Norway to Hide Read Online Free PDF

down. That way I won’t have to bother you.”
    “Did you pack your clothes in your carry-on luggage?”
    “Don’t wait up for me,” she advised as she maneuvered her pullman toward the door. “The Hamlets folks might want autographs and a short bio.”
    Why was I getting such a bad feeling about this?
    Chasing behind her, I jerked open the closet door. “Hold it, Jack! The only clothes hanging up in here are mine. Where’s your leather bustier? Your white dress with the shoulder flounces? Your animal-print jeans?”
    She turned slowly, her gaze withering. “I remember this attitude of yours from when we were married. You can be so…so—”
    “You didn’t bring any clothes, did you?”
    “I didn’t have to—you always pack enough to dress half of Africa. I thought we could share.”
    “Jack!”
    “Isn’t that what best friends do?”
    “Not on trips abroad!”
    “What else could I do? I had to pack my books! Global marketing, Emily. If I don’t hand-sell my book, who’s going to? I’ve never even heard from the publicist Hightower assigned me. I had to make a choice between clothing or career, and I chose career. And if you were in my shoes, I bet you’d make the same choice.”
    I looked down at her shoes, my eyes widening with astonishment. “Are those Jimmy Choos?”
    “Catalog knockoffs. Aren’t they adorable? They had your size, Emily. You want to borrow my catalog?”
    I slid the closet door shut. “Did you at least bring your own underwear?”
    “Duh? Your bras were too snug for me when I was a guy. Can you imagine how impossible they’d be now that I have breasts?”
    She gave me a little finger wave and headed out the door. I retrieved a sympathy card from my travel documents and addressed the envelope to Jackie’s husband in New York. I wanted to remain a step ahead of the game, because if I found too many split seams, torn hems, or popped buttons in my brand-new and perfectly color-coordinated wardrobe, somebody on this trip was going to die.
    And I knew who it would be.

CHAPTER 3
    “ H ere’s the final tally,” Osmond Chelsvig announced the next morning, reading from his spiral notepad. “I got four votes saying it looks like the organ pipes at Holy Redeemer Church.”
    At the conclusion of our three-hour city tour, Annika had dropped us off at the Kauppatori Market Square—a bustling fish and vegetable market set up on the cobbled stones of the inner harbor, with a view of massive government buildings painted the most unlikely shades of sky blue and lemon sorbet. Dining was alfresco, so my group had commandeered several umbrellaed tables and pushed them together, hoping to shield themselves from UV rays, and their prospective lunches from scavenging seagulls.
    “I got four more saying it looks like the organ pipes at Good Shepherd Lutheran.”
    We’d visited Sibelius Park earlier, awed by the twenty-four-ton sculpture built in honor of Finland’s most famous classical composer, Jean Sibelius. It was a massive abstraction of welded steel and vertical pipes and had prompted serious discussion about what other images it brought to mind.
    “What song did Annika say this Sibelius fella wrote?” Bernice called out.
    “It isn’t a song,” Tilly Hovick informed her, sounding like the anthropology professor she’d once been. “It’s a symphonic poem: Finlandia .”
    “Never heard of it,” said Bernice. “Which chart is it on? Country or pop?”
    “I got two votes saying it looks like the tail pipes Clarence Peavey chained together and stuck out in his cabbage patch to scare the crows.”
    In the harbor, a tour boat pulled away from the quay, filling the air with diesel fumes that completely overpowered the smell of fresh fish, salt air, and bodies baking in the ninety-three-degree heat. The unexpected spike in the temperature was unbearable. Even the cobblestones were steaming.
    “One person says it looks like a phone booth that got run through a shredder, and the final