The Body in the Fjord

“I chatted some more with Valerie and Sophie. I have the feeling their English is much better than they’re letting on. Marge Brady joined us and they had no trouble speaking with her. She was telling them all about French chateaux.”

“How nice for them.”

“Don’t be naughty, Pix. But I did learn something interesting. Don Brady is retired from the oil business. And

there’s another man on the tour, a Mr. Harding from Con

necticut, who’s currently working for an oil company.”

Pix was slow on the uptake. “Why is this interesting?”

“Mr. Harding’s is a Norwegian-owned company and Don Brady’s had ties to the industry here. You do know about the North Sea oil?”

“Now, don’t you be naughty. Of course I do. It’s what catapulted the country from getting by to just about the world’s highest standard of living. But how does it all connect to Kari and Erik?”

“When I was here last summer, there was a great deal of talk about what they call the Russian mafia operating in Norway, using any means necessary to learn exactly where the Norwegian oil fields are and the technology that located them. There’s been a dispute for years over the Russian/Norwegian border in the Barents Sea, up north. The Russians are desperate to find some oil or natural gas of their own there and the stakes are very high, I read recently.”

There is nothing like The Christian Science Monitor every day to keep you informed, Pix reflected. Maybe she should switch from The Boston Globe. Faith, of course, clung to The New York Times and was always borrowing the Millers’ paper to find out what was on television. But this was all interesting. If someone was using the tour groups to pass secret information concerning the oil industry and Erik or Kari had learned of it…Any means necessary.

“All right, we’ll add oil to everything else—and Russians. I’d almost forgotten that Norway has a common border with them in the north. Maybe Marit has some idea about how this might fit in. The tour didn’t go to Stavanger, but Bergen is as big an oil town.”

“I wonder if she’s heard any more from the police. I bought Aftenposten and took it to my room. I couldn’t read it, but Kari’s name wasn’t anywhere, so there hasn’t been anything new in the press.”

“That’s good. They’re onto something else and Marit doesn’t have to see her life distorted. It must have been horrendous.”

Pix told her mother about the encounter with Lynette in the sauna and Pix’s request to Carl for an introduction to the Felds at dinner. She didn’t want her mother to think she’d been idling away in the steam.

“Then we should certainly make it a point to be on time for the meal,” Ursula said, leading the way. As if there was any question.

Not surprisingly, the Felds had never heard of Pix’s friend, but they were a friendly, outgoing couple. Arnie was an intellectual properties lawyer and Helene was an art historian. They had no children and had traveled extensively. This was their second trip to Norway.

Pix was sure that Helene, who seemed quite intelligent, would be able to give her some idea of the nature of the quarrel between Kari and Erik. The question was how to bring it up. For the moment, the big decision was over poached salmon or smoked pork. The whole table took the salmon, as well as the wild mushroom soup first and “fruits of the woods” with vanilla sauce for dessert.

Spooning a large, ubiquitous boiled potato onto her plate, Pix asked the Felds how they had liked the tour so far.

“It’s been very well organized,” Helene answered. “I wanted to spend extra time in the Norsk Folkemuseum on Bygdoy, the peninsula across the fjord from Oslo. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. It’s where both the Viking ships and Kon-Tiki are. Anyway, there was no problem. Some tours make you stick rigidly to their schedule. The same in Bergen. I had never visited the Museum of Decorative Arts and wanted to go there instead of some of the other places on the itinerary. I missed the tram ride up to Floyen, but people said it was misty and they didn’t get such a clear view of the city. What has also made the tour interesting is that both Carl and Jan are extremely knowledge

able guides. They must bone up on things during the winter.”

“What kind of art are you particularly interested in?” Ursula asked.

“Originally, it was wood carving—especially those wonderful Romanesque vines and ribbons combined with the zoomorphic forms that descended from Viking times and are still influencing Norwegian art today. Those lovely dragons!” Helene’s glasses had slipped down her nose and she was gesturing expansively. “At first, I disliked rosemaling, overly influenced by the bad imitations in all the gift shops—those overblown roses and swirls painted in garish colors on everything from rolling pins to toilet seats!”

Ursula nodded. “I know, but the older work is very beautiful.”

“Exactly,” Helene agreed. “And all that color and decoration are more in character with the exuberant Norwegian temperament than the constraint of the Early Christian carved wooden forms.” The glasses inched down a little farther. Pix watched in fascination, wondering if the spectacles would tumble into Helene’s soup with the next folk-art era.

“It’s good to hear someone refer to the Norwegians as exuberant,” Ursula commented. “I get so tired of all those other adjectives—staid, placid. You know what I mean. The Norwegians I’ve met seem fully capable of kicking up their heels.” Pix noticed her mother was drawing back from details, but scenes of uproarious parties and joke telling crowded into Pix’s mind. She and Sam had visited shortly after they were married. Every relative of Hans’s and Marit’s had been bent on welcoming them. Even now, many years later, when Sam imbibed a bit too much, he’d tell his wife he was merely getting in training for Norway.

Arnie Feld agreed. “Somebody was having an anniversary party in one of the private dining rooms at the hotel in Oslo, and from the sounds of mirth, I’d definitely say

Norwegians know how to have a good time. And remember that couple we met on the train, honey?”

His wife nodded, still lost in contemplation of carved butter boxes and painted rooms.

“They were singing, not too loudly, and writing furiously on the back of an envelope. They were having so much fun, I finally had to ask them what was going on. They were composing a song for her sister’s fortieth birthday, and after we talked awhile, they invited us to come along! I wish we could have.” He sounded genuinely disappointed, and Pix could understand why. Helene was still eager to talk about her passion for the folk arts of the country, though.

“Now I’ve become fascinated with the jewelry,” she continued.

“She’s always been fascinated with jewelry. Don’t let her fool you,” Arnie said good-naturedly.

She made a face at him. “Don’t worry. Even if we were millionaires, we couldn’t take the kind of jewelry I love out of the country. Norway has very strict laws about exporting antiques.”

Carl and Jan came by the table for their nightly check, picking up on the last word.

“Antiques?” said Carl. “Mrs. Feld’s favorite subject! I hope you have been having a good time with Mr. Tonneberg’s collection. By the way, don’t miss the Hardanger bridal crown in the hallway. It’s in a glass case high up on the wall. This one is extremely elaborate and very rare. During the 1800s in Norway, silver became scarce and many families turned their old heirlooms over to the state to be melted down. Brass was used instead for jewelry.”

“I did see it,” Helene enthused. “It’s gorgeous. Is the collection cataloged? I saw a bowl that looks like it was painted by the ‘Sogndal painter’—this area around the Sognefjord has spectacular natural beauty, but it hasn’t produced the art that other areas have, particularly those on the east coast and in Telemark. Too rugged a life, too

poor, but this painter—we don’t even know his name—is the exception. He traveled all over the region in the mid-eighteenth century, which must have been difficult, and no other rosemaling has ever equaled his.”

“I know the bowl you mean,” Carl said. “The colors are so bright and the background is very soft, the blue- green he traditionally used. Very beautiful.”

“And worth a fortune,” Jan added. “If we had anything like it in my family, we probably used it for kindling. I grew up in the district and life was strictly practical!” He laughed.

Helene looked pained. “I hope not.” The salmon arrived on a huge platter. There was enough for two