The Body in the Fjord (23 page)

Pix folded up the cryptic notes and put the paper in her passport case with the pictures of Kari and Erik, Hanna and Sven. She took the one of Kari's parents out and held it in front of her. She had never asked Marit if she knew what had happened to Sven—if she knew where he was now. It was a stupid oversight. All this time, she'd been imagining Kari on an identity quest involving both parents, but perhaps she already knew where her father was, although Pix had never heard any mention of him. She must remember to ask Marit in the morning whether Marit had ever known Oscar Eriksen, although surely she would have mentioned this.

Pix opened the list one last time. Only Lynette and Roy junior were too young and far removed not to have been directly touched by the war. Others besides Jennifer might be nursing secret wounds—and hatreds, including the staff.

She filled her pockets with everything Faith had thought she might need, added her camera, and went to bed. Just before climbing in, she took the torn piece of newspaper and put that in her passport case, as well, then slipped it into the bag she carried with her wallet, guidebook, and treats for Mother.

She didn't bother to pull the light-obscuring drapes. She didn't need to. Pix set the alarm, put the clock on the table, and fell promptly, deeply asleep.

 

When the alarm rang at three, it pulled Pix from a troubled sleep of twisted dreams. She swung her legs over the side of the bed in the half dark and tried to recall some of the images, but in the way of dreams, the harder she struggled to visualize them, the more elusive her memories became. Marit had been there, but a stern Marit. Pix had been trying to get to a child, a child who was crying. At one point, a vivid picture of herself shouting reappeared and vanished. Giving up, but unsettled, she went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face, peed, ready to face the inevitable. The trip ended today. It was now or never. Never sounded pretty good, but then, it also meant she'd never know.

Well aware of her laden pockets, she closed the door behind her after looking up and down the empty corridor an unnecessary number of times. She fully expected a hand on the shoulder again, but this time it would be the
inspektør
, or one of the other members of the Norwegian
politi
, not Carol Peterson.

She moved slowly down the stairs and then more quickly to the door to the outside. She put her hand on the long horizontal bar and pushed. It didn't move. Damn Marcussen! Forget about trust. He'd locked the door. What was worse, the glowing red light above indicated the alarm had been set. There was a sticker—SECURITAS—that she hadn't remembered seeing before, although from the prevalence of these elsewhere, Securitas seemed to be the security system of choice throughout the country. So much security, so little crime. She could hear the
inspektør's
views now. “Try not to take any walks,” he'd said. Well, he was making absolutely sure she, for one, wouldn't.

The idea of lowering herself from the third-floor balcony occurred to her; however, it was fraught with not simply the danger of discovery but the danger of falling and breaking an essential bone or two, which would be an enormous inconvenience and certainly counterproductive. No, she'd have to go out the front door. There was no other way. Coming back wasn't a problem. By that
time, she'd either have a tale to tell or could once more use the “couldn't sleep” line and let them think what they wished. She crept down the corridor to the door that led to the lobby, just before the gift shop. The door had a window in it and she could see that there was only one person on the desk. Marcussen had stationed a man by the front door, but his head was lolled over in sleep. She could hear his snores even through the door. The clerk disappeared into the back room and Pix catapulted out, running noiselessly in her soft Reeboks to the bar, crouching down behind the substantial mahogany.

The clerk returned with a magazine and seemed to be arranging herself for the night. There was no way Pix could leave without being seen. For a moment, time froze. The policeman slept, the clerk seemed transfixed by the printed page, and Pix's muscles began to ache from the awkward position she was in. The phone rang. The night clerk spoke rapidly in Norwegian, her cheeks turning pink. A boyfriend? A tryst? Please, please, please. The young woman hung up and took a compact from under the counter, then a comb. Definitely an assignation. But where? Pix felt the balls of her feet growing numb. She tried carefully bouncing up and down to keep the circulation going. The compact was snapped shut and comb thrown down. The clerk ran her fingers through her hair and fetched a large pocketbook from a drawer. She disappeared again into the back room. More work needed to be done apparently, and what Pix was counting on was that a larger mirror was needed. She had to assume this is what the clerk was headed for, which would give Pix enough time to get out the door. But if that was not what was up and she returned right away, Pix would be stymied.

She had to take the chance. She crawled out from behind the bar and continued on all fours, passing close to the somnambulant officer of the law. She couldn't stand up. There might be one of those mirrors showing someone in the back room exactly what was going on in front. Her heart was beating rapidly and, despite the cleanliness of
Kvikne's, her hands and knees were beginning to feel
skitten
.

She was almost at the door. Now, she'd have to stand up to open it. The light seemed glaring and surely someone would spot her. A quick twist and she was outside. Glancing behind her, the scene looked impossibly serene. A cop in the arms of Morpheus and an absent clerk dreaming of more active arms. Reassured that she hadn't been seen, Pix didn't waste any more time in contemplation, but took to her feet and sprinted across the lawn, taking care to stay well away from the lighted path. Every dark bush suggested a figure, yet she reached the village, still apparently the only person up and about.

Cautiously, she clung to the shadows of the few buildings and made her way to the dock past the towering Midsummer bonfire pile. This time, there were no voices issuing forth from the Viking cruiser, and so Pix hurriedly climbed on board and went downstairs to the lower deck. Piece of cake. She was feeling pretty cocky—until she realized the door to the main cabin was locked, too. “I thought Norwegians were supposed to be so honest,” she mumbled to herself. “All these locked doors.”

She didn't see any indication of an alarm, no telltale stickers. She had also looked for an alarm system during the day, without finding any signs of one on board. Anyway, she had no choice. Taking the skeleton keys from her pocket, she patiently tried them one by one, and before long, the door opened. Thrusting thoughts of what could only be termed
breaking
and
entering
from her mind—she was, after all, a member of the tour and maybe she wanted to retrieve something she'd left on board—she stepped into the main cabin and closed the door behind her, turning the lock to discourage any interruptions. It was pitch-dark and she took the penlite from her pocket to avoid colliding with tables and chairs. Faith
had
known what she was about.

In the small room behind the galley, she had no trouble locating Mother's closet. Aware of how little time she had,
she emptied the contents and set to work tapping on the walls. Her mother had been right. The rear wall did sound hollow, yet there didn't seem to be any way to get into it. She shone the light along the edges, all the way to where a shelf had been built at the top. She took out her Swiss army knife and opened the thinnest blade. She ran it where the shelf met the wall and where the sides of the closet met the rear. Nothing. She pushed with all her strength along the bottom of the wall, just above the floorboards. Again, nothing magic happened. No springs sprung. Sesame wasn't opening. Poor Mother. She'd be terribly disappointed. Pix had to keep trying. She began to tap again—lightly at various points; then making a fist and pounding when the first method didn't work.

Dead center, just below the top shelf, the miracle happened. She hit it squarely with her fist and the entire back of the closet popped out, falling forward, one flat piece of wallboard held in place with clips on the inside.

There was a compartment—a secret compartment! And it was full!

Three bags had been stacked one on top of the next. Pix removed the top one, took it into the room, and examined it. She dared not turn on a light, but using the flashlight, she could see it was an ordinary piece of soft-sided luggage, shaped like a gym bag, and bright blue. It sported a Scandie Sights tag and the Scandie Sights luggage strap cinched its girth. She went back to look at the other two bags in the closet. They were similar; one was, in fact, a gym bag, sporting the Nike logo. Both were marked with Scandie Sights identification, but no other name or luggage tags. Lost luggage from other tours? Surely they would have been missed. Perhaps a repository for lost items, things left on board?

She returned to the first one and opened it. It seemed to contain bedding of some sort. A thick quilt was on top, and reaching her hand down along the side, she felt more material. No drugs, jewels, or documents. Perhaps the closet cubbyhole was an old forgotten storage container.
There was a cot in the room. The quilt even smelled musty. But the luggage looked new. She took the top piece of what she assumed was bedding out and shook it to make sure nothing was hidden in its folds. Nothing was—but this was strange. It didn't resemble the kind of quilt in use in Norway now, and she took the penlite to examine it more carefully. It was more like a rug. One of those
Rya
rugs with the long, shaggy pile that suggested the pelt of an animal. She dug farther down in the bag and realized how shortsighted she had been.

It was a treasure trove! Yet not what she had expected at all. There were pieces of intricate Hardanger embroidery, obviously very old. In the dim light, she could also make out the figures of Norse gods in a fine tapestry and a pile of what she knew were old pillow covers, also woven in an intricate pattern in bright colors. They were museum quality. At the bottom, there were two plastrons, the bodice piece that was worn with the Hardanger women's costume. They were elaborately embroidered, and Pix remembered the young women at Stalheim noting that theirs were covered with beadwork, unlike the earlier ones, which were embroidered—a dying art and very expensive. Bells rang and she dashed into the closet to drag the other two bags out.

The second held wooden objects, carefully wrapped in padded cloths. There were bowls, drinking horns, dippers, engagement spoons, butter molds, small highly decorated
tiner
—boxes used to bring food to a wedding, christening, or anniversary. Pix trained the light on one bowl in particular, an ale bowl. She'd seen them in the
folkemuseums
. This one had a high collar, typical of the west coast, and was inscribed. She could make out the name Sogn and the date, 1691.

These bags did not contain lost-and-found items—or rather, they did: lost by someone and found by someone else. It wasn't a motley collection of sweaters, socks, and scarves, but Norway's heritage, objects from the past—a past well beyond the hundred-year stipulation. Some of
the items were painted, others carved, some in the distinctive chip-carving style. Each was intact and had obviously been well cared for.

She reached for the last bag. It was much smaller and at first glance appeared to contain linens also, rolls of white pillowcases. She took one out, undid it carefully, and gasped.

It was jewelry. Catching the light, it glowed and shone—the luster of ages, years of polishing. Exquisitely worked silver brooches were pinned to a piece of felt. She recalled reading about the importance of silver to the Norwegian peasants of old in a book her mother had received from Marit. The metal was valued not just for its intrinsic worth but for far more superstitious reasons. You could only kill a troll, even the troll king, with a silver bullet. Silver buckles were used to fasten a baby's swaddling band or a silver coin sewn in his or her blankets so the child wouldn't be snatched by the trolls. Heirloom silver was passed down reverently to ensure everything from protection against illness to getting the beer to work. Marit had taken her wedding jewelry out to show them on Pix's first trip. It had been Marit's grandmother's. There was a cloth belt covered with linked silver squares, gold-plated teardrops hanging from each engraved piece. She'd brought out cuff buttons, filigree bodice clasps, and pins of all sizes. Hans had the bridegroom's traditional silver cross, worn by his great-grandfather, and the buttons from his vest. With these in mind, Pix undid the remaining rolls. There were more brooches, buttons, amulets, and crosses. One roll contained a single piece, an enormous many-tiered brooch with golden dangles hanging from the larger pieces of silver that made up the tiers. Red and green stones had been set in the center of the largest forms. She unpinned it and held it up in the beam of her light. It was magnificent. Such craftsmanship.

“Beautiful, isn't it? We are known for the quality of our jewelry.”

The words coming out of the darkness took her by sur
prise. She dropped the brooch, spinning around toward the direction from which the voice had come, and flashed the light on the intruder. She had been so intent on the contents of the bags that she hadn't heard the door open or the accompanying soft footsteps.

It was Carl Bjørnson. He wasn't smiling.

 

Carl walked to the window and pulled down the shade. They were in complete darkness except for Pix's light, and after briefly flashing it on his face, she let it shine down by her side. His expression had chilled her to the bone. But she had no time for fear. She quickly switched the light off and dashed toward the door. He covered the distance in several large steps, beating her by inches. She shrank back against the wall. Taking a flashlight from his own jacket pocket, he shone it on the lock and firmly clicked it shut. He pulled a chair over, sat down, and leaned against the doorknob.