Closed Circles (Sandhamn Murders Book 2) (19 page)

S
ATURDAY, THE THIRD WEEK

C
HAPTER
52

Why did she agree to this? Would she do anything to keep the family peace?

How else could she explain why she stood here waiting to show the Brand house to Mr. and Mrs. Swiss Cheese? Their real names were Ivar and Ella Borman, but in her imagination she’d already renamed them. She disliked them as much as she disliked that overambitious real-estate agent Severin.

Mrs. Swiss Cheese was now strolling through the ground floor inspecting all the rooms. She’d already seen the kitchen and declared her intentions. “It’s pleasingly old-fashioned,” she said. “But just think how much more pleasant it would be if that wall were knocked out to allow a view of the Baltic.”

Be my guest,
Nora thought as she leaned against the dining room wall, arms crossed over her chest.
Go buy yourself a unique old mansion and wrench it into a modern house with an open floor plan. Why keep a classic dining room when you can make it look like a page from a magazine? You can’t think for yourself.

She glared at the woman, who was now evaluating Signe’s beautiful antique furniture. A snort came out before she could stop it.

“Excuse me,” Ella Borman said. “Did you say something?”

“Sorry,” Nora said. “Something must be stuck in my throat.”

She pretended to pick up a scrap of paper she found near a windowsill.

“Is the furniture included in the sale?” asked Ella Borman. She pinched the lace curtains, and then she plopped down on one of the dining room chairs and surveyed the table as if she already owned it.

“We hadn’t discussed it,” Nora said.

“Most of this stuff is trash,” the woman said. “But a piece or two can be salvaged. For instance, that cupboard in the corner. It can be made into something fun with a dash of color.”

Nora gave a pained smile.

How dare this woman refer to Signe’s belongings as garbage. Signe had loved her furniture. Her father and her grandfather had furnished this house, and each piece had stood in its place for as long as Nora could remember.

Now, in the eyes of this woman, it became trash.

Henrik escorted the real-estate agent and the slightly overweight Swiss Swede down the stairs. Severin shone like the sun. He kept pointing out the many advantages of the house. The enormous sums being mentioned were not lost on Nora.

“What day can we take possession?” Severin asked.

“We haven’t decided about selling yet,” Nora said.

Henrik shot her a look, then smiled at the potential buyers.

“We can certainly talk about it,” he said. “We’ll come to an agreement that suits everyone.”

“Look at this spectacular view!” Severin said. He clearly wanted to change the subject. “You can see all the way to Runmarö in good weather. And the Waxholmsbolaget ferries pass by every day. What a colorful contribution to the scenery! And sometimes the old ship
Norrskär
passes by. It’s one of the very last steamships that traverses the archipelago. If you want a really good beef dinner, take a trip on her!”

He patted his stomach to emphasize his words.

“Why don’t we look at the dock? Very few properties in Sandhamn can boast such a large anchorage. You can tie up any kind of vessel you please.”

“That sounds great,” said Ivar Borman. “We have a Fairline at forty feet that we’ll need to dock here.”

“And think of all the guests we could have!” his wife said. “We have many acquaintances in the archipelago, and there’ll be room for them all to come by boat. We’re counting on having a lot of visitors!”

She pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head to hold back her hair.

Nora felt something shrivel inside her. How could Henrik not notice how soulless these people were?

Signe would roll over in her grave if she knew this horrible couple intended to buy her beloved home. But Henrik simply stood back and smiled as if everything were right with the world.

Had she any right to fight him on this? Even her own parents had bowed out of the discussion.

“You will have to make up your own mind, Nora,” her mother had told her when she’d tried to talk about her conflicting feelings. “You’ll have to decide what’s best.”

Her father had agreed. Nora would have to decide, but, no matter what, they would support her. They felt they were not in the position to give her advice.

Even Thomas had not taken her side. He’d only reminded her how much it would take to care for the Brand house.

Nora felt deflated as a punctured balloon. Her legs started to tremble. She wanted to get away, go home, pull the covers over her head, and pretend this house viewing had never happened.

“Here are the keys to the boathouse,” she said. “You might as well take a look as long as you’re here.”

C
HAPTER
53

“How nice of you to come! Please make yourselves at home!” Isabelle von Hahne said. “Ingmar’s preparing the drinks. He’ll be right here.” She smiled at the Rosensjöös and took their summer jackets. The bouquet Hans Rosensjöö had brought along pleased her.

“What beautiful roses! I love roses! Thank you so much.”

She led them to the living room, where bowls of snacks and a tray with eight cocktail glasses waited. Silver toothpicks with three green olives balanced on the edge of each glass. Beside them a large crystal pitcher held ice-cold martinis. Ingmar von Hahne bent over the tray preparing the drinks but smiled at his guests as they entered. He kissed Britta on both cheeks and then shook her husband’s hand.

“Arvid and Kristina are on their way,” Isabelle said. “And Anders and Ann-Sofie, as well.”

She poured them each a drink.

“Ingmar,” she said, looking impatiently at her husband. “Could you check outside? It sounds like our other guests have arrived.”

It was a command, not a request.

“Yes, dear,” her husband said. He disappeared from the room.

There was an awkward silence.

Hans Rosensjöö stared into his glass. He had tried his best to get out of this dinner. It was too soon after Oscar’s funeral for a party. How efficient, he thought, with everyone already in the area. A small, elegant dinner to pave the way for Ingmar’s election. So typical of Isabelle.

Hans had accepted the idea that Ingmar would be his successor. But he had a hard time dealing with Ingmar’s wife. She would surely be an asset to Ingmar in his new role, but he preferred to avoid Isabelle’s company. Though many admired her ambition, it made him shy away. Her motives were too obvious for his taste.

Tonight Isabelle’s voice and gestures were over the top, not that this was unusual. She enjoyed the social life, and there was no limit to her enthusiasm for organizing charity events.

But that was the problem in a nutshell, Hans Rosensjöö thought. That, that . . . he tried to find the right word . . . that obsession. She measured her life by her social successes in a way he found completely foreign. Foreign to Britta, too, for that matter.

Not for a moment would he have agreed to accept the chairmanship of RSYC for social prestige. It was his duty if asked, and he understood the responsibilities.

He had no doubt that Isabelle would enjoy standing beside her husband as an unofficial representative—something Britta never wanted.

But all of this would not be his concern much longer. Ingmar had chosen Isabelle. Now he’d have to endure her constant social climbing.

Hans looked at his own wife with appreciation. Britta had filled out over the years and was now mostly interested in the grandchildren, but she would never treat him the way Isabelle treated Ingmar. She’d sent him out like a dog to fetch the other guests. What nerve. He would never tolerate such bad manners.

He sipped his martini. It was dry, as he preferred. At least Ingmar mixed a good martini, even if he was not master in his own home.

Ingmar von Hahne escorted the other guests in.

The RSYC committee chair for facilities, Arvid Welin, and his wife, Kristina, walked in. Next came the man in charge of the nomination committee, Anders Bergenkrantz, and his wife, Ann-Sofie.

All the guests had arrived.

Oscar Juliander’s ghost hovered over the dinner.

Everyone at the table had attended the funeral, and the ladies commented on the tasteful service, the beautiful flower arrangements, and the moving eulogy.

Then Hans Rosensjöö cut to the chase.

“Has anyone heard about the police investigation? I don’t understand why they haven’t found the killer yet. It’s been weeks. What are they doing!”

He looked around the dining room. The table was set with old family china, silver candleholders, and a flower arrangement. Ingmar sat next to Britta, and Hans had been placed between Isabelle and Kristina. That meant that he would give the thank-you speech at the end of the dinner, which didn’t trouble him. He’d done it fairly often in recent years.

Arvid Welin cleared his throat.

He was a well-spoken man with an active intellect. As a young student, he’d written a number of radical articles for his university’s student newspaper. Though he’d grown more conservative as the years rolled by, after a few drinks he’d sometimes spout ideas from the wild sixties.

“They don’t seem to have much to go on yet,” he said. “But what can you expect these days? Budget cuts affect everything. You never see patrol cars around anymore.”

“I wonder if they’ll ever find out who killed poor Oscar,” Kristina Welin said.

“It’s a scandal that they haven’t gotten anywhere,” said Anders Bergenkrantz.

“Don’t say that,” said Britta. She put her hand on his arm. “Of course they’ll catch Oscar’s murderer. I’m sure they will. I think it was someone from the underworld. Oscar was a lawyer. So many criminals want revenge.”

She shivered.

“Dearest,” her husband said. “Oscar was a bankruptcy lawyer, not a defense lawyer. He didn’t handle criminals.”

“But who else would do such a thing?” his wife said. “Oscar had no other enemies. And think about dear Sylvia. My heart breaks for her. What a tragedy.”

“What if it was all a mistake?” Ann-Sofie Bergenkrantz said. Her slight double chin quivered. She smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from her dress. “I read about a man who was shot to death moose hunting,” she continued. “Perhaps someone was shooting seabirds and aimed badly?”

“My dear,” Isabelle von Hahne said, “you can’t be serious. Who would try to pot a seabird in the middle of the Round Gotland Race?”

Isabelle chuckled and refilled everyone’s drinks.

Ann-Sofie Bergenkrantz understood that everyone thought her suggestion ridiculous. She looked at her plate. Isabelle was so adamant about everything. No one could change her mind. Ann-Sofie felt even more embarrassed when she felt herself blushing. Then she mustered up some courage. Isabelle would not have the last word this time.

“Maybe he engaged in some shady business. I’ve always wondered how he maintained that standard of living. Oscar didn’t inherit wealth, did he?”

Ann-Sofie looked awkwardly at the others. It was impolite to talk about money. She knew that, but wasn’t there something odd about Oscar’s finances?

Although Ann-Sofie would never admit that she kept tabs on her friends’ financial standings, she did follow the tabloid lists of wealthy Swedes. They never named Oscar, though many of his friends were included. It was unusual that a person with his lifestyle did not have a noticeable fortune. The Swan, for example, must have cost an incredible amount of money.

Isabelle’s mouth closed tightly. Isabelle, born wealthy and too well bred to discuss money.

How come Isabelle always feels superior?
Ann-Sofie wondered.
Why does she need to cut others down? Everyone acknowledges how elegant and worldly she is. And thin, of course.
Unlike Ann-Sofie, who struggled with her weight.

Ann-Sofie felt suddenly fat and awkward.

Ingmar von Hahne, always more pleasant than his wife, came to her aid.

“Perhaps someone was jealous of Oscar’s success,” he said. He gave her an encouraging look. “He led a privileged life. Am I right?”

Ann-Sofie smiled in gratitude. She never understood how such a sympathetic person put up with such an exhausting wife. She’d never heard him say an unpleasant word to Isabelle. In fact, he would often soften her interactions with an ironic observation or a witty comment.

Ingmar was a true gentleman. And he was nobility to boot.

“What if someone thought Oscar let his success go to his head?” Ingmar continued. “The Greek gods would often punish someone who had such hubris—a person who believed he could do no wrong. Oscar seemed to have everything. Perhaps someone felt it was too much for one man?”

“How can you even suggest a thing like that?” his wife said. She looked annoyed. “It must have been a criminal, just like Britta said. A killer from the underworld. Probably an immigrant.”

She turned to Hans Rosensjöö.

“Would you like more lamb fillet?”

Ingmar von Hahne shrugged and sipped his wine. It glittered deep red in his crystal glass.

Almost like blood. Oscar’s blood.

C
HAPTER
54

Diana Söder looked around her apartment and shivered. Though nothing appeared out of place, it had felt soiled since the mysterious e-mails had started, as if someone had sneaked into her sanctuary and left muddy footprints all over her fine, bright rug.

The text on the screen flickered. She pulled her robe closer around her body. She was freezing, though the room wasn’t cold. She felt unprotected, exposed, even in her own home with the door bolted and chained.

She went into the kitchen for another glass of wine, and her hand shook as she unscrewed the bottle. She spilled a few drops.

She tried her best not to give in to panic, but her eyes began to tear up.

Four e-mail messages in the past few days, all full of hateful words describing how she’d gotten a rifle, gone to sea, and shot Oscar.
You’ll regret it if you don’t confess.

What should she do? Go to the police? Show them e-mail messages accusing her of killing Oscar? Maybe they’d take her son away. They couldn’t take Fabian! Ever!

She drank half the contents of her glass and went back to her bedroom. She left the computer on. She didn’t even want to touch the thing. Cold blue light cast a spooky glow across the room.

Who could be so cruel? So hateful?

What if someone wanted to hurt her or her boy?

She crept under the blanket with her robe still on, cold, her teeth chattering as if she were a little child.

“Oscar,” she said. She cried into her pillow. “Oscar, you can’t be dead! You can’t leave me like this! Come back!”