The Body in the Fjord Read Online Free PDF Page A

Pix. Pix was not surprised. Norwegians as a whole were not given to letting it all hang out. Erik was dead and Kari was missing—wanted by the police to aid them in their inquiries, as it was delicately put—but you’d never be able to tell from Marit’s demeanor. A Norwegian’s entire family could have been wiped out by a giant meteorite and the first thing he or she would say to a visitor would be, “You must be hungry. How about some coffee and a little cake?” And Marit was doing it now.
    â€œYou are so good to come. How was the trip? Are you very tired? Or hungry? And where is Ursula? Surely she has not been stopped by customs.”
    â€œIsn’t she with you?” Pix looked wildly about the waiting room. It wasn’t very big. “She came out ahead while I waited for the bags.”
    â€œNow, now, don’t worry. There’re not so many places she could go. We’ll have her paged.”
    Pix had lost her children any number of times, ranging from agitated seconds in the aisles of Aleford’s Stop ’n Save to full terror at the Burlington Mall for five minutes before Danny emerged from beneath a sale rack at Filene’s. But she had never lost her mother.
    Marit was speaking to a friendly-looking woman at the SAS information counter. “Yes, of course we have Mrs. Rowe. She’s having some coffee and a little cake with us in the back room. She didn’t see you and we thought she’d be more comfortable here.”
    It was the first time Pix had heard Norwegian English in a long time and her ear welcomed the slightly singsong, lilting sound—some of the sentences ending on a questioning note—“Of course we have Mrs. Rowe?”—certain words punctuated by a quick intake of breath for emphasis, almost always with ja or nei. Marit had spoken this way, too, but Pix had been too busy scanning Fornebu for some sign of Ursula to appreciate it. She remembered with a sharp stab what her children had called “Norwegian teen-speak,” Kari’s frequent addition of a giggle or outright laughter at the end of a remark.
    Marit had tucked Ursula’s arm through hers and was leading the way out of the airport. She was making determined small talk—about the flight, about the plans to move the airport from Oslo’s center to Gardermoen, north of the city. “We all love Fornebu. It’s so convenient, except it really is too small. You know, we used to call it a ‘cafeteria with a landing strip,’ and it has gotten much bigger, but still the new one will be better. It will be nice to be on the fjord and not see the jumbo jets.” So far, nothing had been said about Kari or Erik.
    Pix followed, carrying the bags. She blinked in the bright daylight. Like the airport, the very air seemed scrubbed clean. And the cars—they all looked like new, no dents, no grime. Marit opened hers with an automatic key, apologizing. “It came with it and now I’m so used to it.” Another national trait: no bragging, no self-aggrandizement. The opposite, in fact. During the Olympics, there had been a concerted campaign to get the Norwegians to root actively for their own athletes, passionately as they might feel inside. They had to be reassured that it was quite acceptable and the world wouldn’t think they were a nation of show-offs. Showing off—a Lutheran sin, right up there with adultery, lying, and murder. There was even a Norwegian word for it, jantelaw, which roughly translates as “Now, don’t go thinking you’re better than anyone else.”
    It was a short ride to Marit’s apartment. When Marit’shusband, Hans, died, she and Kari, who was a young teenager, had moved to the capital city, using the house in Tønsberg for weekends and during the summer.
    Even in the car, Marit avoided the topic on everyone’s mind, but the moment they entered the apartment, it was the time and