The Body in the Fjord

old. She managed a weak smile and pulled open the door with relief. Outside, the air felt like the Arctic, but it brought her to her senses. She understood the point of snowbanks or icy swims now. There was a chair. She sat on it. Roy appeared and spoke.

“Lynette thought we’d better keep the key inside,” he explained as he removed it from the nail it did indeed hang on, around the corner from the sauna entrance. “Are you okay?” He had a pleasant deep voice, filled with midwestern sincerity.

She was okay, she realized with great joy, and she offered some advice of her own.

“Definitely keep the key with you.”

It was a little after one. She’d showered and dressed, drunk several glasses of water, then gone up to her room with every intent of going straight to bed when she’d remembered she had to search the damn boat.

Pix toyed with the idea of forgetting the whole thing. It was hard to believe there was a secret compartment on their Viking cruiser and even harder to believe anything illegal was in it. Yet there was never really any question. And it wasn’t simply the thought of facing her mother over hardboiled eggs and sardines in the morning. Pix had come to Norway to help Marit and apparently that meant an enormous amount of sleep deprivation. She crawled into bed and set the alarm for three o’clock.

The alarm was ringing. Pix reached for it, instantly wideawake. She’d pulled on some corduroy pants, a heavy turtleneck, and a sweater before she realized that it was only two o’clock. The alarm hadn’t gone off. She’d dreamed it.

“Damn and double damn,” she said aloud, and walked over to the window, pulling back the drapes. It wasn’t dark, but the light was dim enough for a trip to the dock. The problem was, there were still a great many people strolling about the hotel grounds. Again aloud, she grumbled, “Don’t these people ever go to sleep?”

She went out onto the balcony and sat down. She didn’t blame them. It was so beautiful, so special—who wanted to go to sleep and miss it? The mountains seemed endless and, just as on the boat, almost within reach, a short walk at the very least. The landscape looked serene, secure even—put your trust in mountains—was that from a poem? A psalm? If it wasn’t, it should be. Immovable, invariable. All day these mountain images and pieces of half-remembered phrases had filled her mind. But, she thought, perhaps the mountains would not appear so poetic in the winter, especially during the endless dark days, days of bad weather. Then the slopes would press in on one and their nearness become a weighty barrier.

The sky was starting to turn a slate gray. It was happening all at once. She hoped it didn’t mean rain, as Erna Dahl had said. Two figures emerged from beneath her balcony, walking slowly down the path across the lawn to the water. She leaned forward to see who it was before

they moved out of sight. They passed under one of the lights. Oscar and Sophie—Sophie sans her cousine! The oh-sonaughty man had continental tastes. They were headed for the benches at the water’s edge. A rendezvous by the fjord.

Next Pix heard a voice in the distance. A man’s. It sounded like Don Brady. The entire Scandie Sights tour, with the exception of her mother and the farmers, seemed to be up and about. The Petersons, minus Lynette, but not Roy junior came into view from around the corner of the hotel. This was interesting, but her eyelids were getting heavy again. Trusting that the alarm would wake her, she stood up and stretched, catching sight of Sophie returning from the water much more rapidly than she’d gone, and traveling alone. At one point, she broke into a run; then, seeing others about, she slowed down. As she passed under the light again, Pix could see that she was scowling. That naughty man.

Pix went to bed.

Minutes later, or so it seemed, the alarm rang. She hadn’t bothered to undress. Pausing only to make sure it wasn’t raining and/or still like Grand Central Station outside, she grabbed her jacket and stepped quietly into the hall. There had been no one about and the sky was streaked with ominous bands of dark gray clouds, but the ground was dry. She’d shoved a scarf in her pocket and hoped she wouldn’t need it.

Earlier, she’d made sure the door to the stairs was not locked and now she took them quickly. The sooner this was over, the better. There was no early wake-up call and she might actually get some more sleep.

The stairs ended at a hallway, leading to the lobby in one direction, a side exit to the outside in the other, she’d discovered when she’d planned her search. She’d wanted to avoid the night desk clerk—and any insomniacs wandering about the lobby.

Pix pushed the door open—it wasn’t locked or alarmed—and stepped out into the brisk night air. There

was no need for a flashlight, but she’d brought Faith’s penlite with her, as well as the rest of her kit and camera. She was uncomfortably aware of the canister of hair spray in the pocket of her dark blue denim jacket.

It was a short walk to the dock where the fjord cruiser was berthed alongside the fleet of small pleasure boats so beloved of Norwegians, those in Balestrand no exception. All very trim, flags flying from the sterns. She passed by the huge pile of wood—odd pieces of lumber, crates, branches—that awaited the touch of a torch on Midsummer Night, St. Hans’ Eve, St. Hans-aften, the twenty-third. They’d seen similar bonfire piles all along the fjord today. This was the largest so far, though, and people would be adding to it. She was sorry she wouldn’t be here to see the conflagration.

There wasn’t a soul in sight and she walked straight down the wooden dock to the boat, alone on the fjord. Or so she thought.

Just as she was about to step aboard, she heard voices from the stem and saw two shadowy figures, the tips of their cigarettes glowing in the dark. The voices stopped; then she heard footsteps. Someone was coming up on deck to have a look. They must have heard her approaching. Wildly, she looked for a place to hide and jumped into a small dinghy tied close by. There was a tarp and she crawled under it. Why hadn’t the nearest boat been one of the ones with a cabin?

The tarp smelled strongly of fisk and she was so distracted by the pungent odor that for a moment she did not realize that whoever had been on the boat had now moved onto the dock. They were talking again, quite close to her. Pix froze. Men’s voices, speaking Norwegian. Really Marit should have enlisted the help of someone who spoke the language! It was tempting to lift a corner of the heavy cloth and peer out, yet she didn’t dare. Strolling on the dock or grounds could have been explained. Bundled under a boat tarp at three o’clock in the morning could not. She strained to hear what they were saying, painfully

aware that her vocabulary was limited to food, greetings, requests, and bodily functions. All she could tell was that they were not quarreling. Their voices were not raised. The chat sounded companionable even. The guides? The captain? Balestrand inhabitants on a late-night—or rather, earlymorning—tour of the boat?

Speculation was suddenly replaced by the realization that Erna had been right. It was raining. Heavy droplets were soon drumming against the tarp. Surely the men would leave, and she lifted a corner in time to see the two running for cover. It was pouring now and the absence of streetlights made it impossible to see who they were. They did turn in the direction of the hotel, but there were also many houses that way, as well as a large parking area. Thunder crashed. Then lightning. And again. The second flash revealed that one man had a beard. Another beard.

She huddled down under the tarp. The sailcloth was drenched and she would be soon. She was stiff, too, and the irony of having been both too hot and too cold in a relatively short period of time did not escape her. She’d have to wait a while longer to be sure that they wouldn’t see her. She hoped the side door was still unlocked.

She looked at her watch: 3:30. She’d been gone from her room only a half hour! She’d wait five more minutes, then make a run for it.

The hands on her watch moved slowly and despite her uncomfortable position and the pitching of the boat as the storm hit, Pix began to fall asleep. Only three minutes had passed, but no one would be out any longer than he could help in this mess. She stood up and raced down the dock. Five minutes later, she was standing under a hot shower. No wonder Norwegians looked so clean. She hadn’t had so many showers since she was a teenager.

It took awhile for her to get rid of the smell of fish that had seeped into her pores with the rainwater. How could something so good smell so bad, so skitten—another interesting Norwegian word. It meant “foul,” “dirty,” even “smutty.” While sounding like a small pet, it somehow

perfectly expressed the way she’d felt hiding in the boat and even now. What had she accomplished? Nothing. Kari was still missing and Pix was beginning to believe she must have drowned with Erik. Maybe someone stole her passport and money, then was interrupted before he or she could take Erik’s. But, said a nagging voice,