A Darker Shade of Sweden (11 page)

“Today I need something stronger,” he said. “It's all right now. Please go on.” He lifted his cup and drank. “I'm sorry, I really am a bad host. Would you like some as well?”

“No thanks,” Louise said. “I'm fine with just coffee.” Though truth to tell, she, too, would have preferred something stronger. For what she knew filled her with uneasiness. She began talking. Since she was the vicar, the stonecutters had been very forthcoming.

“The fifth stonecutter I talked to delivered the stone with your name on it in early June. They remembered it well, since they'd thought it very peculiar not to put any dates on it.”

“So I was right when I said I never ordered it, even if I've been a bit muddled,” Paul said.

“Yes, you were right. It was ordered and paid for by a small company right here in town,” Louise said, trying hard to sound calm.

“But what do I have to do with them?”

“Nothing at all, I gather,” Louise said.

The stonecutters had sent her copies of all the paperwork. Everything seemed perfectly all right. Yet it was all wrong. She wondered how to tell Paul what she had found out.

“Actually,” she said, “I think you should get someone to help you with this.”

“Well, I suppose I could always ask one of my nephews,” Paul said.

“Great. This sort of thing can be very demanding.”

“Yes. But I'd really appreciate getting this thing fixed,” Paul said.

While he went out in the hallway to make his phone call on the landline telephone he kept in his old-fashioned way on a low teak bureau, Louise got out an envelope where she had put the photocopies of the invoice and the payment receipt she had received from the stonecutter, as well as the copy the tax authorities had given her of Carl-Edvard Palm's change of address. She quickly wrote a short explanatory note, adding her greetings and her phone numbers. The company that had ordered the tombstone was a real estate agent, and she had found out who owned it. But she preferred not to tell Paul. It was a matter for his nephews to take care of, not something to upset an already upset old man with.

“If you just give me his name and address, I can mail this to him,” Louise said when Paul returned.

“Please. My nephew Gunnar will take care of it for me. He's always willing to help out when I need it,” Paul said.

A few days later, Gunnar Bergström phoned Louise and asked her what really was going on. His uncle Paul hadn't been able to explain it very well.

“I'm afraid I probably can't explain it either,” Louise said.

“Well, anyway, thanks for sending me those copies,” Gunnar said. “It seemed pretty nasty. We've asked the stonecutters to remove the black stone. They'll pick it up today, and if there's any more trouble, they will have it out with Carl-Edvard Palm.”

“Good. Nobody will miss it,” Louise said. “Does Paul know that it was Palm who had it set up?”

“No, I just told him there had been some mistake,” Gunnar said. “And I've called the tax people and told them that Palm doesn't live in Paul's house, or at his address. Now it's their job to sort it out. I called Palm as well, but I couldn't get him to say anything sensible. He gave me some kind of tribute to Emma and Paul and their great love. When I asked him to explain in what way the tombstone and his address change were connected to the great affection for Paul he professed, he got abusive. But I don't want to talk about him. Mostly I wanted to thank you for caring about my uncle.”

“It was no trouble at all. He is a good man. Let's keep in touch,” Louise said.

Less than a month later, Louise had to prepare a funeral. In her world, life was in constant turmoil, beginning and ending without notice. Paul had passed away, and his nephews had asked her personally to officiate. When Gunnar Bergström called, she was in her vestry. He was cleaning out Paul's house.

“I know that my uncle came to care for you. If it feels right, you are very welcome to come by and pick out something to remember him by,” Gunnar said.

“I'll be happy to. And we could talk about the ceremony without being disturbed,” Louise said.

A little later, she sat with Gunnar in the by now familiar kitchen. Habit had made her check the mailbox on her way in, but this time it had been empty. On the other hand, the kitchen table was even more full of papers than usual, serving as storage for all the insurance policies, bills, subscriptions and private documents Gunnar had found in drawers and cupboards.

“It feels strange and a little solemn to be here without Uncle Paul,” Gunnar said. “So today it seems right to use his best china, the set he only used on special occasions. He kept it in that showcase cupboard. Do you think you could get cups?”

“Of course,” Louise said, pulling up a chair to stand on. “It's a little rickety,” she added, balancing two cups and saucers in one hand and a carefully sealed envelope in the other. “This was wedged in next to the plates. I think you'd better take care of it. It says
Deed of gift
on the envelope.”

“In that case I'm pretty sure I know what it is,” Gunnar said. “Just put it with the other papers.”

When they had finally sat down, begun sipping their coffee from the flowery, golden-handled cups and picking out the hymns to be sung at the funeral, someone opened the door to the house. Carl-Edvard Palm stepped in, camera in hand. He walked straight to the kitchen but stopped at the threshold.

“How do you do,” he said, obviously surprised. “So you are here?”

“How do you do yourself,” Gunnar said. “Yes, I'm here with the vicar to arrange some practical things after my uncle passed away.”

“Hello. I'm Louise Alm,” Louise said, holding out her hand.

“A pleasure,” Carl-Edvard said, introducing himself. “Well. Yes, I suppose there is a lot of paperwork at times like these. Too bad about your uncle, of course. My sympathies.”

He remained irresolutely in the doorway for a moment. Obviously the others intended to stay put for quite a while, he realized. Oh well, he could always return when they had left. Now he just had to make sure not to make a wrong step. But, of course, he had brought his camera.

“Right. Well, I'll just go about my business, I suppose,” Carl-Edvard Palm said, and disappeared into the living room.

Louise and Gunnar exchanged a bewildered look. Soon they could hear the sounds of furniture being dragged around, interrupted by groaning and moaning.

“He's a real estate agent and seems to be taking pictures of the house,” Gunnar said when they saw flashes of light reflected from the living room. “Maybe he intends to put it up for sale.”

“I think it's a pity that none of you want to stay in this nice house.”

“Oh, but my brother will move in as soon as the estate is divided up. He took care of keeping it up ever since Uncle Paul grew too old to do it himself,” Gunnar said. “I really don't know what he is doing here.”

Louise went along with him into the living room. Palm was busy trying to find angles where the photos would show the antique charm of the house.

“Would you mind telling me what you are doing?” Gunnar asked.

“Oh. Yes. Well, I assumed that the house will be put up for sale,” Palm said. “And I thought it best to be prepared. I mean, so you can get going at the right time of year, when buyers are eager to find something quickly. Next month prices usually fall, when everyone is away on vacation.”

“Right. But our meeting with the lawyer about the inheritance is set for the week after next, so nothing has been decided yet,” Gunnar said.

“Oh. Well, I was only trying to help you out. After all, we're almost family. Or were.”

“I think you'd better leave now,” Gunnar said.

“Well, I can always come back. By the way, who is handling the distribution of Paul's estate? Would that be you, Gunnar?”

“No. It's a lawyer my uncle picked himself,” Gunnar said.

“Indeed. May I ask you which one?”

Gunnar told him, and asked him again to leave. Palm left, obviously disgruntled. Gunnar and Louise returned to the kitchen.

“Palm has always been high-handed rather than helpful,” Gunnar said. “But taking that kind of liberty is more than I'd expected even from him.” He opened the window, and the slight breeze blew the lace curtains and the scent of apple blossoms into the room. “Obviously he has gotten hold of Emma's keys to this place,” Gunnar said after a moment. “I ought to get them back from him. Though God knows how many copies there may be.”

“I could ask Him,” Louise said. “But I don't think He'll tell me.”

Gunnar laughed.

Louise left, feeling ill at ease despite the little creamer she had picked as a memento. The one she and Paul had used so often during their many talks at the kitchen table.

Gunnar stayed on to clean up and sort through his uncle's papers. Then he phoned a locksmith and took all the relevant documents along to the lawyer.

From his office, a week after Paul Bergström's funeral, Carl-Edvard Palm cheerfully phoned the lawyer who was handling the estate.

“Carl-Edvard Palm speaking. This concerns the estate of Paul Bergström. His nephew Gunnar has told me that you will hold a meeting to shift the inheritance in a few days.”

“Yes, that's correct,” the lawyer told him. “It's set for next Tuesday.”

“Yes. But the thing is, I don't seem to have received a notice to attend,” Palm went on.

“No, I'm sure that is also correct,” the lawyer said in a neutral voice. “Since you aren't entitled to any share, you aren't notified. But we have notified your two daughters.”

“What? What! There must be some mistake,” Palm exclaimed. “Are you sure your papers are in order? Have you looked through his house? Really looked carefully?”

“Certainly,” the lawyer said. “Everything is being done according to Mr. Bergström's will.”

“Oh, no, I'm not buying that, I know there's something fishy going on,” Palm told him angrily. “But you'll be hearing from me, be sure of that!”

“Thanks for calling,” the lawyer said. But Palm had already hung up.

“The shit has hit the fan,” he said aloud. “I'd better check up on it.”

But at the front door of Paul's house, he discovered that his key no longer fit the lock.

The following week, Paul's two nephews and Emma's two granddaughters came to the lawyer's office to attend the shifting of the estate. After the meeting, Gunnar phoned Louise.

“I just wanted to tell you that I and my brother get the house, and that the girls get fifty thousand crowns each.”

“Well, I suppose that was expected. So I hope everyone is satisfied,” Louise said.

“Not quite everyone,” Gunnar said. “There is a drama behind it. That envelope you happened to find turned out to contain another will none of us had ever heard about. In that one, our uncle left his house to Carl-Edvard Palm, and a hundred thousand to Palm's daughters. It seemed perfectly legal and was correctly witnessed. It was dated the week after Emma died.”

“I understood that Paul was in a very bad way back then,” Louise said. “He could hardly have been in a state to make any important decisions. Did he really understand what he was signing, that he was disinheriting both you and your brother?”

“No, not likely. But he often said that he wanted to give the girls some money. Though only money.”

“I'm sure he did,” Louise said. “But that thing about the house sounds suspicious.”

“So it was. My brother and I went with Uncle Paul to show him that the black tombstone was really gone,” Gunnar said. “And while we were talking he remembered that Palm had turned up with some papers to sign concerning gifts to Emma's granddaughters. We searched, but couldn't find anything. That made Uncle worried that his deed had been lost, so in the end I went with him to the bank where he wrote a new will and put it in his safe-deposit box. He never showed me what he wrote, and only his lawyer was authorized to open that box. I never saw his will until today, and I didn't know about that other one until you found it, even if I suspected something. But the fact is that Palm's attempt to swindle my uncle failed only by pure chance. Imagine that. Pure chance.”

Gunnar and Louise fell silent. Neither of them felt like saying anything more.

Later that day, Louise stopped for a moment on the church stairs. In the dusk she saw that someone had put fresh roses on Paul's grave. It warmed her heart to know that others also remembered him. There was something deeply hopeful in all these small, visible proofs of concern for others. Louise walked down to the grave. There was a small, unsigned card tied to the bouquet. She read it.

From those who thought of Paul,
unlike his greedy relatives who sabotaged his last will
.

Louise read the words over and over again. Unbelievable. Did that Realtor imagine that he could abuse the graveyard as his private battlefield? It could hardly be anyone else. She had had enough. She tore the card into pieces, walked away and stopped by the churchyard gates with her hand full of shredded paper. Her heart was pounding in anger. She threw the pieces of paper into the wastebasket at the bus stop before getting on the bus to go home. She was still upset when she reached her house and stood for a while outside her door.

This was far from over, she realized.

A sudden impulse made her go back to the church. She sifted through the wastebasket, retrieving the torn card. When she sat down in her vestry she felt lost. Why had she come back here?

She lit a candle to calm herself. The pieces of paper were spread on the table before her, almost illegible now after being smeared by ice-cream wrappers and the damp remains of some unidentified fruit. She looked at them for a long time. The dirt on them matched the dirty thought behind them.