The Body in the Fjord

“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 nottoo-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 smorgasbord laden with everything Pix liked to eat best: fruit compotes and pitchers of heavy cream; a cheese board; homemade breads and rolls; knakkebrod, thick, crisp whole-wheat crackers; flatbrod, paper-thin crackers; wienerbrod, Danish pastries; hot and cold cereals; a platter of gravlaks, fresh-cured salmon and smoked salmon; lever-postei, a kind of liver pate; 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 tour-ists—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 dejeuner norvegien,” 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 cafe 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