The Body in the Fjord

“Am I glad to see you!” Pix said. “You must help me. The tour guide—Carl, not the other one—is taking antiques out of the country to sell illegally and he’s killed

two people. We have to call the police right away. Oh dear, you probably don’t have a phone, but maybe you have one of those cellular ones?” In Oslo, Pix had noticed these were as ubiquitous as on the streets of New York City.

“You mustn’t worry now, Mrs. Miller. Just come on.” The woman was undoing the padlock and pulling off the comforter. “Can you walk?”

“Of course I can walk,” Pix answered, climbing awkwardly out of the bed. “But you don’t understand. Is it my English? We have to get some help.”

“Yes, yes,” the woman replied, in the tone of voice one uses with a child. In Pix’s household, the words were usually followed by “I’ll think about it.” Her children were then apt to respond, “Why don’t you say no and get it over with.”

No. The woman was saying no.

Outside the cabin, which occupied the top story of the stabbur she and Helene Feld had noted, Pix observed that the farm was empty of children, goats, and tourists. Pix would have given everything she owned for one of the bachelor farmers. Instead, she was being hustled down the path to the landing. The sleek new water taxi awaited, its engine running.

“Here are some sandwiches and coffee,” the farmer’s wife said cheerfully. Pix’s hopes rose. Maybe they were taking her to Vik, to the police. She got in the boat and sat in the stern. She couldn’t see who was driving. She was very thirsty and poured some coffee. It smelled heavenly. She put the sandwiches in her pocket and sipped the brew. The farmer’s wife waved. Mindlessly, Pix waved back and drank the coffee. It was very sweet, but she drained the cup. Sweet, like the farmer’s wife. What was her name? she wondered. Something like Flicka, except that was a horse, she thought. My Friend Flicka—that was it. A little girl, or boy? Anyway, on the book jacket he or she’d had dimples—the kid, not the horse. Pix had a

cousin with deep dimples who swore she got them from sleeping on a button, but when Pix tried it, all she got was a round mark with two dots in the center. Flicka the horse and Flicka the farmer’s wife, the farmer’s daughter. That was the name of a popular china pattern in Norway, an old one made by Porsgrund. All these farms. The boat was speeding along the fjord. She wished she could take a swim. Her head still ached and she was feeling very muzzy. A man came out of the small cabin.

“Come with me, now,” he said.

She mindlessly followed him inside, her feet tangling together. She wouldn’t mind taking a nap. No buttons, though. She started to tell him. He grabbed her arm and pushed her onto a bunk. It was the farmer. The farmer with the dark beard.

The farmer with the lovely wife, who had just drugged Pix’s coffee.

Nine

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but we have to do what the inspekor says. I’m sure everything will be cleared up quickly so you can be on your way. Yes, Mr. Harding?”

Carl Bjornson was addressing the Scandie Sights tour in the Dragon Room of Kvikne’s Hotel after breakfast on Sunday morning. He had informed them that the police had requested no one leave Balestrand. Carl and Jan had decided to break the news following the meal, not before. “Hard to be too upset after a Kvikne’s breakfast,” Jan had observed philosophically.

Sidney Harding, however, had not been appeased by the cloudberries in cream or the more than usually abundant herring preparations.

“I demand to speak to someone from the embassy immediately! You can’t hold us here against our will. We’re U.S. citizens.”

“We have relatives waiting for us in Kristiansand,” Carol Peterson said crisply. “I don’t understand why we can’t go about our business. It’s not as if any of us know where the uh…woman is.” Ursula gave her a piercing glance. She knew the missing word was stupid, or worse.

A voice was heard at the door.

“Kvikne’s Hotel is not exactly a prison.” It was Johan Marcussen. He was holding a cup of coffee. “And we

were in touch with the American embassy immediately, of course. They agreed with us that the sudden disappearance of an American citizen following so closely on the death of another in the same tour suggests extreme caution regarding the safety of the others. Certainly we hope some of you may have an idea where Mrs. Miller could have gone, but mainly we’d like you just to stay here and relax together for a little while longer.”

He made it sound like a bonus, something arranged merely for their pleasure.

“If I’m not on a flight out of Oslo by tomorrow morning, everyone from the king on down is going to know about it,” Sidney Harding fumed.

“I’m sure they will,” Louise Dahl whispered to Ursula, who was standing next to the sisters. They had had breakfast together, and while expressing their deep concern for Pix, both had also tried to reassure her mother. “She probably went for a hike in the mountains and got lost. It happens all the time, and there aren’t so many people to ask. They’ll find her. Don’t worry,” Erna had said.

But Ursula was worried. So was Marit. There was a lot the Dahl sisters didn’t know.

Carl continued to speak. “We will have a walking tour of Balestrand meeting in the hotel lobby in one hour for those of you who are interested. The architecture is quite special, as this was a favorite spot not only for English sportsmen but for artists and writers from many places.”

“Can it, will you, Carl,” said Roy Peterson senior. “No one cares. We just want to get the hell out of here.”

Jan cast a desperate look at his fellow guide. The evaluation sheets were going to be X-rated. “The hotel has—” he started to say, jumping in to help.

“Well, I want to go on the tour, and I think all of you are pigs.” Jennifer Olsen didn’t mince words. “Two women are missing. Two men have been killed, and what you’re worried about is catching a plane and”—she gave

Carol a withering look—“some relatives you’ve never met. Worried you won’t be able to sponge off them?”

Carol started to move toward Jennifer with obvious intent. Her fist was in fact raised.

“Ladies, ladies.” Carl the peacemaker stepped between them. “We are offering the tour as a diversion, to help pass the time. The hotel has many other activities, as you know. Why don’t we arrange to meet here again after lunch. I’m sure there will be some news by then.” Oil on troubled waters. He nodded at Jan and the two started to leave the room.

But Inspector Marcussen had the last word. “Activities on land. No boat trips.”

That morning, Ursula Rowe had awakened early, even for her. She lay in bed for a while, thinking of the pain her old friend Marit was suffering. Hans was gone—and Hanna. Kari was all Marit had left. In a country that seemed to abound in relatives, Marit had few. Her brothers had settled in the United States and they were both dead now —Marit’s ties with their families reduced to a Christmas card each year. It was the same with Hans’s family. When Kari was first reported missing, her grandmother had heard from some concerned cousins, but there was no one she could really turn to in her loneliness and fear. No one except Ursula. These last days, the two women had spent most of their waking hours together, talking of the past, their childhoods together. Happy times. Marit had told Ursula that she had the feeling if she could just wait, everything would be all right, but the waiting was agony. So she had known from the beginning that she needed Ursula—and Pix—with her.

Old women don’t require much sleep, Ursula told herself as she got out of bed. Maybe it was because she didn’t want to waste the time left to her; maybe her body didn’t need it anymore. She might doze in the day and turn in early, but she wakened often and arose with the dawn.

Yes, she was worried about Pix. Perhaps it had been foolish to send her by herself to investigate the closet on the boat. Ursula should have gone, too. She put on her robe and went across the hall to tap lightly on her