vacation.
Very nice.”
“Always happy to be of help.”
Fukida played a quick rat-tat-tat on his thighs and reached for the phone. “Okey-doke, I’m gonna get a warrant.”
“What for?” John said. “You don’t need a warrant to talk to—”
“Not for Dagmar. A search warrant. For the Big House. I thought I’d see if that old Walther just might still be around.”
“You think they’d have kept it all these years?” Gideon asked doubtfully.
“Probably not, but it can’t hurt to look. I’m gonna send a couple of guys out right now.”
“Right now?” John said. “You can get a warrant just like that?”
“Watch me,” Fukida said and punched a button on his phone.
SEVENTEEN
“DON’Tbe greedy, Einar,” Dagmar said absently, watching the largest of the sea turtles nudge its fellows aside in pursuit of a fast-sinking gobbet of bran-raisin muffin. “You’ve had your share.”
As had they all. This was an unscheduled feeding, the result of an abundance of leftovers from the pastry basket she’d ordered when that horde of nephews and nieces had unexpectedly descended on her, exuding concern for her welfare and consideration for her feelings.
God damn them to hell.
For once, the lovely cove and her old friends the green turtles had failed to work their magic. Her mind, far from being calmed, strummed like tightened wire with what seemed like a hundred emotions: frustration, shame, disgust with her spineless, selfish family—so strikingly different from her own generation—anger at being exploited by them, anger at being a weak old woman...
At first, the meeting had gone as well as could have been expected. Of course, there had been the predictable eruptions from the weak ones—Hedwig and Axel—on hearing that she’d gone to Fukida. How could she have taken it upon herself to do such a thing? What would happen to them now? Would they all go to jail? What did this mean for their inheritances? Would everything now go to the Swedish Seamen’s Home?
But Felix, all puffed up with noisy self-importance like the lawyer he was, had overridden and pacified them. If they thought about it for a moment, they would see that Auntie Dagmar had done nothing so terrible. Statutes of limitation made it unlikely that the police would find it worth their while to reopen the investigation or begin a new one. As to the Swedish Seamen’s Home, there was little to fear, due to the delightful legal principle known as adverse possession: Once property had been held without challenge for a prescribed period of time, the courts would frown upon the bringing of new suits. And, as fortunately happened to be the case, that period of time was almost always considered to be... ten years. So in order to challenge the Torkelssons’ right to their land, the Seamen’s Home would have to prove—not merely assert—intent to defraud. That they might try to do so was of course possible, but given the passage of a decade, the imponderables of proving anything in court, and the enormous hassle and legal costs of mounting such a suit, Felix would be very surprised if it were to come to anything.
And even in the unlikely event that it did, that a suit was actually brought, then the Seamen’s Home would be up against the hoary old concept of
The sludgelike flow of verbiage had soothed them.
Everyone had settled down. Then came the call from Keoni. Inge, who took it, came back as pale and frightened as Dagmar had ever seen her. The police had been to the Big House—were even at that moment in the house—with a search warrant: They were looking for—Inge closed her eyes as if she were wishing the reality away—a World War II model Walther PPK semi-automatic pistol.
After the first mute shock, all hell had broken loose. Even Felix was at a loss to put a good face on the clear meaning of this development: The police had somehow concluded that the story of the unidentified assassins was a sham; that Magnus had been killed with a weapon that had been in his own home. Of course, they wouldn’t find it; the gun had been rusting in fifty feet of water off Upolu Point ever since that night. But that didn’t change the horrific implication: The police knew.
They had all turned on Dagmar at that point, even Felix, even Inge. Why couldn’t she have left well enough alone? What had she told Fukida that could have led him to this?
Nothing, nothing, she had bawled back at them—Inge was there, Inge knew! To her dismay, her voice had cracked and spiraled into a witch’s shriek. At that point, Felix had outshouted them all and taken control again. This was no time to panic and hurl accusations at each other. More than ever, they had to stick together, be a family. They were most certainly in serious trouble now. Their inheritances, their very freedom, were in jeopardy. Still, all was not lost. Fukida couldn’t know what had really happened, he could only suspect. There was still time to avert disaster, but they had to put on their thinking caps...
It was Axel, of all people, who had come up with a plan. If Dagmar was willing to bend the truth just a little more— what little truth still remained to bend—she could save them all. If not, it was all over. Their futures, their very lives, were in her hands, in the hands of their dear Auntie Dagmar.
No, it was impossible, she had told them. She had borne the brunt of this for too long already. She couldn’t remember what she’d told the police before, and now, with this new trumped-up story they were thrusting on her (“tweaking the facts a tiny little bit,” Axel called it), how did they expect her to keep everything straight? How could she avoid tying herself in knots? They weren’t stupid, these detectives, they were bound to see through her, and then where would everybody be? And she was sick to her soul of bending the truth and said so. But in the end, worn out by the ceaseless prodding, by the endless self-justifications and airy reassurances, she had knuckled under to them, too old and too tired to fight any more.
Yes, she understood how much more important it was to all of them than it was to her, but by God, it had stuck in her craw. What about
