The Body in the Fjord (28 page)

Pix took a deep breath. The girl had started rowing again, hard. The water dripped in flashing strings of beads from each oar. A single bird flew high overhead. Of course, if Hanna had known sooner, she might not have rebelled so dramatically—and there wouldn't be a Kari—but that wasn't the point.

“People make mistakes. Lord knows, I've made plenty,
especially
in child rearing.” Pix and Sam had thought they'd gain expertise with each new addition, but instead, they discovered whole new quandaries. “Hans and Marit thought they were protecting your mother. It was a hard call and we weren't there. We don't know what it was like in Norway then. They did what they did out of love.”

“That's no excuse,” Kari shot back.

“Oh yes, it is. It's a great excuse, the best. It may not always turn out right, but it's a damned good excuse.” Pix paused. “I knew your mother, remember. Adored her. She could do anything—run faster, sing better, swim, cook, write funny poems—and she was so beautiful. But, although finding out her origins must have been a shock,
I think she was a victim of her own intense personality colliding with a very mixed-up time in both our societies. So many contradictory messages. And she got confused.”

“Still…” Kari sounded less vehement, or maybe talking and rowing at the same time was wearing her out. “I am going to try to find out who her mother was. They've opened the records. I don't care so much about discovering who my Nazi grandfather might be, but my grandmother could still be alive and might tell me something about the family.”

Nazi! That reminded Pix of Oscar Melling. She'd told Kari about finding his body and who he was, but she hadn't asked about the Stalheim connection.

“Do you think Oscar Melling—I can't get used to calling him Eriksen—had anything to do with the
Lebensborn
home at Stalheim? He was from the area.”

“Oh Lord, you don't think he was my grandfather, that obnoxious old lech. He made things very difficult on the tour. I was sorry for nice people like the Felds and the Bradys. He always seemed to want to pick a fight with them in particular.”

Pix couldn't think of anything to say to reassure her. She'd cast Oscar in the role herself, and she couldn't say they bore no resemblance to one another, what with such a common genetic background, although she'd have to see a picture of a much younger and less dissipated Oscar to find one.

“I'm sure the odds are quite slim. Why don't I row for a while.” They changed places and soon Pix was enjoying the exercise, the steady in-out rhythm of the oars.

She thought of another role she'd cast: Sven. Kari hadn't seemed to know what Pix was talking about earlier when she'd asked if Sven seemed familiar to the girl.

“Do you think this Sven might be your father?” It was out.

“Oh, is that what you were getting at before!” Kari started to laugh. “My poor father is in a home for alcoholics. He came back to Norway when he was almost fifty and had
run out of money and women who would take him in, I suppose. I don't have much feeling about him, except, of course, I wouldn't be here otherwise. He got in touch with my grandmother and we went to see him. He cried and said I looked like my mother. I didn't want to go back. Marit visits him. She's a much better person than I am. He doesn't have anybody else, she says, but I think she wants to hear about Hanna.”

There went that theory, Pix said to herself. Maybe a couple of theories. Certainly Kari had not run off in search of her identity. She seemed quite in control of who she was. It had been a kidnapping and one kidnapper was in for a big surprise.

 

Pix brought the boat silently along the dock at Balestrand, relieved to see the Viking fjord cruiser dwarfing the other pleasure boats. Farther back on shore, the hotel was illuminated by several outside lights and a few shone from windows scattered across the grand old lady's facade.

They tied up and slipped aboard the bigger boat. Without skeleton keys, they had to resort to Sven's knife, which Pix adeptly used to pop the lock and enter the main cabin. As they had assumed, Carl had cleaned out the hidden storage space in the closet in the staff room. He'd been clever enough not to sweep, leaving and, Pix was sure, adding dust and dirt particles.

Kari went to the refrigerator in the galley and took two bottles of Solo, the sweet orange soda, a national addiction—Solo and
pølser,
hot dogs, every child's idea of a perfect meal: “But there's fruit in Solo, Mom!” She handed one to Pix. “Put some of Sven's money in the jar over there. I don't feel right just taking it, but I'm still so thirsty.”

They sat down at one of the tables. Carl had straightened the chairs after her attempted flight the other night. Pix took a swig of her soda. “Soo Loo”—it was fun to say.

“We have to try to think like Carl. Walk in his shoes.”

“English. Custom-made,” Kari said.

“But of course. Now if he wanted to hide something, where…”

 

Several hours later, Pix rolled off the bunk she'd fallen asleep on and went to rouse Kari, who was sleeping above. They had not thought it wise to sleep on board the Scandie Sights boat, and although the boat with the tarp was still docked, Pix could not recommend its accommodations. They'd slipped into a large sailboat, assuming the owners were at Kvikne's or elsewhere in the district.

“Kari, wake up. It's time!”

The girl swung her long legs over the side and jumped down. Then they straightened their berths and went above.

Outside, it was what Pix would have called a perfect Maine day. The sun was shining. The sky was blue, with large puffy white clouds. A slight warm breeze fanned across the water and the air was clear. A perfect Maine day, except she was in Norway.

They strolled over to the front of the dock, sat cross-legged facing the hotel, the Scandie Sights boat behind them. The Midsummer bonfire pile had grown considerably in her absence, Pix noted. There was a whole new layer of vegetable crates.

Kari leaned back on her arms and stretched her face toward the sun.

“Now we wait.”

 

The Scandie Sights tour was the first down to breakfast, hitting the immense bowls of muesli, chafing dishes of fish cakes, and mounds of fresh strawberries as soon as the doors opened. There was a manic feeling in the air. Cheeks were flushed, voices raised in false heartiness. Equally false promises to write and stay in touch were made. Hunched over, forking in nourishment, never had the group seemed more like a new species, Ursula Rowe thought as she sat before a single slice of bread, some jam, and a strawberry, not eating anything. Locusts, lemmings, they reminded her of something. Children. No, not
children. Teenagers. Avoidance of eye contact. Bolting of food. Yes, definitely adolescence.

“May we join you?” It was Sophie and her cousin Valerie.

“Of course,” Ursula replied. “We need to save a place for my friend Marit, who's not down yet.” And where was Marit? Ursula wanted to get going.

“We are very, very sorry that there has been no news of your daughter.
Très charmante
…” Sophie's voice trailed off. Pix would be happy to hear herself so described, her mother thought, happily thinking that soon she could tell her so.

“Yes, it is upsetting, but the police have not given up hope.”

“
Bien ŝur!
Of course she will be found, wandering in these very thick woods,
peut-être.
” Valerie clearly thought the notion of a walk in these primordial forests madness. Lovely from afar.

Marit arrived with a similarly skimpy repast.

Ursula ate the strawberry and raised an eyebrow at Marit. Time to go.

“I absolutely forbid it!” A chair being pushed back and the sound of broken crockery accompanied the statement, a statement that everyone in the dining room had no trouble hearing even above the concomitant noise.

“Never, never, never!” Each word increased in volume and intensity, a tour de force. The four ladies looked at one another. “Madame Peterson seems upset,” Sophie said, her eyes saying what her lips did not; that is, The woman is completely crazy—
fou.

Lynette grabbed her mother-in-law's arm. “It's our turn now. I've eaten enough fish to last me the rest of my life and we're going to London. That's it.”

“Don't tell me you're in on this.” Carol turned her eye on Roy junior, and although not turned to stone, he didn't move, mumbling, “We'll meet you at the airport in Oslo. It's only a week.”

“Only a week! Only a week! Exactly! One week out
of your life to do something for somebody else. What am I going to tell the relatives?”

Priorities were being set.

“We don't even know these people and we don't care. They probably don't care, either.” Lynette's voice was just as loud, but her tempo was faster. “It's our honeymoon and we're going to see where Princess Di lives.”

“Princess Di!” This was the last straw. This was not what people did on honeymoons. Princess Di was no role model.

The whole room had grown quiet as everyone watched the scene unfold before them. Several people were smiling. After the events of the last few days, this comedy of errors was a positive relief. Neither Carl nor Jan had appeared to break the fight up and it continued to roll forward, taking on a life of its own, a final anecdote to entertain the folks back home when they sat captive watching the video of “our trip.”

“Well, don't just sit there.
You
say something!” Carol turned to Roy senior. He stood up.

“I don't have anything to say. Let them do whatever the hell they want,” he said, and left.

Carol wasn't going to give up. Abandoned by husband, son, and daughter-in-law, she was going down fighting.

“I never thought I would see the day when a child of mine, my only child, would turn on me like this. You go have your little trip and miss meeting some of the nicest people you would ever have known. People who were going to take you into their home. Your Norwegian family. You go and have fun looking at all the sights. Don't forget the Tower of London, either,” she shot at Lynette. “You ought to feel real comfortable there.”

She'd gone too far.

White-faced, but with a slow grin spreading across her face, Lynette said, “I was saving this news for when we got home, but I think now's as good a time as any to tell you, Mother Peterson.”

“No, honey!” Roy junior, suddenly mobilized, went to
his wife's side. “Not now, sweetheart. Come on—you promised!”

“Promised what?” Carol liked to know things.

“Nothing, Mom. Let's all go pack and get down to the boat.”

“Promised I wouldn't tell you that he's been promoted and accepted a transfer to New York City in three weeks,” Lynette announced coolly.

The room braced itself.

Carol said, “New York City?” in a “Did I hear correctly?” kind of voice. New York City? That hellhole? That crime- and vice-ridden capital of corruption? That New York City? Come again?

“Yes, New York City. We've already rented an apartment.” Lynette did not bother to hide her triumphant smugness.

“I'd like to go to my room, son,” Carol said regally, reaching for Roy junior's arm. “I think I'm going to throw up.” Leaning heavily on him, she slowly made her way out, a battleship that had taken a direct hit but, against all odds, stubbornly stayed afloat.

“I'd say she took it rather well,” Ursula said.

Marit nodded.

“
Méchante,
that girl,” Sophie observed. “I'm glad I never had children.”

As Ursula and Marit rapidly left the room—the Peterson scene had taken valuable time and it had been too fascinating to leave—Ursula remembered Lynette's words to Pix in the sauna at Fleischer's Hotel. She'd predicted correctly. Carol had not liked what was coming one bit.

Inspector Marcussen was in the lobby, holding an envelope that he hastily stuffed in his pocket.

“The tour group will be leaving at eight o'clock and we're going to say good-bye to some of the friends we made. Would you care to stroll down that way with us?” Ursula asked.

“I'm sure Officer Jansen would like to come, too,”
Marit added, nodding at the pleasant-looking rounded-faced young man.

Now what were they up to? Johan Marcussen wondered. They made it sound as if they were inviting him to coffee or some such social outing. And who had called Fru Rowe in the middle of the night? The clerk had gone home, so he didn't know whether the person had spoken Norwegian or not. But surely if it had been her daughter, she would be saying something, or betraying her obvious relief. Both women looked the same as yesterday, and the day before. Calm, slightly detached, well scrubbed.

“Yes, I'm sure we would be happy to come with you.” Nothing better to do, that was for sure, and he had intended to watch the boat leave.

Ursula was carrying some envelopes. “Tips. The staff have gone out of their way to make this a memorable trip.” Some more than others, to be sure, but there was no envelope with his name on it.

Outside the hotel, Ursula turned to the
inspectør.
“We have something to tell you….”

 

At the dock, Kari had gone to the small market and bought them some juice, rolls, and yogurt when it opened. No one seemed very interested in them and they continued to sit where they were, ducking out of sight behind the unlighted bonfire only when Captain Hagen came down to the ship.

Busboys from the hotel brought several large wagons filled with the luggage and slung it on board. Kari and Pix kept their gaze fixed on the one and only path from Kvikne's to the dock.

Safety in numbers? Virtually the whole tour, even Carol Peterson, who did look as if she'd thrown up—pale and wan—arrived at once with Carl, Jan, Anders, and Sonja—so many sheepdogs nudging the flock along one last time. Marit, Ursula, and the police brought up the rear.