pocket, she patiently tried them one by one, and before long, the door opened. Thrusting thoughts of what could only be termed
In the small room behind the galley, she had no trouble locating Mother’s closet. Aware of how little time she had, she emptied the contents and set to work tapping on the walls. Her mother had been right. The rear wall did sound hollow, yet there didn’t seem to be any way to get into it. She shone the light along the edges, all the way to where a shelf had been built at the top. She took out her Swiss army knife and opened the thinnest blade. She ran it where the shelf met the wall and where the sides of the closet met the rear. Nothing. She pushed with all her strength along the bottom of the wall, just above the floorboards. Again, nothing magic happened. No springs sprung. Sesame wasn’t opening. Poor Mother. She’d be terribly disappointed. Pix had to keep trying. She began to tap again—lightly at various points; then making a fist and pounding when the first method didn’t work.
Dead center, just below the top shelf, the miracle happened. She hit it squarely with her fist and the entire back of the closet popped out, falling forward, one flat piece of wallboard held in place with clips on the inside.
There was a compartment—a secret compartment! And it was full!
Three bags had been stacked one on top of the next. Pix removed the top one, took it into the room, and examined it. She dared not turn on a light, but using the flashlight, she could see it was an ordinary piece of soft- sided luggage, shaped like a gym bag, and bright blue. It sported a Scandie Sights tag and the Scandie Sights luggage strap cinched its girth. She went back to look at the other two bags in the closet. They were similar; one was, in fact, a gym bag, sporting the Nike logo. Both were marked with Scandie Sights identification, but no other name or luggage tags. Lost luggage from other tours? Surely they would have been missed. Perhaps a repository for lost items, things left on board?
She returned to the first one and opened it. It seemed to contain bedding of some sort. A thick quilt was on top, and reaching her hand down along the side, she felt more material. No drugs, jewels, or documents. Perhaps the closet cubbyhole was an old forgotten storage container.
There was a cot in the room. The quilt even smelled musty. But the luggage looked new. She took the top piece of what she assumed was bedding out and shook it to make sure nothing was hidden in its folds. Nothing was—but this was strange. It didn’t resemble the kind of quilt in use in Norway now, and she took the penlite to examine it more carefully. It was more like a rug. One of those
It was a treasure trove! Yet not what she had expected at all. There were pieces of intricate Hardanger embroidery, obviously very old. In the dim light, she could also make out the figures of Norse gods in a fine tapestry and a pile of what she knew were old pillow covers, also woven in an intricate pattern in bright colors. They were museum quality. At the bottom, there were two plastrons, the bodice piece that was worn with the Hardanger women’s costume. They were elaborately embroidered, and Pix remembered the young women at Stalheim noting that theirs were covered with beadwork, unlike the earlier ones, which were embroidered—a dying art and very expensive. Bells rang and she dashed into the closet to drag the other two bags out.
The second held wooden objects, carefully wrapped in padded cloths. There were bowls, drinking horns, dippers, engagement spoons, butter molds, small highly decorated
These bags did not contain lost-and-found items—or rather, they did: lost by someone and found by someone else. It wasn’t a motley collection of sweaters, socks, and scarves, but Norway’s heritage, objects from the past—a past well beyond the hundred-year stipulation. Some of
the items were painted, others carved, some in the distinctive chip-carving style. Each was intact and had obviously been well cared for.
She reached for the last bag. It was much smaller and at first glance appeared to contain linens also, rolls of white pillowcases. She took one out, undid it carefully, and gasped.
It was jewelry. Catching the light, it glowed and shone—the luster of ages, years of polishing. Exquisitely worked silver brooches were pinned to a piece of felt. She recalled reading about the importance of silver to the Norwegian peasants of old in a book her mother had received from Marit. The metal was valued not just for its intrinsic worth but for far more superstitious reasons. You could only kill a troll, even the troll king, with a silver bullet. Silver buckles were used to fasten a baby’s swaddling band or a silver coin sewn in his or her blankets so the child wouldn’t be snatched by the trolls. Heirloom silver was passed down reverently to ensure everything from protection against illness to getting the beer to work. Marit had taken her wedding jewelry out to show them on Pix’s first trip. It had been Marit’s grandmother’s. There was a cloth belt covered with linked silver squares, gold- plated teardrops hanging from each engraved piece. She’d brought out cuff buttons, filigree bodice clasps, and pins of all sizes. Hans had the bridegroom’s traditional silver cross, worn by his great-grandfather, and the buttons from his vest. With these in mind, Pix undid the remaining rolls. There were more brooches, buttons, amulets, and crosses. One roll contained a single piece, an enormous many-tiered brooch with golden dangles hanging from the larger pieces of silver that made up the tiers. Red and green stones had been set in the center of the largest forms. She unpinned it and held it up in the beam of her light. It was magnificent. Such craftsmanship.
“Beautiful, isn’t it? We are known for the quality of our jewelry.”
The words coming out of the darkness took her by surprise. She dropped the brooch, spinning around toward the direction from which the voice had come, and flashed the light on the intruder. She had been so intent on the contents of the bags that she hadn’t heard the door open or the accompanying soft footsteps.
It was Carl Bjornson. He wasn’t smiling.
Carl walked to the window and pulled down the shade. They were in complete darkness except for Pix’s light, and after briefly flashing it on his face, she let it shine down by her side. His expression had chilled her to the bone. But she had no time for fear. She quickly switched the light off and dashed toward the door. He covered the distance in several large steps, beating her by inches. She shrank back against the wall. Taking a flashlight from his own jacket pocket, he shone it on the lock and firmly clicked it shut. He pulled a chair over, sat down, and leaned against the doorknob.
“I’ll take your camera, thank you.” His accent seemed markedly British now.
Pix thought naivete was worth a try.
“Carl, I know this must look odd, but I came on board to find my mother’s glasses, which she has misplaced. She’s an insomniac and wants to read. Earlier, we searched everywhere, and they are nowhere at the hotel. I thought she might have left them on the boat and came here to have a look.”
“In the steward’s closet?” he asked sardonically, clearly enjoying himself.
“It seemed the obvious place for lost and found.” He had trained his flashlight beam on her and she gestured toward the bags.
“A good try, Mrs. Miller, but not good enough, I’m afraid.” He tilted the chair down and it hit the floor with a bang. “No, you will have to do a little better than that. Now the camera.”
Pix handed it over and watched him open the back, exposing all the lovely shots she’d made of the fjord. She
hadn’t gotten around to photographing the contents of the closet. Her plan had been to pack one case up and hightail it to Inspector Marcussen, bringing him back to see the rest for himself. Otherwise, he might have suspected her of smuggling, too.
She thought about screaming. The noise Carl’s chair had made reminded her of that option. The dock had been deserted when she came, but someone might hear her now.
It was as if he had read her mind.
“Oh, and please don’t make any loud noise. If you do, I will be forced to kill you.” He took a gun from his pocket and held it in the beam of light. It looked very real and quite deadly. “You know how deep the fjord is here. And you have established quite a reputation for eccentricity—roaming about at unlikely hours, locking yourself in a sauna. Your disappearance may cause some initial alarm, but not for long.”
