The Body in the Fjord

“Or years ago. This is the new road,” her mother reminded her. They were on Carl’s tourbuss and he had much the same style as Jan, a few well-chosen comments rather than an obnoxious stream of chatter. The Petersons were on the bus, but surprisingly Carol did not bombard the guide with questions as Pix had expected. Carol looked a bit somber, or angry, Pix noticed. A run-in with her new daughter-inlaw? Or had she seen the swastika and been upset? There was no question that word of something untoward had leaked out, and the group was not quite as jovial as it had been the day before.

Pix had asked discreetly at the desk if there had ever been an incident like this before, and, looking shocked at the suggestion, the clerk had replied, “Absolutely not!”

Carl was trying hard to lighten the mood, though. His voice was determinedly upbeat and he smiled with every word.

“Now that we have come down Norway’s steepest road, it is just a short ride through the N?roy Valley to Gudvangen, where we will meet our fjord cruiser. The tallest mountain you see is called Jordalsnuten. Today with the

sun, it is looking particularly fine, and we have heard a weather report promising several more days of this good weather. We are very lucky, so relax and enjoy the views!”

“We are lucky,” a woman across the aisle said to Pix. “Friends of ours did this very same trip and the moment they hit the west coast, it rained every day.”

Pix had noticed her. She and a man, probably her husband, appeared to be traveling with another couple. They ate all their meals together, sat together, and had been playing cards when Pix had left for her walk the night before.

“My name is Pix Miller and this is my mother, Ursula Rowe.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Eloise Harding. The man with the video camera glued to the window is my husband, Sidney, and”—she gestured over her shoulder to the seat behind her—“these are our friends, Paula and Marvin Golub.”

She sank back into her seat. Having taken care of the social amenities, she did not appear eager to strike up a lifelong friendship. Pix had more friends than she had time to see, so it was no loss, but she planned to get to know Eloise better. Sidney Harding, she remembered, was the man working for the Norwegian oil company.

The viking fjord cruiser was a nice little boat, not one of the behemoths that provided a maximum amount of tourists with a minimum of fjord exposure. The boat had an upper deck with a small lounge, then on the lower deck, open areas at the bow and stern, separated by a large cabin with a galley and tables and chairs. The group immediately rushed forward to stake out their territories. Carol Peterson commandeered a bunch of chairs on the upper deck; the Golubs and Hardings situated themselves at a table in the middle of the large cabin and started playing bridge. The farmers stood in an uneasy clump at the stern. The Dahl sisters sat in the smaller cabin and took out their handwork. The Bradys went into the large

cabin and grabbed the first table with windows to the side and front. The French cousins made several forays from the top to lower decks before choosing the top, liberally applying sun lotion, closing their eyes to the view, and lifting their faces to the sky. Pix settled Ursula next to a window in the large cabin and then went out to the bow. The only other person there was Jennifer, who was perched like a figurehead, leaning over the water and staring into its depths. Carl had just told them that at this point the N?royfjord was four thousand feet deep—and it was by no means the deepest fjord. Pix resisted the impulse to grab the waistband of Jennifer’s jeans. She is not my child, she told herself firmly. She’s an adult. My age.

“You’d never be able to find anything—anything you dropped overboard, that is,” Jennifer commented to Pix.

Pix transferred her camera from her shoulder to around her neck and changed the subject. There was something definitely odd in the way Jennifer had spoken—dreamy, not her usual straightforward speech.

“I knew it would be beautiful, but this is far beyond that,” Pix said. “The water is so green, and look at that waterfall!” She was tempted to go on and on. The mountains were so steep, screeching to a halt at the water’s edge, it was almost as if a line had been drawn, beyond which the land could not go. The same with the sky. The densely wooded mountains soared toward the heavens; then there was a sudden break and the peaks became clouds. The air was so clear that everything was in sharp focus, intensifying the effect. The N?royfjord was the narrowest fjord in Europe, and if Jennifer had not been there, Pix would have stretched her arms wide, sure her fingertips would not touch the sides, but still needing to make the gesture.

“Azure.” Jennifer had spoken again and Pix wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. She moved to the prow and sat down on the deck, next to the woman.

“Excuse me, I didn’t quite hear what you said.”

“Azure—that’s the color of the fjord. It comes from the Jostedal glacier. I’m going there after the tour. The glacial ice is supposed to look blue, but the deposits color the water green. It’s moving, faster than they thought. I read that the little gift shop and restaurant at the foot of it won’t be there in ten years. It’s the largest glacier in Europe, so I thought I should see it. There’s a new glacier center in Fj?rland and it’s supposed to be worth seeing, too.”

“It sounds as if you’re enjoying Norway.” And what was not to like? Pix thought as the boat slowly made its way down the center of the fjord, a few tiny farms clinging to the mountainsides, docks and sheds close to the water, all the buildings painted bright red and yellow—most with that typical up-and-down siding, so upright, so vertical. Cows and goats grazed nimbly on the inclines, defying gravity.

“I assume from your name that you are of Scandinavian descent?” she asked after Jennifer had merely nodded to Pix’s previous conversational opener.

“You ask a lot of questions.” Jennifer’s tone was not antagonistic, but back to her normal matter-of-fact way of speaking. Still, it was slightly aggressive.

“I’ve always been interested in people, where they’re from, what they think, what they do.” This was true— and on this trip, more than true—absolutely essential.

“I grew up in New Jersey, but both my parents were born here.” She sat cross-legged opposite Pix. The landscape glided behind her head, a slowly moving backdrop. She picked at a coil of heavy rope on the deck, then turned her gaze full force on Pix. “Like I said yesterday, life’s a bitch. My father was in the Resistance and had the dumb luck to get captured. The Nazis shot him and the rest of the men he was with right where they caught them, in the woods. So much for the Geneva Convention. Then they came for my mother, who was pregnant with me. The Resistance got to her first and smuggled her out of the country. She skied across to Sweden and went by boat to England, eventually ending up in the States, where she

had some relatives. His mother was not so lucky. The Nazis put her in Grini—that was the concentration camp outside Oslo. She died there.”

“I’m so sorry.” The words sounded hollow and inadequate. Pix put her hand on Jennifer’s arm.

“I never wanted to come back here, although my mother was homesick every day of her life. I should have come with her, but I didn’t, and it’s too late now.” Jennifer shaded her brow and looked up. “That must be our captain.”

Pix followed her gaze. She hadn’t stopped to wonder who might be piloting the boat so expertly, but of course there had to be somebody at the helm. He was staring straight ahead, a tall man—a tall man with a bushy black beard. She looked at Jennifer. Her face was wiped of all expression. Jennifer Olsen had cause to hate the Nazis, had cause to want people to remember the atrocities they’d committed. Had she done some artwork last night?

And what was it with all these dark beards?

“I think I’ll stay on board, if that’s all right. I’m a bit tired and I’ve seen a stave church in the museum in Oslo,” Ursula said to Carl. She didn’t mention that she had also seen this very stave church, the Hopperstad stave church, here in Vik, as well as every other one Marit had thought worth a detour.

“No problem, Mrs. Rowe. We will not be too long, and the crew will be back after they pick up some things that have been left here for us.”

Ursula Rowe smiled serenely and watched the group board two buses for the ride to the church. She also watched the two stewards, Sonja and Anders, leave. Then the captain left, too. Immediately, she went to work, starting with the small upstairs lounge. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for. Something out of the ordinary. Something that would mean the tour was not simply a tour. Nothing. She worked her way downstairs, hurrying in case the crew came back early, even though she doubted they

would. Time off was precious, and Sonja and Anders seemed as attached to each other as Kari and Erik—as