The Body in the Fjord (6 page)

“Good night, dear. Sleep well.” Her mother kissed her back and shut the door.

In bed, teeth brushed—the scotch would produce extremely unpleasant morning mouth—Pix had just enough mental energy for a nagging fear. Erik never made it to Flåm. Had Kari?

 

Was she dreaming or was she still on the train? Pix sat up in bed, confused. And what was that knocking sound? She looked at the clock. It was 2:00
A.M.
and the knocking was at her door.

Mother! She ran to open it. What could be wrong?

But it wasn't her mother. It was a woman about her own age, but with radically different taste in night wear. Pix's was L. L. Bean, while the woman's was straight from the pages of Victoria's Secret.

“A man just tried to get from the balcony into my room and I can't make the phone work!” She was wide-eyed with fright.

Pix dashed to her own phone, the woman following closely. “I'm in the next room, one oh five. I thought Norway was supposed to be safe for women traveling alone!”

“But he didn't get in, right?” Pix asked as she waited for the front desk to answer.

“No. I screamed and he started to climb back over. I didn't wait to see if he made it.”

The front desk finally answered. Scarcely had Pix hung up when they heard the sound of running footsteps in the hall, voices, and, after a few moments, a knock on the door.

“Can you tell me what happened?” asked the young security guard standing outside in the hall. He looked like one of the Viking gods—tall, broad shoulders, fair hair, and deep blue eyes. For a fleeting moment, Pix wished she had opted for other than a granny gown. The woman from next door didn't have to worry.

“I was sound asleep.” The damsel in distress stepped forward, earnestly beginning her tale. “I'm not sure what woke me, but the room felt stuffy and I got up to open a
window. When I moved the curtain, I saw a man standing on the balcony. I screamed and he turned around, putting his leg up to climb out, I suppose. I was at the phone by then, but it wasn't working, so I came here.”

The security guard said something into the walkie-talkie he was carrying. “Can you describe him?”

“He was tall, dark hair, a beard, and his clothes were dark. I couldn't tell how old he was. He was carrying some sort of bag. He'd thrown it to the balcony floor.”

Carl and Jan appeared in the doorway, summoned by the hotel.

“Miss Olsen, are you all right?” Carl asked. “What happened?”

She went through it again.

Jan shook his head. “These rooms are quite low to the ground and apparently someone thought he could get into the hotel this way. Maybe he thought the room was empty.”

“Or maybe he thought you had something worth stealing,” Carl said soberly. “But you had locked your balcony door, yes?”

“Yes, of course, and as for anything worth stealing—the most valuable thing I have is a Sony Walkman for jogging, and if that's what he wanted, he'd have been welcome to it, so long as he didn't do anything worse!”

The guard hastened to reassure her. “Crimes against individuals are very, very rare here.”

The walkie-talkie sputtered and he put it to his ear.

“I'm afraid whoever he was, he's disappeared, but we will still be searching the grounds—and the hotel. He may have gotten in someplace else. Will you be all right in your room for the rest of the night?”

Pix looked at the other bed in her room. The poor woman. “You can stay here if you feel uneasy about going back into yours,” she offered. “I know I would.”

The woman gave her a grateful look. “Thank you. I would appreciate that.”

Everyone cleared out and Pix went to secure the door.
Her mother had apparently slept through the whole thing. She opened the door again and took a step into the hall, debating whether to check on Ursula, which would mean waking her up. She watched Jan and Carl go into their rooms, on the other side of Miss Olsen's. They were close by. It made her feel safe. She was sure Mother was fine. Besides, there weren't any balconies on that side.

Inside the room, Miss Olsen was already in bed. There was quite a bit of gray mixed with her light brown hair, but she was very attractive. All that jogging had definitely paid off. She was slim and her complexion glowed, even at this hour.

“I'm Jennifer Olsen, by the way. Not a very good way to meet.”

“No. I'm Pix Miller. I'm on the tour with my mother, Ursula Rowe. Are you sure you're all right? I have some scotch. Would you like some?”

Jennifer didn't seem to be too shaken up now, merely sleepy, but a little scotch never hurt.

“No thank you. I'm fine. It was unpleasant, but I knew he couldn't get in, and now it's the destruction of my ideal Norway that's upsetting me. You know, the perfect place to live, where you are taken care of from cradle to grave, everyone is honest, and everything is clean.”

“I think the
WATCH OUT FOR PICKPOCKETS
sign in the train station reminded me Norwegians are like everyone else—good, bad, and in between.” Pix didn't mention Erik and Kari. Not yet, anyway. Having Jennifer Olsen as a roommate for the night created an instant bond. Pix would wait and ask her questions in the morning, though. Now all she wanted was to go to sleep.

 

Pix rolled over and pulled the down comforter up to her chin. The other bed was empty. Damn! she thought. She'd missed a golden opportunity to find out more about Jennifer Olsen and what Miss Olsen thought about the tour. She looked at the clock. It was past eight. In her family, anything past 6:30 meant you were ill or incredibly deca
dent. Fortunately, Pix had married a man who set her straight on early rising, but she was traveling with her mother at the moment. She jumped out of bed, skipped a shower, threw on some clothes, and went across the hall. Her mother opened the door, fully dressed, and, from the strong scent of Neutrogena lotion that filled the air, fully showered.

“You must have been very tired, dear,” she said in a not-too-accusatory voice. “Shall we have breakfast?”

Pix started to apologize, then remembered how many exhausting things she'd done in the last twenty-four hours, like fly across the ocean, travel across the
vidda
, and provide refuge in the middle of the night. She told her mother all about Jennifer as they went to the dining room.

“Do you think this man could have any possible connection to Erik's death and Kari's disappearance?” Ursula asked.

“Not really, but something out of the ordinary has already happened on this tour and we need to keep track of any other unusual events.”

There is nothing quite like a Norwegian breakfast—the
smørgåsbord
laden with everything Pix liked to eat best: fruit compotes and pitchers of heavy cream; a cheese board; homemade breads and rolls;
knakkebrød
, thick, crisp whole-wheat crackers;
flatbrød
, paper-thin crackers;
wienerbrød
, Danish pastries; hot and cold cereals; a platter of
gravlaks
, fresh-cured salmon and smoked salmon;
lever-postei
, a kind of liver pâté; bowls of boiled eggs, hard and soft; sliced meats; and herring. Herring in cream sauce, herring in mustard sauce, herring in dill sauce, herring with onions and peppercorns. Herring, the “silver of the sea.” The Norwegians largely survived on herring during the German occupation, drying, pickling, smoking, frying, and boiling it. Pix watched as an elderly group, speaking Norwegian, piled their plates high. One would have thought this generation would never want to see a herring again, but the opposite was true. They must feel grateful, she thought. Herring do run in cycles, returning
each winter like clockwork for years—during which time, an old law stated, no lawsuits may be conducted, and everyone should fish—then the fish inexplicably disappear for twenty or thirty years. The group was laughing heartily. The herring hadn't deserted them and they were alive.

A young waitress was making heart-shaped waffles,
vafler
, and the smell was intoxicating. Norwegians eat
vafler
with coffee and other cakes in the afternoon and thought the introduction of them to the breakfast menu—for the tourists—very funny. Pix noticed a tiny bottle of maple syrup. She didn't care when she ate them, but she would stick to the traditional way—a little butter and raspberry preserves.

Their plates laden, Ursula and Pix looked about the room for the Scandie Sights flags. Most of the tables were filled, but they spotted places at a table for four. Two women of a certain age were already there, chatting away. Every once in a while, one would nibble a corner of a pastry or take a sip of coffee.

“May we join you?” Pix asked.

“Yes,” said one. “I'm afraid my English is very poor, but please come.” She was French. As Pix searched her mind for the remnants of Madame Durand's earnest efforts, grades seven through twelve, Ursula fluently introduced herself and her tongue-tied daughter, then proceeded to elicit the following information. The women lived outside Paris, were cousins, and took a trip together every year to break the routine. “We escape our husbands,” the woman who had spoken before added in English for Pix's benefit. Her name was Sophie and Valerie was her
cousine
. “
C'est bizarre, le petit déjeuner norvégien
,” Valerie contributed to the conversation, fork poised above a fish cake. Pix had never thought of these splendid repasts as bizarre, but if one was used to a croissant and café au lait, this spread would definitely appear strange.

Carl strolled by. He and Jan wore matching Norwegian sweaters each day, it seemed. Jan's had a few pulls, but
Carl's looked like new. Maybe he hadn't worked for the tour group that long. Maybe he was neater.

“How is everything, ladies?”

Mouths full, they all nodded. Pix found her voice first. “Do you know anything more about what happened last night?”

Carl gave a worried glance at the Frenchwomen. Obviously, Jennifer Olsen's adventure was not being posted with the day's events.

“No, nothing. But all's well that ends well,” he said brightly and moved on.

One of your staff dead, one missing, and an intruder in the night. Pix did not think that all was well.

She tuned back in to the table conversation. Mother must have been listening to her French tapes again while she rode her Exercycle, Pix thought.

“They knew the tour would be in English, but they didn't think they needed to understand everything. It's all nature, and who needs words for that?” Ursula laughed. The cousins were smiling agreement. From what Pix knew of the French, she was sure the two believed that compared to their own history, art, and culture, the Norwegians were savages, so if they missed what year a particular stave church was built in, it would be no great loss.

After a second cup of coffee, Pix left her mother to her new friends and went back to the room to shower. But first she stepped out onto her own balcony. The door was equipped with a heavy drape to keep the light out, and since it had been partially drawn, she hadn't realized the balcony was there. It was furnished with two chairs and a small table. Pix peered over the edge. It was an easy climb up or down to the ground—or to Jennifer's room. The balconies were joined together. Tour groups were easy targets for thieves, even in Norway, and Pix was inclined to think that was all there was to it.

Feeling greatly refreshed by the shower, Pix got her things together, placing her bag outside the door as they had been instructed. Her mother's was already out and
there was no answer to her knock. She decided to go down to the lobby and see if Ursula was there or if she might have decided to take a walk.

A bright voice greeted her as she entered the elevator. “I see you're another of the Scandie Sights group.”

“Why yes, I am.” Pix wondered how the woman knew.

“I saw you last night. Is that your mother with you? I told my husband it must be. You're like two peas in a pod. I'm Carol Peterson, from Duluth. In Minnesota. My husband, Roy, is with me and my son, Roy junior, and his new bride, Lynette. Lynette's not Norwegian, probably not a drop of Scandinavian blood in her body, but we love her anyway, and she wanted to take her honeymoon here to get to know our roots just as much as Roy junior did.”

The elevator doors opened. They stepped out into the lobby and Carol finally came up for a breath. Pix knew she was expected to make a comment, and the one running through her head—something like wouldn't Lynette have rather had root canal work than come to Norway with her in-laws on her honeymoon—was not appropriate. She settled for a straightforward introduction.

“I'm Pix Miller, and yes, I am traveling with my mother, Ursula Rowe. We're from Aleford, Massachusetts.”

“Massachusetts, now that
is
a coincidence. Roy was there for a convention in 1985. It was in Boston. That's the capital, right?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I watch
Jeopardy
! a lot. I know all the state capitals. Everyone tells me I ought to go on, but I'd be too nervous, and besides, I don't think it's fair. Those buzzer things don't always seem to work right to me.”

“Have you been with the tour since Copenhagen?” Pix was pretty sure she hadn't seen the name Peterson among the new arrivals, and the woman was a gift, a veritable font of information.

“Oh, yes, and it's been a dream come true. We're going to Kristiansand at the end of the tour. I have some cousins
there I've never met. We wanted to stay in a hotel, but they just wouldn't hear of it.”

Pix interrupted. It was close to 10:30 and she didn't want another chance to slip by. The buses would board at eleven.

“One of the people at our table last night was telling us about some trouble. That one of the staff drowned. It must have been horrible.”