The Body in the Fjord (16 page)

She huddled down under the tarp. The sailcloth was drenched and she would be soon. She was stiff, too, and the irony of having been both too hot and too cold in a relatively short period of time did not escape her. She'd have to wait a while longer to be sure that they wouldn't see her. She hoped the side door was still unlocked.

She looked at her watch: 3:30. She'd been gone from her room only a half hour! She'd wait five more minutes, then make a run for it.

The hands on her watch moved slowly and despite her uncomfortable position and the pitching of the boat as the storm hit, Pix began to fall asleep. Only three minutes had passed, but no one would be out any longer than he could help in this mess. She stood up and raced down the dock. Five minutes later, she was standing under a hot shower. No wonder Norwegians looked so clean. She hadn't had so many showers since she was a teenager.

It took awhile for her to get rid of the smell of fish that had seeped into her pores with the rainwater. How could something so good smell so bad, so
skitten
—another interesting Norwegian word. It meant “foul,” “dirty,” even “smutty.” While sounding like a small pet, it somehow
perfectly expressed the way she'd felt hiding in the boat and even now. What had she accomplished? Nothing. Kari was still missing and Pix was beginning to believe she must have drowned with Erik. Maybe someone stole her passport and money, then was interrupted before he or she could take Erik's. But, said a nagging voice, Marit had said Kari had some jewelry in her pack and that had been left.

Pix looked at her bed. It had stopped raining and it was a little past four. She sighed. She had to see this thing to the end and that meant going back to the boat. If she hurried, she could search the closet and stroll back, apparently returning from a hearty, early—very early—morning's walk.

Feeling straight out of
The Perils of Pauline
, Pix got dressed once again. Her jacket was soaked, so she put on two turtlenecks and a heavy sweater. Once more she tiptoed down the hall, descended the stairs, and slipped out the side door.

The storm had left the air with a clear, fresh feeling and the fjord in front of her was like a sheet of green glass. The sky was beginning to get light and the birds were waking up. The spire of the Anglican church, St. Olav's, was silhouetted against the wooded slopes just beyond. It had been founded by one of those intrepid British females who ranged the world, ready for a cup of tea in a bedouin's tent or Sami's
lavvo
. The architecture of St. Olav's was an interesting marriage of stave and staid—dragons and gingerbread. She walked rapidly toward the water and the path that followed the peninsula before it turned toward the center of the village, mainly consisting of a post office, small market, and two gift shops.

As she passed the last of the benches provided by Kvikne's Hotel in abundance throughout the grounds, a figure stood up. Pix was so intent on her destination that she didn't realize anyone else was around.

Not until a hand came down hard on her shoulder and a voice said, “Now where do you think you're going?”

It was Carol Peterson. But not the perky dancer observed a scant few hours earlier. No, this Carol's face was swollen from crying, the skirt of her cocktail dress limp, and the white sweater replaced by a sweatshirt whose
KISS ME, I'M NORWEGIAN
slogan seemed a pathetic mockery. Carol Peterson looked like something the cat wouldn't drag in.

She repeated her query imperiously—at least some things were constant. “
Where
are you going?”

Pix had been so startled by this sudden apparition, and the fact that it was such a dramatic shadow of its former self, that she couldn't think of a plausible excuse for a moment. She tried to marshal her thoughts and managed to say, “Ummm”

“Or, I should say,
where
have you been?” Carol blazed. The woman was furious.

This was getting very, very weird. “What do you mean? I couldn't sleep and decided to take a walk.” Pix's wits were back. Was the woman insane? Why was she so upset, and why attack Pix this way?

“Yeah, sure. I know your type, you…you easterner!” It was obviously the worst epithet she could drum up.

“Why don't you tell me what's wrong?” Pix decided to ignore the regional slur and led the way to a bench. There was no way she was going to be able to search the
Viking cruiser now, and besides, she had to find out why Carol Peterson, respectable matron, was wandering the grounds, crying her eyes out at four o'clock in the morning, when surely she normally would have been long in bed, face cream applied, hair net in place.

Carol followed and slumped down next to Pix dejectedly. All the wind was out of her sails, the air out of the balloon, the stuffing from the rag doll. Her “artichoke” hairdo was down to the choke.

A snuffle, a heavy sigh, and Carol was ready to spill her guts—or so Pix hoped.

“This was supposed to be the trip of a lifetime. I've been working on it for over a year. Writing for brochures, talking to the people at the Norwegian Tourist Board, comparing prices, studying the map. We've never been home, I told Roy. This is our big chance and we'll take Roy junior and his bride. It will be our wedding gift to them. A dream trip. A chance to see where we all started, of course not Lynette, but the rest of us. It was going to be perfect!” Carol started to sob again. She'd obviously been doing this on and off for quite a while. It was not a pretty sight.

“But haven't you been having a good time? I thought you told me you were enjoying yourself?” Pix hadn't heard her say exactly these words, but she hadn't heard anything to the contrary, except for the kvetching about Kari. Kvetching was not the right word. She'd have to ask Marit what the Norwegian equivalent was, although Norwegians complained so obliquely—“Do you think it was margarine in the
sandekake
? I wouldn't want to say, but what do you think?”—there probably wasn't a term.

Carol stopped crying. The sky was still gray and dawn was having a hard time piercing through. Slivers of light appeared at the horizon, then seemed to give up.

“Well, yes, I was having fun.” She looked off toward the fjord, running the video of
The Petersons Return to the Land of Their Ancestors
through her mind for a moment. “Especially at the beginning. I couldn't believe I was actu
ally here after hearing so much about Norway all my life. And everything was just right. So clean. But now this! I can't even believe it! And what if our friends should find out? Sick, I tell you. That's what it is.”

But what was it? Pix had the sense not to interrupt the woman.

“And criminal. I'm sure it's against the law. I don't know the laws here, but I know what's legal in Duluth—and in the sight of God.” Carol was building up a good head of righteous indignation and the train was still in the station. She continued.

“You think you know somebody.” Her voice was as bitter as an unripe lingonberry. She shook her head, steam disappearing, replaced by tears again.

“How can this be happening to me! And on my dream trip!” she wailed.

“Is there anything I can do?” Pix was beginning to wonder if Carol was going to come across with any concrete information. So far, her monologue had been tantalizingly circumspect.

In the sauna at Stalheim, Lynette had said her mother-in-law wasn't going to like something that was coming. Had it arrived? But would Carol have been so reticent if the current crisis involved Lynette? Pix had the feeling any blows landed by the young woman would be met in kind and news of the battle spread far and wide. And criminal? If Lynette had broken any laws, Carol would have been the first to blow the whistle on her—and to hold Roy junior's hand steady while he filed for an annulment.

Pix repeated her request, since Carol had not replied.

“Are you sure I can't do something?”

Carol sat up straight and pulled her sweatshirt down.

“No, I think just about enough has been done, and I'll thank you not to refer to the matter again.”

It was an easy request with which to comply.

“I'm sorry you're so upset.” Pix grasped for some way to keep the woman talking—and she
was
sorry to see Carol like this, obviously in a great deal of pain.

“Sorry never helps,” Mrs. Peterson said. It had the ring of an off-repeated remark, automatic and a real conversation stopper. She stood up and marched off in the direction of the hotel.

Now what the hell was that all about? Pix said to herself.

 

The sun was rising and Pix walked toward the shore. She was exhausted, but her encounter with Carol Peterson had been unsettling and she thought she'd take the long way back, both to avoid meeting the woman again—that hand on her shoulder had sent enough adrenaline coursing through Pix's body to keep her awake for the rest of the trip—and because a stroll in the damp morning air might induce slumber. Pix could snatch two or three hours before the boat left. She'd ask Ursula to make her a sandwich at breakfast and she'd sleep in. The thought caused a yawn and she quickened her steps along the path. The tops of the mountains were streaked with gold now and the white snow shone like the enameling on a particularly fine piece of Norwegian jewelry.

At the edge of the fjord, Pix paused, unable to rush when it was so beautiful, yet telling herself she had to get going. A down comforter and pillows were calling her name. Besides, without some sleep, she'd be useless.

She looked at the rocks that lined the shore and thought of the coast of Maine—Sanpere Island in Penobscot Bay, where her family had been spending summers since before Ursula was born. People said Maine reminded them of Norway or vice versa, depending which side of the ocean one was on. The fjords are tidal, she reminded herself, although the tides are slight compared with Maine's. But the rocks looked alike, covered with rackweed. Her children had all loved to pop its slippery small balloons with their bare feet and fingers, as had she and her brother. Higher up, she noted the rocks were covered with the same yellow ocher lichen that often was the only spot of color on Sanpere's granite ledges—like splashes of paint. She
had a great desire to climb down to the rocks and find a nice flat one to curl up on and nap. If it had been a bit warmer, she would have. A tern flew overhead. She stopped and looked out across the rocks to the water beyond.

The tide was out. She could see small stretches of sand. She could see—

Oscar Melling! Arms and legs spread-eagled on a ledge, face to one side. She recognized his bright blue Ban-Lon sport shirt.

Oscar Melling! Motionless. He looked small from where she was. Small against the backdrop of the mountains and the fjord.

Oscar Melling! Dead!

 

It was so unbelievable that she didn't feel the least bit like screaming, hideous as the situation was. Without thinking, she climbed over the low wall that separated nature from its cultivated cousins, the lawns and shrubs of the hotel. Oscar's body was not that far away, but the rocks were covered with seaweed and it was slow going. She kept looking back to see if anyone else was up, prepared to shout for help. Although at this point, it was too late. From the way he was lying, she was certain he was dead, yet she had to make sure—though the notion of resuscitating him was one she immediately pushed far back into a distant corner of her brain, numbed by fatigue and shock.

Her sneakers sank into the wet sand between the rocks and cold water sloshed over the tops.

Melling was wearing exactly what he'd had on the last time she'd seen him. She'd noted the Ban-Lon and wondered if he'd saved the shirt all these years or had a stockpile. No jacket or sweater had been added to his attire. She reached for his wrist and, as she had suspected she would, found no pulse. The body was already giving off a sour smell that mixed pungently with the brackish rackweed, and Pix thought she might not be able to keep from vomiting. She gulped some air.

There was an empty bottle of aquavit next to the rock. The tide had either not come up this far or been insufficient to wash it away. An opinionated boozer—those telltale fine red veins she'd observed at Stalheim when he'd stopped by their table to invite Ursula to play cards were even more apparent up this close. She could see only half his face. One blue eye was open wide, a cloudy blue in old age, vacant in death. His mouth was open, drooping slackly to one side, teeth yellowed by countless cigars.

A pool of blood had collected in a hollow in the rock to the left of his body, the trail beginning to dry to a reddish brown streak. The other side of his face must have been hurt in the fall. She had no desire to assess the damage. The part of his head she could see gave no indication of injury, his baldness shiny with the morning dew, the little hair he had slightly damp.

Had the Mermaid/Troll tour been his dream trip, too? Pix felt tears welling into her eyes. Poor old man.

He'd been alive a few hours ago. Alive and enjoying himself. He must have stumbled out here with his bottle and pitched over the side. There were no railings. Oscar had been unlucky. Very unlucky. She wondered if there had been a Mrs. Melling, or maybe there still was and she'd been left at home. Where was he from? New Jersey. The mail-order Scandinavian foods,
lutefisk
in your mailbox. Exhaustion was sending her thoughts to unexpected places and she had to go tell someone at the hotel about her grisly morning discovery. It was truly morning now. The dawn had finally broken through, yet the hotel was still cloaked in sleep, the curtains closed tight against the light, guests enjoying a few more hours repose before gathering at the trough for breakfast. If last night's spread was anything to go by, breakfast at Kvikne's, Norway's signature meal, would be gargantuan.

But Oscar's bed was empty. His place at the table would be taken by someone else. She crawled up the rocks and back onto the lawn. She ought to run. A man was dead.
Instead, she found herself walking slowly, as in a dream, into the hotel lobby.

The clerk looked freshly starched and greeted Pix cheerily, “
God dag, god dag
. What can I do for you?” before realizing that the woman in front of the desk, color drained from her face and swaying slightly, was not in search of stamps.

“You must get someone right away. There's a body in the fjord.” Pix sat heavily in an ornately carved chair across from the desk.

“What!” The girl screeched and immediately yelled something in Norwegian, producing two other clerks from a room to the rear. After some excited talk, a young man came to Pix's side.

“Do you need some help?” He actually took one of her hands, holding it rather tenderly in both of his. He was about her son Mark's age, Pix figured. She hoped under similar circumstances, Mark would be so kind. Similar circumstances?

“You must think I am crazy.” She couldn't help speaking apologetically. She'd thought she would get rid of this kind of emotional baggage after forty, but it hadn't happened. A man was dead. She'd discovered the body, so she must be at fault in some way. She was upsetting the hotel staff, for one thing. “But there
is
a dead man in the fjord—or rather, on the rocks. His name is Oscar Melling. We're with the Scandie Sights tour. I mean, he was and I am. You'd better call the guides, Jan and Carl. I can't remember their last names right now.”

The girl at the desk was already dialing and several people had run out the door in the direction Pix had indicated. They made the journey much more quickly than Pix had and came back shouting. Her head began to ache with the sound of Norwegian swirling about her. On their trip, she and Sam had shared a train car with a ladies' choir group from Drammen and after fifteen minutes the singsong had lost its tuneful appeal, punctuated as it was with sharp intakes of breath and many
tsk, tsk, tsks
. Pix and
Sam, smiling and nodding, had backed out the door and walked the full length of the train to other seats. Pix was having that same feeling now and broke in. “I'm going to my room, if that's all right. I'm a bit tired.” Instantly, the young man who had been so solicitous came to her side, offering his arm. Pix took it and together they made their way to the elevator. It opened just as they got there, revealing Jan and Carl—Carl in proper pajamas and robe, Jan in sweats—both looking completely bewildered. Pix sighed and let the young man lead her back to her seat. They'd want to question her.

She waited while the guides dashed to the fjord and back. Carl looked as if he had lost last night's dinner on the return trip and Jan was trembling. Pix thought it must be unusual for there to be a corpse of any kind on a Scandie Sights tour, the odd heart attack perhaps, but two—Erik surely counted—could only be classified as inconceivable.

“Was he alive when you found him?” Carl asked. “I mean, did he say how it happened?” Lawsuit was written bold across his face.

“No, he was quite dead. I imagine he had been lying there all night and no one happened to see him because of the position of the rocks, and also, why would someone be walking there?” As she offered this useful observation, she realized it presented an obvious question for herself, so before anyone could think to ask it, she rose, wobbling a bit—unfaked—and said as firmly as she could, “I really must lie down. This has been extremely upsetting.” Her friend, as she now regarded him, once again seized her arm and cast baleful glances at the guides. She'd have to find out his name and write the hotel a nice letter. He took her to the door of her room, asked once more if he could do anything for her, and disappeared down the hall. Pix opened the door, thought of her mother, presumably asleep in her own room, and headed for bed. Bothering only to kick off her shoes, she pulled the featherweight comforter over her shoulders and fell sound asleep.