Dreamless (7 page)

About time for a dram, he thought, taking a small flask from the inner pocket of his waistcoat.

7

“
You have a
beautiful voice.”

She looked up with alarm. She was often lost in her own world when she walked the dog, and she almost always sang, but she thought she did it quietly enough that no one would hear. But tonight she wasn’t just singing out of habit. She was practicing a Bellman song for the concert that weekend. She loved the lyrics to Bellman’s ballads and all the hidden references. Allegories. That was what they were called.

The man who had spoken was standing right in front of her outside the brown wooden house at the intersection of Ludvig Daaes Gate and Bernhard Getz’ Gate. The glow from the streetlight settled on him from above, as did the huge drifting snowflakes. They were landing on his hair. In his left hand he carried two shopping bags. His right arm was in a sling. She couldn’t tell how old he was, but he was definitely much older than she was.

“Thanks,” she said. “What happened to your arm?”

“Could you possibly do me a favor?” he said without answering her question.

“What sort of favor?”

“I need help opening my door. It’s not easy carrying everything with my arm like this.”

“Of course,” she said. “I didn’t know you lived here.”

“I live here off and on,” he said.

She tied the dog’s leash to the gate. Then she walked behind him along the recently shoveled driveway that led to the garage and the front door. She had looked at this house so many times before, since it was on her way to school. It was a grand old house. She imagined the creaking floorboards and empty rooms filled with the scent of nicotine and loneliness. The yard had long ago gone to seed. No one had tended it for years. Tonight its bushes, weeds, and general state of neglect were covered with snow, just like the rest of the world.

He paused at the door and turned to face her. She thought his cheeks looked flushed, as if he were embarrassed about something.

“If you wouldn’t mind taking the shopping bags, I’ll unlock the door.”

Hesitantly she did as he asked. Using his good hand he turned the key in the lock and then allowed her to step into the entryway first. It didn’t look the way she’d imagined. A big modern wardrobe with sliding doors stood against one wall. A new rug had been put down recently, and there was a new coat of paint on the walls.

“Would you please take the bags into the hall? There’s a chair where you can put them.”

The hall had not been spruced up. Here the ceiling was a dull yellow and the wallpaper was faded. A beautiful but dusty chandelier hung from the ceiling, and a worn Persian rug covered the stained wooden floor. She put the bags on the chair that stood against one wall.

“I was hoping you might like to stay awhile.”

He had followed her into the hallway. She suddenly had an uneasy feeling as a question formed in her mind: Who had shoveled the path outside?

“I’d like you to sing for me,” he said.

*   *   *

“… his thoughts roamed where they liked, and no one could have guessed what thoughts he had—and that was a good thing!”

Music flooded over Felicia Stone the moment she entered Siri Holm’s apartment. She opened the door without ringing the bell, even though she’d learned that in this country even good friends rang the bell. But the young librarian was not like other Norwegians. Besides, she’d become her best friend after Felicia had quit her job on the police force in Richmond, Virginia, and moved to ice-cold Norway.

The song she heard was by Cornelis Vreeswijk, and Felicia knew that Siri had become totally infatuated with him ever since she saw a film about the troubadour at the movie theater. In fact, Siri was so enthusiastic that she’d put her favorite instrument, the trumpet, aside as she taught herself to play guitar.

Felicia had expected to find the usual mess, so she was surprised by what she saw. Siri, who had confident green eyes, blond hair that curled somewhat messily, and a light dusting of freckles across her nose, was lying on a now-bare sofa in a room that had been completely cleaned and tidied.

“What happened here?” she shouted in an attempt to be heard over the music.

The great thing about Siri was that she refused to answer unless Felicia spoke Norwegian. This was something she had insisted on ever since Felicia started taking language classes. She’d even convinced Singsaker to do the same, and Felicia was grateful for it. It meant that she now spoke better Norwegian than most other Americans who lived in the country.

“Happened?” said Siri, using the remote to turn down the volume as she looked up with a nonchalant expression from the book she was reading.

“What happened to the mess?” asked Felicia.

“Oh, that. I cleaned,” she replied, and then went back to her book as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You? Cleaned?”

“I needed things to be more organized.”

Felicia paused to consider what her friend had just said. She knew she wouldn’t get any further explanation. But she thought this might be the closest Siri would ever get to talking about her feelings. Felicia had a sneaking suspicion that the housecleaning was a reaction to the events of the previous fall, when a colleague, who had perhaps been more than that to Siri, had been viciously murdered.

“Plus, I have a visitor coming in a few days,” Siri added.

“Oh, really? A man?” asked Felicia, though she knew Siri wouldn’t clean her apartment just because a man was coming over.

“Yes, a man,” said Siri. “My chief patron is spending a couple of nights.”

“And by that, I hope you mean your father.”

“Yes,” said Siri, looking up at the ceiling. “So I’d advise you to stay away this weekend.”

“Why’s that? Isn’t your father good company?”

“He’s just a bit eccentric. That’s all.”

Felicia laughed.

“What are you reading?”

“It’s called
Skin Deep.
”

“Never heard of it. Is it any good?” Felicia looked at the book, which had a yellow cover with a skull and crossbones on it.

“I’m on page one fifty and I’ve already guessed who the killer is.”

Siri had a notebook in which she kept a list of all the crime novels she’d read, and on what page she had identified the murderer. According to Siri, she’d been wrong only seven times since she’d started keeping track hundreds of books ago. Nine times she’d pegged the killer in the first chapter. Felicia rarely read crime novels, but when she did, she preferred when the suspense was focused on whether the police would catch the guy. It reminded her of her former job as a homicide detective.

Siri put down her book on the abnormally empty coffee table and went into the kitchen. Felicia thought there was something strange going on, not just with the room but with Siri. But she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was. She seemed plumper, and a little more fatigued than usual. Siri was not a classic beauty, but she always looked fresh-faced and healthy, and men seemed to fall all over her. But today she didn’t seem quite right.

“So, what brings you over here on a Monday afternoon?” Siri asked as she set the teapot on the kitchen counter. Felicia stood in the doorway, watching.

“Oh, there’s not much going on at home. Odd is busy with that music box murderer, as they’re calling him in the paper. It’s been several days, but the police aren’t making much headway. But that’s not why I’m here. I’ve got my first case,” Felicia said proudly.

Siri gave her an exaggerated stare and said, “See. What did I tell you? And it happened fast too.”

“Fast? The Web site’s been up for four weeks. I was starting to think there was nobody out there.”

The Web site was called norwegianroots.org. Siri had helped Felicia set it up.

Felicia’s first month in Norway had been carefree. She’d spent most of her time being in love with the thoughtful, absentminded, and much too old police detective she’d fallen for. She could have continued on like that for a while if it weren’t for the Norwegian immigration laws. Eventually they had to decide what to do when Felicia’s visa-free stay in Norway ran out. It meant that they’d been forced to put their feelings into words before either of them was really ready to do so. A few weeks had passed, until finally Odd had thrown all caution to the wind and proposed.

They were lying in bed one evening after making love. It was dark in the room, and they had no idea what time it was.

“I suppose we’ll have to get married,” he said.

She didn’t say anything.

“So you can stay here, I mean. It’s too soon for a proper marriage. I’m just talking about taking care of the formalities. Then if we still want to, we could have a real wedding in a year or two. But if things don’t work out, well, no marriage is written in stone these days.”

“Are you proposing to me, Odd Singsaker?” she asked, amused by her lover’s clumsy approach.

“No, I’m just asking whether you’d like to be my imported wife,” he teased. She thought that maybe this was what she loved most about him. Ninety percent of the time he fumbled with his words, but then he’d fire off some funny remark. She was beginning to suspect that she brought out this side of his personality. That this droll humor of his surfaced only when he was with her.

They both laughed and said nothing more.

The following week they were married. Suddenly Felicia was a newlywed in a foreign country. All because she had inexplicably fallen in love. It was an attraction she couldn’t deny. Of course, then she’d realized she had to find some sort of work. Odd had assured her that he could afford to support both of them financially, but she had no intention of being
that
kind of “imported wife.” For a while she considered getting her police credentials accepted. It would have been possible, but something made her hesitate. That was when she came up with the idea for the Web site.

The plan was for her to assist Americans who wanted to find out more about their ancestors in Norway. She would act as a professional genealogist for Norwegian-Americans. Siri was the one to persuade Felicia that money could be made by providing such a service, and she could have access to all the necessary resources through the Gunnerus Library, where Siri worked.

This library, a division of the University Library in Trondheim, was actually Norway’s oldest research library. Originally founded as the library of the Royal Norwegian Scientific Society, it dated back to 1760. Today, the Gunnerus Library housed, among other things, a special collection of extremely rare historical reference materials. Because she worked there, Siri had access to a number of databases and external archives, so she could easily order any required materials. Yet Siri herself was the greatest resource. There was no doubt that her enterprising nature and vast expertise far exceeded the norm. Occasionally her resourcefulness could go a bit too far, as it had during the investigation of the flayed corpses a year ago. But there was little danger of that happening in connection with genealogical research.

Felicia knew that Siri would be a big help. Yet only a few weeks after she’d set up the Web site and posted the first ads on the Internet, Felicia started losing faith in the whole project. The e-mail in-box for norwegianroots.org had remained sadly empty. Until yesterday. Felicia Stone finally had her first customer. And that wasn’t all. Detective that she was, she could tell that this was going to be a good case. Challenging, but not impossible.

Siri had finished making tea. They went back to the living room and sat down on the sofa. It was unusual not to have a pile of rare objects between them when they both sat there.

“A man from Lake Superior contacted me,” Felicia explained. “He has a broadsheet from the 1700s, and he thinks it belonged to an ancestor from Norway. It’s a ballad. The text and music were printed here in Trondheim.”

Felicia went on enthusiastically, speaking a mixture of Norwegian and English. She pulled a folded sheet of paper out of her pocket.

“Look at this. He scanned it and sent it to me,” she said, handing the paper to Siri.

She took a quick glance and then began humming the melody of the notes. Felicia, who had no training in sight-reading, listened carefully, memorizing the tune as best she could. She liked it. It sounded sad.

“The Winding Print Shop,” murmured Siri. “This client of yours … does he know anything more about the ballad?”

“Not that he told me.”

“The title page is missing. So we don’t know the name of the song, or the composer, or even whether there were two composers—one for the lyrics and one for the music.”

“I e-mailed the customer to ask him, but he hasn’t replied yet.”

“It’s possible that the composer’s name is on the full version of the broadsheet. If we’re lucky, there are other existing prints from Winding. And in that case, there’s a good chance that we have one in the Gunnerus Library. We have a big collection of old broadsheets.”

“So you’ll help me?”

“Of course. I’ll get started tomorrow.”

Then Siri turned up the volume of the music again. “
She has no demands, suffers not from diva indolence. Climb into her bed, men and boys, peasants and soldiers.
” Cornelis’s playful, precise voice filled the room. The two women finished their tea and talked about other things—such as what they should buy for Odd’s sixtieth birthday, which was coming up. They both agreed that they’d have to think of something better than a bottle of Red Aalborg aquavit, even though that was probably the only thing he wanted.

8

Elise Edvardsen had hurled
a few more caustic remarks at her daughter before going to bed for the night. She didn’t know why she was always so sarcastic. She didn’t think of herself as malicious, and yet she couldn’t hold back. She nagged her sixteen-year-old daughter about all sorts of trivial things. It might be about a test that didn’t go well at school, or clothing she had bought that her daughter refused to wear. “So H&M isn’t good enough for you anymore? I don’t know how a daughter of mine could turn out to be such a snob.”