The Body in the Fjord (19 page)

The Rowes and Millers had a friend in Maine who raised Nubians and took a blue ribbon every year at the Blue Hill Fair. Ursula was evaluating the Norwegian goats with a practiced eye. “Mountain goats, sturdy, and these have been well tended.”

Before her mother became overly immersed in goat husbandry, Pix suggested, “Come on, let's go see how they make the stuff.”

They entered the dark barn, blinking for a moment. The farmer was embroiled in an argument with one of the Fargo farmers. Angry Norwegian was reverberating in the rafters. Pix translated it as “Call this a milking machine!” or something along that line. The Norwegian-American was gesturing contemptuously at the equipment and surroundings. His fellow Sons of Norway were “
ja, jaing
” in agreement, a rude pastoral version of some Greek chorus.

The farmer wasn't giving any ground. He was older than his wife. Around her own age, Pix thought. Yet more
in the nature of an aging hippie. He had a long black ponytail, streaked with gray, pulled back with a leather thong. Instead of farmer's overalls, he wore jeans and a faded tie-dyed T-shirt. His dark beard was flecked with gray also. Pix closed her eyes and listened intently. She was almost positive it was the man she'd heard at Stalheim, in the woods surrounding the folk museum. He'd been angry then. He was angry now. His accent was distinctive, especially when compared with the American's. He had a peculiar way of chopping off the end of a phrase.

“Are you asleep?” Her mother tapped her arm.

“No, just concentrating.” Pix opened her eyes.

Yes—she was certain it was the same voice.

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.