The Body in the Fjord (17 page)

 

Someone was knocking on the door. Pix rolled over and poked her husband, “Get that, will you, honey?” she mumbled. She poked again when the knocking continued and, getting no response, opened her eyes. Sam was an ocean away. She got out of bed and went to the door. She felt drugged. It was Mother—Mother and Marit with a breakfast tray.

Marit set the tray on the desk as Ursula grabbed Pix, hugging her tightly.

“We've been so worried, but we didn't want to wake you. What happened!”

Pix realized that the two women thought there was some connection between her search of the boat and the discovery of the body and she hastened to correct their misapprehension.

“I couldn't search the closet. First, there were two men on board; then it started to rain and I had to come back. Since I was up, when the rain stopped, I went out again, but then I found Oscar.” She eyed the tray greedily. She was starving—hence the
Reader's Digest
version of what had been a very long and complicated night.

“
Vær sâ god
,” Marit said, waving at the tray, using the universal phrase, a kind of Norwegian equivalent of
shalom
. It meant everything from “Come and get it” to “You're welcome,” with varying degrees of “Have some more,” “Go in,” or “Look at anything you like” in between.

Pix needed no urging and was soon digging into a perfectly boiled egg, freshly baked whole-wheat rolls, farm butter, cheese, and, of course, herring and lox—or rather, “laks.” There was a croissant on the tray looking totally out of place, but she wolfed that down, too. After having poured a second cup of coffee, she felt herself again, although these days that was subject to constant redefinition. She told them about getting locked in the sauna, meeting Carol Peterson, then happening upon Oscar Melling's lifeless body.

After discussing the sauna episode, which Marit was
inclined to think was an accident, although Ursula, for once, was unsure, they got on to Mrs. Peterson.

“What do you suppose the woman was talking about?” Ursula asked.

“Do you think she had anything to do with Mr. Melling? Maybe she had already seen the body and didn't want to get involved?”

“But she kept talking about what someone else had done, a crime, but I think that wasn't meant literally.” As she spoke, Pix recalled Carol in Oscar's arms, whirling about the dance floor. He had a certain appeal. She remembered how courtly he had been to her mother. Obviously, his manners had another side—the argument with Arnie Feld had occurred just before the dancing. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. More likely the erratic effects of alcohol on an aging nervous system.

“Everyone is upset, of course. Carl spoke to the group after breakfast and then Marit and I went to church. The tour is sticking to the itinerary and that's why we woke you up. You can relax on the boat, but I didn't think you'd want to miss the farm. Marit's going to keep her ears open while we're gone and talk to some of the staff. Make sure this really was an accident, as Carl said.”

“I'm going to be very worried and maybe a little cross.” Marit smiled. “‘Are you sure it's safe to walk on that path so close to the water?' I'll ask. See what they say. The police are here, and I'll find a nice young one who will tell me more than he should.”

Pix was beginning to think they should incorporate themselves.

“Okay, but I have to have a shower and wake up. When does the boat leave?”

“You have thirty minutes. Because of all this, we're not going until ten-thirty. I'll wait for you on the dock.” She paused and added, “Pity you weren't able to get a look into the closet last night.”

Pix gave her mother a very firm kiss and ushered the two women out the door.

Ten minutes later, she was washed, dressed, and hurriedly punching several hundred numbers into the phone. It was time to call Faith.

 

Faith Sibley Fairchild had spent the previous afternoon sitting in her backyard in Aleford, watching her children dig in the earth that her husband, Tom, had optimistically tilled for what he called their “market garden.” So far, the only seeds sown were a row of peas, delineated by a wavy length of string. The children had been instructed to stay away from the growing plants and thus far they had been content to dig where Tom planned to put his tomato seedlings. Faith was always happy to, receive fresh garden produce—the ultimate luxury was visiting friends who grew their own corn, brought the water to a boil, and dashed outside to grab the ears, stripping them on the return trip before flinging them in the water for exactly four minutes. However, Faith was not a gifted gardener. Something about compost, earthworms, and chinch bugs put her off. She preferred to do her harvesting at the Wilson Farm stand or Bread and Circus.

Now shortly after four o'clock in the morning, her dreams were filled with buds and tendrils—and soup. While she'd idly watched her children, Faith had been leafing through her recipe notebooks, looking for an alternative to lobster bisque as a first course for a wedding she was catering later in the month. The menu had been fixed—and altered—for months. The bride, apparently having nothing on her plate except wedding plans, had taken to treating Have Faith's kitchen as a kind of club, dropping in for coffee and tastes of whatever Faith was cooking, to go over things “for the last time, I promise.” Yesterday, she had announced that lobster bisque was too pink and she wanted something different. Faith mulled over fresh avocado soup, garnished with a spider's web of thinned-out sour cream and spiked with a bit of white rum. In case the bride ruled it out as being too green, Faith was prepared to offer
potage de champignons sauvages
as
a backup. The young woman was pretentious enough to relish the name in French, and Faith herself preferred it for the untamed flavor it promised. Wild mushroom soup sounded much more prosaic.

When the phone rang, her first thought upon sitting bolt upright in bed was that the bride had changed her mind again. “Duck consomme,” she mumbled, reaching for the receiver. Tom had not stirred. The only things that woke him were a slight cough from one of his children or a whispered request from his wife.

“I know it's the middle of the night, or rather, very, very early in the morning, but I had to talk to you.”

Faith was fully awake in a flash.

“What's going on? I've been thinking of you constantly.” This was true. Pix and soup.

“I don't have much time—the boat is leaving in about fifteen minutes, but first you'll have to swear you won't tell Sam. He'll just get worried, and there's no reason to Promise?”

Faith had no problem keeping secrets, especially those of her friends. And she was not a believer in telling things for people's own good under any circumstances.

“I promise. What's going on? Have you found Kari?”

“No—but I did find a body early this morning.”

“Oh my God! Whose?”

“An elderly gentleman named Oscar Melling. He was a grocer from New Jersey.”

To Faith, a native New Yorker, Jersey was known for only two things—its tomatoes and the place where her aunt Chat had inexplicably chosen to move after a lifetime on the West Side of Manhattan.

Pix was still talking. “He was in the fjord. Not actually in the water, but on the shore. He had been drinking pretty heavily throughout the evening and must have fallen.”

“Had he hit his head? Was there a lot of blood?”

“He fell partly facedown and there was some blood, also an empty aquavit bottle. Nobody thinks it was anything but an accident, but…”

“You don't agree. Otherwise, why would you be calling me?” Faith finished for her.

Pix realized with a start that Faith had put into words what had been nagging at her since she'd found Oscar. It
had
to have been an accident. The man was drunk, yet…

“It's just that so many strange things have been happening on this tour. Starting with Erik's death and Kari's disappearance.” Pix rapidly ran down some of the rest: the argument she'd overheard in the woods at Stalheim—not untoward by itself, but when linked with the sense she had of being followed and the bearded intruder on Jennifer Olsen's balcony the night before, enough to produce unease, especially as the man she observed driving away so hurriedly in Stalheim had also sported a beard. Then the swastika on the grass the next morning in front of the hotel, Jennifer's sad history, Marit's revelation about Hanna, and Pix's own imprisonment in the sauna at Kvikne's. Without pausing for breath, she gave a thumbnail sketch of the Petersons, especially the newest member, Lynette, and described the strange conversation she'd had with Carol just before finding the body.

“I know it sounds like something from one of those soap-opera digests, but it's all happened since I got here.”

“I believe you—” Faith started to offer some advice, but Pix interrupted.

“Oh, I almost forgot. Mother thinks she's found a secret hiding place on our Viking fjord cruiser, and that was why I was up and about so much last night. I'm leaving a lot of the details out, like the Japanese man, but we're visiting a farm today, so I don't want to be late.”

“Sounds entrancing.” Faith could smell the goats.

“It will be. You can't imagine how beautiful this part of Norway is. Really, the most beautiful place I've ever seen. And the food has been extremely good.”

Faith didn't want to waste either Pix's time or money debating a cuisine of root vegetables, fish, and the odd berry versus French or Chinese.

“Okay. You need to start trying to make some sense
out of all this. I think you're right. Tours can be ghastly, but this one is not your ordinary one from hell—whiners, dingers, and worse—it's in a category by itself. When you come back from your idyllic interlude, sit down and think about it all. If you make a list, burn it afterward. Oil, drugs—remember what a long seacoast Norway has. Something's staring you in the face. Get Ursula to find out what's bothering the Peterson woman. She's good at getting people to tell her things. And above all, don't take any more saunas.”

Pix hung up, then put on her jacket. She was feeling better. And maybe Oscar's death was an accident after all.

On her end, Faith put the phone down reluctantly. She was filled with conflicting emotions. Pix was a big girl, a very big girl if you considered her height, and she could take care of herself. But she was also a trusting soul and did not possess Faith's innate skepticism. This was why Faith was worried. Pix believed people. And most of the time, the trait served her well, but there had been some disasters. More than once, Sam had had to rescue her from friendships that were covers for self-centered imposition. “You have enough to do for one family. There's no reason Lydia Montgomery can't take her own dog to the vet”—and worse. Pix was always chagrined, vowed to be a better judge of character—and, she always led with her chin again the next time.

The other emotion Faith was feeling was out-and-out jealousy. Here was Pix having all the fun, up to her ears in potential international intrigue. And what Japanese man? Faith didn't know the Hansens, so it was easy for her to concentrate on the sleuthing aspects the trip afforded and not feel the pain Pix was seeing on Marit's face every day. But even if Faith took a plane that night, by the time she got to fjord country, the tour would be over and the members scattered to the winds. Faith would just have to let Pix handle it herself. She hoped she'd call again. She also hoped she wouldn't see Sam or any of the other Millers for a day or two. To put it mildly, Sam would not
be at all happy that Pix had found a body. The one in Maine had been enough.

Sleep was going to be impossible now. She had too much to think about. If Oscar Melling's death “wasn't an accident, it was murder.

 

Pix arrived at the boat, calling out apologies to the guides and stewards who were patiently waiting on the dock.

“I'm sorry to keep you waiting. I…”

Jan smiled. “Slow down. No one is in a hurry. You're on vacation, remember?”

It was hard at times. Besides, she wasn't.

Sonja and Anders pulled up the gangplank and untied the lines. Soon they were in the middle of the Sognefjord and Pix made her way below to the large cabin, where she knew she'd find Ursula. It was slightly overcast and there was no one on the upper deck. The door to the cabin that adjoined it was closed.

At least some things were predictable. At the bottom of the stairs, the farmers from Fargo were in the stern, placidly smoking their pipes. Mr. Knudsen and Mr. Arnulfson wished her a good morning. She detected a slight air of excitement among the men, anticipation. At last—dirt, farm machinery, manure.

The cabin was crowded. It seemed that the entire tour had opted for togetherness, yet there was no jollity. Oscar's death had cast a pall on the group. Even the cardplayers seemed distracted. As Pix walked past, she noticed both Golubs were staring out the window and not at their hands.

The Petersons were clustered around a table. Carol was gripping a mug of coffee so tightly, her knuckles were white. And Roy…Roy!

“Are you all right?” Pix blurted out.

Roy senior was sporting a shiner, a hell of a shiner—puffy, black-and-blue, with the promise of more colors to come—that particularly unpleasant-looking zinc yellow, chartreuse, and carmine.

“Walked into a damn door,” he mumbled, and turned his head away.

Carol looked even more woebegone than she had earlier, if that was possible. She'd barely gotten herself together—her lilac pants suit was rumpled and her hair uncombed. Her lipstick was crooked. Lynette, on the other hand, looked almost obscenely gorgeous, radiating the beauty a good night in bed, and just enough sleep, endowed. She was obviously pleased about something.

“Good morning, Mrs. Miller. How are you? We missed you at breakfast.”