Norway to Hide Read online

  Totally.

  “So you need a new maid of honor and if you could send me her measurements within the next couple of days, I’ll start working on the dress orders. Have you seen the new L.L. Bean catalog, Em? They have some very stylish dresses that could be modified for an evening wedding. You don’t have a problem with flannel, do you?”

  I padded into the bathroom in search of antacid tablets. “You’re ordering my bridesmaids’ dresses out of a catalog that specializes in camp and fishing gear?”

  “They offer free shipping for orders over twenty-five dollars. That’s a real cost saver.”

  I broke open the bottle and shoved a fistful of tablets into my mouth.

  “But here’s the news you’ve been waiting for, Em. I’ve found a church for the wedding!”

  “Wwwllly?”

  “What?”

  I chewed faster. “Really? An honest-to-goodness Catholic church that has an opening in September for a Saturday evening ceremony?”

  “Mmm—it’s not exactly a church.”

  I read the label on the bottle. Seventy tablets. Not nearly enough to last until tomorrow. I braced myself. “What is it exactly?”

  “It’s a lovely synagogue, Emily. It’s only thirty miles away, and the rabbi is so nice. He said all faiths have to come together in times of need, so he’s offering us use of his building on any Sunday in September. He’d like to make Saturdays available to us, but that’s his holy day, so we have to work around him.”

  I scratched a sudden itch on my throat. “So the plan is for me to get married in the Jewish synagogue with the reception to be held in the hog auction barn.”

  “Would you like the Knights of Columbus to attend the wedding in their ceremonial dress, Emily? Your Uncle Bill could arrange it. Swords and capes are so dashing, and the plumes in their hats would add lots of color.”

  “Are the Knights of Columbus the guys who ride the tricycles in the Fourth of July parade?”

  “Those are Shriners, dear. And they don’t ride tricycles anymore. They’ve graduated to Hummers.”

  Scratch, scratch, scratch. I looked in the bathroom mirror to find a string of angry red welts crawling up my throat. Uh-oh. “I’ve gotta go, Mom. Something’s come up.”

  “What about the synagogue, Em? Should I tell Rabbi Karp it’s a go?”

  I rummaged through my toiletry bag for my antihistamines. “I’ll get back to you on that, okay? Talk to you later.” I read the drug interaction statement on the label, then popped two capsules and washed them down with water. I stared forlornly into the mirror, hoping the antihistamines would quiet my hives before they migrated to my face.

  God, could anything else go wrong?

  “What’s wrong with your face?”

  I’d hit the breakfast buffet early and found a secluded booth in order to avoid that question, but it apparently wasn’t secluded enough. “Allergies,” I told April Peabody.

  “Are you contagious?” asked June, standing a safe distance behind her sister.

  I patted the Calamine-lotion-covered welts on my jaw and cheeks. “Hives aren’t contagious. They just look like they are.”

  “What are you allergic to?” asked April.

  “Apparently, my mother.”

  June looked relieved. “As long as you’re not contagious, do you mind if we join you? I don’t know where these other tourists are from”—she sent a withering glance through the dining room—“but they’ve taken over all the other tables.”

  I gestured to the seat opposite me. “Be my guest. So who won the Scrabble game last night?”

  “We quit halfway through,” said April, as she slid into the booth ahead of June. “Reno spelled ‘baked,’ and when June added an ‘re’ to form ‘rebaked,’ Reno said it wasn’t a word and refused to count it.”

  “It would have given me a triple word score and put me in the lead,” said June. “That’s why he didn’t want it to count. He always has to win. He’s such a poor sport.”

  “Did anyone have an official Scrabble dictionary?” I asked.

  “We never needed one when Gus was alive,” April lamented. “Words were his specialty, so he was a walking dictionary. He knew instantly if something was derived from the Latin or the Greek.”

  “And he was familiar with all the unusual words, like qoph and zyzzyva,” added June, “not to mention your two-letter tricksters like op, aa, and ka. Plus, he knew all the words that could be prefixed with un-and re-. Gus would have known that rebaked is a word.”

  “June is right,” said April. “Take your typical Idaho potato. You bake it once, do something fancy with the insides, and stick it back into the oven to rebake it. People call that a ‘twice-baked’ potato, which is another way of saying you’re baking it again. Rebaked. It’s a word.”

  “I can eat a rebaked potato in twenty-seven point three seconds,” June bragged, tilting her chin at a cocky angle.

  April grew stiff-lipped. “That wasn’t a fair contest. They threw fresh scallions into the potato mixture, and you know I can’t eat scallions. My stomach is extremely sensitive to foods in the onion family.”

  She could swallow a Virginia ham in thirty-eight seconds, but she couldn’t do onions? Go figure.

  “Did you eat scallions at dinner last night?” asked June. “I just about died, sleeping in the same room with you. Give me carbon monoxide any day—at least that gas is odorless.”

  “Thank you for sharing that,” April said stiffly. “Why don’t you announce it to the entire dining room?”

  “It wouldn’t do any good. These new people don’t look like they speak English.” She lowered her voice. “I think they’re foreigners.”

  “Maybe the vegetable medley didn’t sit well with you,” I offered, seeing my opening. “Fruits and vegetables can do a real number on you. Who did you end up sitting with last night anyway? I don’t recall seeing either one of you in the dining room.”

  “We started out sitting with Gus and Vern,” said April, “and then—”

  “We sat with the Klicks,” June corrected.

  April rolled her eyes. “That was at breakfast yesterday.”

  “It was not. We both finished eating in thirty-two point six seconds, then moved to the Klicks’ table because they were farther away from the cookfire. Remember? We were sweating like common laborers. Daddy would have disowned us.”

  “I stayed put. You went and sat with the Klicks. Reno joined me and Vern when Gus went to the men’s room. What’s wrong with you? Did you forget to take your medication?”

  “Reno was never at your table, because you were sitting opposite me with the Klicks!” insisted June.

  “That was at breakfast, I tell you!”

  I looked from one to the other, determined to pin them down. “So it’s safe to say the two of you were sitting with Gus for at least thirty-two seconds last night?”

  “Yes,” said April.

  “No,” said June.

  This is what I loved about investigative work. Crack witnesses.

  “Vern!” yelled June, motioning him to our booth. “Come join us.” Then to April, “He’ll tell us who’s right.” She pulled a stopwatch out of her purse and set it on the table.

  “What are you timing?” snapped April. “We don’t even have our food yet.”

  “I’m going to see how long it takes you to eat your words.”

  “Mornin’, ladies.” Vern arrived with a bowl of Mueslix in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. “Appreciate the invite. Space is tight this morning. Did you notice the two tour busses outside? Germans. Hard to believe that sixty years ago we were lobbing grenades at each other.” He threw a cautious look over his shoulder. “If things should get dicey in here, go for the four-minute eggs. They’re the only ammo in the place, but they make almost as big a mess as grenades. Aim for the head. And try not to throw like girls.”

  “Who did you eat dinner with last night?” April blurted out.

  “Jimbob and Joleen.”
r />   “You did not!” April squealed. “You ate with me and June. Remember? I helped you with the cap on your prescription bottle.”

  Vern looked confused. “I thought that was at breakfast the day before.”

  “Naa-naa-na-naa-na,” sang June.

  Vern set his breakfast down and eased himself onto the seat beside me. “Hell, I don’t remember who I saw five minutes ago. How do you expect me to remember who I sat with last night?”

  Could their memories actually be this faulty, or were they putting on a very clever act?

  “I heard tell if you look in some of those natural food stores, you can find herbal supplements that are guaranteed to improve your mental capacity,” Vern declared. “Something called Memorex is supposed to be the gold standard. I’m thinking I should buy some.”

  “Memorex isn’t an herbal supplement,” scoffed April. “It’s a brand of videotape.”

  “You’re such a know-it-all,” scolded June. “Maybe someone discovered that eating cellophane is good for your memory.”

  Not to mention all the health benefits to your colon and small intestines.

  “What’s that white stuff on your face?” Vern asked me. “Aren’t you a little old for acne?”

  “Calamine lotion. Minor skin condition. It’ll pass.”

  As Vern and I reached for our coffee cups, our elbows cracked together like hockey pucks, numbing my arm all the way to my fingertips.

  “Sorry,” Vern apologized, wincing as he massaged his elbow. “Righty?”

  I nodded as I massaged my own. “Lefty?”

  “That has to smart,” June commiserated. “Vern has the sharpest elbows in the Hamlets, and most of us have the bruises to prove it. He can be very dangerous to sit beside in a confined space. You want to trade places with me, Vern? Emily might not get to finish her breakfast otherwise.”

  A lightbulb went on over my head. “Did you bruise any of your companions at dinner last night, Vern?” Surely no one would forget getting hammered by his elbow.

  “I don’t recall hearing any bones crack,” said Vern, “but Jimbob’s not made like the rest of us. I think he’s got pipe cleaners for bones.”

  “You weren’t sitting beside Jimbob,” persisted April. “You were sitting beside Gus, and Gus knew to stay to your right.”

  “Poor August.” June removed a tissue from her purse and dabbed the corners of her eyes. “Everyone called him Gus, but I always called him August.” She crushed the tissue to her chest and lifted her chin. “August is such a noble name.”

  “Sure it is,” said Vern as he shoved a spoonful of Mueslix into his mouth. “Right up there with November and December.”

  That’s right, August was a month, too! April. June. August. There were so many guests named for months of the year on this tour that they could probably publish their own calendar—which reminded me of the question my mom had asked earlier. “Is there a May Peabody?” I asked the sisters.

  They exchanged wary looks before April asked me, “Why do you want to know?”

  “You’re April. She’s June. Seems as if you should have a May there someplace.”

  “That’s none of your business,” April said in a tight voice.

  “Who told you about May?” June demanded. “Was it August? He had a lot of nerve telling—Ow!” She glared at her sister. “Why did you kick me?”

  “I’m trying to light a fire under you. Get moving before all the food disappears.”

  “But I want to find out how she knew about—”

  “Move!” April slid into her, forcing her off the bench.

  “You are so bossy!”

  “If you don’t waltz your buns over to the buffet table before the scrambled eggs are gone, we’re going to get stuck eating toast, and you know what happened the last time.”

  June got a faraway look in her eye and a pained expression on her face. “I nearly choked to death. Euw. Remember how angry Daddy got with us?” She helped April out of the booth. “If the scrambled eggs are slimy, let’s do the prunes. Prunes will go down great if they don’t have pits. Ready? Go!”

  They charged toward the buffet table while Vern and I stared after them.

  “Those two gals are odd ducks,” Vern mumbled around his Mueslix.

  “Have you ever heard them talk about a sister named May?”

  “The only thing they ever want to talk about is food. But when you’re as high up in the competitive eating hierarchy as they are, you have to stay focused which is a good thing, because they can’t play Scrabble worth beans. Rebaked. Can you believe they tried to pass that off as a word?”

  I suspected Mom had been right. There was a May Peabody. But who was she, and why did April and June want to keep her under wraps?

  “Ow.” I grabbed my arm as Vern nailed me again with his elbow.

  “Doggone, Emily. I’m really sorry.”

  “Uncle.” I sighed. “How about we change places.”

  “I know I’ll be sorry for asking, bella, but has someone died?”

  “I give you a few names to research, and you jump to the conclusion that someone has died?” I was sitting on a rock on the front lawn of the hotel, observing the reindeer, who were curled up comfortably on first-floor patios, and regretting that the signal to Switzerland was so strong. Where were the dead spots when you needed them?

  “It’s your pattern,” explained Etienne. “When a guest dies, you become Sherlock Holmes and immediately begin gathering background information on possible suspects.”

  “Nooo. I do that?” It smarted to know I was so predictable.

  Etienne uttered a very long word in a language I couldn’t identify. “Bella, bella, how many dead?”

  “Two?”

  A pause. “Are you telling me or asking me?”

  “I’m trying to be accurate. It’s two so far.”

  “By what method?”

  “They were strangled.”

  Another pause. “I assume the police are involved?”

  “Two police forces—Helsinki and Ivalo. In fact, there’s a whole group of people being questioned by the authorities even as we speak.”

  “Do they have any leads?”

  “They’re pretty sure the killer is one of our tour members, but they haven’t come up with any motives yet.”

  “Which is where my computer and I come in.”

  “I’d do it myself, but there aren’t any cyber cafés here.”

  I could almost hear his forehead crease with worry. “Would it do me any good to implore you to allow the police to handle this, Emily?”

  “But what if they miss something? I doubt there’s much crime above the Arctic Circle, so they’re probably not current with new forensic methods. They can probably use all the help they can get. I have a dozen people to watch out for, Etienne. We have to catch this guy before he strikes again.”

  “I almost lost you five months ago, bella. Have you forgotten?”

  “No, but—”

  “Are you so willing to put me through the same anguish again?”

  Oh, my God. What was this? A suggestion? An edict? I froze with sudden dread. Was this a side of Etienne he’d deliberately kept hidden from me? Would he continue to respect my independence and choices after we were married, or would he try to put a leash around my throat? Were there problems awaiting me that I hadn’t even imagined? “Are you trying to make me feel guilty?” I asked softly.

  “You bet,” he said, mimicking Nana. “Is it working?”

  “No. You know I can’t stand around and do nothing.”

  “I realize that, bella. It’s what I love about you. But in all seriousness, I’m concerned for your safety. Should I fly to Lapland to join you?”

  Oh, boy. “I’d love to have you join us, but I’m not sure about the logistics. By the time you arrive in Saariselka, we could be gone.”

  “Are you sure the tour won’t be confined to the hotel until the killer is found?”

  “Grounded in Saariselka? Can the pol
ice do that?”

  “I should think someone in authority might at least suggest it. I know nothing about the Finnish criminal justice system, but I imagine that common sense looms large in their decision making. It seems foolhardy to send you on your way with a killer in your midst.”

  I watched the Klicks and Barnums exit the hotel dining room onto the beer garden patio, looking as chummy as new best friends. So the outcasts had found each other. I guess there was a certain poetic justice to that. Isn’t that what we all wanted? Simply to be accepted by the people around us? “I miss you,” I whispered, cradling the phone as if it were his hand.

  “A few weeks more, bella. How do you say, we have to hang in there.”

  I smiled. “Have you been studying your dictionary of American slang?”

  “You bet. And while we’re discussing the two of us, have you run into any more impediments with the new wedding plans?”

  “My mom has gone ecumenical. We’re getting married in a synagogue. Is that okay with you?”

  “My uncle Salvatore turned Jewish to marry his fourth wife. He’ll feel right at home.”

  The morning quiet was suddenly broken by the roar of a diesel engine motoring up the road.

  “I’ll get busy on the names you gave me, bella. Don’t turn off your phone; I’ll call you when I’ve finished. I’ll also look into flights. Let me know what the status of your tour is as soon as you find out. Ti amo.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Our big yellow tour bus turned into the hotel parking lot and rolled to a stop across ten vacant car spaces. When the door hissed open, Bernice was first down the stairs, followed by Margi with her hypoallergenic pillow, and Lucille and Helen with their super-ultra-deluxe pill caddies packed in their super-ultra-deluxe over-the-shoulder carrying cases.

  “Are you off the hook?” I asked, meeting them halfway.

  “I could have told you that before we left,” sniped Bernice. “Idiots. Are we too late for breakfast?”

  I checked my watch. “Ten minutes before they close the line. You can make it if you hurry. They didn’t feed you at the police station?”