The Body in the Fjord (18 page)

Possibly the news that Pix had discovered Oscar's body had not been widely broadcast. Well, she wasn't about to say anything. The last thing she wanted were ghoulish questions about the poor man's appearance.

“Fine, thank you. The farm should be very interesting. I hope we get some sun.” Pix decided to ignore the breakfast remark. Let them think her a sluggard.

Close to the front of the boat, her mother was sitting in solitary splendor. She reached out for Pix, drawing her into the next chair. “I was afraid you wouldn't make the boat on time, but Carl said they'd hold it for you. They are rather dear, don't you think?”

Pix told her mother she'd stopped to call Faith; then she gave Ursula her assignment for the day. It wasn't going to be easy to get Carol Peterson alone, but Mother had her ways. Once cornered, Carol had no more chance of holding on to her secret than Pix had in days of yore—actually, not so yore. Something about Mother looking one right in the eye—it had the effect of instantly causing the mouth to open and tell all, like pushing the correct spot on an old desk to reveal the hidden drawer.

“It's so quiet in here,” Pix commented.

“Of course it's quiet. There's been a death,” Ursula said.

Pix wondered how long it would take for Oscar Melling to move from “rotten apple” to “poor, unfortunate elderly gentleman,” “one of the old school,” “a character, but
you had to hand it to him, built his own business from nothing,” et cetera, et cetera. All those neutral platitudes that got said once someone was dead. She gave a little shudder. Her sound sleep, then talk with Faith and the race for the boat had effectively suppressed the image of that grotesque form on the rocks. A stranger. She hadn't known him, but they had formed an intimacy. She was the first to know he was dead—perhaps.

She hadn't even said a prayer for him. What would Tom Fairchild, not just her friend but also her minister, say? He'd say it was fine. Tom, the least judgmental person she knew. Tom, whose gentle guidance had helped her over a particularly rocky place some years ago. Rocks. That brought her back to Oscar again, and she commended his soul to whatever heaven he might have believed in. Would there be many who mourned him? A loss to whom? Loss, lost. She'd always thought that terminology woefully inadequate. “I lost my father, my mother, my husband.” As if the beloved had been misplaced. It sounded so careless.

“Pix, what are you thinking about? You look so sad,” Ursula said. “Sonja's making
vafler
. Let's share some.”

The fragrant smell of the waffles seemed to restore some unanimity to the tour group and the hushed conversations became almost normal. Carl took the microphone to describe some of the places they were passing.

“Look quickly out the right side and you will see Fritjof with his Viking sword. It is a long story, but basically he had to earn his stripes in a series of difficult quests before he could become the leader. The statue is twenty-seven meters high and a landmark of the Sognefjord, which I think we have mentioned is one hundred miles long but rarely broader than three miles wide. Fritjof has the best view around here. He was a gift to the Norwegian people from…”

Pix and Ursula mouthed to each other as he spoke: “Kaiser Wilhelm the Second.”

“Obviously attracted by the noble warrior, all that ram
paging and pillaging,” Pix whispered softly, and Ursula laughed.

The statue was indeed a landmark, towering above the park it stood in. Fritjof seemed to like what he saw, leaning on the long sword, with his other hand jauntily at his hip.

“Now, if you look out the windows on the left side, you will see what appears to be a line of big blue balloons. This is a new way we are trying to farm mussels. There's a long line descending from each and the mussels grow there. In Norway, we think it's very important to keep our farms and save the way of life they represent, so we have to think of things for the farmers to do to make some money.”

“Look at the road!” Marge Brady exclaimed, pausing a moment from busily scribbling in her journal. “You'd think people would topple straight into the fjord. Oops!”

There was a moment's embarrassed silence as everyone recalled Oscar's recent “toppling.” Then the silence was broken as Carl hastily told them, “The road is safer than it looks, and again the government has paid for it in order to encourage people to live here. In the past, the only way for the farmer and his family to travel was by water, and it was a hard life. The roads enable them to get to Vik and other places for medical care and shopping. But the farm we will visit this morning is pretty isolated still. No road, as you will see.”

Jan took the microphone and said, as always with a smile, “If you think this is steep, wait until tomorrow. On the way to FlÃ¥m, we pass ‘the ladder,'
stigen
. It is a sheer drop—impossible to build a road vertically. A man, his wife, and two children live at the top and keep goats. They have to tie ropes to the children when they play outside. Before them, lived an old lady all alone. When her flag was flying, that was the signal that all was well. When she died, the only way to get her out was in her coffin on the pulley wire she'd used to get her supplies. They still use this arrangement today, with rocks as a counter-
weight—or sometimes the farmer's wife, they say. It's called
stigen
because in the old days the way to collect taxes was by first climbing the path, then placing a ladder at the steepest part to the top, where the house is. Of course, the farmer would pull up the ladder and the tax collector could just whistle for his money.”

Everyone laughed. The group was rapidly returning to normal.

“It must be very lonely in the winter, road, ladders, whatever,” Ursula said when Pix returned with a plate of steaming heart-shaped waffles. Somehow, she could always eat a
vaffel
or two, no matter how recent breakfast, or lunch, had been, Pix thought as she spread butter and preserves on hers.

“It wouldn't be my choice, but it's glorious now. No wonder the Norwegians are such sun worshipers,” Pix said, unashamedly licking her fingers. Having gotten the group back on track, Jan and Carl were continuing their version of the borscht circuit, the
fisksuppe
act, telling a series of old chestnuts with interchangeable names and nationalities.

“Many of you are of Scandinavian descent, so you'll appreciate this one,” Jan said heartily. “A long-lost brother who had emigrated to the United States came back to the old country for the first time in fifty years. He was bragging a lot about everything in the States thinking that Norway had stood still since he left. ‘Surgery in America has come so far that a blind man got two plastic eyes and a battery to charge them and now he can see like an eagle,' he told his brother. ‘That's pretty good,' his brother replied, ‘but just last year, there was a man from here who lost four fingers. The surgeon took four teats from a cow, attached them, and now the guy is milking several liters of milk every day!' His brother was skeptical. ‘That's hard to believe,' he said. ‘Have you seen him yourself?' ‘No,' said his brother, ‘but the guy with the plastic eyes has.'”

The room exploded in laughter, the bachelor farmers, who had come in for
vafler
, hardest of all.

Pix grinned at her mother. “I'll have to remember that one to tell Danny. Very definitely middle-school humor. I think I'll go out on the bow for a bit, if that's all right with you.”

“Certainly. I'll go kibitz with the cardplayers. How can they spend all their time playing bridge while such splendid scenery passes them by?” Ursula answered. She and Pix exchanged glances. Maybe the cardplayers were on the trip for another reason. “I want to ask Sidney Harding what it's like to work for a Norwegian oil company.”

Pix took the empty plate back to Sonja. The girl's smile was automatic, yet behind it, Pix could see the steward was troubled. The entire staff must be.

“This must be hard for all of you—to keep things running smoothly when there have been so many difficulties on the tour,” Pix remarked, commiserating.

Sonja was defensive. “Not so many, and I think everyone is happy.” She gestured toward the group spread out around the cabin. Some were going to the upper deck. “It's sad about Mr. Melling, but these things happen to old people.”

Pix decided not to pursue the matter and went out to what she now considered her spot on the bow. Jennifer Olsen was there, as Pix had expected, again in the same figurehead position, a pose that once more made Pix want to reach for the girl before she tumbled into the fathoms.

The sun had broken through and the underside of the gulls' wings were jade green, reflecting the water and creating a new species. The boat had left the vast Sognefjord and turned into a more narrow fjord. Pix would have to remember to ask Carl or Jan what it was called. The boat slowly sailed past numerous waterfalls, small and large, cascading into the sea, swollen from the melting snows of winter. Here and there, a cluster of red farm buildings stood out against the steep fields. Neither she nor Jennifer said a word until they came to a sheer rock wall. The water stopped. It was the end of the fjord.

Jennifer turned in surprise. “What a strange sensation. The fjord just stops.”

“I know,” Pix agreed. “Of course, it must. They only seem endless.”

“It feels significant. Do you know what I mean?
Journey to the End of the Fjord
. Something like that.”

“We ought to have some sort of ceremony, like when people cross the equator or the Arctic Circle.”

The boat turned around slowly and retraced its course. Pix wished she was in a canoe or kayak, closer to the water. She'd like to trail her fingers in the frigid depths, really feel it, instead of just looking at it.

“After the farm, we're going to the Glacier Museum. I heard them talking. They're worried that people might think that your finding Oscar in the fjord is somehow a reflection on their organization.” Jennifer was bluntly informative. So, at least one person knew Pix had discovered the body.

“Will there be time?”

“It's not far, although we may not be able to see the glacier up close. I'm still going to go back, even if we do. I hate being rushed.”

It was smart thinking on the part of Scandie Sights. Instead of a free afternoon at Balestrand, keep everyone busy and throw in a little something extra. Then tomorrow, everyone would be packed off to Flåm and Mermaid/Troll tour number whatever thankfully over.

Jennifer hadn't sounded particularly bereaved regarding Oscar, and Pix recalled the woman's words from the night before: “I hate that man.”

“Sad about the accident. It seems so pointless,” Pix said deliberately, and then produced the result she expected.

“Sad! That old fascist! Save your condolences for someone who deserves them. The world is better off without people like him. If the opinions he expressed on this trip are any indication, there will be a lot of happy folks in his corner of New Jersey.”

“Fascist?” Pix was seeing a bright red swastika in front
of her eyes, pulsating, as if she'd stared into the sun too hard.

“Women, African-Americans, gays, Jews, you name it—he despised anyone who wasn't just like him. The classic bigot. And
sexist
isn't the right word.
Molester
is. There isn't a woman on this trip who hasn't been groped, at the very least. If there is a Mrs. Melling, she's shedding tears all right—tears of joy.”

Pix was not surprised at Jennifer's passionate outburst. Oscar stood for the people who had killed her father and grandmother. He stood for everything Jennifer hated—and maybe feared.

“This must be the farm!” Jennifer pointed to a small dock. Three children were running toward the water, followed more sedately by a young woman. The kids were waving, and Pix expected them to call out, “The Americans are coming!” or something like that. Instead, as the boat came to a stop, they jumped up and down, shouting, “
Velkommen!
” The tour visited every week during the season. By August, the
velkommens
might be a little less enthusiastic, but today anyway, the children greeted them delightedly.

Ursula unfolded her cane and joined the group, bachelor farmers in the lead, as they wended their way up to the farmhouse.

The farmer's wife did the talking, whether because her English was better or she was more at ease speaking in public. Pix recalled reading a newspaper article that listed the things people feared most. Public speaking was number one, death second.

“This used to be a community of sixty families; now we are only one—but there are four generations living on our farm, and one hundred goats. We will walk around, and please ask all the questions you want. Just to tell you a little more about us, we make our living from selling our goat cheese, which you will have a chance to taste, operating a small water taxi, and greeting people like you. Our children go to school not so far from here, by water.
I take them in the morning and get them in the afternoon. In the winter, I usually stay to have coffee with my friends and do errands.”

It didn't sound like such a bad life—when the sun was shining.

“My husband is in the barn and will show you how the cheese is made.”

She was very pretty, tall, with short, shining blond hair. She was already deeply tan from being outdoors so much. She and her children radiated good health. After scampering after the group like puppies, the children had stripped off their clothes and were swimming in the fjord.

“It's not so cold as it looks,” their mother told the group as she led the way into the barn.

Pix and Ursula first walked over to the herd of goats, scattered across the field, contentedly nibbling at what would become
gjetost
, that goat cheese so far removed from chèvre that it seemed to be produced by a completely different animal. Partisan as she was, and becoming even more so, Pix preferred the
fromage
.