The Body in the Fjord

She was starving—hence the Reader’s Digest version of what had been a very long and complicated night.

“V?r sa god,” Marit said, waving at the tray, using the universal phrase, a kind of Norwegian equivalent of shalom. It meant everything from “Come and get it” to “You’re welcome,” with varying degrees of “Have some more,” “Go in,” or “Look at anything you like” in between.

Pix needed no urging and was soon digging into a perfectly boiled egg, freshly baked whole-wheat rolls, farm butter, cheese, and, of course, herring and lox—or rather, “laks.” There was a croissant on the tray looking totally out of place, but she wolfed that down, too. After having poured a second cup of coffee, she felt herself again, although these days that was subject to constant redefinition. She told them about getting locked in the sauna, meeting Carol Peterson, then happening upon Oscar Melling’s lifeless body.

After discussing the sauna episode, which Marit was inclined to think was an accident, although Ursula, for once, was unsure, they got on to Mrs. Peterson.

“What do you suppose the woman was talking about?” Ursula asked.

“Do you think she had anything to do with Mr. Melling? Maybe she had already seen the body and didn’t want to get involved?”

“But she kept talking about what someone else had done, a crime, but I think that wasn’t meant literally.” As she spoke, Pix recalled Carol in Oscar’s arms, whirling about the dance floor. He had a certain appeal. She remembered how courtly he had been to her mother. Obviously, his manners had another side—the argument with Arnie Feld had occurred just before the dancing. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. More likely the erratic effects of alcohol on an aging nervous system.

“Everyone is upset, of course. Carl spoke to the group after breakfast and then Marit and I went to church. The tour is sticking to the itinerary and that’s why we woke you up. You can relax on the boat, but I didn’t think you’d want to miss the farm. Marit’s going to keep her ears open while we’re gone and talk to some of the staff. Make sure this really was an accident, as Carl said.”

“I’m going to be very worried and maybe a little cross.” Marit smiled. “‘Are you sure it’s safe to walk on that path so close to the water?’ I’ll ask. See what they say. The police are here, and I’ll find a nice young one who will tell me more than he should.”

Pix was beginning to think they should incorporate themselves.

“Okay, but I have to have a shower and wake up. When does the boat leave?”

“You have thirty minutes. Because of all this, we’re not going until ten-thirty. I’ll wait for you on the dock.” She paused and added, “Pity you weren’t able to get a look into the closet last night.”

Pix gave her mother a very firm kiss and ushered the two women out the door.

Ten minutes later, she was washed, dressed, and hurriedly punching several hundred numbers into the phone. It was time to call Faith.

Faith Sibley Fairchild had spent the previous afternoon sitting in her backyard in Aleford, watching her children dig in the earth that her husband, Tom, had optimistically tilled for what he called their “market garden.” So far, the only seeds sown were a row of peas, delineated by a wavy length of string. The children had been instructed to stay away from the growing plants and thus far they had been content to dig where Tom planned to put his tomato seedlings. Faith was always happy to, receive fresh garden produce—the ultimate luxury was visiting friends who grew their own corn, brought the water to a boil, and dashed outside to grab the ears, stripping them on the return trip before flinging them in the water for exactly four minutes. However, Faith was not a gifted gardener. Something about compost, earthworms, and chinch bugs put her off. She preferred to do her harvesting at the Wilson Farm stand or Bread and Circus.

Now shortly after four o’clock in the morning, her dreams were filled with buds and tendrils—and soup. While she’d idly watched her children, Faith had been leafing through her recipe notebooks, looking for an alternative to lobster bisque as a first course for a wedding she was catering later in the month. The menu had been fixed—and altered—for months. The bride, apparently having nothing on her plate except wedding plans, had taken to treating Have Faith’s kitchen as a kind of club, dropping in for coffee and tastes of whatever Faith was cooking, to go over things “for the last time, I promise.” Yesterday, she had announced that lobster bisque was too pink and she wanted something different. Faith mulled over fresh avocado soup, garnished with a spider’s web of thinned-out sour cream and spiked with a bit of white rum. In case the bride ruled it out as being too green, Faith was prepared to offer potage de champignons sauvages as

a backup. The young woman was pretentious enough to relish the name in French, and Faith herself preferred it for the untamed flavor it promised. Wild mushroom soup sounded much more prosaic.

When the phone rang, her first thought upon sitting bolt upright in bed was that the bride had changed her mind again. “Duck consomme,” she mumbled, reaching for the receiver. Tom had not stirred. The only things that woke him were a slight cough from one of his children or a whispered request from his wife.

“I know it’s the middle of the night, or rather, very, very early in the morning, but I had to talk to you.”

Faith was fully awake in a flash.

“What’s going on? I’ve been thinking of you constantly.” This was true. Pix and soup.

“I don’t have much time—the boat is leaving in about fifteen minutes, but first you’ll have to swear you won’t tell Sam. He’ll just get worried, and there’s no reason to Promise?”

Faith had no problem keeping secrets, especially those of her friends. And she was not a believer in telling things for people’s own good under any circumstances.

“I promise. What’s going on? Have you found Kari?”

“No—but I did find a body early this morning.”

“Oh my God! Whose?”

“An elderly gentleman named Oscar Melling. He was a grocer from New Jersey.”

To Faith, a native New Yorker, Jersey was known for only two things—its tomatoes and the place where her aunt Chat had inexplicably chosen to move after a lifetime on the West Side of Manhattan.

Pix was still talking. “He was in the fjord. Not actually in the water, but on the shore. He had been drinking pretty heavily throughout the evening and must have fallen.”

“Had he hit his head? Was there a lot of blood?”

“He fell partly facedown and there was some blood, also an empty aquavit bottle. Nobody thinks it was anything but an accident, but…”

“You don’t agree. Otherwise, why would you be calling me?” Faith finished for her.

Pix realized with a start that Faith had put into words what had been nagging at her since she’d found Oscar. It had to have been an accident. The man was drunk, yet…

“It’s just that so many strange things have been happening on this tour. Starting with Erik’s death and Kari’s disappearance.” Pix rapidly ran down some of the rest: the argument she’d overheard in the woods at Stalheim—not untoward by itself, but when linked with the sense she had of being followed and the bearded intruder on Jennifer Olsen’s balcony the night before, enough to produce unease, especially as the man she observed driving away so hurriedly in Stalheim had also sported a beard. Then the swastika on the grass the next morning in front of the hotel, Jennifer’s sad history, Marit’s revelation about Hanna, and Pix’s own imprisonment in the sauna at Kvikne’s. Without pausing for breath, she gave a thumbnail sketch of the Petersons, especially the newest member, Lynette, and described the strange conversation she’d had with Carol just before finding the body.

“I know it sounds like something from one of those soap-opera digests, but it’s all happened since I got here.”

“I believe you—” Faith started to offer some advice, but Pix interrupted.

“Oh, I almost forgot. Mother thinks she’s found a secret hiding place on our Viking fjord cruiser, and that was why I was up and about so much last night. I’m leaving a lot of the details out, like the Japanese man, but we’re visiting a farm today, so I don’t want to be late.”

“Sounds entrancing.” Faith could smell the goats.

“It will be. You can’t imagine how beautiful this part of Norway is. Really, the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. And the food has been extremely good.”

Faith didn’t want to waste either Pix’s time or money debating a cuisine of root vegetables, fish, and the odd berry versus French or Chinese.

“Okay. You need to start trying to make some sense out of all this. I think you’re right. Tours can be ghastly, but this one is not your ordinary one from hell—whiners, dingers, and worse—it’s in a category by itself. When you