Bonereapers (19 page)

She studied it for several seconds. It must be the most elementary lesson a politican had to learn. You can’t trust anyone. Valerie had learned it the hard way and now Tipton’s best friend Reagan had come back from the grave to teach it to him.

She said to the bartender, “Do you have a telephone I can use? It’s an emergency.”

Chapter Twenty-six

Thor wasn’t at the Radisson and he wasn’t in his office. Neither was Sergeant Lyby. Dinah felt a rising alarm. Tipton had bludgeoned Valerie and it was odds on that he had also stabbed Eftevang and shot her. He had to be stopped and nobody who could stop him was reachable. Her hands were quivering. Who could she call? Who would believe her? Should she have picked up the fingernail? If she hadn’t, Tipton would have. But who could say now that Valerie hadn’t lost the nail in a struggle with Dinah? If Valerie’s DNA was detectable, hers would also be there. Jerusalem, why was everything so hard?

She put down the phone. It occurred to her that she was utterly alone, at least until tomorrow. And what if she was wrong and Tipton
had
seen the nail fall out of his sweater? What if he had registered the no-doubt telltale look of horror on her face and was lying in wait for her somewhere out there in the darkness? She didn’t understand why he’d shot her in the first place, but if he had reason before, he had ample reason to finish the job now.

“Miss, are you in trouble?” The bartender had cleared the tables and was unloading a tray of dirty dishes into the dishwasher behind the bar.

“Yes. I mean, I think I am. I can’t reach Inspector Ramberg.”

“Probably went home for the night to his cabin.”

“Do you have his home number?”

“No phone out there. He lives more than four miles outside of town on the Longyearbyen River.”

Dinah licked her lips. “Would it be possible, Herr…?

“My name’s Tobejas.”

“Would it be possible for you to walk me back to the Radisson, Tobejas?”

The creases around his eyes deepened. He rinsed his hands and dried them on the towel hanging from his belt. “With all these murders going on lately, I’ll take my gun.”

Tobejas turned on the dishwasher, gave the bar a quick wipe-down, and went back toward the toilets. He opened a utility closet and took out his coat and a rifle. “You seemed to be having a good time with the young man. What scared you?”

Doubts flooded her mind. The answer would sound ludicrous. Because an acrylic fingernail fell out of his sweater. She had no proof that the nail had belonged to Valerie. It could have belonged to some Norwegian sweetie Tipton had been cuddling with, or Valerie could have lost the nail while giving Tipton one of her bolstering little arm-shakes. But Valerie wasn’t likely to have bolstered Tipton. She thought he was a kiss-up. Tobejas was staring at her, waiting for an answer. She said, “He dropped something that makes him a
mistenkelig
.”

Tobejas flashed her a testy look. “Whatever that means.”

“It’s Norweg…Nevermind.”

Tobejas zipped up his coat, pulled his ski mask over his face, and shouldered his rifle. “Let’s go.” He opened the door and held onto it until she was clear, then let it blam shut.

She shouted over the howl of the wind. “Aren’t you going to lock up?”

“
Nei
. Murder’s the only crime that happens in Longyearbyen.”

He stayed close to her on the walk back to the hotel, holding the rifle at the ready and twisting his head around to peer down the dark alleys and side streets. The wind was blowing from behind them, whistling past their ears and scouring the street of everything that wasn’t tied down. An empty cardboard box bounced down the street and passed them. A plastic sack flew out of nowhere and brushed across Dinah’s eyes. Her heart skipped a beat. She caught her breath and swatted the bag away. It flapped up and away like a berserk ghost.

The blue lights of the Radisson came into view and she began to fret over what she should do once she was inside. She couldn’t ask Tobejas to stand watch over her with his gun all night.

Something banged above their heads. Tobejas whirled around and raised his gun. Dinah cringed against the side of the building. Looking up, she saw a wooden signboard dancing in the wind.

When they entered the ambit of friendly light emanating from the Radisson, Dinah felt weak with relief. “Thank you, Tobejas.
Tusen
takk
.”

“Will you be all right from here?”

“Yes. I’ll be fine. The place is packed with people.”

“Okay. I’ll watch you until you’re safe inside. Tomorrow, you tell Thor Ramberg he’d better do something about this craziness. It’s starting to feel like the south side of Chicago.”

Dinah nodded and hurried into the foyer. Before she removed her boots, she reconnoitered the lobby. There was no sign of Tipton. It was 10:30 and the Brits were partying to beat the band, literally. A lusty-voiced gang clustered in front of the blazing fire singing “Norwegian Wood” while the band played “Winter Wonderland.” Several people were still waiting for a table in the dining room, including Lee and Rod. Dinah waved to Lee and he waved back. Maybe she should latch onto him and his partner. Who better to protect her than a pair of professional bodyguards? Mahler must have decided that he didn’t need their protection. Strange since, presumably, he didn’t know who murdered his attorney or why.

Dinah shucked her coat and thought about taking off her boots, but changed her mind. She couldn’t picture a situation where she would have to flee outdoors, but better shod than sorry. She would remain ready to run until she was safely inside her room with the door chained.

On the off chance that Thor or Sergeant Lyby had left a number where they could be reached, she stood in line to speak to the desk clerk, a middle-aged man with an angular face like chiseled granite and a mien of supernatural calm. He was juggling the complaints of two other guests—a man whose cantankerous voice could be heard crackling over the telephone and a somewhat intoxicated woman flourishing a voucher that hadn’t been redeemable in the dining room.

“I’m sorry, madam. The electronic code on the voucher does not match the number on the reservation. It’s the tour company’s responsibility to provide us with…”

“Call the company then.” The woman had to shout to be heard above the noisy celebrants in the lobby and the band’s manic rendition of “Stayin’ Alive.”

The clerk stuck a finger in one ear and spoke determinedly into the telephone. “No, sir. The hotel is unable to book a New Year’s Day sleigh ride until we know what the weather will be. If you will call tomorrow…”

“Excuse me.” Dinah stepped around the woman and interrupted. “Did Inspector Ramberg leave a number where he could be reached?”

The clerk shook his head. “No, sir. I have not seen the weather forecast.”

“What about Sergeant Lyby?” entreated Dinah. “There must be a policeman downstairs guarding the crime scene, right?”

The voucher lady turned to Dinah. “What crime scene?”

“Will you hold a moment, sir?” The clerk put a hand over the receiver. “She means the fitness room, madam. There was a mishap earlier today. There are no police, but we have locked the door for safety reasons.” He returned to the telephone, unflappable as a boulder. “If you call the desk at nine tomorrow morning, sir, we will know if the sleigh ride is possible. If not, the Svalbard Museum will be open. Or you can take a tour of Mine Number Three, which is interesting. It was the last coal shaft to be mined manually.”

“Call Polar Travels,” demanded the voucher lady. “I made this reservation six months ago. I’m not paying a thousand kroner for a dinner in Longyearbyen that I paid for already in London.”

“Their London office is closed for the holiday, madam. I will ring them first thing on Monday.”

Dinah was at the end of her tether. “Are there no police of any kind whatever who can be reached in this town?”

“It’s New Year’s Eve!” The clerk’s equanimity was clearly raveling. “Like everyone else in the world except the employees of this hotel, they have plans. If you are ill and need to be helicoptered south to Tromsø, dial one-one-two. Otherwise, you will have to wait until tomorrow.”

It crossed Dinah’s mind to request that helicopter. She still had a bad feeling, a Nordic sense that the darkness was closing in on her, that it was inevitable, and she would have to face it alone.

She gave herself a shake. It was childish to be freaked out by a twerp like Tipton Teilhard. She knew what he had done now, so it wasn’t as if he could sneak up on her. And she didn’t have to spend the evening alone. Lee seemed approachable. Or she supposed she might even foist herself off on Senator Keyes, or Jake Mahler and Herr Dybdahl, or Senator Sheridan and Erika. A fraction of an instant’s reflection and she rejected all of those possibilities. By now, she wouldn’t be surprised if Brander Aagaard had been released on his own recognizance. If she knew which hotel he was staying at, she’d call him.

It was an hour until midnight but, behind her, a few members of the British tour group had already broken into a maudlin, off-key rendition of “Auld Lang Syne.”

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to mind?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And auld lang syne.

Those maniacs would be partying all night. All she had to do was make herself congenial and blend in for a few hours. Eventually, some of them would retire to the second floor and she would tag along until she could escape into her room and lock the door.

She picked her way back through the crowd to the big stone fireplace where the singers were holding forth.

For auld lang syne, my jo,

For auld lang syne,

We’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

A soft, dumpling of a man with a thatch of gray hair that made him look like a chinchilla draped an arm around her shoulder, nuzzled her earlobe, and crooned. W
e two have run about the slopes, and picked the daisies fine…But we’ve wandered many a weary foot, since auld…lang…syne.
If anyone had struck a match, his breath would have been combustible.

Dinah disengaged herself and moved into a vacant chair away from the fire. She tossed her coat across the back, but she was still too cold to take off her sweater.

We two have paddled in the stream,

From morning sun till dine;

But seas between us broad have roared,

Since auld…lang…syne.

If she hadn’t been so preoccupied with murder, she might have a shed a sentimental tear for her auld lang syne. She wondered what Jon would be doing when the New Year tolled across the seas in Hawaii, but checked herself and banished the thought. As for her not-so-auld lang syne, Thor Ramberg, she couldn’t let herself think about what he was doing or with whom. She was too angry. Even if he was no longer in charge of the investigation, even if he had no experience working a murder case, even if his superiors had it in for him, he ought to be here, the slacker. He should be here to see that no additional murders sullied Longyearbyen’s pristine reputation.

And surely you’ll buy your pint cup,

And surely I’ll buy mine;

And we’ll take a right good-will draught,

For auld…lang…syne.

Dinah harked back to all the clues she’d missed. Tipton’s mother served on the Board of the American Council of Arts with Portia Warren. Why had she not made the connection? Zeb Warren was Sheridan’s Republican rival. Apparently, Portia and/or Zeb had co-opted Tipton and turned him into a mole. He must have passed on the information to Warren that Mahler would be traveling with Sheridan to Norway. And for some reason, he had murdered Fritjoe Eftevang. He’d probably boosted the knife when he went into the kitchen to supervise the making of Keyes’ sandwiches. And how easy it would have been for Tipton to send an e-mail from Sheridan’s computer. He wouldn’t have needed to hack into the account. He was the techie, the trusted security guy. He would have had Sheridan’s password and could have gone in and monkeyed with the account whenever he wanted.

The band launched into “Norwegian Wood” and the chinchilla look-alike led his off-key choir in a rousing sing-along.

I once had a girl,

or should I say…

Dinah couldn’t stand it. She wasn’t feeling congenial enough to last through another forty-five minutes of this gin-fueled concert until midnight and the ultimate chorus of “Auld Lang Syne.” It was too…fatiguing. Too emotionally…emotional. She picked up her coat and headed back toward the ladies room for an illicit cigarette. It had been a hellacious year and, if she wasn’t going to be kissed at midnight, she deserved the license to do whatever else she pleased with her body, whatever else she deemed soothing and pleasurable. Anyway, this would be her very last smoke. Her birthday resolution hadn’t taken, but at the stroke of midnight, she would swear off tobacco forever more.

She went into the ladies room and found it blessedly empty, but not quiet. She could still hear the merrymakers’ voices raised to the rafters, butchering “Norwegian Wood.” She rested her purse on the counter and dug around for the pack of Petterøes with both hands. Mittens, chemical warmers, chocolate mints. Another New Year’s resolution would be to carry a smaller purse and less stuff. Not every outing was a polar expedition, for crying out loud. She found the cigarettes at the bottom, slightly squashed, fished the matchbook out of the cellophane sleeve on the pack, and lit up. There was a chartreuse chaise longue under an Art Deco poster of a 1930’s jazz club. She threw herself down and brooded. There were a couple of half-filled plastic glasses on the side table, one with a blotch of red lipstick. It reminded her of Valerie’s lipstick.

She inhaled indulgently. Recklessly. Like a character in an old movie. Like Bette Davis in
All About Eve.
A Bette Davis quote popped into her head. “Everybody has a heart. Except some people.” Wasn’t that the truth!

She took a few more puffs, but the Petterøe wasn’t as soothing as she’d hoped. It left a bad taste in her mouth. She dropped it into a plastic glass. The ember sizzled in the un-drunk gin for an instant and died. She laid her head back on the chaise, closed her eyes, and wished herself a Happy New Year.