Annelise gave a little laugh. “Boys, men always wanted to be with Kari, but she has been with Erik for quite a while. I am sorry I have to go now. I’m supposed to meet someone and I’m late already.”
“I’m so sorry and won’t keep you any longer. Thank you for all your help,” Pix said.
“
Bed—at least for a while. She changed into corduroy slacks and a turtleneck, putting out a warm sweater next to her jacket. Ursula would certainly not approve of the number of times Pix seemed to be sleeping in her clothes these days, but then her mother had been the one who had drawn her to one side before disappearing into the Dragon Room for coffee and hissed in her ear, “Be sure to set your alarm. Do you want me to call you?”
Pix had refused. She knew what she had to do. The inspector hadn’t said she
She was about to check the pockets of her coat to make sure her kit was intact when there was a knock on the door.
It was Mother, the glint of victory in her eye. “Marit’s still with her, but I wanted to tell you before you went to sleep.” She came in and sat down.
“Tell me what?”
“We decided it would be pleasant to invite Carol Peterson to have coffee with us on the porch. I thought she might like to talk with a native Norwegian. Perhaps tell Marit a bit about Duluth. You know, Hans’s brother settled in the Midwest.”
Pix did not know. What she did know was that Carol had as much chance of talking about Duluth once she was on the porch as a fly trapped in a web would talking about aerodynamics with a spider.
“We chatted for a bit and then began to talk about the tour. Poor woman. It hasn’t been much fun for her. She seems to have a daughter-in-law she doesn’t much care for and then her husband made an indecent proposal to her.”
“A what!”
Ursula grinned. “You’ll never guess!”
Pix conjured up a mental image of Roy senior. “Indecent” and the personification of white bread didn’t seem to go together. But something must have turned his thoughts from the missionary position to the wilder side. Maybe it seemed that his son was having a little too much fun with Lynette.
“Okay, I’ll never guess. Wait—he wants Carol to sleep in the buff.”
“I don’t know about that, but what he does want is for her to sleep with Don Brady—and he gets Marge.”
“Wife swapping! No wonder Carol was upset—and now we know how Roy got his black eye. I think she’s wrong about it being illegal, yet that doesn’t prevent it from being a crime in her book! And the Bradys! Don’t tell me Marge was willing.”
“I’m telling you.” Ursula was laughing now, as she couldn’t when Carol had poured her heart out to the two older women, unable to keep her guilty secret anymore, wanting sympathy, and secure in the knowledge she’d never see them again after the tour.
“Marge! But she seems like such a little mouse, a mouse with a cold.” Marge apparently had allergies or had picked up a germ somewhere. She was constantly reaching for a tissue and her turned-up little nose was either red or about to drip. Pix had not thought of the woman as either a sex object or a libertine, but she was trim and not unattractive otherwise. Sensible shoes, denim
skirts, turtlenecks, and sweaters—attire not unlike Pix’s own. Her hair was short, a bit wispy, and the color mousy brown. Yes, a mouse—a well-organized, inquisitive, energetic little mouse. Inquisitive—that was it.
“She must have another list like the one of the places she wants to go—‘Unusual Things I Want to Do.’”
“I’ll let you get to bed and I have to help Marit. That Peterson woman is really terribly upset, but she’s also a bit boring.” Mother never believed in mincing words.
“Good night,” Pix said. “Thank you for clearing up one mystery at least.”
“I thought you’d want to know. Now, be careful tonight.”
“Don’t worry.”
“And remember, we’ll be leaving tomorrow, so this is your last chance.”
Thank you, Mother, Pix said silently as she closed the door firmly.
All she had to do now was make sure she had everything she might need in her pockets and she could go to bed. She’d emptied them after she’d come in dripping wet from her first attempt and draped the jacket on the heated towel bars in the bathroom to dry. Then this morning, she’d been in a rush and hadn’t bothered to transfer everything back from where she’d stashed it in her suitcase. Penlite, keys—she dropped them in and was about to add the hair spray when she realized there was a piece of paper in the bottom of the pocket. She didn’t remember putting anything in. It must be her ticket stub from the Glacier Museum. She pulled it out. It was a folded-up piece of newspaper.
“Now where did this come from?” she said aloud. “Strange.” Strange to be talking to herself, too. This was why people had pets.
She unfolded it. It was from a Norwegian newspaper and she was about to throw it away when she saw that single letters had been circled in red. She sat at the desk, took out a sheet of the hotel notepaper and a pen, then
started copying the letters. There weren’t many and put down in order, they read: “stopasking?” Although it seemed to be another Norwegian word, Pix, veteran of crossword puzzles and word jumbles, quickly deciphered it.
“Stop asking questions.”
Pix was startled, but she was not scared. As anonymous letters went, it was pretty tame. No threats, no imprecations, merely a request. Were there time enough and words, she was pretty sure a “please” would have been inserted. No, she wasn’t alarmed, but caught up instead in contemplating the odd turn her life had taken in recent years, for this was the second such missive she’d received. The other, however, sent via the U.S. mails and delivered through the slot in the front door in Aleford made this one look like a birthday card.
But it wasn’t. “Stop asking questions”—the “or else” implied.
She looked at the bed. She looked at the clock. She looked at the newspaper clipping. There was no way she could fall asleep now. Wearily, she took out another piece of notepaper. It was time to make a list.
“Stop asking questions”—who had been threatened and who had access to her jacket pocket? She’d been asking questions ever since her arrival in Voss and obviously had not been as circumspect as she imagined. But, Mother had been inquisitive, too.
Her head jerked up. Dear Lord, had Mother gotten the warning, as well? It was one thing for Pix to reach in her pocket and pull out a viper, but Mother! Ursula was probably still nodding away at Carol Peterson out on the porch—which reminded Pix that if anybody should have been her unknown correspondent’s target, it should have been Carol. Nobody asked more questions, and more stupid questions, than that woman. She felt a bit resentful.
The idea of going to join the threesome was unappealing. If her mother found anything like this, she would knock on Pix’s door. If she had not received one—or didn’t find it, not having occasion to search her pockets for a night’s mission like Pix—then why upset her?
That settled, Pix turned back to her list. She was tempted to call Faith and run through the possibilities. It would be late afternoon at home, a more considerate time to call than the middle of the night, but she felt stubborn. Faith had plenty of good ideas and the kit she’d prepared had been a thoughtful, though unnecessary, gesture. Pix took up the pen. She could certainly handle this alone.
Means, motive, opportunity. Opportunity was easy. Her jacket had hung on the back of a chair in the main
