The Body in the Fjord (15 page)

The Japanese man. He was the last person in the sauna with her, but why on earth would he lock her in and where
would he have found a key? He had been upset, all that “ticky-tocky” business, but he hadn't seemed to bear her any ill will.

Ill will. Given that the key was in some obvious position outside the door—say hanging from a nail—who might have wanted to keep her on ice, or rather, the reverse, for a while? With all the questions she'd been asking over the last two days, had she made someone nervous? So nervous that he or she wanted to give her a warning, or keep her from seeing something that was going on now?

Her head was beginning to ache from the heat and the stress. Her thoughts were not companionable ones. What did people in solitary confinement think about? Her brain was beginning to turn to mush, or
grøt
. Such funny words. Such a funny language, Norwegian. Those three extra letters tacked onto the alphabet after z: æ, ø, and å. Why? And that rolling
r
sound they made in the back of their throats like a cat purring. Cats. She wondered what her cat, Stan, a gray tiger with a lively personality, was doing—Stan, Stan Miller. People sometimes thought they had another child. Well, the dogs and Stan were like children, she supposed. Her children. She slapped herself lightly on the cheek a few times. It felt good. She could still feel things. The baking heat had been numbing.

She stood up and paced back and forth. Her heart was pounding. Ticky-tocky, ticky-tocky was right. She tried to address herself sternly and calmly. Now Pix, she told her weaker sister, nothing is going to happen. You're not in any real danger. At her last physical, the doctor had told her she was disgustingly healthy. Somehow her heart was still racing, though. She didn't have a heart condition—at least that she knew of. Disgustingly healthy. At the time, Pix had felt somewhat embarrassed—it was such an odd phrase. Would she be less disgusting if the doctor had turned up a hemorrhoid or suspicious mole? More likely more.

No, she'd make it through the night. There was just
going to be a lot of time to kill. She wished she hadn't thought of the phrase. She sat down again.

Captain Hagen had been in the sauna. So he knew she was here. She spread her fingers out to count the people who knew where she was. The desk clerk, who had carefully counted out two towels for her, no more, no less; the distressed man from Tokyo; silent Captain Hagen; and Mother. That took care of pointer, tall man, ring man, and pinkie. Had she mentioned it at dinner? She was sure she hadn't. But she had told Jennifer at coffee, hadn't she? Yes. Thumbkin went down and she made a fist. She looked at her right hand with its fingers still stretched out and tried to recall if anyone had been near enough to overhear her talking to Jennifer. The Dahl sisters were leaving—but she'd mentioned it to them later—and the Felds were not too far away. Then again, the lobby had not been empty when she got the towels, and why else would she be requesting them? Their rooms were amply supplied. So any number of people knew she'd be here, the whole blasted tour. And the guides, plus the stewards. Scandie Sights—such a stupid name. Mermaids and trolls. She could use a bit less enchantment. She wiggled her fingers. Her grandmother's diamond solitaire, her engagement ring left to Pix, sparkled. It felt tight. Her fingers looked like the little sausages that had been under the dome in a large silver chafing dish at breakfast this morning. This morning—at the Stalheim Hotel. Stalheim, the swastika. She realized her left hand was still clenched in a fist. She shook her fingers free. Her plain gold wedding band—the flowers that had decorated it originally had long worn smooth—reminded her of her husband. Husbands and wives. Newlyweds. Girlfriends and boyfriends. Sonja and Anders knew she was coming here. Sonja, her dislike of Kari so intense. As intense as her liking for Erik. The jealousy dance, one face forward, one face backward.

Agitated, she stood up suddenly and felt dizzy. The heat was like armor and she must have lost several pounds of sweat. She walked slowly and deliberately from one end
of the room to the other, counting her steps. It was something to do. She decided to set up a routine. She was beginning to get tired and she had to keep awake—walk, rest, walk, rest. What
would
happen if she fell asleep in here? In the morning would there just be a pool of perspiration where she'd reclined? Nothing but a very damp towel, a version of the Wicked Witch of the West after she gets doused with water? “I'm melting,” Pix heard herself say aloud, and she laughed. Her thoughts were definitely rambling. Maybe at some point the heat got switched off. She got up and looked at the temperature gauge. No switches.

Dehydration. That's what was going to happen to her. She wouldn't melt. Not her bones, big bones. The Rowes were all big-boned women, although not heavy. Desiccation. She'd be like one of those dried fruits she bought at the health-food store for her children's snacks, only she ended up eating them and they held out for Ritz Bits and Doritos.

Her children. Her eyes filled with tears and she quickly tried to squelch them. She needed all the internal fluids she had. But her children. Motherless. Poor Sam. How would he cope? Remarry. She sat down on the bench and thought of possible candidates, convincing herself that she was thinking rationally. She wished she had something to write with. It was such an ignominious way to go—to dry up.

Her family. Guilt washed over her so palpably, it almost felt refreshing. She hadn't thought about them much since she'd arrived in Norway. She chastised herself. What kind of mother was she anyway? It had been wonderful to be unencumbered by her daily routines. Sailing down the fjord today, she'd been very happy, forgetting everything for a time—what she'd left behind and what had brought her here.

The inside of her mouth seemed to be made of felt. Her throat was parched.

She forced herself to drink the water in the pail, taking
little sips. It wasn't so bad. Damp felt now inside her mouth. She dozed off. Sleep—the sweet escape.

A hand was on her shoulder. Someone screamed. She recognized the voice. It was hers.

“Sorry we startled you, but I told you not to go to sleep in these things. Good thing we came along. The door was locked.” It was Lynette. Lynette and Roy junior, both nude and carrying their towels. Thank God for honeymooners. Pix mumbled her thanks and sat up. How long had she been in here?

“What time is it?” She spoke very deliberately, like a drunk who doesn't want to slur but who doesn't fool anyone.

“Almost one o'clock,” Lynette answered. Pix tried to think if she'd ever heard Roy junior's voice. As soon as he'd seen her, he'd wrapped his towel around his waist, blushing furiously. His face was pretty red, too. Lynette didn't bother to cover up.

Pix rose slowly and realized she could walk. Suddenly, she felt very, very middle-aged—no, she would not say old. She managed a weak smile and pulled open the door with relief. Outside, the air felt like the Arctic, but it brought her to her senses. She understood the point of snowbanks or icy swims now. There was a chair. She sat on it. Roy appeared and spoke.

“Lynette thought we'd better keep the key inside,” he explained as he removed it from the nail it did indeed hang on, around the corner from the sauna entrance. “Are you okay?” He had a pleasant deep voice, filled with midwestern sincerity.

She
was
okay, she realized with great joy, and she offered some advice of her own.

“Definitely keep the key with you.”

 

It was a little after one. She'd showered and dressed, drunk several glasses of water, then gone up to her room with every intent of going straight to bed when she'd remembered she had to search the damn boat.

Pix toyed with the idea of forgetting the whole thing. It was hard to believe there was a secret compartment on their Viking cruiser and even harder to believe anything illegal was in it. Yet there was never really any question. And it wasn't simply the thought of facing her mother over hard-boiled eggs and sardines in the morning. Pix had come to Norway to help Marit and apparently that meant an enormous amount of sleep deprivation. She crawled into bed and set the alarm for three o'clock.

The alarm was ringing. Pix reached for it, instantly wide-awake. She'd pulled on some corduroy pants, a heavy turtleneck, and a sweater before she realized that it was only two o'clock. The alarm hadn't gone off. She'd dreamed it.

“Damn and double damn,” she said aloud, and walked over to the window, pulling back the drapes. It wasn't dark, but the light was dim enough for a trip to the dock. The problem was, there were still a great many people strolling about the hotel grounds. Again aloud, she grumbled, “Don't these people ever go to sleep?”

She went out onto the balcony and sat down. She didn't blame them. It was so beautiful, so special—who wanted to go to sleep and miss it? The mountains seemed endless and, just as on the boat, almost within reach, a short walk at the very least. The landscape looked serene, secure even—put your trust in mountains—was that from a poem? A psalm? If it wasn't, it should be. Immovable, invariable. All day these mountain images and pieces of half-remembered phrases had filled her mind. But, she thought, perhaps the mountains would not appear so poetic in the winter, especially during the endless dark days, days of bad weather. Then the slopes would press in on one and their nearness become a weighty barrier.

The sky was starting to turn a slate gray. It was happening all at once. She hoped it didn't mean rain, as Erna Dahl had said. Two figures emerged from beneath her balcony, walking slowly down the path across the lawn to the water. She leaned forward to see who it was before
they moved out of sight. They passed under one of the lights. Oscar and Sophie—Sophie sans her
cousine
! The oh-so-naughty man had continental tastes. They were headed for the benches at the water's edge. A rendezvous by the fjord.

Next Pix heard a voice in the distance. A man's. It sounded like Don Brady. The entire Scandie Sights tour, with the exception of her mother and the farmers, seemed to be up and about. The Petersons, minus Lynette, but not Roy junior came into view from around the corner of the hotel. This was interesting, but her eyelids were getting heavy again. Trusting that the alarm would wake her, she stood up and stretched, catching sight of Sophie returning from the water much more rapidly than she'd gone, and traveling alone. At one point, she broke into a run; then, seeing others about, she slowed down. As she passed under the light again, Pix could see that she was scowling. That naughty man.

Pix went to bed.

Minutes later, or so it seemed, the alarm rang. She hadn't bothered to undress. Pausing only to make sure it wasn't raining and/or still like Grand Central Station outside, she grabbed her jacket and stepped quietly into the hall. There had been no one about and the sky was streaked with ominous bands of dark gray clouds, but the ground was dry. She'd shoved a scarf in her pocket and hoped she wouldn't need it.

Earlier, she'd made sure the door to the stairs was not locked and now she took them quickly. The sooner this was over, the better. There was no early wake-up call and she might actually get some more sleep.

The stairs ended at a hallway, leading to the lobby in one direction, a side exit to the outside in the other, she'd discovered when she'd planned her search. She'd wanted to avoid the night desk clerk—and any insomniacs wandering about the lobby.

Pix pushed the door open—it wasn't locked or alarmed—and stepped out into the brisk night air. There
was no need for a flashlight, but she'd brought Faith's penlite with her, as well as the rest of her kit and camera. She was uncomfortably aware of the canister of hair spray in the pocket of her dark blue denim jacket.

It was a short walk to the dock where the fjord cruiser was berthed alongside the fleet of small pleasure boats so beloved of Norwegians, those in Balestrand no exception. All very trim, flags flying from the sterns. She passed by the huge pile of wood—odd pieces of lumber, crates, branches—that awaited the touch of a torch on Midsummer Night, St. Hans' Eve,
St. Hans-aften
, the twenty-third. They'd seen similar bonfire piles all along the fjord today. This was the largest so far, though, and people would be adding to it. She was sorry she wouldn't be here to see the conflagration.

There wasn't a soul in sight and she walked straight down the wooden dock to the boat, alone on the fjord. Or so she thought.

Just as she was about to step aboard, she heard voices from the stem and saw two shadowy figures, the tips of their cigarettes glowing in the dark. The voices stopped; then she heard footsteps. Someone was coming up on deck to have a look. They must have heard her approaching. Wildly, she looked for a place to hide and jumped into a small dinghy tied close by. There was a tarp and she crawled under it. Why hadn't the nearest boat been one of the ones with a cabin?

The tarp smelled strongly of
fisk
and she was so distracted by the pungent odor that for a moment she did not realize that whoever had been on the boat had now moved onto the dock. They were talking again, quite close to her. Pix froze. Men's voices, speaking Norwegian. Really Marit should have enlisted the help of someone who spoke the language! It was tempting to lift a corner of the heavy cloth and peer out, yet she didn't dare. Strolling on the dock or grounds could have been explained. Bundled under a boat tarp at three o'clock in the morning could not. She strained to hear what they were saying, painfully
aware that her vocabulary was limited to food, greetings, requests, and bodily functions. All she could tell was that they were not quarreling. Their voices were not raised. The chat sounded companionable even. The guides? The captain? Balestrand inhabitants on a late-night—or rather, early-morning—tour of the boat?

Speculation was suddenly replaced by the realization that Erna had been right. It was raining. Heavy droplets were soon drumming against the tarp. Surely the men would leave, and she lifted a corner in time to see the two running for cover. It was pouring now and the absence of streetlights made it impossible to see who they were. They did turn in the direction of the hotel, but there were also many houses that way, as well as a large parking area. Thunder crashed. Then lightning. And again. The second flash revealed that one man had a beard. Another beard.