The Body in the Fjord

of the undergarments Pix had put to one side. There was nothing worse than having to rinse out unmentionables in a hotel basin and festoon them across the towel bars.

“And Erik’s body was discovered when?”

“On Sunday morning in Kjosfossen—at a river in a place called Flam, on the west coast. Sam and I were there. It’s famous for its steep railway and a beautiful waterfall up in the mountains. The tour had been there on the way to Bergen. At first, everyone assumed Kari must have drowned, too. The police were even suggesting a double suicide, but Marit refuses to believe that.”

“I don’t blame her. You don’t kill yourselves immediately after announcing you’re going to get married. Although don’t those Scandinavians have the reputation for being prone to depression? Ibsen, Munch—think of The Scream. Those dark days of winter. Trolls.”

“A myth—not just the trolls but the rest, too. Their suicide rate is no better or worse than any other European country’s. Besides, this is summer.” Pix deftly folded a denim wraparound skirt. “And I know Kari. She’s been here twice—once when she was very young, then two years ago. Remember, I told you about her visit? You were on vacation. She had a bus ticket that let her go anywhere in the country and she ended up here after covering every state except Alaska and Hawaii. She’d had a terrific time and there was nothing depressive about her. The opposite, in fact. Very outgoing.” Pix remembered Kari’s account of her travels, from Frito pies in the Woolworth in Santa Fe to Mount Rushmore—“It was so small! In North by Northwest, the noses were much larger!” They had laughed until tears ran down their cheeks.

Faith looked askance at the heavy turtleneck Pix was packing. Could it get that cold in Norway in June? Obviously Pix thought so. She continued her line of questioning. “Marit hasn’t heard anything from her since the call on Friday?”

“No, and she’s desperate. It’s possible that Kari and Erik slipped, falling into the river, or one tried to save the other, but that doesn’t explain the knapsacks—and of course Marit has no idea why they were quarreling.”

It was this information that had sent Pix home from her mother’s to pack after a call to Sam and nine or ten others canceling various obligations.

“Knapsacks? Quarrel?” Pix had told Faith recently that she was so afraid of repeating herself, a dreaded sign of the encroachments age made on memory, that she found she was, instead, forgetting to tell friends and family whole bunches of things. This was obviously one of those times.

“I must have left this part out.” Pix was stuffing socks into the toe of a Bass Weejun. “Anyway, you know Norway is a small country, a little over four million people. The discovery of Erik Sorgard’s body has been big news. The police asked anyone who might have seen either Kari or Erik to get in touch with them. So far, no one has reported seeing them, except for the people on the tour, and of those, only one woman saw them after the group boarded the train in Oslo. There weren’t enough seats, so Kari and Erik had gone to another car. This woman was looking for the food cart and passed Kari’s and Erik’s seats. She told the police they were having ‘a vicious argument’—those were her words. Since she doesn’t speak Norwegian, she had no idea what it was about.

“Then the knapsacks. One of the clerks in the lost-luggage bureau at the Oslo railway station noted their names on two knapsacks a conductor had turned in late Saturday. One of the clerk’s jobs is to transfer names and addresses on items to a master list they keep. When he heard the news, he called the police. He remembered their names, because his last name is Hansen, too—although there are so many Hansens in Norway, I don’t know why Kari’s name stuck with him.”

Faith ignored the Hansen conundrum. “At least this gives you a place to start. You have to find out how the knapsacks got to Oslo. It’s on the east coast, right? And the train was on the west coast? Why weren’t Kari and Erik carrying them? And was it a lover’s spat or something more? Even if she couldn’t understand what they were saying, the woman might remember what their gestures conveyed.”

While appreciating Faith’s advice, Pix hadn’t finished. As Faith, with the wisdom of someone ten years younger, constantly told her, there was nothing wrong with Pix’s memory, and if Pix occasionally had trouble dredging up details like the name of the kid who sat behind her in third grade, it was because her fertile brain was weeding

out useless information to make room for new, more important facts—like these.

“There’s more. Everything appeared to be in Erik’s sack, but things were missing from Kari’s.”

“What kinds of things?”

“According to her grandmother, her passport, driver’s license, and money,” Pix said grimly. “The report of the quarrel—and Kari does have a quick temper, which I’m sure the police have managed to find out from someone by now—has caused them to change the bulletin from ‘missing’ to ‘wanted for questioning.’ The passport is particularly puzzling, because Norwegians don’t need one to travel within Scandinavia. Erik had his passport, too. It was still in his knapsack.”

Faith reached for her pocketbook, a large Coach saddlebag, dug down, and added a few things to Pix’s suitcase: a penlite with fresh batteries, the ultimate Swiss army knife, a Cote d’Or dark chocolate bar, matches, surgical gloves, skeleton keys, and a small can of hair spray—tools of the trade. She wished she was going more than ever, although Norway, where boiled potatoes accompany most meals and dried cod soaked in lye is the piece de resistance of the groaning Yule board, had never attracted her in the past. Fjords or no fjords. You had to eat.

“Put these where you can get at them easily—your jacket pocket, whatever—after you land. And be sure to carry fifty dollars or more in Norwegian currency on your person, not in your bag, at all times.”

“Hair spray?” Pix had eyed the other items and they made some sense, although the thought of a situation where she might have to use the gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints was not comforting. But hair spray? Her short, thick dark brown hair fell into place and stayed there.

“Because they’re not about to let you into the country that awards the Nobel Peace Prize, or any other one for that matter, with a can of Mace or pepper spray, so this will have to do. Hope put me onto the brand.” Faith’s

sister, Hope, a real estate appraiser for Citibank, and her husband, Quentin, lived in New York City, where the two sisters had been born and raised. She regularly passed on news to perennially homesick Faith, from what was hot in self-defense to the closing of the Quilted Giraffe, one of their favorite restaurants.

“Here, take this comb. It snaps into the mirror. The hair spray will feel more legitimate then.” Faith knew her friend well.

For a brief moment, Pix found herself wishing Faith was coming, too. She’d never carried a weapon before. Gingerly, she picked up the spray as if it were a live grenade and slipped it into her toiletries bag. She zipped her suitcase shut and set it on the floor. She’d take that sweater out after Faith left. For now, she was ready to go.

It wasn’t going to be a pleasure trip. In fact, all thoughts of any pleasure had been shelved by Marit’s call for help—help in trying to make sense of a nightmare. According to Marit, there was only one way to find Kari and she couldn’t do it. Someone had to pose as a Scandie Sights tourist—as soon as possible.

Someone had to blend in with the group: “The Little Mermaid Meets the Trolls: Copenhagen to Fjord Country.” The Mermaid/Troll tour. The tour where Kari and Erik had last been seen.

Pix leaned back into her seat. It was ten o’clock at night and they were still in Newark. It had already been the flight from hell and they weren’t even in the air. First, the plane from Boston was delayed—something about thunderstorms in New Jersey. One of the legion of dark-suited businesspeople glued to their cell phones had pried himself away to shout to a companion that one of the tanks at the oil refineries near the turnpike had been struck by lightning and that things were totally screwed up. For some reason, they both thought this was hysterically funny.

When the flight finally was announced for boarding, the surge of humanity threatened to engulf them, until Mrs.

Arnold Lyman Rowe whipped out her folding cane and parted the seas. Pix had never seen this cane before, and as they were ushered to the head of the line, Ursula flashed her a triumphant look. “I only use it when I have to,” she whispered. Clearly this was going to be a no-holds-barred trip.

Strongly citing extreme inconvenience, Ursula got them bumped to first class after they arrived at SAS in Newark, where they discovered their flight was at the gate but that the doors were closed. They would be forced to wait several hours for the next flight. She also made them call Marit. By the time they got on the plane, Pix was exhausted. Ursula was, of course, fresh as a daisy and perky to boot. Pix wondered why on earth her mother had