The Body in the Fjord

Eriksen was born and grew up in a small village near the hotel.”

Jennifer Olsen had been right. The dead man had been a fascist. A Nazi. A traitor.

Marcussen poured them some more coffee. It was getting close to dinnertime, but Pix took a cup and ate a cookie anyway. She told them about the men in the woods at Stalheim and was about to reveal Ursula’s find on the Viking cruise ship when the inspector rose and thanked her for coming.

“I am sure that the men you overheard, and maybe the ones who were about as early as you this morning, were involved in the illegal liquor market.” He grinned. “You know what a drink costs in Norway, and people find all sorts of ways around it—brewing their own. You can get the supplies in any market. Flavoring for scotch and cognac are on the shelves with cardamom, salt, and pepper. There are also many rural stills. As for the business with Kari, you can assure your mother and your friend Fru Hansen that the police are doing everything they can to find out what happened to Kari. We care deeply. Why don’t you just enjoy the rest of your tour and leave it to us?”

Pix was annoyed. She hadn’t even gotten a chance to tell them about Sophie and Oscar, the dirty old man—or his argument with Arnie Feld. Or that he cheated at cards. She was being dismissed. But she wasn’t going without getting one answer, at least.

“Why do you think Oscar Melling’s death wasn’t natural? The man had been drinking heavily and could easily have fallen.”

“I’m sorry, but we can’t tell you that.” Inspector Marcussen didn’t look one bit sorry, Pix thought. She supposed

it was fair. She wasn’t telling him everything, either.

Both men saw her to the door.

“Try not to take any walks after, say, midnight, will you, Mrs. Miller?”

Jansen chuckled, but Pix didn’t think the inspector was joking.

Ursula and Pix had abandoned any pretense of not knowing Marit and the three women walked into the dining room together.

“I’m hungry,” Pix announced. “I intend to eat a great deal of fish in many guises, then go to bed.”

“Pix, dear,” her mother said, “do you know these people?”

A group of Japanese tourists were leaving an earlier sitting in the dining room and they stopped, giggled, and bowed to Pix. She realized that she had given Marit and her mother only an abbreviated account of her ordeal in the sauna, omitting to mention the gentleman from Tokyo. He had apparently not been as silent.

Another group passed and bowed. Pix found herself reflexively bowing back; then the man appeared himself, wreathed in smiles and patting his heart. The tour leader, or so Pix assumed from the trim navy blazer he wore, insignia above the pocket, bowed and addressed her.

“Mr. Yoshimuro is very anxious that you were not offended in any way.” He seemed to be searching for words to describe the incident.

“Oh, no, I hope I did not offend him. It’s the custom in Norway for saunas to be shared by men and women, but we were both quite decently clothed.”

Marit and Ursula were staring at Pix, wide-eyed. Pix saw her mother’s mouth tremble and knew that in a moment she would be roaring with laughter.

“Please, do not think any more about it,” she said, and bowed.

The man translated Pix’s words and Mr. Yoshimuro spoke rapidly, pointing toward all three of them.

“Would you mind if I took a picture of you with your friends and Mr. Yoshimuro? He would deem it an honor.”

What was to mind? Pix Miller, the new pinup of Japan? She thought not.

“Of course,” she answered, and repeated to her mother and Marit, “They want to take our picture.”

“Whatever for?” Ursula asked.

“I’ll tell you later,” Pix promised, falling into position between Ursula and Marit, Mr. Yoshimuro next to her mother.

With a few final ticky-tocky gestures and bows, the men left and the women proceeded into the dining room.

“I didn’t know you spoke Japanese, Mrs. Miller,” Jan said admiringly as they entered. He had apparently witnessed the entire event and had been fooled by the expertise of Pix’s bows.

“I don’t—and it’s a long story.” She laughed.

“Whatever you say. You can sit at any table, except those at the windows. It was our turn last night.”

“Is it all right for our friend Fru Hansen to sit with us?” Ursula asked. “She is a guest at the hotel.”

“Of course. There’s plenty of room,” Jan replied.

There was one extra place for sure, Pix thought. Her mother and Marit had dismissed the police questioning rather perfunctorily. The idea that Pix might be a suspect in Oscar Melling’s death seemed ludicrous to them, although Marit had been initially upset when she’d overheard the clerks talking about Pix’s early-morning wanderings. Pix had given them a report on her conversation with Inspector Marcussen and they had figuratively patted her on the head for being such a good girl with the police. They were not surprised that Marcussen had not been interested in a possible link to Kari and Erik. That was their job—theirs and the hund.

Carl came forward to shepherd them a bit more as they searched for the little Mermaid/Troll flags indicating their tables. He looked concerned. She was sure he had heard about the police questioning and the reason why. The entire hotel must have, those who were not preoccupied with her sauna escapade.

“Sit anywhere, ladies, and enjoy your meal.” Was Carl being a little too welcoming? A kind of “Eat up—the food in Norwegian jails is good, but not like Kvikne’s” underlying message?

Now he definitely was addressing her, and her alone. “Is everything all right?” He lowered his voice, “This has been a most upsetting day for you, Mrs. Miller, and Scandie Sights is well aware of it. Anything we can do, just let us know.”

Pix could think of a number of things, like possibly posting bail or finding Kari and solving Oscar’s murder, but she merely thanked him and said she was fine. “I’m going to turn in early. A good night’s sleep is what I need.” Then, impelled by her usual curiosity, she asked him, “What do you do after tomorrow? Pick up another tour? Or do you get to rest in between?”

“We don’t start another one until Tuesday.”

Jan had joined them, hearing Pix’s question and Carl’s answer. “We always get a few days off,” he answered. “I usually go home to my parents and let my mother make a fuss.”

“And sleep half the day,” Carl teased.

“Ja—and, as usual, you’ll go see your father in London, I suppose. Although”—he winked at the women, seated now—“I have my doubts about this ‘father.’ I think it may be someone a bit younger and of the opposite sex.”

Carl flushed. It made him even more attractive. “My father is British, although I was raised here. Maybe I just happen to like London. All right, maybe it has some charms, besides his nice flat.”

The guides went to their own table, where Captain Hagen was stolidly consuming a mounded plate of each smorgasbord course and the stewards were doing a fine

job on the reker, peeling the shells off and dipping each shrimp in a mayonnaise sauce.

“I can never eat enough reker,” Pix said, glancing at the captain. “And I want a glass of white wine to go with it. Will you join me? It’s the last night of the tour.” They had nothing to celebrate. If anything, things were more confused and the outlook for finding Kari alive bleak, but Pix felt they needed to keep their spirits up. Marit and Ursula agreed.

As she ate the shrimp, Pix remembered her mother hadn’t mentioned what she’d found out about Sidney Harding. The room was filled with noise and their small table was set against a pillar with a serving station on the other side. They could talk softly, undetected.

What Ursula had to say was interesting.

“He really didn’t want to talk about what he does. They had taken a break from cards, believe it or not, and were having a snack. I asked him whether his work brought him to Norway much and he was very evasive. His wife was the one who answered—bitterly. Seems he’s away from home a good deal and this was to have been a solo