The Body in the Fjord

Marit had said Kari had some jewelry in her pack and that had been left.

Pix looked at her bed. It had stopped raining and it was a little past four. She sighed. She had to see this thing to the end and that meant going back to the boat. If she hurried, she could search the closet and stroll back, apparently returning from a hearty, early—very early—morning’s walk.

Feeling straight out of The Perils of Pauline, Pix got dressed once again. Her jacket was soaked, so she put on two turtlenecks and a heavy sweater. Once more she tiptoed down the hall, descended the stairs, and slipped out the side door.

The storm had left the air with a clear, fresh feeling and the fjord in front of her was like a sheet of green glass. The sky was beginning to get light and the birds were waking up. The spire of the Anglican church, St. Olav’s, was silhouetted against the wooded slopes just beyond. It had been founded by one of those intrepid British females who ranged the world, ready for a cup of tea in a bedouin’s tent or Sami’s lavvo. The architecture of St. Olav’s was an interesting marriage of stave and staid—dragons and gingerbread. She walked rapidly toward the water and the path that followed the peninsula before it turned toward the center of the village, mainly consisting of a post office, small market, and two gift shops.

As she passed the last of the benches provided by Kvikne’s Hotel in abundance throughout the grounds, a figure stood up. Pix was so intent on her destination that she didn’t realize anyone else was around.

Not until a hand came down hard on her shoulder and a voice said, “Now where do you think you’re going?”

Six

It was Carol Peterson. But not the perky dancer observed a scant few hours earlier. No, this Carol’s face was swollen from crying, the skirt of her cocktail dress limp, and the white sweater replaced by a sweatshirt whose KISS ME, I’M NORWEGIAN slogan seemed a pathetic mockery. Carol Peterson looked like something the cat wouldn’t drag in.

She repeated her query imperiously—at least some things were constant. “Where are you going?”

Pix had been so startled by this sudden apparition, and the fact that it was such a dramatic shadow of its former self, that she couldn’t think of a plausible excuse for a moment. She tried to marshal her thoughts and managed to say, “Ummm”

“Or, I should say, where have you been?” Carol blazed. The woman was furious.

This was getting very, very weird. “What do you mean? I couldn’t sleep and decided to take a walk.” Pix’s wits were back. Was the woman insane? Why was she so upset, and why attack Pix this way?

“Yeah, sure. I know your type, you…you easterner!” It was obviously the worst epithet she could drum up.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?” Pix decided to ignore the regional slur and led the way to a bench. There was no way she was going to be able to search the

Viking cruiser now, and besides, she had to find out why Carol Peterson, respectable matron, was wandering the grounds, crying her eyes out at four o’clock in the morning, when surely she normally would have been long in bed, face cream applied, hair net in place.

Carol followed and slumped down next to Pix dejectedly. All the wind was out of her sails, the air out of the balloon, the stuffing from the rag doll. Her “artichoke” hairdo was down to the choke.

A snuffle, a heavy sigh, and Carol was ready to spill her guts—or so Pix hoped.

“This was supposed to be the trip of a lifetime. I’ve been working on it for over a year. Writing for brochures, talking to the people at the Norwegian Tourist Board, comparing prices, studying the map. We’ve never been home, I told Roy. This is our big chance and we’ll take Roy junior and his bride. It will be our wedding gift to them. A dream trip. A chance to see where we all started, of course not Lynette, but the rest of us. It was going to be perfect!” Carol started to sob again. She’d obviously been doing this on and off for quite a while. It was not a pretty sight.

“But haven’t you been having a good time? I thought you told me you were enjoying yourself?” Pix hadn’t heard her say exactly these words, but she hadn’t heard anything to the contrary, except for the kvetching about Kari. Kvetching was not the right word. She’d have to ask Marit what the Norwegian equivalent was, although Norwegians complained so obliquely—“Do you think it was margarine in the sandekake? I wouldn’t want to say, but what do you think?”—there probably wasn’t a term.

Carol stopped crying. The sky was still gray and dawn was having a hard time piercing through. Slivers of light appeared at the horizon, then seemed to give up.

“Well, yes, I was having fun.” She looked off toward the fjord, running the video of The Petersons Return to the Land of Their Ancestors through her mind for a moment. “Especially at the beginning. I couldn’t believe I was actu

ally here after hearing so much about Norway all my life. And everything was just right. So clean. But now this! I can’t even believe it! And what if our friends should find out? Sick, I tell you. That’s what it is.”

But what was it? Pix had the sense not to interrupt the woman.

“And criminal. I’m sure it’s against the law. I don’t know the laws here, but I know what’s legal in Duluth— and in the sight of God.” Carol was building up a good head of righteous indignation and the train was still in the station. She continued.

“You think you know somebody.” Her voice was as bitter as an unripe lingonberry. She shook her head, steam disappearing, replaced by tears again.

“How can this be happening to me! And on my dream trip!” she wailed.

“Is there anything I can do?” Pix was beginning to wonder if Carol was going to come across with any concrete information. So far, her monologue had been tantalizingly circumspect.

In the sauna at Stalheim, Lynette had said her mother-inlaw wasn’t going to like something that was coming. Had it arrived? But would Carol have been so reticent if the current crisis involved Lynette? Pix had the feeling any blows landed by the young woman would be met in kind and news of the battle spread far and wide. And criminal? If Lynette had broken any laws, Carol would have been the first to blow the whistle on her—and to hold Roy junior’s hand steady while he filed for an annulment.

Pix repeated her request, since Carol had not replied.

“Are you sure I can’t do something?”

Carol sat up straight and pulled her sweatshirt down.

“No, I think just about enough has been done, and I’ll thank you not to refer to the matter again.”

It was an easy request with which to comply.

“I’m sorry you’re so upset.” Pix grasped for some way to keep the woman talking—and she was sorry to see Carol like this, obviously in a great deal of pain.

“Sorry never helps,” Mrs. Peterson said. It had the ring of an off-repeated remark, automatic and a real conversation stopper. She stood up and marched off in the direction of the hotel.

Now what the hell was that all about? Pix said to herself.

The sun was rising and Pix walked toward the shore. She was exhausted, but her encounter with Carol Peterson had been unsettling and she thought she’d take the long way back, both to avoid meeting the woman again—that hand on her shoulder had sent enough adrenaline coursing through Pix’s body to keep her awake for the rest of the trip—and because a stroll in the damp morning air might induce slumber. Pix could snatch two or three hours before the boat left. She’d ask Ursula to make her a sandwich at breakfast and she’d sleep in. The thought caused a yawn and she quickened her steps along the path. The tops of the mountains were streaked with gold now and the white snow shone like the enameling on a particularly fine piece of Norwegian jewelry.

At the edge of the fjord, Pix paused, unable to rush when it was so beautiful, yet telling herself she had to get going. A down comforter and pillows were calling her name. Besides, without some sleep, she’d be useless.

She looked at the rocks that lined the shore and thought of the coast of Maine—Sanpere Island in Penobscot Bay, where her family had been spending summers since before Ursula was born. People said Maine reminded them of Norway or vice versa, depending which side of the ocean one was on. The fjords are tidal, she reminded herself, although the tides are slight compared with Maine’s. But the rocks looked alike, covered with rackweed. Her