my mother was a teenager when she found out?”

“Yes.”

“If they had spoken to her sooner, she might still be alive! Remember I said unless I cleared this up, we’d always be living with people’s suspicions? That was how Hanna must have felt. That to be a Lebensborn child was something to hide from the neighbors and family, so nobody would be raising a finger, ‘tsk, tsk, tsk—bad blood.’” Kari sounded incredibly bitter. She had said “Hanna,” not “Mor”—a distant figure.

Pix took a deep breath. The girl had started rowing again, hard. The water dripped in flashing strings of beads from each oar. A single bird flew high overhead. Of course, if Hanna had known sooner, she might not have rebelled so dramatically—and there wouldn’t be a Kari—but that wasn’t the point.

“People make mistakes. Lord knows, I’ve made plenty, especially in child rearing.” Pix and Sam had thought they’d gain expertise with each new addition, but instead, they discovered whole new quandaries. “Hans and Marit thought they were protecting your mother. It was a hard call and we weren’t there. We don’t know what it was like in Norway then. They did what they did out of love.”

“That’s no excuse,” Kari shot back.

“Oh yes, it is. It’s a great excuse, the best. It may not always turn out right, but it’s a damned good excuse.” Pix paused. “I knew your mother, remember. Adored her. She could do anything—run faster, sing better, swim, cook, write funny poems—and she was so beautiful. But, although finding out her origins must have been a shock,

I think she was a victim of her own intense personality colliding with a very mixed-up time in both our societies. So many contradictory messages. And she got confused.”

“Still…” Kari sounded less vehement, or maybe talking and rowing at the same time was wearing her out. “I am going to try to find out who her mother was. They’ve opened the records. I don’t care so much about discovering who my Nazi grandfather might be, but my grandmother could still be alive and might tell me something about the family.”

Nazi! That reminded Pix of Oscar Melling. She’d told Kari about finding his body and who he was, but she hadn’t asked about the Stalheim connection.

“Do you think Oscar Melling—I can’t get used to calling him Eriksen—had anything to do with the Lebensborn home at Stalheim? He was from the area.”

“Oh Lord, you don’t think he was my grandfather, that obnoxious old lech. He made things very difficult on the tour. I was sorry for nice people like the Felds and the Bradys. He always seemed to want to pick a fight with them in particular.”

Pix couldn’t think of anything to say to reassure her. She’d cast Oscar in the role herself, and she couldn’t say they bore no resemblance to one another, what with such a common genetic background, although she’d have to see a picture of a much younger and less dissipated Oscar to find one.

“I’m sure the odds are quite slim. Why don’t I row for a while.” They changed places and soon Pix was enjoying the exercise, the steady in-out rhythm of the oars.

She thought of another role she’d cast: Sven. Kari hadn’t seemed to know what Pix was talking about earlier when she’d asked if Sven seemed familiar to the girl.

“Do you think this Sven might be your father?” It was out.

“Oh, is that what you were getting at before!” Kari started to laugh. “My poor father is in a home for alcoholics. He came back to Norway when he was almost fifty and had

run out of money and women who would take him in, I suppose. I don’t have much feeling about him, except, of course, I wouldn’t be here otherwise. He got in touch with my grandmother and we went to see him. He cried and said I looked like my mother. I didn’t want to go back. Marit visits him. She’s a much better person than I am. He doesn’t have anybody else, she says, but I think she wants to hear about Hanna.”

There went that theory, Pix said to herself. Maybe a couple of theories. Certainly Kari had not run off in search of her identity. She seemed quite in control of who she was. It had been a kidnapping and one kidnapper was in for a big surprise.

Pix brought the boat silently along the dock at Balestrand, relieved to see the Viking fjord cruiser dwarfing the other pleasure boats. Farther back on shore, the hotel was illuminated by several outside lights and a few shone from windows scattered across the grand old lady’s facade.

They tied up and slipped aboard the bigger boat. Without skeleton keys, they had to resort to Sven’s knife, which Pix adeptly used to pop the lock and enter the main cabin. As they had assumed, Carl had cleaned out the hidden storage space in the closet in the staff room. He’d been clever enough not to sweep, leaving and, Pix was sure, adding dust and dirt particles.

Kari went to the refrigerator in the galley and took two bottles of Solo, the sweet orange soda, a national addic-tion—Solo and pølser, hot dogs, every child’s idea of a perfect meal: “But there’s fruit in Solo, Mom!” She handed one to Pix. “Put some of Sven’s money in the jar over there. I don’t feel right just taking it, but I’m still so thirsty.”

They sat down at one of the tables. Carl had straightened the chairs after her attempted flight the other night. Pix took a swig of her soda. “Soo Loo”—it was fun to say.

“We have to try to think like Carl. Walk in his shoes.”

“English. Custom-made,” Kari said.

“But of course. Now if he wanted to hide something, where…”

Several hours later, Pix rolled off the bunk she’d fallen asleep on and went to rouse Kari, who was sleeping above. They had not thought it wise to sleep on board the Scandie Sights boat, and although the boat with the tarp was still docked, Pix could not recommend its accommodations. They’d slipped into a large sailboat, assuming the owners were at Kvikne’s or elsewhere in the district.

“Kari, wake up. It’s time!”

The girl swung her long legs over the side and jumped down. Then they straightened their berths and went above.

Outside, it was what Pix would have called a perfect Maine day. The sun was shining. The sky was blue, with large puffy white clouds. A slight warm breeze fanned across the water and the air was clear. A perfect Maine day, except she was in Norway.

They strolled over to the front of the dock, sat cross-legged facing the hotel, the Scandie Sights boat behind them. The Midsummer bonfire pile had grown considerably in her absence, Pix noted. There was a whole new layer of vegetable crates.

Kari leaned back on her arms and stretched her face toward the sun.

“Now we wait.”

The Scandie Sights tour was the first down to breakfast, hitting the immense bowls of muesli, chafing dishes of fish cakes, and mounds of fresh strawberries as soon as the doors opened. There was a manic feeling in the air. Cheeks were flushed, voices raised in false heartiness. Equally false promises to write and stay in touch were made. Hunched over, forking in nourishment, never had the group seemed more like a new species, Ursula Rowe thought as she sat before a single slice of bread, some jam, and a strawberry, not eating anything. Locusts, lemmings, they reminded her of something. Children. No, not

children. Teenagers. Avoidance of eye contact. Bolting of

food. Yes, definitely adolescence.

“May we join you?” It was Sophie and her cousin Valerie.

“Of course,” Ursula replied. “We need to save a place for my friend Marit, who’s not down yet.” And where was Marit? Ursula wanted to get going.

“We are very, very sorry that there has been no news of your daughter. Très charmante…” Sophie’s voice trailed off. Pix would be happy to hear herself so described, her mother thought, happily thinking that soon she could tell her so.

“Yes, it is upsetting, but the police have not given up hope.”

“Bien ur! Of course she will be found, wandering in these very thick woods, peut-être.” Valerie clearly thought the notion of a walk in these primordial forests madness. Lovely from afar.

Marit arrived with a similarly skimpy repast.

Ursula ate the strawberry and raised an eyebrow at Marit. Time to go.

“I absolutely forbid it!” A chair being pushed back and the sound of broken crockery accompanied the statement, a statement that everyone in the dining room had no trouble hearing even above the concomitant noise.

“Never, never, never!” Each word increased in volume and intensity, a tour de force. The four ladies looked at one another. “Madame Peterson seems upset,” Sophie said, her eyes saying what her lips did not; that is, The woman is completely crazy—fou.

Lynette grabbed her mother-in-law’s arm. “It’s our turn now. I’ve eaten enough fish to last me the rest of my life and we’re going to London. That’s it.”

“Don’t tell me you’re in on this.” Carol turned her eye on Roy junior, and although not turned to stone, he didn’t move, mumbling, “We’ll meet you at the airport in Oslo. It’s only a week.”

“Only a week! Only a week! Exactly! One week out of your life to do something for somebody else. What am I

going to tell the relatives?”

Priorities were being set.

“We don’t even know these people and we don’t care. They probably don’t care, either.” Lynette’s voice was just as loud, but her tempo was faster. “It’s our honeymoon and we’re going to see where Princess Di lives.”

“Princess Di!” This was the last straw. This was not what people did on honeymoons. Princess Di was no role model.

The whole room had grown quiet as everyone watched the scene unfold before them. Several people were smiling. After the events of the last few days, this comedy of errors was a positive relief. Neither Carl nor Jan had appeared to break the fight up and it continued to roll forward, taking on a life of its own, a final anecdote to entertain the folks back home when they sat captive watching the video of “our trip.”

“Well, don’t just sit there. You say something!” Carol turned to Roy senior. He stood up.

“I don’t have anything to say. Let them do whatever the hell they want,” he said, and left.

Carol wasn’t going to give up. Abandoned by husband, son, and daughter-in-law, she was going down fighting.

“I never thought I would see the day when a child of mine, my only child, would turn on me like this. You go have your little trip and miss meeting some of the nicest people you would ever have known. People who were going to take you into their home. Your Norwegian family. You go and have fun looking at all the sights. Don’t forget the Tower of London, either,” she shot at Lynette. “You ought to feel real comfortable there.”

She’d gone too far.

White-faced, but with a slow grin spreading across her face, Lynette said, “I was saving this news for when we got home, but I think now’s as good a time as any to tell you, Mother Peterson.”

“No, honey!” Roy junior, suddenly mobilized, went to his wife’s side. “Not now, sweetheart. Come on—you

promised!”

“Promised what?” Carol liked to know things.

“Nothing, Mom. Let’s all go pack and get down to the boat.”

“Promised I wouldn’t tell you that he’s been promoted and accepted a transfer to New York City in three weeks,” Lynette announced coolly.

The room braced itself.

Carol said, “New York City?” in a “Did I hear correctly?” kind of voice. New York City? That hellhole? That crime-and vice-ridden capital of corruption? That New York City? Come again?

“Yes, New York City. We’ve already rented an apartment.” Lynette did not bother to hide her triumphant smugness.

“I’d like to go to my room, son,” Carol said regally, reaching for Roy junior’s arm. “I think I’m going to throw up.” Leaning heavily on him, she slowly made her way out, a battleship that had taken a direct hit but, against all odds, stubbornly stayed afloat.

“I’d say she took it rather well,” Ursula said.

Marit nodded.

“Méchante, that girl,” Sophie observed. “I’m glad I never had children.”

As Ursula and Marit rapidly left the room—the Peterson scene had taken valuable time and it had been too fascinating to leave—Ursula remembered Lynette’s words to Pix in the sauna at Fleischer’s Hotel. She’d predicted correctly. Carol had not liked what was coming one bit.

Inspector Marcussen was in the lobby, holding an envelope that he hastily stuffed in his pocket.

“The tour group will be leaving at eight o’clock and we’re going to say good-bye to some of the friends we made. Would you care to stroll down that way with us?” Ursula asked.

“I’m sure Officer Jansen would like to come, too,” Marit added, nodding at the pleasant-looking rounded-faced young man.

Now what were they up to? Johan Marcussen wondered. They made it sound as if they were inviting him to coffee or some such social outing. And who had called Fru Rowe in the middle of the night? The clerk had gone home, so he didn’t know whether the person had spoken Norwegian or not. But surely if it had been her daughter, she would be saying something, or betraying her obvious relief. Both women looked the same as yesterday, and the day before. Calm, slightly detached, well scrubbed.

“Yes, I’m sure we would be happy to come with you.” Nothing better to do, that was for sure, and he had intended to watch the boat leave.

Ursula was carrying some envelopes. “Tips. The staff have gone out of their way to make this a memorable trip.” Some more than others, to be sure, but there was no envelope with his name on it.

Outside the hotel, Ursula turned to the inspectør. “We have something to tell you….”

At the dock, Kari had gone to the small market and bought them some juice, rolls, and yogurt when it opened. No one seemed very interested in them and they continued to sit where they were, ducking out of sight behind the unlighted bonfire only when Captain Hagen came down to the ship.

Busboys from the hotel brought several large wagons filled with the luggage and slung it on board. Kari and Pix kept their gaze fixed on the one and only path from Kvikne’s to the dock.

Safety in numbers? Virtually the whole tour, even Carol Peterson, who did look as if she’d thrown up—pale and wan—arrived at once with Carl, Jan, Anders, and Sonja—so many sheepdogs nudging the flock along one last time. Marit, Ursula, and the police brought up the rear.

Pix looked at Kari. Kari looked at Pix. “Now,” she whispered.

They emerged from behind the mountain of wood and paper awaiting a Midsummer Eve torch.

“Hello, Carl—and everyone else,” Kari said in English.

“I’m glad we didn’t miss you,” Pix said, standing in front of the young man. “Although you may not be so happy.”

Carl looked about desperately and started to walk toward the road out of the village. The police had moved in close. He decided to bluff.

“Why, Mrs. Miller, Kari, you’re safe! Everyone has been so worried!”

Jan joined him. “It’s a miracle. But what happened? Where have you been? How do you know each other?” He had the feeling he had missed several important chapters. None of it made sense, but things were looking a whole lot better for the tour evaluations. He liked working for Scandie Sights. The oil company’s office was boring.

Jennifer Olsen came running toward Pix and threw her arms around her. “I thought something terrible had happened to you, to both of you!” She grabbed Kari.

“Something did. Tell them, Carl,” Kari ordered.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, and if Mr. Harding is going to make his plane, we really must leave now.”

“Not so fast. Why don’t you show the police what you have hidden in the closet on the boat?” Pix suggested.

Carl smiled. He looked relieved. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but of course the police are welcome to look at anything they want on the boat.”

“What’s going on?” Helene Feld asked.

“Are we leaving or not?” Sidney Harding complained.

“I think we’ll just take the time to look in this closet and then I’m sure you’ll be able to be on your way,” Marcussen assured them.

Pix and Kari led the way on board, followed by Carl, who was managing to let several in his immediate vicinity know that he thought both women were clearly unbalanced. Pix looked to be of a certain age, he whispered to Don Brady. He

didn’t know what Kari’s excuse was. Guilt over what she had done to her lover, probably.

Pix was bemused. What a superb actor. She and Kari had thought he would try to bluster through, figuring that it was his word against theirs, yet she had still expected him to falter a little. His conceit was truly awesome. That was teenspeak, but it was the only word that applied.

As many of the Mermaid/Troll tour as possible crowded into the little room and watched while Pix revealed the false back with a single blow to the wall. There was a universal gasp, then another even more pronounced as a small soft-sided suitcase was pulled out.

“I had no idea that was here!” exclaimed Carl.

“I’m sure you didn’t!” Kari said sarcastically. “Yet, it has your name on the luggage tag.”

“Well, I have never seen it before in my life.”

“Let’s have a look, shall we?” Inspector Marcussen took the bag and opened it. It was the one with the jewelry. Helene Feld elbowed her way to the front to get a better look.

“What beautiful things! And in such good condition. It’s wedding jewelry, about a hundred and fifty to two hundred years old, I’d say.”

Before she could launch into a description of the various regional nuptial customs, Johan Marcussen took Carl’s arm.

“I think we’d better have a little talk.”

“You can’t prove this is mine just because it has my name on it. I demand that you fingerprint it!”

Pix smiled serenely and slipped her hand in her pocket, feeling Faith’s plastic gloves. The luggage tag had been on the inside. They’d merely put it on the outside. But there was still more to come.

Marcussen announced everyone was to return to the hotel for what he was sure would be only a short interval while they investigated further. As they passed the bonfire pile, Pix said loudly, “We won’t be here for Midsummer Eve and I think we all deserve some fun on this trip.”

She struck a match, tossed it well into a mass of shredded paper, then pulled her can of hair spray out for good measure, preparing to spritz the flames.

“No!” screamed Carl. “You lunatic! Put that away!” He reached into the middle of the papers, pulling a leather backpack from underneath a wooden crate.

Pix slipped the hair spray back in her pocket and Kari tossed a pail of water on the fire. No use spoiling all that work.

Carl had the knapsack in a death grip and in a vain effort to escape sprinted down the dock toward the boats. Captain Hagen stood squarely in his way. The police were not far behind.

“Give me the sack, Mr. Bjørnson,” Inspector Marcussen said.

“A fortune! I would never have had to work another day! Never have had to listen to stupid people like them.” The police grabbed the knapsack as he flung his hand, appropriate finger extended toward the astonished Scandie Sights tour. Carl was ranting in Norwegian and Kari was providing simultaneous translation. “A once-in-a-lifetime chance! Viking silver! Do you have any idea what that’s worth!” His face was as red as the flag and his eyes were bulging. He was close to apoplexy.

The inspector had ripped open the bag when Carl said, “Viking silver,” and now he was carefully unwrapping the hoard—a hoard of smooth stones gathered from the shore.

Carl screamed and almost got away from Officer Jansen’s grip. “You bitches! I should have killed you when I had the chance!” He continued, but Kari said, “I don’t think my grandmother would approve of the rest of his language,” and she stopped translating.

Good-bye, Jennifer. Au revoir, Sophie and Valerie. Farewell, bachelor farmers. Adieu, Dahl sisters. They had waved until the boat was out of sight. It reminded Pix of the time she’d come to Norway as a little girl with her

mother and her brother, Arnold. Her father had stayed behind. He’d had to work, but he’d seen them off in New York. The huge ocean liner, the Oslofjord, had moved slowly away from the pier into the harbor, piloted by the tugboats. Everyone had thrown bright-colored streamers. Her father held one end, Pix the other. People went down below, but she clung to the paper strand, still connected to her father, until finally it tore and they were separated. Years later, she’d recalled the sensation in the days following his death—snap!

Wearily, she turned to the small group standing with her. “I could use a drink,” she said.

It was Norway. Nobody said, At this hour of the morning?

After the discovery that the silver had been replaced by rocks—“We didn’t want to take any chances,” Kari explained—they had given the inspectør enough information about what had happened so he could file charges against Carl Bjørnson and arrest Sven and his wife. All the airports, ferry terminals, and railway stations were alerted. Now, an hour later, Marcussen rejoined them on the porch of Kvikne’s.

The fjord looked as majestic as ever. Pix wished she had had more time—and had been less occupied. She should get home as soon as possible. School was almost over and she had to get Danny ready for camp. The scotch had left a warm, comfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach. She was tired, yet not sleepy. She had to go home, but the fjord in front of her was saying something else, something like, Sail on. The possibilities are limitless. This was no mere wanderlust. This was something deeper.

“So, you didn’t trust us,” Marcussen said, interrupting her confused thoughts.

It was Kari who answered. “Would you?” she flashed back. “My grandmother has been telling me what has been in the newspapers and some of the police theories.”

He didn’t answer. He was feeling pretty good himself, even without malt liquor. The bureau responsible for the

investigation of illegally transporting artifacts out of the country had been ecstatic on two counts. They had been trying for several years to discover the source of Norwegian antiques, primarily from the west coast, that had been surfacing in British auction houses and dealerships. Carl had extensive knowledge and exquisite taste. He’d taught Sven what to look for and the two, with Carl’s father, had hefty accounts in a British bank. To have broken the ring meant the return of the items, where they could be traced, and fines levied on those who had sold them to Sven in the first place. They’d found Sven’s wife at the farm, anxiously awaiting word. After discovering that Sven had apparently not planned to take her with him, she was more than eager to talk—and she was the bookkeeper. After a prison term, it appeared she’d be back on the farm with the goats for a long time, dreams of wealth and glory squelched.

Then there was the elation over the discovery of the Viking silver. This was an exciting event, particularly the way it had been snatched from oblivion. Ja, the bureau was extremely happy.

“You should have told us what was going on. Things might not have gone the way you planned and they could have left the country with the silver, but thank you,” Marcussen said.

“As soon as we knew Carl was still here, we knew everything would work out. Pix is a great planner.” Kari beamed at her friend.

“I thought we ought to have two schemes, in case one didn’t work. Not wanting to put all our eggs in one basket? We were absolutely sure he had hidden the Viking things somewhere near the boat or on it, so he could get to it easily. He wouldn’t dare to have it in his room with maids coming in and out. Sven didn’t have it, because we had searched him, his suitcase, and car. Anyway, it was being delivered here. We also figured Carl wouldn’t dump the jewelry—in the fjord, say. He is really a terribly greedy person. It took awhile, but we found the silver in the bonfire and the bag with the other jewelry under the life jackets in a storage container. He no doubt planned to slip it in with the rest of the luggage, as usual.”

Kari took up the story. “I really expected him to crack when he saw his secret compartment was full. He knew we had put the bag there, but people like Carl never believe they can be caught, and he just kept going. I’m sure he thought the inspectør was going to let the boat sail. Then, after everyone was on board, he would have made some excuse to get off for a moment and retrieved the knapsack from the bonfire.”

“I wonder why he didn’t let Pix spray the fire. The silver was evidence against him,” Ursula said.

“I’d like to think it was his national pride, a noble in-stinct—remember, it was a Bjørnson who wrote our national anthem, ‘Ja, Vi Elsker’—no relation, I hope,” Marit answered. “But I think he couldn’t help himself. He saw all his money about to be burned up and he went a little crazy.”

Pix agreed with her. There was nothing noble about Carl, and she sincerely hoped the author of “Yes, We Love,” which always brought a lump to her throat, was a far-far-distant kinsman.

She didn’t want any more to drink. Maybe a little lunch, but she knew her duty. She had to call Sam—and Faith. Maybe Faith first.

It had not been easy explaining to her husband that she had once again been in danger. Or that she had found another body. The police were keeping the Melling/Eriksen case open, but Marcussen had told them that the authorities were increasingly sure it had been a tragic accident.

Pix had calculated her calling time carefully and knew that Sam would be hastening out the door to drop Danny at school before going on to work. It wasn’t that she wanted to keep anything from her husband; she simply didn’t want to go into detail.

As it was, he went from total disbelief, to fear, to anger, to grudging acceptance in the space of two minutes. His comments were telegraphic. “Kari is alive and well. You and Ursula are safe. Those are the main things. We’ll talk when you get home. You know I love you, Pix—and you love me, so why do you do these things to me?”

“I don’t mean to,” Pix had protested. It wasn’t as if she had planned her own abduction or decided to find a corpse. She was a bit miffed. Love had nothing to do with any of this.

Her husband’s heavy sigh was clearly audible across the transatlantic cable, satellite, or whatever was carrying their conversation. “I know, I know. Got to run. We’ll talk.”

There it was again—“We’ll talk.” More like a talking-to. Now she did feel tired.

The call to Faith went much better. Tom took Ben and Amy to day care and nursery school, so Pix knew Faith would be sitting in the kitchen at her big round table, perhaps with another cup of coffee, savoring the silence. Most mothers Pix knew did this. Five minutes peace. An empty house—granted, the beds weren’t made, laundry done, or dishes washed—but you were the only one there.

Faith had listened attentively, asking a question every now and then and making many sympathetic murmurs.

“Obviously you have to stay another week.”

“I can’t. I’ve been gone too long already.”

“Nonsense. They’ve been doing fine without you. No one is indispensable, although you come pretty close. Samantha and I can get Danny’s camp stuff ready. He won’t be leaving until after you’re back, in any case. The big wedding we’re catering is not for two weeks, so there’s no reason on earth why you can’t have some time for yourself. It sounds as if you’ve earned it.”

There they were, those magic words: “time for yourself.”

Throughout the trip, Pix had found herself treasuring the anonymity, the time free from domestic responsibilities—the time for herself. And this in spite of the stress of

Kari’s disappearance and two corpses. What would it be like without these complications?

A gift from the gods—that’s what. She could spend some more time on the fjords. Take some walks. Go to Oslo, maybe Bergen. Visit museums. Eat whatever she wanted—alone.

“I’ll talk to Sam this morning.” Faith was already making a list. “Plan on it. You can come back the day before Samantha graduates. She’s so busy saying good-bye that she barely knows you’re gone. And believe me, you don’t want to be around.”

Which is how Pix found herself a week later sitting on the terrace of Marit Hansen’s house in Tønsberg, eating more reker and mayonnaise, drinking white wine. It was Midsummer Eve, St. Hans-aften, and they were waiting for the bonfires to be lighted. Kari had gone off with a group of her friends to Nøtterøy, one of the nearby islands, for a picnic. They would stay by their bonfire, singing and telling jokes until morning.

Marit’s Midsummer Eve celebration had transformed a huge mound of shrimp in a large green glass bowl into a heap of shells in another. Shrimp and white wine—there was nothing better. The Dahl sisters, who had stayed on in Oslo, came down to Tønsberg by train for this farewell celebration. Ursula had been particularly insistent about inviting the sisters. It had proved a congenial group and they lingered long over the meal.

“They should be lighting the bonfires soon,” Louise said. “It’s getting quite dark.”

Dark for the time of year. Pix had become used to the long, bright nights that made time stretch lazily forward. It was going to be hard to go to sleep at a decent hour.

Marit stood up. “Could you make some room for dessert? Kari baked some pepperkaker and we have multer, unless you’re tired of them. We also have ice cream.”

Tired of cloudberries? Not likely. Just the sound of the word whetted an appetite.

“Let me help you,” Pix said, taking the tray from Marit’s hands.

“Coffee for everyone, too?” Marit’s voice went up, but it was a statement.

The Hansens had built a new house after the war—in Kaldnes, across the canal from the main part of Tønsberg, the oldest town in Norway. The house was perched high, looking in one direction across the water to the town itself, distinguished by the spire of the domkirken and the thirteenth-century citadel high on the hill at Slottsfjellet. Straight in front of the house, dominating the rocky ridge, high above the trees, was an enormous arrow, an iron weather vane, a landmark for miles around. It was Svend Foyn’s weather vane—the man who had invented the harpoon gun and revolutionized early whaling, a well-beloved native son. He had erected it on this hill so he could look up from his house on the other shore and always know which way the wind was blowing. The arrow pointed due west at the moment and Pix thought wistfully of flying in that direction in the morning. It was time. Time to go home. Sam had called earlier to verify the flight. “I miss you terribly, darling. And we really need you.” Pix focused on the first part of his statement and let the rest, with its implications of travail, lie for the moment. She missed them, too. She went into the house with the tray, lingering at the door to look back at her mother and the two Dahl sisters, comfortably ensconced around the table, Marit’s deep purple pansies tumbling out of the planters, soft velvet in the increasing dark.

“It’s so beautiful here,” Erna said after Pix and Marit left. “Sometimes I wish we could stay in Norway permanently, except we have so many friends in Virginia—and our jobs.”

Erna was a hairdresser and Louise a legal secretary, Ursula recalled. But the words Mrs. Rowe spoke had little to do with the twins’ vocations or place of residence.

“Why did you do it? Were you born at the home? Were you Lebensborn babies? Was that it?”

Erna clutched her throat and turned to her sister, whose expression had not changed at all. No one said a word.

Louise looked up at the iron arrow, which was moving ever so slightly. The sky was Prussian blue and a few bonfires dotted the shore far below. The light hit the water in pools, creating islands where none existed.

“When we were little, Mother would wake up screaming. She seldom slept a night through—ever. But for a time, the nightmares stopped. We weren’t Lebensborn children, but her first child was. We were born just after the war. Our father was Norwegian, but his family made him leave her when they discovered her past. She tried to find our sister—the baby had been a girl, but it was too late. She hadn’t wanted to give her up, go into the home, but she had no choice. Her family had turned on her. The village shaved her head. We would hear her cry out, ‘Nazi whore,’ and we knew that was what she had been called.”

“People can be horrible,” Erna said. There were tears in her eyes.

Louise continued. “She took us to the United States as soon as she saved the money. She wanted to go someplace where she didn’t know anyone and where there wasn’t a Scandinavian community, but she was always homesick. Our house could have been here. We ate Norwegian food, spoke Norwegian, and kept all the customs. It made her feel better. I saw an ad for Scandinavian foods by mail from a town in New Jersey and sent for the catalog. She looked forward to getting it each month and would plan for days what to order.”

“She was a seamstress and supported us. We grew up and supported her. It was a kind of life. Not happy, not sad. We knew about our sister, and when we got older, we offered to try to find her, but my mother was afraid of disturbing the child’s life—she was always to be a child. ‘She might not know and I could destroy her happiness. I’ve made enough mistakes,’ Mother said.

“Then in one issue of the food catalog the conceited fool Melling put a picture of himself as a young man in

bunad, our national dress. It was to celebrate Constitution Day, the seventeenth of May. Our mor looked at the picture, whispered, ‘It’s him,’ and fainted.”

Erna was wringing her plump hands. “We didn’t know what had happened. She was never strong, and she wouldn’t talk about it. Norwegians are very good at keeping their mouths shut,” she added. “It went on for months. We watched her disappear before our eyes. She refused to see a doctor and ate only when we became so distressed, she felt she had to please us. The nightmares got worse, and finally she told us the whole story.”

Louise was venomous. “She was a child herself. Barely sixteen, high-spirited, and restless living on the farm. There was only hard work and boredom. Oscar Eriksen was a neighbor, handsome and with some money. Not a jarl’s family, but not a cotter’s, either. He began to court my mother and convinced her to run away with him to Bergen. Once there, he took her to a rooming house. He raped her, then explained that she was to make herself available to the German officers who came. No decent Norwegian man would have her now, he said, and it was her duty to produce a child for the new world order, the Third Reich. She was terrified, but knew she could not go home. Her parents were very strict, very religious. When she did get pregnant, he arranged for her to go to Stalheim, where she received very good care. Then the baby was taken from her and Oscar himself drove her to her village, pushing her out of the car in front of the church. He’d made sure everyone knew what she had done. He portrayed himself as her rescuer, bringing her home to ‘good’ people.”

“A sadist,” whispered Ursula. It was worse than she could have imagined. How had the woman managed to keep the will to live?

“It wasn’t until much later that the truth about Oscar Eriksen came out—his lucrative business in supplying healthy, beautiful young Norwegian women for this experiment. By then, it was too late for my mother.”

“What did she do?”

“She ran—living in the forest for a while, then did whatever she could to earn enough to feed herself for the rest of the Occupation. It couldn’t have been much. There was very little food in Norway for anyone. She was never strong afterward. She married a man from the northern part of Norway and they lived there. We were born. She thought she was safe, but it is a small country, after all, and the story came out. So she had to leave for good.”

What kind of man abandons his wife and children over something like this? Ursula wondered. A proud man. A narcissistic man. A hard man.

“What are you going to do?” Erna whispered, her voice barely audible. Louise didn’t ask. She sat straight and looked Ursula in the eye. It was not a challenge, nor did she beseech. It was a look of resignation.

“Do?” Ursula repeated. “I think quite enough has been done already, don’t you? Evil will out.”

Louise nodded. Some strands of her straight gray hair fell across her face and she pushed them back. “I believe that, but we had to do it—for her.”

“And for Norway.” Erna’s voice was firm.

They could hear Marit and Pix laughing in the kitchen, the bright lights from inside the house streaming out to the terrace, sending their faces alternately into shadows and brightness.

Louise asked Ursula, “How did you guess?”

“I have spent the whole trip watching. I’m not as active as I once was. I leave that to my daughter. I came to Norway to help my friend find her daughter and the best way I could think of was to try to keep a close eye on everyone on the tour. You two were different. You appeared to be having a good time, caught up in the discovery of your roots, but I soon detected a carefully concealed anxiety below the surface. What are these women so worried about? I wondered. And I kept watching. In the days following Eriksen’s death, the worry began to lift. You weren’t euphoric, but you were calm. A job accomplished.

I talked to Marit, who is also a keen observer. She told me that she had noticed red paint under Erna’s fingernails and it seemed odd for a beautician. They weren’t paper cuts. They had to be from the swastika, and whoever painted that was linked to Melling. Tonight I took a chance.”

Louise nodded and reached for her sister’s hand.

Marit came out onto the terrace, bringing an old bottle of cognac with the coffee. She carefully filled five delicate handblown glasses, so thin, the liquor seemed to quiver in the air. Ursula nodded slightly at her old friend and smiled. Marit stood up. “I wish to make a toast. To the new generation of ‘Cartwright sisters.’ We may not have crossed the vidda on horseback, but I think we have taken another kind of journey together. Vær så god.”

As is the toasting custom in Norway, she selected one individual and looked straight into her eyes before taking a drink.

She picked Pix.