The Body in the Fjord by Katherine Hall Page Page B

cheese.”
    There were a few groans. Pix was tempted to add hers. She’d tasted the cheese, caramel-colored and sweet, sticking like peanut butter to the roof of one’s mouth, but with far greater tenacity. Marit used it in everything, even gravy. She’d given Ursula a recipe for pheasant in gjetost cream sauce that Pix, as a joke, had passed on to Faith, who still refused to believe it was real.
    Ursula tapped her daughter on the shoulder. “Look at Mr. Arnulfson and his friends.”
    The bachelor farmers were beaming. It was definite. A farm. Well, well, well, they’d have to have a look at this. Maybe set the man straight on a few things. Pix found herself giggling. She knew that in Norwegian spinsterswere called “old girls.” She wondered what the term was for unmarried men. These were certainly “old boys.”
    â€œWe will be spending the next two nights at Kvikne’s Hotel, as you know from your itinerary. Now the bad news. We have a wake-up call ordered for six A.M. ”
    Groans again.
    â€œSo, if you’ll please have your luggage outside your doors by seven, we’ll have breakfast and be on our way.”
    Pix had been forgetting she was on a tour. It all had been so pleasant and relaxed, except for the reason she was there. Still, six in the morning was nothing for the Rowe family. Ursula would no doubt be ready well before then.
    â€œWhen you have finished your dinner, we will take coffee in the lobby and watch a program of Norwegian folk dancing. They are very good and I think you will like it. Any questions?”
    â€œIf we can get ready really fast, do we have to have the call at six?” asked Jennifer Olsen.
    â€œNo, of course not. You can inform the desk and make any arrangement you want,” Jan answered.
    They had been talking so much, they were among the last tables to leave the dining room, and Pix had the odd sensation that she was watching a play as the whole cast of characters walked past, nodding at them or saying a few words. The Bradys, the Petersons—with a playful injunction from Carol to hurry up or they’d miss the show—the North Dakota farmers, Valerie and Sophie, the Dahl sisters, and an older man who stopped to chat.
    Arnie Feld made the introductions. “This is Oscar Melling. Mrs. Rowe and her daughter, Mrs. Miller. Is there a game tonight, Oscar? He’s been playing pinochle with the group from the Sons of Norway almost every evening,” he explained.
    â€œOh, they’re a bunch of sour losers. Said I can’t play anymore. That I was cheating too much.” He winked at Ursula. “You notice they said ‘too much.’ That’s because all of them were cheating like crazy. They’ll get over itand we’ll probably have a game tomorrow. They’ve been playing with one another so long, they’re desperate to play with anyone new. Do either of you ladies play?”
    He was a barrel-chested man of medium height, his bald head fringed with steel gray hair. The same hair protruded over his upper lip, from his ears, and snaked across his forehead in one long, scraggy brow. Oscar seemed intent on displaying any and all of a hirsute nature left to him. His eyes were deep blue and he had probably been quite handsome in his youth. He was not without charm now, partially because he worked so hard displaying it. Pix had noticed him before. He was never without a smile—or a companion. The tiny fretwork of red veins on his face indicated he was fond of supplementing this bonhomie with a glass or two.
    â€œSorry, I never learned the game.”
    â€œI knew it once, but it’s been many years since I’ve played,” Ursula revealed.
    â€œYou’ll remember in no time. I’ll let you know if we get enough people for a game,” Oscar promised, then bowed slightly and left.
    â€œWhat is Mr. Melling’s occupation?” Ursula asked the Felds.
    â€œHe had a