The Body in the Fjord Read Free Page A

to find out how the knapsacks got to Oslo. It’s on the east coast, right? And the train was on the west coast? Why weren’t Kari and Erik carrying them? And was it a lover’s spat or something more? Even if she couldn’t understand what they were saying, the woman might remember what their gestures conveyed.”
    While appreciating Faith’s advice, Pix hadn’t finished. As Faith, with the wisdom of someone ten years younger, constantly told her, there was nothing wrong with Pix’s memory, and if Pix occasionally had trouble dredging up details like the name of the kid who sat behind her in third grade, it was because her fertile brain was weedingout useless information to make room for new, more important facts—like these.
    â€œThere’s more. Everything appeared to be in Erik’s sack, but things were missing from Kari’s.”
    â€œWhat kinds of things?”
    â€œAccording to her grandmother, her passport, driver’s license, and money,” Pix said grimly. “The report of the quarrel—and Kari does have a quick temper, which I’m sure the police have managed to find out from someone by now—has caused them to change the bulletin from ‘missing’ to ‘wanted for questioning.’ The passport is particularly puzzling, because Norwegians don’t need one to travel within Scandinavia. Erik had his passport, too. It was still in his knapsack.”
    Faith reached for her pocketbook, a large Coach saddlebag, dug down, and added a few things to Pix’s suitcase: a penlite with fresh batteries, the ultimate Swiss army knife, a Côte d’Or dark chocolate bar, matches, surgical gloves, skeleton keys, and a small can of hair spray—tools of the trade. She wished she was going more than ever, although Norway, where boiled potatoes accompany most meals and dried cod soaked in lye is the pièce de rèsistance of the groaning Yule board, had never attracted her in the past. Fjords or no fjords. You had to eat.
    â€œPut these where you can get at them easily—your jacket pocket, whatever—after you land. And be sure to carry fifty dollars or more in Norwegian currency on your person, not in your bag, at all times.”
    â€œHair spray?” Pix had eyed the other items and they made some sense, although the thought of a situation where she might have to use the gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints was not comforting. But hair spray? Her short, thick dark brown hair fell into place and stayed there.
    â€œBecause they’re not about to let you into the country that awards the Nobel Peace Prize, or any other one for that matter, with a can of Mace or pepper spray, so this will have to do. Hope put me onto the brand.” Faith’ssister, Hope, a real estate appraiser for Citibank, and her husband, Quentin, lived in New York City, where the two sisters had been born and raised. She regularly passed on news to perennially homesick Faith, from what was hot in self-defense to the closing of the Quilted Giraffe, one of their favorite restaurants.
    â€œHere, take this comb. It snaps into the mirror. The hair spray will feel more legitimate then.” Faith knew her friend well.
    For a brief moment, Pix found herself wishing Faith was coming, too. She’d never carried a weapon before. Gingerly, she picked up the spray as if it were a live grenade and slipped it into her toiletries bag. She zipped her suitcase shut and set it on the floor. She’d take that sweater out after Faith left. For now, she was ready to go.
    It wasn’t going to be a pleasure trip. In fact, all thoughts of any pleasure had been shelved by Marit’s call for help—help in trying to make sense of a nightmare. According to Marit, there was only one way to find Kari and she couldn’t do it. Someone had to pose as a Scandie Sights tourist—as soon as possible.
    Someone had to blend in with the group: “The Little