The Body in the Fjord

Brady. He

didn’t know what Kari’s excuse was. Guilt over what she had done to her lover, probably.

Pix was bemused. What a superb actor. She and Kari had thought he would try to bluster through, figuring that it was his word against theirs, yet she had still expected him to falter a little. His conceit was truly awesome. That was teenspeak, but it was the only word that applied.

As many of the Mermaid/Troll tour as possible crowded into the little room and watched while Pix revealed the false back with a single blow to the wall. There was a universal gasp, then another even more pronounced as a small soft-sided suitcase was pulled out.

“I had no idea that was here!” exclaimed Carl.

“I’m sure you didn’t!” Kari said sarcastically. “Yet, it has your name on the luggage tag.”

“Well, I have never seen it before in my life.”

“Let’s have a look, shall we?” Inspector Marcussen took the bag and opened it. It was the one with the jewelry. Helene Feld elbowed her way to the front to get a better look.

“What beautiful things! And in such good condition. It’s wedding jewelry, about a hundred and fifty to two hundred years old, I’d say.”

Before she could launch into a description of the various regional nuptial customs, Johan Marcussen took Carl’s arm.

“I think we’d better have a little talk.”

“You can’t prove this is mine just because it has my name on it. I demand that you fingerprint it!”

Pix smiled serenely and slipped her hand in her pocket, feeling Faith’s plastic gloves. The luggage tag had been on the inside. They’d merely put it on the outside. But there was still more to come.

Marcussen announced everyone was to return to the hotel for what he was sure would be only a short interval while they investigated further. As they passed the bonfire pile, Pix said loudly, “We won’t be here for Midsummer Eve and I think we all deserve some fun on this trip.”

She struck a match, tossed it well into a mass of shredded paper, then pulled her can of hair spray out for good measure, preparing to spritz the flames.

“No!” screamed Carl. “You lunatic! Put that away!” He reached into the middle of the papers, pulling a leather backpack from underneath a wooden crate.

Pix slipped the hair spray back in her pocket and Kari tossed a pail of water on the fire. No use spoiling all that work.

Carl had the knapsack in a death grip and in a vain effort to escape sprinted down the dock toward the boats. Captain Hagen stood squarely in his way. The police were not far behind.

“Give me the sack, Mr. Bjornson,” Inspector Marcussen said.

“A fortune! I would never have had to work another day! Never have had to listen to stupid people like them.” The police grabbed the knapsack as he flung his hand, appropriate finger extended toward the astonished Scandie Sights tour. Carl was ranting in Norwegian and Kari was providing simultaneous translation. “A once-in-a-lifetime chance! Viking silver! Do you have any idea what that’s worth!” His face was as red as the flag and his eyes were bulging. He was close to apoplexy.

The inspector had ripped open the bag when Carl said, “Viking silver,” and now he was carefully unwrapping the hoard—a hoard of smooth stones gathered from the shore.

Carl screamed and almost got away from Officer Jansen’s grip. “You bitches! I should have killed you when I had the chance!” He continued, but Kari said, “I don’t think my grandmother would approve of the rest of his language,” and she stopped translating.

Good-bye, Jennifer. Au revoir, Sophie and Valerie. Farewell, bachelor farmers. Adieu, Dahl sisters. They had waved until the boat was out of sight. It reminded Pix of the time she’d come to Norway as a little girl with her

mother and her brother, Arnold. Her father had stayed behind. He’d had to work, but he’d seen them off in New York. The huge ocean liner, the Oslofjord, had moved slowly away from the pier into the harbor, piloted by the tugboats. Everyone had thrown bright-colored streamers. Her father held one end, Pix the other. People went down below, but she clung to the paper strand, still connected to her father, until finally it tore and they were separated. Years later, she’d recalled the sensation in the days following his death—snap!

Wearily, she turned to the small group standing with her. “I could use a drink,” she said.

It was Norway. Nobody said, At this hour of the morning?

After the discovery that the silver had been replaced by rocks—“We didn’t want to take any chances,” Kari explained—they had given the inspector enough information about what had happened so he could file charges against Carl Bjornson and arrest Sven and his wife. All the airports, ferry terminals, and railway stations were alerted. Now, an hour later, Marcussen rejoined them on the porch of Kvikne’s.

The fjord looked as majestic as ever. Pix wished she had had more time—and had been less occupied. She should get home as soon as possible. School was almost over and she had to get Danny ready for camp. The scotch had left a warm, comfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach. She was tired, yet not sleepy. She had to go home, but the fjord in front of her was saying something else, something like, Sail on. The possibilities are limitless. This was no mere wanderlust. This was something deeper.

“So, you didn’t trust us,” Marcussen said, interrupting her confused thoughts.

It was Kari who answered. “Would you?” she flashed back. “My grandmother has been telling me what has been in the newspapers and some of the police theories.”

He didn’t answer. He was feeling pretty good himself, even without malt liquor. The bureau responsible for the

investigation of illegally transporting artifacts out of the country had been ecstatic on two counts. They had been trying for several years to discover the source of Norwegian antiques, primarily from the west coast, that had been surfacing in British auction houses and dealerships. Carl had extensive knowledge and exquisite taste. He’d taught Sven what to look for and the two, with Carl’s father, had hefty accounts in a British bank. To have broken the ring meant the return of the items, where they could be traced, and fines levied on those who had sold them to Sven in the first place. They’d found Sven’s wife at the farm, anxiously awaiting word. After discovering that Sven had apparently not planned to take her with him, she was more than eager to talk—and she was the bookkeeper. After a prison term, it appeared she’d be back on the farm with the goats for a long time, dreams of wealth and glory squelched.

Then there was the elation over the discovery of the Viking silver. This was an exciting event, particularly the way it had been snatched from oblivion. Ja, the bureau was extremely happy.

“You should have told us what was going on. Things might not have gone the way you planned and they could have left the country with the silver, but thank you,” Marcussen said.

“As soon as we knew Carl was still here, we knew everything would work out. Pix is a great planner.” Kari beamed at her friend.

“I thought we ought to have two schemes, in case one didn’t work. Not wanting to put all our eggs in one basket? We were absolutely sure he had hidden the Viking things somewhere near the boat or on it, so he could get to it easily. He wouldn’t dare to have it in his room with maids coming in and out. Sven didn’t have it, because we had searched him, his suitcase, and car. Anyway, it was being delivered here. We also figured Carl wouldn’t dump the jewelry—in the fjord, say. He is really a terribly greedy person. It took awhile, but we found the silver in the bonfire and the bag with the other jewelry under the life jackets in a storage container. He no doubt planned to slip it in with the rest of the luggage, as usual.”

Kari took up the story. “I really expected him to crack when he saw his secret compartment was full. He knew we had put the bag there, but people like Carl never believe they can be caught, and he just kept going. I’m sure he thought the inspector was going to let the boat sail. Then, after everyone was on board, he would have made some excuse to get off for a moment and retrieved the knapsack from the bonfire.”

“I wonder why he didn’t let Pix spray the fire. The silver was evidence against him,” Ursula said.

“I’d like to think it was his national pride, a noble in-stinct—remember, it was a Bjornson who wrote our national anthem, ‘Ja, Vi Elsker’—no relation, I hope,” Marit answered. “But I think he couldn’t help himself. He saw all his money about to be burned up and he went a little crazy.”

Pix agreed with her. There was nothing noble about Carl, and she sincerely hoped the author of “Yes, We Love,” which always brought a lump to her throat, was a far-far-distant kinsman.