The Body in the Fjord

Seven

The farmer’s wife had set up long tables covered with bright checked cloths. There were platters of open-faced sandwiches, not all of them with gjetost, bowls of salads, and pitchers of beer and lemonade. At one table, there was a tempting array of the sweet pancakes, as well as fruit and pepperkaker—crisp ginger cookies—and a large bowl of some kind of grøt, with a pitcher of heavy cream standing by to block any parts of one’s arteries the rest had missed. The North Dakota farmers were still in the barn, shouting at their host, having a fine old time, but the rest of the tour descended upon the tables with all the appearance of people who have not eaten for days. Pix took a cautious bite of the house specialty and found that this goat cheese was not as sweet as the kind she’d tasted before. She wasn’t crazy about it, but she finished her sandwich. She was thinking about the farmer more than his product. Given that it was the same man who had been at Stalheim, what had he been doing there at such an odd time? Was it also the man she’d glimpsed running through the rain from the boat last night? She couldn’t swear it was the same voice. She’d been under the tarp, and the two men hadn’t been arguing. And what about the bearded man on Jennifer Olsen’s balcony? The same person again?

“What do you think of our cheese?” her hostess asked, causing Pix to start guiltily, although she wasn’t sure why. Maybe the woman’s husband had been delivering cheese to the hotel and arguing over the price or some such thing. It had still been light, and perhaps that was the best time for him to get away. As for the possibility of his being on the balcony—well, that was really a stretch.

“I think it’s an acquired taste,” Pix answered diplomatically.

“You are brave even to try it. Most people stick to the Jarlsberg I get from the supermarket.”

“It must be difficult to live in such an isolated place. When I run out of something, I jump in my car and run to the store. You can’t do that.”

“No, not really. But we buy what we don’t raise in large quantities. I haven’t had too many problems, and this is a good way for the children to grow up.”

“You said there were four generations here. There’s you and your husband, the children, and—”

Helene Feld joined them. She had steered clear of all the cheese and was contentedly munching on some salad.

“Yes, I was wondering about that, too.”

“My parents and my grandmother live here, too, but they leave in the summer for their hytte in the mountains. We were all born right over there”—she pointed to a small house—“and will die here, I suppose.” Her contented smile made that event seem a very, very long time away.

“And your husband? Is he from the area?” Pix was curious about the husband.

“Oh, no.” His wife laughed. “He is a city boy from the east coast. I don’t know how my parents ever agreed to the marriage!”

“Your farm is lovely. I can see why he might have wanted to leave the city,” Helene told her. “The buildings are so interesting.”

“This one is called a stabbur. In the past, people stored their food for the winter there. Below you see the cellar.

That was for the potatoes. But the stabbur held the dried meat and other things high up.”

There was a remnant of old paint on the door to the sod-roofed stabbur, perched above the cellar dug into the side of the mountain. Weather had worn most of the design away, but there was a faint tracing of a man on horseback. The lower door still showed herringbone stripes.

“I suppose you must have some furniture and other things that have been in your family all these years,” Helene commented. Her neutral tone may have fooled the farmer’s wife, but knowing what she did, Pix easily detected the underlying obsession—those objects of desire—if not to own, at least to see.

“We do, but I’m not so interested in old things.”

This seemed to spur, rather than dampen, Helene’s ardor. “Would you mind if I had a look in the house? I wouldn’t touch anything, of course.”

“You are welcome to, except I’m afraid there isn’t enough time.” She waved to someone, and turning, Pix saw Carl with his hand up.

“Your guide is calling you now. Perhaps you will come back to see us another day. We will be here,” she added graciously.

As they walked toward the group, Helene grumbled, “So many people don’t appreciate what they have. I’ve seen beautiful old pieces that have been painted over or had the legs cut off to fit into another space. You name it. In one kitchen, the people had put their television set on top of a two-hundred-year-old chest. It was so blackened with soot that you could barely see the rosemaling!”

“I thought the folkemuseums had been recording the furniture and old buildings,” Pix said.

“Well, yes, but they can’t keep track of everything,” Helene responded peevishly.

Recalling how difficult it was to take antiques out of the country, Pix wondered about Helene. The woman had obviously wanted to discover a hidden gem. But for what purpose? To inform the museum in Bergen or Oslo? Or

to try to get it to Mount Vernon, New York, home of the Felds? Not a chest, of course, but things like the wedding spoons Jan had described might not be so hard to hide in one’s luggage. And if they were stopped, they could plead ignorance—once anyway. The other thing that struck her was Helene’s obvious familiarity with ferreting out country antiques. She’d been to Norway before, she’d mentioned, but she hadn’t described scouting the countryside for antiques, unless she’d been accompanying a Norwegian dealer or antiquarian. Kari’s last known request had been the phone number of her friend at the Museum of Decorative Arts in Bergen. Pix thought she’d give Annelise a call and ask her about the antiques market and what the laws were more precisely. Faith had said something was staring her in the face. Maybe it was an ancient ale bowl.

Pix went over to Ursula, who was standing at the head of the path. As they started down to the boat, the farmers emerged from the barn, all smiles. They grabbed fistfuls of sandwiches, drank hasty glasses of beer, and shook hands with the farmer, who seemed to be expressing, genuine regret at their departure.

“Obviously a good day for Ole Knudsen and Henry Amulfson. Now they finally have something to talk about when they get home,” Ursula said dryly, the corners of her mouth twitching. “I think I just might play pinochle with them after all. It’s been years.”

That reminded Pix of Oscar Melling. Certainly the farmers weren’t mourning him.

“Did you learn anything about the oil business from Mr. Harding?” she asked her mother.

“I’ll tell you about it later, dear. Wasn’t that fascinating? And do you see what’s over there? Such a shiny new boat. It must be their fjord taxi. What fun for the children to ride in.”

Pix looked over her shoulder. The guides and Jennifer Olsen were almost on their heels.

“Yes, it does look like it would be fun to ride in, and business must be booming for them to buy such a spruce little craft.” She felt as if she was reading from a script.

Jan reached for Ursula’s arm and helped her aboard. Sonja and Anders appeared to cast off and soon they were in the middle of the fjord again.

Carl addressed the group before they had a chance to scatter to various parts of the Viking cruiser.

“We hope you will enjoy the special trip we have arranged for you this afternoon to the Norwegian Glacier Museum at Fjærland. To get there, we will sail back to the Sognefjord and into the Fjærlandsfjord. It’s a very beautiful cruise and you will see the glacier just in front of you the whole way. The museum was designed by Sverre Fehn, our most famous architect. He calls it ‘an altar in a landscape.’ You see if you agree. It’s only a short bus ride from the quay, and if you have any questions, please ask me or Jan.”

Pix wanted to know why they were going to the museum. She was curious about what they’d say, but she decided not to ask. The somber mood of the group had changed entirely and her question would only make the guides uneasy. Besides, they’d probably just answer that they were doing it to make the Scandie Sights experience just that much more memorable for everyone. And maybe they were.

She was eager to find out what Ursula had talked about with the Hardings and the Golubs, that inseparable quartet. Her mother had apparently not had a chance to get Carol Peterson alone. Carol and Roy senior were the exceptions to the general lifting of spirits. The two elder Petersons were still obviously on the outs with the world. Carol had returned to the boat long before everyone else and Roy had moped about the shore after viewing the lunch distastefully.

It was definitely an odd sensation. Pix was walking through the model glacier at the museum. Technology had created authenticity and she truly felt she was beneath the

glacier—the bre. She could hear the ice breaking and rocks falling above her, then a series of high-pitched creaks—the ice, in constant motion, alone. It was chilly and the glistening fiberglass maze that had been created looked as if it could freeze one’s fingers off. The tunnel was dark, with occasional spots of light for safety; the ground beneath her feet was spongy, simulating clay. She stepped carefully, avoiding a pool of water. All very, very real.

They’d found two buses waiting for them at the quay and arrived minutes later at the museum, which was surrounded by walls of mountains on three sides and the fjord on the fourth. It was an altar, an altar to the powerful, massive glacier, which was so close that when one ascended the staircases to the museum’s roof, the bre would seem deceptively within reach. Ursula and Pix had been the last ones off the bus and, with several others, became separated from the rest of the group. Attempting to rejoin their comrades, they were imperiously pushed to the rear of a very long line by a guide from another tour. “My lot already has tickets,” she announced in English. Pix was annoyed at the way the woman had literally wedged her “lot” in front of them, but she had no idea whether Scandie Sights had tickets or what she should do. As she was about to explain to the woman that they were part of a group farther ahead, a lean figure jumped over the rope and, taking Ursula by the arm, led her and the rest of them to the front of the line, unleashing a torrent of invective—in Norwegian—at the other guide as they passed. It was Carl, a snarling sheepdog, protecting his flock. The woman responded. They obviously knew each other, but it was Carl’s day, and soon Pix found herself in the movie theater, staring at five screens and slightly out of breath.

“Quite a passionate young man when roused,” Ursula observed, unruffled. “The other leader didn’t have a chance.”

“We all have tickets,” he’d said—in English—pointedly, perhaps for the benefit of her group, which was re

garding the Scandie Sights stragglers with undisguised venom. Jumping the queue just isn’t done, you know.

Once inside, the film, on five screens, was breathtaking. Pix instantly resolved to come back to explore the glacier, the bre, itself with Sam and any family members who would still take a vacation with parents and siblings. Mark had made it clear that destination was everything, and she had the feeling he was thinking of Hawaii.

One group in the film was hiking across the glacier in pleasant, gentle stages—picnics in the sun, a hearty, happy throng of children and adults. The other glacial explorers provided the drama, wielding picks and dangling into dangerous-looking crevasses, their ropes taut. They started out tanned and fit and emerged yet more so at the end. Even the oldest, who looked Ursula’s age, could have qualified for a Ray Ban ad. The film ended and everyone filed out to explore the center’s exhibits.

“Makes it seem as if you really are two feet below the surface, with tons and tons of ice on top of your head.” It was Marge Brady, well informed as usual. For a moment, Pix resented the intrusion, both for its quantification and because it marked an end to her solitary fantasy. She’d deliberately waited until the model seemed empty to experience it alone.

“It’s remarkable,” she commented. Marge, undeterred by brevity, continued Pix’s private tour. “It was designed by the same person who designed the special effects for the Star Wars sets. The Norwegians call the glacier ‘the roof of Norway.’ Pretty big roof! I’m not sure I’d want to walk on it, even with a guide. How can they be sure you won’t fall through?”

Pix did not have an answer. “I’m sure they’re very experienced.” She made a mental note to check out the accident rate before they returned.

The two women emerged into the main hall. Marge was heading for a stationary bike, ready to test her ability to generate energy. Pix was sure she’d do well and ducked behind a large photo of a woolly mammoth. It was hard

to concentrate on the displays, excellent as they were, when she kept seeing Oscar’s body on the rocks. The question uppermost in her mind was not why the ice was turquoise blue, but how had the man died?

Ursula was buying postcards.

“Do you think Danny would like this one of the polar bear?” she asked.

Pix started to respond, “Danny who?” but fortunately she remembered that she did indeed have a twelve-year-old. She told her mother he’d love it.

Marge came sailing by. “We’re going to have time to visit the glacier after all!” she called, off to spread the news to others.

“I’m glad you’ll have the chance to see part of it. It really is extraordinary,” Ursula said. Then, lowering her voice, she added, “They certainly don’t seem anxious to get back to the hotel.”

“I think they’re counting on arctic memories to obliterate any other, less pleasant ones from the ‘Dear Scandie Sights’ evaluation forms I’m sure we’ll be filling out tomorrow,” Pix remarked.

They both headed for the ladies’ room, then rejoined the group. Jan was counting heads when someone from the museum came up to him and spoke into his ear. An anxious look crossed his face, quickly replaced by a neutral one. “Carl,” he called to the other guide, who was answering a question for Marge Brady.

Pix wasn’t taking much note of what was going on, but Ursula poked her in the ribs. “Follow them,” she whispered. “Something’s up. They’re not smiling.”

Pix slipped away from the tour and pretended to be looking at one of the exhibits—weather on the glacier. Carl and Jan were going toward the phone in the small gift shop. She hastened toward a postcard rack, grabbed one, and went to pay the cashier. Carl was speaking and she didn’t understand what he was saying, but it was clear that something serious had occurred. He hung up, pulled Jan to one side, and spoke to him. The other guide’s face

paled and he put a hand on Carl’s arm. A few more words and they went back to the group. Pix was out the door, as well.

“Wait, you’ve left your card.” The clerk was running after her.

“Tusen takk,” Pix said, and was in time to hear “So we will be returning to the hotel for a pleasant afternoon.” Carl was smiling. Jan was smiling. At least their mouths turned up at the corners. Their eyes told a different story.

“What did I miss?” Pix asked Ursula.

“Apparently, we have to get back to the hotel because of the dinner schedule. We won’t have time to see the glacier, but Jan told everyone the museum is better.”

“Dinner schedule!” Pix was positive that when the tour was supposed to eat would not have caused the reaction she’d just observed. But what would have?

Marit was sitting on the small dock in Balestrand, next to the huge Midsummer bonfire pile, which had grown even more since they’d arrived. She spied Pix in the bow and waved her arm back and forth. Why would Marit be down here, so obviously waiting for them, abandoning her cover? Pix jumped to her feet and started toward the door of the cabin.

“What’s your rush?” Jennifer asked. She was stretched out on her back, looking up at the sky.

“I—I have to check on my mother,” Pix answered, and went straight inside to Ursula.

“Marit’s on the dock. She waved to me.”

Ursula understood immediately.

“Go see what’s happened. I’ll be fine.”

Pix grabbed her jacket from the chair she’d hung it on—the sun had made it unnecessary—and went to the upper deck.

As the boat drew closer, she could see Marit’s face was tense. She sat looking toward the fjord like some figure from Norse mythology. Pix thought she ought to be knit

ting a shroud or something. Shroud! Dear God, let it not be bad news about Kari.

Pix was the first off the boat. She went directly to her friend.

“What’s wrong. Is it Kari?”

“Nei.” Marit stood up and took Pix’s hand, pulling her in the direction of the hotel. “You’ve got to come. The man you found—it wasn’t an accident. Everyone at the hotel is talking about it and the police are here.”

“You mean Oscar Melling was murdered!” She—and Faith—had been right.

It was upsetting, yet why was Marit reacting this way—so fearfully? The older woman was setting a rapid pace.

“Murdered, ja,” she said, “and someone saw you from a window out near the place where he was lying.”

“Well, of course they did. I found him.”

Marit stopped and shook her head. “Saw you before that. Saw you at about the time the police think he was killed.”

Now fear filled Pix, too, like the tide rushing in. A cloud passed in front of the sun. She slipped her jacket on. It was cold.

Entering the lobby of the Kvikne’s Hotel alone after Marit went to meet Ursula, Pix debated the merits of approaching the police herself versus being approached by them. Her instinct was to find them as quickly as possible and tell all, but then again, this might seem suspicious. Why was she so anxious to speak with them? they might wonder. And of course the first thing they’d ask would be how she knew they were looking for her. Her long association with Faith Fairchild had taught Pix that her own instincts were not always to be trusted, whereas Faith’s were. Pix could not recall an instance in Faith’s own numerous investigations where the lady had gone to the police to share what she knew. Rather, Faith felt it was completely legitimate to hold out on them. “They wouldn’t listen anyway” was her oft-stated rationale. Pix

decided to adopt it now. In any case, she had to think of Marit. She had no idea how Marit had found out so much—Pix recalled mention of pumping one of the younger, less seasoned veterans of the force—and she had to protect the older woman. But how could she tell them anything without involving Marit? For instance, why she had come to Norway on the spur of the moment? It was a hopeless dilemma.

In the end, she did not have to agonize over her decision for long. Almost simultaneously, a clerk from behind the desk and a uniformed policeman stopped her before she could get on the elevator. After saying something in Norwegian—the two words “Fru Miller” needing no translation—the clerk withdrew hastily, leaving Pix with the young officer.

“Mrs. Miller?”

“Yes?” She unconsciously mimicked his questioning tone.

“Would you mind talking to the inspector who is looking into the death of Mr. Melling, the man from your tour you found this morning?”

Tempted to reply, Oh, that Mr. Melling, instead Pix meekly said, “Of course,” and allowed herself to be ushered into the Star Chamber. Sam would kill me, she thought. Well, if I ask to have a lawyer present, it really would look odd. Besides, her lawyer husband was thousands of miles away and need never know—at least not for a while.

The hotel had turned over a large conference room to the police. It was arranged for a business meeting, long tables in a U shape, with a pad and pen at each place. An overhead projector and screen were set up at the front, along with a television and a VCR. A smaller table and several chairs had been placed in front of one of the large windows on the outside wall. A pot of pink begonias sat squarely in the middle of each sill. With Pix’s and the officer’s arrival, there were exactly four people in the room.

A man got up from behind the small table.

“How do you do? I’m Inspektør Johan Marcussen,” he said, extending his hand. She took it, well aware how sweaty and cold her own must feel.

“I’m Pix Miller,” and I’ve been better, she finished silently.

“Pix—this is an English name I’ve not heard before,” he said.

She decided to let it go at that. Let him think it was a family name and—inwardly cursing her parents’ flight of fancy—it was.

“Please, sit down.” He pulled out a chair across the table from his. She had the fjord view. “Would you like some coffee?” This was one question that did not take her by surprise. She could not imagine anything, even a police inquisition, taking place in Norway without this beverage, and maybe some little cakes, too. Well, it would use up some time—she didn’t see a tray. Plus, when it arrived, it would give her something to hold on to.

“That would be very nice, thank you.” So far, so good.

The officer who had accompanied her left the room. This left Pix, the inspector, and another police officer, pad and pen—not the hotel’s—in hand.

Inspector Marcussen was tall, looming over Pix, and she judged him to be in his late fifties. His hair was gray and thinning, but he was extremely attractive. She had always thought that unattractive Norwegians were the exception, and piercing blue eyes like the inspector’s had held a special attraction for her since that long-ago summer visit when Olav something, a friend of Hanna’s, had flashed his at a very susceptible young American girl. The police at home did not have this effect on her. She’d known Patrolman Warren since he was a runny-nosed little boy, and his sister had been in Pix’s Girl Scout troop. Veteran police chief Charley Maclsaac may have had a certain appeal once, but there had been a few too many muffins at the Minuteman Café in the last thirty years. Johan Mar

cussen, on the other hand, would have been in the group with the ropes and picks in today’s glacier movie.

She realized Inspector Marcussen was talking to her and that she had better pay attention—close attention.

“It must have been a terrible shock for you to discover Mr. Melling like that in the fjord.”

“Yes, yes it was.” She folded her hands together until the coffee came, then thought it looked like she was praying, so she quickly separated them.

“Could you tell us exactly what he looked like and what you did? Maybe starting with how you came to be at the fjord at this time of the morning?”

She definitely needed a lawyer. She didn’t know whether Norway was one of those countries like France where you were guilty until proven innocent. She hoped not.

The man at Marcussen’s side had leaned forward. The inspector followed her gaze.

“Do you mind if Jansen here takes a few notes—to help us find out what happened to Mr. Melling? You are free to look them over before you leave.”

Leave where? The room, the hotel, the country? She nodded, took a deep breath, and—the coffee arrived.

The smell was instantly calming. For a moment, they were simply four people adding cream and sugar to their cups, or not. And while there wasn’t cake, there was a plate of delicious-looking butter cookies.

“Where were we?” the inspector asked jovially. “You were going to tell us about finding the body.” The words were at odds with his tone.

“Yes.” Pix put her cup down on the table. She was afraid it might wobble. “I wasn’t sleeping.” She chose her words with care to avoid as many out-and-out falsehoods as possible. Falsehood was the word she used to herself when contemplating a lie. It sounded so much less serious. “I got dressed and went out for a walk. It’s very beautiful here.” She nodded out the window. How did the

businesspeople with the fjord view ever pay attention to their

flowcharts?

“Excuse me,” he interjected. “How did you leave the hotel?”

Obviously they already knew that no one at the front desk had seen her.

“I left by a side door. It was near the stairs.”

She paused, but he didn’t say anything.

“I walked along by the water, toward where the boat was docked, and met someone else from our tour, Carol Peterson.” She presumed they must know about Carol, who most certainly would have gone out by the lobby—unless, like Pix, she’d been sleuthing around for an inconspicuous side entrance and exit.

The inspector nodded.

“We sat on one of the benches and talked a few minutes, maybe five.”

“So, that would make it what time?”

“I left the hotel a little past four.” Seeing their faces, she added defensively. “People in my family have always been early risers.” Too true, too true. “It was probably ten past when I met Carol and close to four-thirty when I found Oscar.”

“You saw the body from the shore, and what did you do next?”

“I climbed down to make sure he was dead—I mean, to make sure that he wasn’t just injured and needing some help.” Neither man said anything. “Like CPR. I don’t know what it’s called in Norwegian, but it’s to resuscitate people when their hearts have failed.”

“Yet you thought he was dead before you got to him. Why was that?”

Why indeed?

“He looked dead. He wasn’t moving, and it seemed like a very awkward position to maintain.” Pix closed her eyes for a second, seeing the figure sprawled on the rocks. Oh, he had been dead. Anyone would have come to the same conclusion. Her eyelids flicked open. “I’m sure if

either of you had seen him, you would have thought so, too.” She could not keep a slightly accusatory note from her voice.

“Anyway, I felt for his pulse—on his wrist, his left wrist. I didn’t touch anything else.” She shuddered slightly. “Then I came straight back to the hotel to tell them. And you must know the rest.”

She started to get up. Inspector Marcussen put up his hand. He didn’t say, Not so fast, lady, but he might as well have.

“Just a few more things. You must be tired.”

Pix leaned back against the chair. It had a straight back, covered and tufted, as was the seat, in deep crimson. The room had elaborate brass chandeliers, she noted. This couldn’t be happening to her.

“Could you tell us about your other walk? The earlier one?”

She was glad Marit had prepared her.

“I suppose I’m not quite used to the time change.” Another nonfalsehood. “I got up at three o’clock and went outside, but I came in when it started to rain. I got very wet, in fact.”

“Again you left by the side door?”

“Yes, I didn’t want to disturb anyone.”

“Did you meet anybody during this walk?” Those blue eyes were looking straight into her soul.

“No one I knew. I saw two men running from the dock to get out of the rain.”

“Can you describe them?”

“They were speaking Norwegian—I could hear it as they passed me—but I didn’t get a good look at them. One had a dark beard, though.”

The inspector and officer exchanged glances.

“Now, you are from Aleford, Massachusetts?”

“Yes, it’s a small town west of Boston.”

“I have never been to the United States, but I have cousins in New Jersey. They have been here often and

sometime I must go see them.” If he hoped to keep her off

balance with such extraneous tidbits, it was working.

“Did you know Mr. Melling before the tour?”

“No, I had never met him before.”

“And your mother, Mrs. Rowe—had she met him here in Norway or in the United States?”

“No, and neither of us had but the slightest contact with him on the tour.” The question implied knowledge of Ursula’s trips to Norway. It certainly indicated that Oscar had been here before, but that was not surprising for someone who imported Norwegian food and had such a strong feeling for his homeland.

“And what brought you to Norway, Mrs. Miller, besides the fjords, that is?”

Here it was. She decided it was time to come clean, at least somewhat. If it came out later, it would look very peculiar, and besides, she had nothing to hide, except her hair spray and skeleton keys.

“My mother has a childhood friend, Marit Hansen, who has been very worried about the disappearance of her granddaughter, Kari.”

Both men sat up straighter and exchanged a few words in Norwegian. At this rate, Pix would really have to learn the language if she was going to find out anything at all.

“Kari Hansen? You knew her?”

Pix did not like the inspector’s use of the past tense.

“Yes, and Marit wanted us to come on the tour to see if we could discover anything about where Kari might be.”

“And have you?”

“Well, not really anything concrete. Some odd things have happened.” Pix told them about the man on Jennifer Olsen’s balcony and the swastika on the lawn at Stalheim. When she got to that, the two men gaped.

“Swastika! Are you sure?”

“Of course I am. I saw it myself. Ask the hotel—and the guides must know. Lots of people of the tour knew, too. What’s the significance? I mean, I know what it has

to do with the hotel, but what could it have to do with Oscar Melling’s death?”

“Oscar Melling—rather, Oscar Eriksen—was one of Vidkun Quisling’s most loyal adherents during the war. Eriksen was born and grew up in a small village near the hotel.”

Jennifer Olsen had been right. The dead man had been a fascist. A Nazi. A traitor.

Marcussen poured them some more coffee. It was getting close to dinnertime, but Pix took a cup and ate a cookie anyway. She told them about the men in the woods at Stalheim and was about to reveal Ursula’s find on the Viking cruise ship when the inspector rose and thanked her for coming.

“I am sure that the men you overheard, and maybe the ones who were about as early as you this morning, were involved in the illegal liquor market.” He grinned. “You know what a drink costs in Norway, and people find all sorts of ways around it—brewing their own. You can get the supplies in any market. Flavoring for scotch and cognac are on the shelves with cardamom, salt, and pepper. There are also many rural stills. As for the business with Kari, you can assure your mother and your friend Fru Hansen that the police are doing everything they can to find out what happened to Kari. We care deeply. Why don’t you just enjoy the rest of your tour and leave it to us?”

Pix was annoyed. She hadn’t even gotten a chance to tell them about Sophie and Oscar, the dirty old man—or his argument with Arnie Feld. Or that he cheated at cards. She was being dismissed. But she wasn’t going without getting one answer, at least.

“Why do you think Oscar Melling’s death wasn’t natural? The man had been drinking heavily and could easily have fallen.”

“I’m sorry, but we can’t tell you that.” Inspector Marcussen didn’t look one bit sorry, Pix thought. She supposed

it was fair. She wasn’t telling him everything, either.

Both men saw her to the door.

“Try not to take any walks after, say, midnight, will you, Mrs. Miller?”

Jansen chuckled, but Pix didn’t think the inspector was joking.

Ursula and Pix had abandoned any pretense of not knowing Marit and the three women walked into the dining room together.

“I’m hungry,” Pix announced. “I intend to eat a great deal of fish in many guises, then go to bed.”

“Pix, dear,” her mother said, “do you know these people?”

A group of Japanese tourists were leaving an earlier sitting in the dining room and they stopped, giggled, and bowed to Pix. She realized that she had given Marit and her mother only an abbreviated account of her ordeal in the sauna, omitting to mention the gentleman from Tokyo. He had apparently not been as silent.

Another group passed and bowed. Pix found herself reflexively bowing back; then the man appeared himself, wreathed in smiles and patting his heart. The tour leader, or so Pix assumed from the trim navy blazer he wore, insignia above the pocket, bowed and addressed her.

“Mr. Yoshimuro is very anxious that you were not offended in any way.” He seemed to be searching for words to describe the incident.

“Oh, no, I hope I did not offend him. It’s the custom in Norway for saunas to be shared by men and women, but we were both quite decently clothed.”

Marit and Ursula were staring at Pix, wide-eyed. Pix saw her mother’s mouth tremble and knew that in a moment she would be roaring with laughter.

“Please, do not think any more about it,” she said, and bowed.

The man translated Pix’s words and Mr. Yoshimuro spoke rapidly, pointing toward all three of them.

“Would you mind if I took a picture of you with your friends and Mr. Yoshimuro? He would deem it an honor.”

What was to mind? Pix Miller, the new pinup of Japan? She thought not.

“Of course,” she answered, and repeated to her mother and Marit, “They want to take our picture.”

“Whatever for?” Ursula asked.

“I’ll tell you later,” Pix promised, falling into position between Ursula and Marit, Mr. Yoshimuro next to her mother.

With a few final ticky-tocky gestures and bows, the men left and the women proceeded into the dining room.

“I didn’t know you spoke Japanese, Mrs. Miller,” Jan said admiringly as they entered. He had apparently witnessed the entire event and had been fooled by the expertise of Pix’s bows.

“I don’t—and it’s a long story.” She laughed.

“Whatever you say. You can sit at any table, except those at the windows. It was our turn last night.”

“Is it all right for our friend Fru Hansen to sit with us?” Ursula asked. “She is a guest at the hotel.”

“Of course. There’s plenty of room,” Jan replied.

There was one extra place for sure, Pix thought. Her mother and Marit had dismissed the police questioning rather perfunctorily. The idea that Pix might be a suspect in Oscar Melling’s death seemed ludicrous to them, although Marit had been initially upset when she’d overheard the clerks talking about Pix’s early-morning wanderings. Pix had given them a report on her conversation with Inspector Marcussen and they had figuratively patted her on the head for being such a good girl with the police. They were not surprised that Marcussen had not been interested in a possible link to Kari and Erik. That was their job—theirs and the hund.

Carl came forward to shepherd them a bit more as they searched for the little Mermaid/Troll flags indicating their tables. He looked concerned. She was sure he had heard about the police questioning and the reason why. The entire hotel must have, those who were not preoccupied with her sauna escapade.

“Sit anywhere, ladies, and enjoy your meal.” Was Carl being a little too welcoming? A kind of “Eat up—the food in Norwegian jails is good, but not like Kvikne’s” underlying message?

Now he definitely was addressing her, and her alone. “Is everything all right?” He lowered his voice, “This has been a most upsetting day for you, Mrs. Miller, and Scandie Sights is well aware of it. Anything we can do, just let us know.”

Pix could think of a number of things, like possibly posting bail or finding Kari and solving Oscar’s murder, but she merely thanked him and said she was fine. “I’m going to turn in early. A good night’s sleep is what I need.” Then, impelled by her usual curiosity, she asked him, “What do you do after tomorrow? Pick up another tour? Or do you get to rest in between?”

“We don’t start another one until Tuesday.”

Jan had joined them, hearing Pix’s question and Carl’s answer. “We always get a few days off,” he answered. “I usually go home to my parents and let my mother make a fuss.”

“And sleep half the day,” Carl teased.

“Ja—and, as usual, you’ll go see your father in London, I suppose. Although”—he winked at the women, seated now—“I have my doubts about this ‘father.’ I think it may be someone a bit younger and of the opposite sex.”

Carl flushed. It made him even more attractive. “My father is British, although I was raised here. Maybe I just happen to like London. All right, maybe it has some charms, besides his nice flat.”

The guides went to their own table, where Captain Hagen was stolidly consuming a mounded plate of each smörgåsbord course and the stewards were doing a fine

job on the reker, peeling the shells off and dipping each shrimp in a mayonnaise sauce.

“I can never eat enough reker,” Pix said, glancing at the captain. “And I want a glass of white wine to go with it. Will you join me? It’s the last night of the tour.” They had nothing to celebrate. If anything, things were more confused and the outlook for finding Kari alive bleak, but Pix felt they needed to keep their spirits up. Marit and Ursula agreed.

As she ate the shrimp, Pix remembered her mother hadn’t mentioned what she’d found out about Sidney Harding. The room was filled with noise and their small table was set against a pillar with a serving station on the other side. They could talk softly, undetected.

What Ursula had to say was interesting.

“He really didn’t want to talk about what he does. They had taken a break from cards, believe it or not, and were having a snack. I asked him whether his work brought him to Norway much and he was very evasive. His wife was the one who answered—bitterly. Seems he’s away from home a good deal and this was to have been a solo business trip, too, but she insisted on coming this time, and then he had the idea of inviting their bridge friends to come along. ‘I’m glad he did,’ she said, ‘because otherwise it would have been very boring.’ There was not much to do in Norway so far as she could see.”

Marit frowned. “Didn’t they visit the museums in Oslo, Frogner Park with its Vigeland statues? Maybe they don’t like scenery, but still…”

“I think she likes to shop and play bridge, period. Things are too expensive here, so that leaves cards. I did notice Sidney was wearing a Rolex and a diamond pinkie ring, so he must make some money.”

Mother is getting as label-conscious as Faith, Pix reflected. She wouldn’t have thought Ursula could have told the difference between a Rolex and a Timex.

“But what about oil secrets? Is he passing them on to the Russians? Did you work that into the conversation?”

Ursula gave her daughter a “Now, don’t be silly” look.

“Actually, he is in research and development. I found that out. And he spends weeks in Bergen, and Stavanger. I’m also pretty sure he speaks Norwegian. Anders walked by, saying something to Sonja, and Harding said to us, ‘I guess I’d better go wash up. We’ll be docking soon.’ How would he know that unless he’d been able to translate what Anders had said? His wife complained about the number of business meetings he’d had to attend during the trip and he reminded her that for him, it was not a vacation. She started to say something about telephone calls and meetings at all hours, but he told her that people weren’t interested in hearing about his boring life, then asked, ‘Are we going to play cards or what?’”

The three left their dirty plates and moved on to the next course—and the next subject. Oscar Melling. It was Marit’s turn. Marcussen had not been revealing state secrets when he told Pix Oscar’s real name and what he’d been up to during the war. That had been all over the hotel, too, along with the fact that Pix was a suspect.

“There has to be a connection with Stalheim and the swastika. Yet how does it relate to Kari and Erik?” Pix asked.

Marit replied, “I have been thinking of nothing else. Kari might have discovered that Oscar was connected with the Lebensborn home. He lived in the area. Maybe he supplied the groceries or was somehow connected. The Nazis did not permit Norwegians to work in places like that, only Germans, but there were always exceptions. Could it have been this that she wanted to tell me on the phone?”

Pix was deep in thought. Could Oscar have been Hanna’s father—Kari’s grandfather? If Kari had discovered this, it might have upset her so much that she ran off. But to stage an elopement? Plus, it still left Erik’s death unanswered. She sighed.

“I’m going to have some of that applesauce dessert layered with the toasted crumbs—what is it called, any

way?—but no coffee. Maybe a slice of the cake with the almonds on top, too.”

“It’s called tilsiørte bondepiker, which means ‘veiled country maidens,’” Marit answered. “I have no idea why. The whipped cream on top could be the veil, but as for the rest…”

“Whatever it means, it’s one of my favorites. Bring me a little, will you?” Ursula asked.

The two older women fondly watched Pix leave. A big hungry girl.

She returned with the cake and pudding, plus some fruit compote with vanilla sauce. With only a fleeting thought to what Faith would think of this plebeian dessert plate, she dug in. Norwegian food was the ultimate comfort food, lacking only macaroni and cheese to be complete.

“The police wouldn’t tell me why they think Oscar was murdered, but they seem pretty sure.”

Marit was surprised. “It’s because he was hit from behind with something before he fell. He had an injury on his shoulder that couldn’t have come from the fall, given the way the body was found.”

No wonder Ursula and Marit were such friends.

“Who told you this?” Pix asked admiringly. When she grew up, she’d like to be just like them, but she wasn’t too sanguine.

“Some of it was from the policeman, who was so reassuring about my safety, and some was from the maid who tidied my room. We decided it must have been a full bottle of something, because they didn’t find any broken glass, and an empty one would have shattered.”

“It could have been something else like a piece of wood, but that’s not so easy to come by,” Ursula added.

This was true. The grounds were manicured and unless one trekked up into the mountains, a cudgel of this sort would be difficult to locate. It would have helped that Oscar was blind drunk, and maybe the person hadn’t planned to kill him, but a blow to the rear, precipitating a fall on the jagged rocks below, suggested a strong desire

for at least grievous harm. The actual outcome meant the

killer was either lucky or unlucky, depending on the intent.

Intent. Pix looked at her watch.

“I’m going to the gift shop to get something for the kids and Sam, then bed.” She kissed both women good night and headed off to the tempting array of handicrafts, silver and enameled jewelry, and shelves of hideous-looking trolls. Forty minutes later, her Visa card having made it altogether too easy to acquire some gorgeous ski sweaters, Pix was in her room, eyeing her bed longingly. She had spent so little time there. But first she wanted to call Annelise, Kari’s friend in Bergen, and ask her about how hard it was to smuggle antiques out of the country. Helene Feld was a collector, and collecting can be an obsession. And obsessions can lead to other things. Marit had had the number with her and, thanks again to her phone card, Pix soon heard ringing and a voice: “Annelise Christensen her.”

“You do speak English, don’t you? This is Pix Miller, an American friend of the Hansens.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Is there news? Have you found Kari?”

“No, I’m sorry. Nothing has changed. Marit is with my mother and me at Kvikne’s in Balestrand. We joined the tour to see if we could find anything out the police may have missed.”

“Marit’s idea?” The girl sounded impressed.

“Yes, but we haven’t discovered anything, except there is a woman with quite a passion for Norwegian antiques, and that started me wondering how difficult it would be to get them out of the country.”

“Very difficult indeed, and a heavy fine if you are caught. There was a big case last year and both the buyer and seller had to pay a stiff penalty. Still, it does happen, and that’s why we have such an elaborate security system at our museum. Even security systems aren’t foolproof, though. You can have human error. Like when Munch’s

The Scream was stolen from the National Gallery in Oslo. Maybe you remember?”

Pix did. They’d used a ladder from a nearby building site, climbed in an open window, and were out again with the painting in sixty seconds. The guard thought the alarm, which went off, was malfunctioning, but it was all recorded on video and the painting recovered unharmed in two days. Since then, security in all the museums had increased.

“In terms of the world market, are these antiques worth a great deal?”

“In a way, because our laws are so strict, the value has increased. But the average tourist would not be able to buy anything over a hundred years old, so I’m not sure I follow you.”

Pix wasn’t sure she did, either.

“Just a thought. Well, thank you, and if we hear anything at all, we’ll let you know.” She was about to hang up when she recalled her sauna musings about Kari’s personality, so she asked Annelise on the spur of the moment, “You know Kari well. How would you describe her?”

If Annelise thought the question odd, she didn’t say so. “Well, she is very loyal to her friends and very sure. I’m not saying this right, but sure of herself and what she thinks is the right thing. Sometimes this annoys people.”

“What about Kari and Erik? Did you think it was a good match?”

Annelise hesitated. “That is not for me to say. It was their business, but they had fun together and I think they probably would have been married someday. They weren’t in a rush. My generation isn’t, I think. Maybe we’re too picky.”

“Did Kari have other boyfriends?” Pix had married her high school beau the week after she graduated from Pembroke, and the generation gap suddenly seemed an abyss.

Annelise gave a little laugh. “Boys, men always wanted to be with Kari, but she has been with Erik for quite a while. I am sorry I have to go now. I’m supposed to meet someone and I’m late already.”

“I’m so sorry and won’t keep you any longer. Thank you for all your help,” Pix said.

“Ha det bra.” As Annelise hung up, she reverted by habit to the Norwegian equivalent of “Have a good day.” Pix hoped she would “have it good,” too, wherever she was going at this time of night—a time she knew from her son Mark was the mere shank of the evening to that generation, despite its being bedtime for those on either sides.

Bed—at least for a while. She changed into corduroy slacks and a turtleneck, putting out a warm sweater next to her jacket. Ursula would certainly not approve of the number of times Pix seemed to be sleeping in her clothes these days, but then her mother had been the one who had drawn her to one side before disappearing into the Dragon Room for coffee and hissed in her ear, “Be sure to set your alarm. Do you want me to call you?”

Pix had refused. She knew what she had to do. The inspector hadn’t said she couldn’t take a walk after midnight. He had said “try not to.” And if she didn’t go to the fjord cruiser and search her mother’s fabled closet, there would be no rest in this life. Forget “try not to.”

She was about to check the pockets of her coat to make sure her kit was intact when there was a knock on the door.

It was Mother, the glint of victory in her eye. “Marit’s still with her, but I wanted to tell you before you went to sleep.” She came in and sat down.

“Tell me what?”

“We decided it would be pleasant to invite Carol Peterson to have coffee with us on the porch. I thought she might like to talk with a native Norwegian. Perhaps tell Marit a bit about Duluth. You know, Hans’s brother settled in the Midwest.”

Pix did not know. What she did know was that Carol had as much chance of talking about Duluth once she was on the porch as a fly trapped in a web would talking about aerodynamics with a spider.

“We chatted for a bit and then began to talk about the tour. Poor woman. It hasn’t been much fun for her. She seems to have a daughter-in-law she doesn’t much care for and then her husband made an indecent proposal to her.”

“A what!”

Ursula grinned. “You’ll never guess!”

Pix conjured up a mental image of Roy senior. “Indecent” and the personification of white bread didn’t seem to go together. But something must have turned his thoughts from the missionary position to the wilder side. Maybe it seemed that his son was having a little too much fun with Lynette.

“Okay, I’ll never guess. Wait—he wants Carol to sleep in the buff.”

“I don’t know about that, but what he does want is for her to sleep with Don Brady—and he gets Marge.”

“Wife swapping! No wonder Carol was upset—and now we know how Roy got his black eye. I think she’s wrong about it being illegal, yet that doesn’t prevent it from being a crime in her book! And the Bradys! Don’t tell me Marge was willing.”

“I’m telling you.” Ursula was laughing now, as she couldn’t when Carol had poured her heart out to the two older women, unable to keep her guilty secret anymore, wanting sympathy, and secure in the knowledge she’d never see them again after the tour.

“Marge! But she seems like such a little mouse, a mouse with a cold.” Marge apparently had allergies or had picked up a germ somewhere. She was constantly reaching for a tissue and her turned-up little nose was either red or about to drip. Pix had not thought of the woman as either a sex object or a libertine, but she was trim and not unattractive otherwise. Sensible shoes, denim

skirts, turtlenecks, and sweaters—attire not unlike Pix’s own. Her hair was short, a bit wispy, and the color mousy brown. Yes, a mouse—a well-organized, inquisitive, energetic little mouse. Inquisitive—that was it.

“She must have another list like the one of the places she wants to go—‘Unusual Things I Want to Do.’”

“I’ll let you get to bed and I have to help Marit. That Peterson woman is really terribly upset, but she’s also a bit boring.” Mother never believed in mincing words.

“Good night,” Pix said. “Thank you for clearing up one mystery at least.”

“I thought you’d want to know. Now, be careful tonight.”

“Don’t worry.”

“And remember, we’ll be leaving tomorrow, so this is your last chance.”

Thank you, Mother, Pix said silently as she closed the door firmly.

All she had to do now was make sure she had everything she might need in her pockets and she could go to bed. She’d emptied them after she’d come in dripping wet from her first attempt and draped the jacket on the heated towel bars in the bathroom to dry. Then this morning, she’d been in a rush and hadn’t bothered to transfer everything back from where she’d stashed it in her suitcase. Penlite, keys—she dropped them in and was about to add the hair spray when she realized there was a piece of paper in the bottom of the pocket. She didn’t remember putting anything in. It must be her ticket stub from the Glacier Museum. She pulled it out. It was a folded-up piece of newspaper.

“Now where did this come from?” she said aloud. “Strange.” Strange to be talking to herself, too. This was why people had pets.

She unfolded it. It was from a Norwegian newspaper and she was about to throw it away when she saw that single letters had been circled in red. She sat at the desk, took out a sheet of the hotel notepaper and a pen, then

started copying the letters. There weren’t many and put down in order, they read: “stopasking?” Although it seemed to be another Norwegian word, Pix, veteran of crossword puzzles and word jumbles, quickly deciphered it.

“Stop asking questions.”