The Body in the Fjord

Three

The Petersons got on one bus and Pix steered Ursula onto the other. Jan was standing in the aisle at the front with a microphone.

“Now we are on our way to the famous Stalheim Hotel, making one stop for a ‘photo opportunity’ and time to eat our box lunches either on or off the bus, as you choose. Do I have any German-speaking people aboard?” He repeated the request in German. No one answered. “This is advertised as a bilingual tour, but so far, I have not had to use both languages.”

Pix looked at the itinerary sheet. The bus trip would take them through a “wonderland of waterfalls and mountains,” after which they would arrive at the hotel, “famous for its spectacular location and folk museum.” After dinner, there would be a “program of traditional Norwegian folk dancing and music performed in native costume.” The tour did not leave one at a loss for things to do. What with admiring the view, touring the museum, eating, and then clapping along—or whatever one did to the sounds of a Hardanger fiddle—it could be a very late night indeed. Pix sighed. At least Jan wasn’t making a lot of inane comments, and the scenery was breathtaking. The waterfalls cascaded down the mountains in one long, sheer teardrop. They were passing through a beautiful densely

wooded forest now and Jan picked up the microphone, resuming his position in the aisle.

“During the war, the Germans literally blew up Voss, and to this day, no one will buy wood cut from around here, because no factory will cut it. There are still so many bullets and pieces of metal embedded in the trees that it would break the machinery. Soon we will be coming to Tvindenfossen, a nice waterfall, and you can all take some pictures.”

Ursula raised her eyebrows at her daughter. “Now we know why Jan wanted to be sure there weren’t any Germans on board. Whenever I’m in Norway, I always feel as if the war ended only a short time ago. The Occupation was a terrible time.”

The bus was stopping.

“Do you want to walk up to the foss?” Pix asked.

“I think I’ll look at it from the parking lot and eat whatever this is at one of those picnic tables. You go and take a picture.”

Pix had brought her camera to Norway as part of the disguise and also in case she needed to record something. She got out, following the rest of the herd up a well-worn path to look at the falls. They were not so dramatic as the one she remembered from Flåm, but steeper, starting far up in the mountains. She waited until almost everyone had gone to eat their lunches, so she could get a shot without people posing in front. Jennifer Olsen had apparently had the same idea and they walked back down together.

“Thank you so much for last night. I know I would have been fine in my room, but I was feeling a little shook.”

In the light of day, Jennifer looked much less exotic than she did at night. She was wearing jeans, running shoes, a turtleneck, and a sweatshirt. The sweatshirt had NO PAIN, NO GAIN in script letters across the front.

“Well, you won’t have to worry about anything happening tonight,” Pix said. “The odds of something like that

occurring twice in a row, or even in a year, must be infinitesimal in Norway.”

“True. The funny thing is, I’m always looking over my shoulder at home. I live in Manhattan, but, knock wood, nothing has ever happened. I come here and…Well, I’m just going to put it out of my head. I don’t want to spoil the rest of the trip with negative thoughts. It’s been wonderful.”

Pix wished she could shelve her negative thoughts. Even the beauty of Norway couldn’t blot out the image of Erik’s death and Kari’s disappearance. She wasn’t here for pleasure and she slowed her pace. Jennifer, traveling alone, might have observed more than, say, Carol Peterson.

“But I understood there was trouble earlier in the trip—a staff problem?”

Jennifer stopped in the middle of the path. Her face darkened. “It was horrible. All some people could think about when someone was dead was having to carry their own luggage.”

“Dead?” It was easy for Pix to sound alarmed.

“We don’t really know what happened. Kari and Erik were a young couple working for Scandie Sights—doing what Anders and Sonja do now. They ran away to get married and somehow he was swept into a river and drowned. Her body hasn’t been found yet.” Jennifer sounded very sure that Kari had drowned, too. Pix felt her stomach turn. Could it be just that? The two of them running off and then a terrible accident? But what about Kari’s last words to Marit, the words that had been interrupted?

“Such a tragedy,” she said inadequately.

“Yes, life’s a bitch,” replied Jennifer, walking rapidly now, as if she feared all the food would be gone. Pix felt a little guilty as she sat down next to her mother and opened the box lunch. So much for helping Jennifer avoid negative thoughts.

“You have seen Tvindenfossen and now we have the Tvinde River.” On the way again, Jan had resumed his

role, after eating his lunch alone. “It’s a very good salmon river, and in Norway, anyone can fish anywhere—even private property is open to the public—but you need to ask and maybe pay a small fee, about ten kroner. There’re plenty of places to fish for everyone without overcrowding. Norway has so many lakes that we figure there are about two fishermen for each one. We fish all year long, and Lake Vangsvatnet, the one we just left in Voss, is the site of a large ice-fishing festival every winter. Not for people with thin skins.” Somehow Jan managed to make all this sound unrehearsed. A kind of stream of consciousness, like the waters rushing past them outside. He gazed out the window, thought of something, and spoke. “We have a legend about the Tvinde River, too. If you drink its water every day of your life, you’ll never get old. It’s just a legend, of course.” He sounded disappointed.

“No thank you,” Ursula announced firmly. “One of the pleasures of being old is that you don’t have to be young again, especially a teenager.”

Pix and her friend Faith tended to think that their lives were destined to be an endless repetition of junior high school, so this was good news, but Pix did wonder what her mother was referring to. She’d always imagined her mother’s adolescent years as happy times—picnics in the countryside, rowing on the river. She realized that whatever Ursula might be recalling was obviously not in the family photograph albums.

The rest of the ride was quiet and Pix spent the time thinking about her fellow Scandie tourists. The Bradys, the Petersons, the Dahl sisters, the French cousins, and Jennifer Olsen had all been on the tour since the beginning. They seemed to be a run-of-the-mill group, maybe a little heavy on the Scandinavian surnames, but from the look of the list, half the tour seemed to be in search of roots. Pix remembered Marit telling her that in the nineteenth century and the early years of the twentieth, almost 900,000 Norwegians emigrated to North America because of the growth in population in Norway and scarcity of

resources. At one time or another, almost everyone has had a cousin in Minneapolis or Brooklyn.

Jan was talking about the Stalheim Hotel as the bus climbed up the steep road. “It’s the fourth hotel built on this spot. The first one was erected in 1885. The Nærøy Valley, which you will see far below you when we stop, and the surrounding area have always been a favorite place for holidays. The kaiser liked it so much, he came twenty-five summers in a row.”

“The kaiser is not quite the villain on the west coast as he is elsewhere,” Ursula whispered to Pix. “I’ve been to these places before with Marit and it’s kind of like ‘Washington slept here.’”

“But why?” Pix was puzzled.

“Oh, he was always giving stained glass to the churches or statues to towns, even helping to rebuild an entire one in the case of Ålesund, after a fire destroyed it. Benevolent. Had to keep his vacation land pleasant, and he really liked to fish and hunt.”

Pix was listening to Jan; surprisingly, she found it pleasant to be picking up these tidbits of information.

“Finally after the first three buildings burned down, they got smarter and built the present hotel out of concrete in 1960.” It was painted red and appeared not unattractive, Pix thought. And given its location perched on the mountaintop, putting out a blaze would prove difficult. Jan had a few more morsels. “The same family, the Tønnebergs, has been running it now for sixty years. During the war, the Germans took it over.”

Of course, Pix said to herself, and she began wondering if there was a particular reason why Jan was so intent on refreshing their memories. Had his family suffered a particularly severe loss?

“They used the hotel for one of their Lebensborn homes, Himmler’s little experiment to repopulate the world after the war with only the best stock.”

He didn’t elaborate and Pix felt a chill. Not exactly what she wanted to hear about the place she would be

staying, although the wartime structure was in ashes far below the present foundation. Her mother was looking out the window as the bus pulled up to the entrance and she turned to speak to Pix.

“You should go see the houses in the folk museum if there’s time. I’m sure you remember the one in Oslo, but even though these houses have been moved, they’re from the area around here and more or less in their natural setting.”

“I’ll try,” Pix said, “but I want to talk to some more people and, if possible, squeeze in a sauna.”

“All right. I’m going to lie down for a while; then I’ll write postcards in the lobby and see if I can make some friends, too.”

Pix had no doubt the gregarious traveler Ursula, aka Mother, would.

She wished people wore name tags, much as she would hate to sport a “Hello, I’m Pix” badge herself. She wanted to search out Helene Feld and hear about the quarrel she’d witnessed on the train between Kari and Erik. Reminding herself that if you don’t ask, you don’t get, she went up to Carl. If the Petersons weren’t on his bus, or maybe even if they were, she thought they should switch to it tomorrow and compare the two guides. The guides, after all, had been on the tour since Copenhagen, too.

“I wonder if you would mind pointing out the Felds to me. I have a friend who lives in the same town and I wonder if they know her.” The Felds were from Mount Vernon, New York, and Pix did know someone from there—but she’d moved years ago. Still…

Carl seemed delighted to have something to do for her. He really was terribly attractive. She wondered how many broken hearts there were at the end of each Scandie Sights tour.

He looked around. “The Felds must already have gone to their rooms, but I will point them out to you at dinner

and let them know you’d like to meet them. Perhaps you can sit together. They are quite friendly.”

Pix had the feeling he was talking about approachable pets. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”

The lobby was empty, but the gift shop was full. Pix decided it was not conducive to an exchange of intimacies. Hard to fit in a pointed question when someone was intent on a hand-knit sweater. The sauna would give her a chance to collect her thoughts.

Demurely wrapped in a towel, Pix sat in the sauna and sweated. There were several other occupants, all men, none of whom she recognized from the tour. Every once in a while, someone would leave to take a cold shower, reenter, and throw some more water from the wooden bucket on the hot rocks, creating a sudden hiss of steam. Pix was doing the same. The fragrance of the hot wood and the intense heat was soporific. She found herself battling sleep. It was so relaxing. So very, very relaxing.

Someone shook her. “It’s not a good idea to fall asleep in here. You shouldn’t stay in too long, especially if you haven’t taken one in a while.” It was Lynette Peterson, and Pix couldn’t help but think how much more flattering the towel was on the young bride than on her own middle-aged body.

“Thank you. I’m only going to stay in a little longer. My name is Pix Miller. My mother and I are on the Scandie tour, too. I met your mother-in-law this morning at the hotel.” Pix felt obliged to explain how she had recognized the woman. Lynette was not surprised.

“Oh, I know all about you. Carol told us. You’re from Boston.”

“Actually, about twenty minutes outside the city.”

A slightly wicked smile appeared. “Carol thinks it’s Boston. She likes to know things. That’s the main activity of my mother-in-law’s life—besides organizing things. I’ll let her know she’s wrong.”

Pix didn’t envy Roy junior. The Battle of the Titans was getting under way and it would go on for his entire

married life, until his mother died or his wife walked out, both acts certain to be interpreted as victory by the other side.

“Are you enjoying the trip?” Pix thought it was worth a try to question Mrs. Roy Peterson, Jr. She might have picked up on something between Kari and Erik that the others had missed. Lynette took her time responding to the opening.

Pix had teenagers. Lynette’s face had “Give me a break” written all over it.

“Look, Mrs. Miller”—Pix instantly felt ten years older—“is fish for every meal, a million museums, and your in-laws along your idea of what a honeymoon should be?” She answered her own question. “Of course it isn’t. We should be in Bermuda, but we’re not, because Carol decides this is her golden opportunity to show Roy the land of his people. It was his great-grandparents who came from here! He never even knew them! And it’s not as if we live in…well, Boston. Duluth is about as close as you can get to Norway without hopping on a plane. But I agreed. There’s something Carol doesn’t know, and when she does, she’ll be ripping. As I said, Carol likes to know things. Nosiest woman I ever met. She was even asking Roy whether he’d moved his bowels every morning until the third time, I said he’d let her know if he didn’t and let’s drop the subject. She didn’t like that, not one little bit. And she’s not going to like what’s coming, either.”

Pix was finding the daughter-in-law as loquacious as the mother-in-law, more even. Although the tone was the same. Who said men don’t marry their mothers? Pix quickly focused on Sam’s mother, a charming lady who’d died several years ago, much mourned by everyone.

“I’m sorry things aren’t going well. This should be a very happy time for you.” It was all she could think of to say, and she stood up as she said it, ready to leave while some remnants of the lack of tension the sauna had induced remained.

“Oh, I’m happy, very happy.” She spoke through slightly clenched teeth. Her towel had slipped. From the appearance of her firm young breasts, Roy junior was probably happy, too, at least in bed. Lynette tugged at the towel, then, irritated, took it off, either oblivious or indifferent to the sauna’s other occupants. Pix closed the door behind her and headed for the showers. What surprise did Lynette have for her mother-in-law? Suddenly, it didn’t seem like a fair fight at all.

Ursula was sitting by the wall of glass at the end of the hotel lobby, a wall that served to magnify the view. The mountains appeared to be a few steps away, especially the tallest, its rocky summit high above the timberline. The peak had a slight purple cast to it. Pix walked toward her mother. The mountains were in fact close, the hotel surrounded by them, and only a large well-kept flat green lawn separated the front of the hotel from the precipitous drop to the valley far below.

Ursula had made friends, two slightly grizzled-looking older men, faces reddened from working outdoors, and something else perhaps. Mother was drinking coffee. Her new friends were sticking to beer.

“Oh, there’s my daughter now.” Ursula waved Pix over. “This is Mr. Knudsen and that’s Mr. Arnulfson. My daughter, Pix Miller.” The men stood and shook hands. “We were just talking about how we all came to be on the tour. Mr. Knudsen and Mr. Arnulfson are from North Dakota. Such a long way from home!”

Mother was sounding perky, even slightly coquettish. It was working.

“You must call me Ole—everyone does—and he’s Henry. Anyway, as I was saying, the whole thing was that fool Svenson’s fault.”

Henry nodded solemnly and drained half his glass.

“My sister read about a tour of Norwegian farms in the Sons of Norway newsletter and thought the lodge might want to go. ‘See how they’re doing things over there,’ she said. ‘Be a good chance and very cheap.’ So at the next meeting, we counted heads and decided to do it.”

This explained the large number of males from Fargo on the list—Norwegian bachelor farmers. Pix had seen them sticking together like glue and assumed they were some sort of group. Sons of Norway, of course.

“But I don’t think this tour has many farms. Just one, on the fjord after we reach Balestrand,” Ursula commented.

Henry nodded slowly and finished his beer.

“That fool Svenson”—the three words had become his full name—“wrote down the wrong tour number on the form when he sent in our deposits. He’s our treasurer, or was, and when we found out the money was nonrefundable, we decided to go. No sense in wasting it. They make a big-enough profit. So we came.”

Henry joined the conversation briefly. “We never should have put that fool Svenson in charge, his mother being Swedish and all. Anyone want another drink?”

No one did and the farmers ambled along. As soon as they were out of sight, Pix began to laugh until she thought she’d cry.

“I think we can eliminate them from whatever it is we’re listing,” she said.

“Yes, they seem to travel in a pack, poor things. You notice they’re always first on the bus, by the door, or in the dining room. They must be terrified of getting lost or left behind.”

“Have you made any other friends?”

“I chatted some more with Valerie and Sophie. I have the feeling their English is much better than they’re letting on. Marge Brady joined us and they had no trouble speaking with her. She was telling them all about French châteaux.”

“How nice for them.”

“Don’t be naughty, Pix. But I did learn something interesting. Don Brady is retired from the oil business. And

there’s another man on the tour, a Mr. Harding from Con

necticut, who’s currently working for an oil company.”

Pix was slow on the uptake. “Why is this interesting?”

“Mr. Harding’s is a Norwegian-owned company and Don Brady’s had ties to the industry here. You do know about the North Sea oil?”

“Now, don’t you be naughty. Of course I do. It’s what catapulted the country from getting by to just about the world’s highest standard of living. But how does it all connect to Kari and Erik?”

“When I was here last summer, there was a great deal of talk about what they call the Russian mafia operating in Norway, using any means necessary to learn exactly where the Norwegian oil fields are and the technology that located them. There’s been a dispute for years over the Russian/Norwegian border in the Barents Sea, up north. The Russians are desperate to find some oil or natural gas of their own there and the stakes are very high, I read recently.”

There is nothing like The Christian Science Monitor every day to keep you informed, Pix reflected. Maybe she should switch from The Boston Globe. Faith, of course, clung to The New York Times and was always borrowing the Millers’ paper to find out what was on television. But this was all interesting. If someone was using the tour groups to pass secret information concerning the oil industry and Erik or Kari had learned of it…Any means necessary.

“All right, we’ll add oil to everything else—and Russians. I’d almost forgotten that Norway has a common border with them in the north. Maybe Marit has some idea about how this might fit in. The tour didn’t go to Stavanger, but Bergen is as big an oil town.”

“I wonder if she’s heard any more from the police. I bought Aftenposten and took it to my room. I couldn’t read it, but Kari’s name wasn’t anywhere, so there hasn’t been anything new in the press.”

“That’s good. They’re onto something else and Marit doesn’t have to see her life distorted. It must have been horrendous.”

Pix told her mother about the encounter with Lynette in the sauna and Pix’s request to Carl for an introduction to the Felds at dinner. She didn’t want her mother to think she’d been idling away in the steam.

“Then we should certainly make it a point to be on time for the meal,” Ursula said, leading the way. As if there was any question.

Not surprisingly, the Felds had never heard of Pix’s friend, but they were a friendly, outgoing couple. Arnie was an intellectual properties lawyer and Helene was an art historian. They had no children and had traveled extensively. This was their second trip to Norway.

Pix was sure that Helene, who seemed quite intelligent, would be able to give her some idea of the nature of the quarrel between Kari and Erik. The question was how to bring it up. For the moment, the big decision was over poached salmon or smoked pork. The whole table took the salmon, as well as the wild mushroom soup first and “fruits of the woods” with vanilla sauce for dessert.

Spooning a large, ubiquitous boiled potato onto her plate, Pix asked the Felds how they had liked the tour so far.

“It’s been very well organized,” Helene answered. “I wanted to spend extra time in the Norsk Folkemuseum on Bygdøy, the peninsula across the fjord from Oslo. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. It’s where both the Viking ships and Kon-Tiki are. Anyway, there was no problem. Some tours make you stick rigidly to their schedule. The same in Bergen. I had never visited the Museum of Decorative Arts and wanted to go there instead of some of the other places on the itinerary. I missed the tram ride up to Fløyen, but people said it was misty and they didn’t get such a clear view of the city. What has also made the tour interesting is that both Carl and Jan are extremely knowledge

able guides. They must bone up on things during the winter.”

“What kind of art are you particularly interested in?” Ursula asked.

“Originally, it was wood carving—especially those wonderful Romanesque vines and ribbons combined with the zoomorphic forms that descended from Viking times and are still influencing Norwegian art today. Those lovely dragons!” Helene’s glasses had slipped down her nose and she was gesturing expansively. “At first, I disliked rosemaling, overly influenced by the bad imitations in all the gift shops—those overblown roses and swirls painted in garish colors on everything from rolling pins to toilet seats!”

Ursula nodded. “I know, but the older work is very beautiful.”

“Exactly,” Helene agreed. “And all that color and decoration are more in character with the exuberant Norwegian temperament than the constraint of the Early Christian carved wooden forms.” The glasses inched down a little farther. Pix watched in fascination, wondering if the spectacles would tumble into Helene’s soup with the next folk-art era.

“It’s good to hear someone refer to the Norwegians as exuberant,” Ursula commented. “I get so tired of all those other adjectives—staid, placid. You know what I mean. The Norwegians I’ve met seem fully capable of kicking up their heels.” Pix noticed her mother was drawing back from details, but scenes of uproarious parties and joke telling crowded into Pix’s mind. She and Sam had visited shortly after they were married. Every relative of Hans’s and Marit’s had been bent on welcoming them. Even now, many years later, when Sam imbibed a bit too much, he’d tell his wife he was merely getting in training for Norway.

Arnie Feld agreed. “Somebody was having an anniversary party in one of the private dining rooms at the hotel in Oslo, and from the sounds of mirth, I’d definitely say

Norwegians know how to have a good time. And remember that couple we met on the train, honey?”

His wife nodded, still lost in contemplation of carved butter boxes and painted rooms.

“They were singing, not too loudly, and writing furiously on the back of an envelope. They were having so much fun, I finally had to ask them what was going on. They were composing a song for her sister’s fortieth birthday, and after we talked awhile, they invited us to come along! I wish we could have.” He sounded genuinely disappointed, and Pix could understand why. Helene was still eager to talk about her passion for the folk arts of the country, though.

“Now I’ve become fascinated with the jewelry,” she continued.

“She’s always been fascinated with jewelry. Don’t let her fool you,” Arnie said good-naturedly.

She made a face at him. “Don’t worry. Even if we were millionaires, we couldn’t take the kind of jewelry I love out of the country. Norway has very strict laws about exporting antiques.”

Carl and Jan came by the table for their nightly check, picking up on the last word.

“Antiques?” said Carl. “Mrs. Feld’s favorite subject! I hope you have been having a good time with Mr. Tønneberg’s collection. By the way, don’t miss the Hardanger bridal crown in the hallway. It’s in a glass case high up on the wall. This one is extremely elaborate and very rare. During the 1800s in Norway, silver became scarce and many families turned their old heirlooms over to the state to be melted down. Brass was used instead for jewelry.”

“I did see it,” Helene enthused. “It’s gorgeous. Is the collection cataloged? I saw a bowl that looks like it was painted by the ‘Sogndal painter’—this area around the Sognefjord has spectacular natural beauty, but it hasn’t produced the art that other areas have, particularly those on the east coast and in Telemark. Too rugged a life, too

poor, but this painter—we don’t even know his name—is the exception. He traveled all over the region in the mid-eighteenth century, which must have been difficult, and no other rosemaling has ever equaled his.”

“I know the bowl you mean,” Carl said. “The colors are so bright and the background is very soft, the blue-green he traditionally used. Very beautiful.”

“And worth a fortune,” Jan added. “If we had anything like it in my family, we probably used it for kindling. I grew up in the district and life was strictly practical!” He laughed.

Helene looked pained. “I hope not.” The salmon arrived on a huge platter. There was enough for two tables.

“Of course I am teasing you,” Jan told Helene. “My mother has her great-grandmother’s engagement spoons, and if there was a fire, she’d grab those, then think of us!” It seemed impossible for the young man not to make a joke out of most remarks.

“Engagement spoons are two spoons connected by a long chain all elaborately carved out of one piece of wood,” Helene explained.

“I like the symbolism.” Ursula was busy helping herself to the fish. Pix could see it was perfectly poached, moist flakes falling to one side. There was hollandaise sauce, but Pix knew she wanted hers plain.

“We will leave you to enjoy your dinner,” Carl said. “We have a few announcements we’ll make during dessert.”

Pix tried in vain during the rest of the meal to turn the conversation to Kari and Erik’s quarrel on the train, but short of rudeness, it proved impossible to get Helene off her favorite subject. They heard a great deal about tiner, the butter and pudding boxes used to bring gifts of food to relatives or friends at weddings or other occasions, and much more about jewelry, especially bunadssolv, wedding jewelry.

“I wonder if modern Norwegians are as superstitious as their ancestors,” Ursula mused after a treatise from

Helene about the use of silver to keep the trolls, those direct descendants of the Viking pagan gods, from harming mortals.

“There is certainly a renewed interest in the old jewelry and its use and legends. Saga makes wonderful reproductions, with an explanation accompanying each piece. As for warding off evil, I’m not sure. I know I said Norwegians are exuberant, but they also seem remarkably down-to-earth and even-tempered.”

It was now or never.

Pix put down her fork. Her plate was clean; so was the fish platter. “Yet not without passion. I understand the tour had some sort of tragic incident before we joined you, a double suicide by two lovers.” She stifled the urge to give Ursula an apologetic glance. “They ran away together, then apparently took their own lives.”

Helene stiffened and the color drained from her face. Arnie looked annoyed.

“Well,” he said.

“No, we can’t not talk about it, Arnie. Apparently rumors abound.” She pushed a stray strand of gray hair behind her ear to join the others loosely gathered in an ornate barrette at the nape of her neck. Then she waited while their plates were cleared and the table was swept clean of the crumbs their crusty dinner rolls had produced.

“Kari and Erik were working as stewards for the tour, handling the luggage, helping people find their rooms, that sort of thing. What Anders and Sonja are doing now. First we heard that they had eloped, and while it was a bit inconvenient, these things happen and we could only wish them well, but then the police arrived at the hotel to question all of us. Erik’s body was found in the river by Flåm. Kari is still missing.”

“How sad,” Ursula said, “and how difficult for all of you, being questioned, I mean.”

Thank you, Mother.

“Well, yes—yes, it was. It turned out I was the last person from the tour to have seen them and the police

talked to me three times. It was a bit nerve-racking, especially as I didn’t have much to tell them.”

“They must have thought you did.” Pix was eager to keep the woman talking. She’d been unstoppable on antiques but was understandably reticent now.

“I was looking for something to eat and thought I’d see if one of those carts was in another car. I came up behind them and was all set to greet them when I realized they were arguing.”

“A lovers’ spat?” Ursula was holding her own.

“I don’t speak Norwegian, so I have no idea what they were quarreling about, but Kari’s face, was very red and she had tears in her eyes. She was doing most of the talking. Erik was sitting there. He didn’t look angry, just…Well, I think what I told the police was that he looked determined. Like someone who has made up his mind. And Kari seemed to be trying to get him to change it.”

“Do you think he was contemplating suicide?” Pix asked. She could see Kari so clearly. The girl did have a temper, and when she lost it, the words flowed like lava.

“I couldn’t say for sure, but I think if he had been, Kari would have looked more sad, more desperate than angry. She was shaking her finger at him, and somehow if he had been planning to kill himself, she would have perhaps had her arms around him. The whole thing looked…looked like she was scolding him.”

Pix had been right. The woman had taken note of the body language.

“It was very awkward. I didn’t want to intrude and go past them, yet I really was terribly hungry. Sometimes my blood sugar gets very low, and usually I carry some granola bars, but I’d used them up and needed something to eat.”

So, Helene Feld had stood in the aisle for some time, Pix thought. Long enough to form a lasting impression.

“Then what happened? Did they make up?”

“The food cart came through the door. Kari got up to help the woman, saw me, and was immediately concerned that I find something to eat. She warned me that the

lefse

—you know, that flatbread that has potatoes in it—would taste like cardboard and recommended the yogurt with muesli. She was a very sweet girl. The whole thing is such a mystery.”

The “fruits of the woods” arrived: blackberries, tiny strawberries, and a few precious multer—cloudberries—a delicacy that grew only above the timberline. Helene sighed. “I hope we find out what happened before we go home. I hate it when things are left up in the air.”

Pix felt exactly the same way.

Jan was clanking the side of his empty glass. Drinks were extra, even bottled water, milk, and soft drinks. Pix and Ursula had stuck to whatever was coming out of the tap at Stalheim after being reminded by the Felds. She’d have to wire home for more money or find an ATM somewhere in these mountains if she didn’t watch her kroner carefully, Pix realized.

“Tomorrow we will board our Viking fjord cruiser and spend the day on the water, with one short stop to see a stave church, after which, we will arrive at the famous Kvikne’s Hotel in Balestrand. Then the following day, a stop in the afternoon to visit a farmer and taste his gjetost, delicious Norwegian goat cheese.”

There were a few groans. Pix was tempted to add hers. She’d tasted the cheese, caramel-colored and sweet, sticking like peanut butter to the roof of one’s mouth, but with far greater tenacity. Marit used it in everything, even gravy. She’d given Ursula a recipe for pheasant in gjetost cream sauce that Pix, as a joke, had passed on to Faith, who still refused to believe it was real.

Ursula tapped her daughter on the shoulder. “Look at Mr. Arnulfson and his friends.”

The bachelor farmers were beaming. It was definite. A farm. Well, well, well, they’d have to have a look at this. Maybe set the man straight on a few things. Pix found herself giggling. She knew that in Norwegian spinsters

were called “old girls.” She wondered what the term was for unmarried men. These were certainly “old boys.”

“We will be spending the next two nights at Kvikne’s Hotel, as you know from your itinerary. Now the bad news. We have a wake-up call ordered for six A.M.”

Groans again.

“So, if you’ll please have your luggage outside your doors by seven, we’ll have breakfast and be on our way.”

Pix had been forgetting she was on a tour. It all had been so pleasant and relaxed, except for the reason she was there. Still, six in the morning was nothing for the Rowe family. Ursula would no doubt be ready well before then.

“When you have finished your dinner, we will take coffee in the lobby and watch a program of Norwegian folk dancing. They are very good and I think you will like it. Any questions?”

“If we can get ready really fast, do we have to have the call at six?” asked Jennifer Olsen.

“No, of course not. You can inform the desk and make any arrangement you want,” Jan answered.

They had been talking so much, they were among the last tables to leave the dining room, and Pix had the odd sensation that she was watching a play as the whole cast of characters walked past, nodding at them or saying a few words. The Bradys, the Petersons—with a playful injunction from Carol to hurry up or they’d miss the show—the North Dakota farmers, Valerie and Sophie, the Dahl sisters, and an older man who stopped to chat.

Arnie Feld made the introductions. “This is Oscar Melling. Mrs. Rowe and her daughter, Mrs. Miller. Is there a game tonight, Oscar? He’s been playing pinochle with the group from the Sons of Norway almost every evening,” he explained.

“Oh, they’re a bunch of sour losers. Said I can’t play anymore. That I was cheating too much.” He winked at Ursula. “You notice they said ‘too much.’ That’s because all of them were cheating like crazy. They’ll get over it

and we’ll probably have a game tomorrow. They’ve been playing with one another so long, they’re desperate to play with anyone new. Do either of you ladies play?”

He was a barrel-chested man of medium height, his bald head fringed with steel gray hair. The same hair protruded over his upper lip, from his ears, and snaked across his forehead in one long, scraggy brow. Oscar seemed intent on displaying any and all of a hirsute nature left to him. His eyes were deep blue and he had probably been quite handsome in his youth. He was not without charm now, partially because he worked so hard displaying it. Pix had noticed him before. He was never without a smile—or a companion. The tiny fretwork of red veins on his face indicated he was fond of supplementing this bonhomie with a glass or two.

“Sorry, I never learned the game.”

“I knew it once, but it’s been many years since I’ve played,” Ursula revealed.

“You’ll remember in no time. I’ll let you know if we get enough people for a game,” Oscar promised, then bowed slightly and left.

“What is Mr. Melling’s occupation?” Ursula asked the Felds.

“He had a grocery store in New Jersey that specialized in Scandinavian foods. He started doing mail order and now that’s the entire business, I gather. He was talking about going on the Internet this fall. A pretty astute businessman, I’d imagine,” Arnie answered.

The picture of her mother sitting in a smoke-filled room of pinochle players—the farmers all smoked pipes and Oscar had a cigar peeking out of his shirt pocket—was too much for Pix. She started to laugh, tried to explain, and gave it up. “I think I’ll go get some places for the dancing.” She assumed the Felds would sit with them.

“You do that. We’ll catch the end of the program. I want to take some pictures of the buildings in the folk museum. The light is perfect now,” Helene said.

Pix and Ursula had no sooner sat down with their coffee when three young couples dressed in their traditional regional costumes—bunad—came dancing across the slate floor of the Stalheim Hotel’s lobby, accompanied by a seventh young woman vigorously playing the fiddle. It was wonderful. The boys were wearing dark knee britches with long white socks, silver buckles on their shoes, and silver buttons on their red wool vests, their white shirts starched crisply. The girls’ costumes were more elaborate, dark full skirts, long white aprons with intricate Hardanger lace panels, silver-buckled belts, red wool sleeveless bodices with bright, beautifully embroidered inserts and long, full-sleeved white blouses. The necks of the blouses were fastened with large silver brooches. As they danced to the lively music, Pix found herself missing Samantha in particular. She could imagine her daughter swirling around gracefully, a bright smile for the crowd. Not a bad summer job, although if it ever got hot, the costumes would be unbearable. As it was, one of the boys had taken his handkerchief out several times to mop his brow. One couple in particular danced beautiful, their steps in perfect synchrony. They reminded Pix of the older couples one saw at weddings whose steps, meshed by time, executed flawless fox-trots, rumbas, all those dances no one knew anymore. Vernon and Irene, Fred and Ginger, Kathryn and Arthur—the sixties had put a stop to the steps.

She was amused to note the twentieth century encroachments on the scene, which at first glance could have been a wedding celebration from the last century. One boy had a slightly purple streak in his hair. Two of the girls had multiple holes in each ear.

“Now, we need your help,” the fiddler said, giving her instrument to one of the dancers to hold and then tapping six people quickly. One was Jennifer Olsen, who sprang to her feet, not making even the token protest of the others.

“We call this the ‘Jealousy Dance.’ The two dancers on either side are trying to win the favor of the one in the middle. My friends will demonstrate; then you will do it!”

It was really very funny. As the dancers moved forward, they nodded and smiled to the person in the middle; then, moving back, they turned their heads and scowled at each other, shook their fists, and then, as the music changed, put on a pleasant face again.

Jennifer was very agile and dramatic. She was enjoying herself—positive vibes.

Pix watched and thought idly, Public faces, private faces. Which is real? What does that public mask hide? He was such a nice, quiet man, we never dreamed he…So many news accounts contained slight variations of those words. Behind one’s back. She watched Jennifer shake her fist at her competitor. Jealousy, powerful emotion. Erik and Kari, the two lovers. Was there someone in the middle—or at the side?

“Pix, dear, I think when they’re finished, I’ll go to bed early tonight. I want to be on time in the morning.” Her mother’s words broke into her thoughts.

Pix wasn’t tired at all. “I may stay down here or take a walk.”

The dancers finished to huge applause. Jennifer flopped into a chair next to Pix’s. “That was fun!”

One of the girls had stepped forward and was explaining the significance of her costume. “I have three rows of velvet on my skirt because I’m not married yet.” The boy she’d been dancing with looked very smug. She tossed her head.

“And if you want one like it”—she was referring to her elaborate brooch—“you will find them for sale all over Norway, and here, too, in the shop”—she gestured—“but not the real ones, of course. They are very old.” She wagged her finger playfully. “Norway is a small country and we don’t have very many old things, so we need to keep them here!”

“They are strict,” Jennifer said. “You can’t take anything out of the country that’s over a hundred years old unless you can prove it was in your family. If you get

caught, it’s a very stiff fine for you and the person who sold it to you.”

Pix nodded. “Helene Feld was telling us about this at dinner.”

A man on the other side of Jennifer joined the conversation. “You can’t blame them. Look at what’s happened to other countries. If you’re Greek, you have to go to London to look at your past. Norway also holds on to her land. It’s pretty impossible to buy property if you’re not Norwegian.” He mimicked the girl, “Norway is a small country and needs to keep everything here!” He laughed. “Doesn’t want to become a European vacation colony is more like it.”

Pix was glad. In a very short period of time, she had become remarkably partisan.

Another kind of music was coming from the bar, but Pix was intoxicated by her unusual freedom and the long light outside, not Ringnes beer or aquavit. She knew she would not be able to sleep for some time and so she strolled outdoors in the direction of the folk museum. It was farther up the steep road and separated from the hotel by a wooden gate. She assumed at this time of night, it would be locked, but it yielded at her touch. Soon she was admiring the old dark wooden farm buildings with their sod or slate roofs. The slate roofs looked like fish scales and when she stumbled across a pile of tiles leaning against a tree, she noted the shape of each one did indeed look like a whole fish. Lichen clung to the slate, touching the gray with yellow ocher and varied shades of green. One of the sod roofs was so overgrown with tiny fir trees and other vegetation that it wasn’t until Pix noticed a chimney that she realized there was a house below her on the mountain.

She climbed and climbed, smelling the sweet night air, air heavy with moisture. The moss beneath her feet was like a sponge. Her footsteps were silent. She peeked in the small windows, tried a few doors, only to find them locked, and spotted a small nest in the sod. Far above the

hotel, but still on the path, the air was colder. The character of these woods would have been the same during the war. She imagined those women, inhabitants of—what had Jan called it, a Lebensborn home, one of Himmler’s projects? Pix shuddered. Had it been a kind of brothel then or what? Women here willingly or unwillingly. They must have walked this mountainside, though, accompanied by what thoughts—guilt, fear, shame? She tried not to think about these shadows from the past and concentrated on the view. Through a gap in the trees, she could see the Nærøy River far below, looking like a snake, the way rivers always did in aerial shots. Snakes: another unwelcome thought, but surely all were benign in Norway.

She started down the path and was surprised to hear voices ahead—loud voices, Norwegian voices. Two men were shouting at each other. That much was certain, but as to the nature of the dispute, Pix didn’t have a clue. Not knowing the language made everything so difficult. Who was it? Oscar Melling and one of the farmers who had caught him cheating at cards? She was determined to find out who it was, yet she didn’t care to be seen snooping herself. She climbed down closer, staying in the woods, well away from the path. But the trees were so dense, she still couldn’t make out who it was, although the voices were much closer now. Another problem with eavesdropping on a totally foreign language was that one couldn’t recognize voices. If they had been speaking English, she would be able to guess who it was from their accents, but all she was able to determine in native speakers was gender and some idea of age. Well, these were not children.

The argument was heated and she stopped suddenly. It didn’t sound like cheating at cards—or if it was, a lot of money had been lost. One man was doing most of the talking now. His words came so rapidly, he seemed not to draw a breath. Words, words flung out like a barrage of machine-gun fire. She thought if she could get down the next incline, she’d be able to see through some birches

growing not too far from the path. She started down and stumbled, her leg doubling under her. She almost cried out. That’s all she needed to do, twist an ankle. As she fell, she grabbed instinctively and her hand hit a pile of Hardanger roof tiles, sending them tumbling down. The moss cushioned her fall, but the tiles kept going, crashing against one another and the trees. The voices stopped. The fallen tiles were silent now. A bird cried. It was the only sound, then a muffled voice. Then nothing. Her heart was beating rapidly. She stood up. This is absurd, she told herself. She was not far from the hotel. If she screamed, someone was sure to hear her, and why would she scream? Two men were having some sort of disagreement. That was all. She climbed back up to the path and resolutely started back the way she had come. She tried to shake the feeling she was being watched. She wished Jan had never told them about the hotel’s past. This was what was producing all these fearful thoughts.

At the hotel, there was no sign of anyone. She crossed the parking lot, full of empty tour buses, like so many beached whales, dwarfing the few cars in between. A door slammed and an engine started. She stood to one side to let the car pass. It was going fast. She tried to see the driver but glimpsed only a profile—a dark profile with a beard.

Ursula hadn’t said anything when Pix woke her up from a sound sleep asking for the scotch. Pix didn’t say anything, either. What was there to say? I went for a walk behind the hotel in the folk museum and got scared by an argument?

And the scotch wasn’t really what she wanted, either. What she wanted was her husband, Sam, in bed with her, his familiar shape curved to hers. They were like puzzle pieces after all these years. Her eyes closed and she slept.

Pix sat up, wide-awake. It wasn’t even five o’clock. She wondered what the dawn light looked like and got out of bed, drawing back the heavy curtains. She opened the door and stepped out onto the balcony. It was cold and suddenly the warmth she’d just left seemed very attractive. She could get another hour’s sleep. The mountains had an even more intense lavender cast at this time of day, especially the largest at the end of the valley. It had been rounded by the melting snows of time, older than the rough peaks to its side. The timberline was jagged, a lush green, that slender birches growing farther down interrupted in exclamation points. The Norwegian flag at the front of the hotel was fluttering in the early-morning breeze. Her eyes moved across the picture-postcard scene, lingering over the view just beneath her window—a view that turned her gaze to stone as surely as if she had been a troll, caught by the sun’s first rays, an incarnation of those early pagan evil spirits, not the latter-day gift-shop item. Her stomach turned and she started to cry out.

For there had been an addition since last night—an addition to the lawn, smooth as velvet, shimmering with dew, stretching from the front of the hotel to the edge of the cliff. The addition was a swastika. A huge bloodred swastika right in the middle.