Island Getaway, An Art Crime Team Mystery

ISLAND GETAWAY

An Art Crime Team Mystery

by

Jenna Bennett

On the island of roses and ruins, love awaits
and danger lurks.

When Annika Holst's father dies, it's up to the young librarian to
carry out his last will: to take his ashes back to his hometown,
medieval Visby on the Swedish island of Gotland in the Baltic
Sea.

But no sooner does the plane touch down in Stockholm, than the bag
with the cremains goes missing. A young American named Nick Costa
comes to Annika's aid... but can she trust the handsome stranger?
And what of Curt Gardiner, another young man from “back home,” also
visiting his mother’s native Sweden?

To catch a murderer, recover her father’s ashes, and find a missing
Viking treasure, Annika has to put her trust in one of them. But
the wrong choice could mean not only the loss of her heart... but
of her life as well.

Island Getaway

An Art Crime Team Mystery

Copyright © 2012 Bente Gallagher

A Cutthroat Business

Savannah Martin Mystery #1

Copyright © 2010 Bente Gallagher

Smashwords edition

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This is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places and incidents either are the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events
or locales is entirely coincidental.

It was the kind of thing that should never happen, the kind of
thing that would never—in a world where everything was right and
good—be allowed to happen.

What kind of daughter loses her father’s
ashes, for God’s sake?

But—Annika reminded herself—it wasn’t a
world where everything was right and good, was it? If it were, her
father wouldn’t have been shot and killed for the money in his
wallet, and she wouldn’t be here, halfway around the world,
sans
his cremains.

And the trip had started out so well,
too.

She’d been early to the airport, of course.
The flight left in the evening, and navigating New York City at
rush hour, straight through Manhattan from Brooklyn to Newark, had
been a daunting proposition. She’d set out five hours early, just
to be sure she wasn’t late, and had gotten to Liberty Airport with
three and a half hours to spare.

But the wait hadn’t been unpleasant. She’d
walked around a bit and browsed in the duty-free stores. She hadn’t
bought anything, but she’d noted a few things she thought she might
want to buy, once she was on her way home instead of headed halfway
around the world. She probably wouldn’t end up buying anything on
her way home either, but thinking about it was nice.

After that, she’d bought herself dinner in
one of the restaurants—she was on vacation, after all, and it was
all right to eat alone in an airport. There, it didn’t mean she was
the kind of girl who couldn’t get a date. Rather, it meant she was
confident and sophisticated enough to travel on her own, without
anyone else.

And when those activities had paled, she’d
simply sat down in one of the seats by the gate to read, the
carry-on bag with the ashes safely tucked behind her feet, where no
one could get at it.

As a librarian, she should probably abhor
eBooks—more than a few of her colleagues did—and as a librarian she
definitely appreciated the sight and smell and feel of a “real”
book in her hands, but for traveling, nothing could beat an
eReader. She’d never run out of books again. And if she did, there
were more just a click away.

For the trip, she’d downloaded everything
she could find about Gotland—fiction, non-fiction, Frommers, what
have you—and quite a bit about Sweden in general. Her Danish mother
had made sure Annika, Anders and Astrid were grounded in the Danish
language and Danish history and custom, but her father hadn’t
seemed to care that his children didn’t speak Swedish or know much
about his childhood home. They’d gone to visit family in Denmark
every few years growing up, until they were old enough to want to
stay home with their friends during school breaks, and then Anne
had gone on her own. But Carl Holst—Calle Magnusson, Annika
corrected herself, still amazed that she hadn’t ever known her
father had spent most of his adult life living under a name that
wasn’t properly his own—hadn’t ever brought his children to Sweden,
not even when they’d been so close that it was just a hop, skip and
a jump away, and hadn’t gone back himself, not in the more than
thirty years since he’d left.

Until now.

And she’d lost him.

So anyway, the trip had been uneventful up
until that point. She’d spent the time in the airport reading, and
when she needed a break, she’d watched the people moving through
the terminal, wondering where they were going and what they were
doing. Making up stories about them. That young woman, in the
Indian clothing with the red dot between her brows and the resigned
look on her face, dragging her feet... was she just tired, or was
she reluctant; on her way to India to be married off to a cousin
against her will? Just before the airplane doors closed and the
flight took off, would her boyfriend push his way onboard, to tell
her he couldn’t live without her and to convince her to elope with
him? Would he succeed, or would she abide by her parents’ wishes?
Would she find love, either way?

And the two backpackers, barely out of their
teens, with heavy boots and bright smiles... were they off to
explore Europe for a month, tramping through the Old World, gawking
at museums and architectural gems? Or were they headed to Africa to
plant crops and minister to the sick? Archaeology students, off to
dig in Cornwall, or missionaries, going to preach to the heathens
of darkest Borneo? Boyfriend and girlfriend? Siblings? Or just
friends?

And what about the handsome businessman, the
one with the black hair and dark suit, hunched over his tablet? Was
he an engineer, going to save a bridge from collapse, or an
accountant, going to save a business from bankruptcy? Or maybe a
spy, going to save the world as she knew it? With those kinds of
dashing good looks, he could be anything. She could totally imagine
him in full James Bond mode, navigating his customized Lamborghini
along the beach in Monte Carlo, top down, wind ruffling those dark
curls. She could see him pull up outside a casino and get out of
the car, smoothing a well-manicured hand over his hair and
straightening his bowtie before tossing the keys to the valet and
going inside to the glitz and glamour, his stride long and
unhurried; his face bland, but his gaze ever vigilant, missing
nothing—

Just then, he lifted his head and caught her
eye, and Annika had found herself looking into a pair of brown
eyes, as dark and melting as Godiva chocolate, surrounded by long
sooty lashes. He held her glance for a few seconds, just long
enough for her to turn beet red, before he smiled and went back to
work. After that, Annika kept her attention on her own tablet and
didn’t look at anyone else for too long.

He’d been on her flight, a few rows behind
and across the aisle, and had spent most of the time in the air
working. A few times, she’d felt prickling at the back of her neck,
as if someone was staring at her, and she’d always turned, hoping
maybe it would be him—but it never was. Just her imagination,
probably. Wishful thinking. As if a man like that would ever be
interested in a girl like her. As if she’d know what to do with him
if he were. He probably spent his time with slinky Mata Hari types,
as dark and exotic as he was. Gorgeous women with lush figures and
designer breasts, in million-dollar gowns sparkling with diamonds.
Women who knew what to say to a man like him. Women who didn’t
blush when he made eye-contact.

It was an overnight flight, so she’d tried
to catch a few hours of sleep, but between the anxiety about being
thirty thousand feet up in the air, the worry that she wouldn’t
know what to do when they landed, and the excitement about going
somewhere she’d never been before—not to mention the guilty
knowledge that in the luggage compartment above her head,
unbeknownst to the people around her, was a semi-transparent
Tupperware container full of her father’s earthly remains—she
hadn’t been able to sleep a wink. By the time the fasten seatbelt
sign came on and the plane started its descent into Arlanda
Airport, she must look as bleary-eyed as she felt.

Passport control went quickly and
efficiently, and the handsome young Swede behind the counter winked
at her when he handed her passport back and told her “Welcome
home.” Either he was an idiot and didn’t notice she was carrying an
American passport, or he was smart enough to realize that with a
name like Annika, her background had to be Swedish.

After that, the only thing left to do was
pick up her suitcase, take both that and the carry-on through
customs, and then make it to her connecting flight to Gotland.
Tonight she’d be sleeping in Visby. City of roses and ruins. A
UNESCO world heritage site. The best preserved medieval town in
Scandinavia and her father’s childhood home.

The baggage carousel was mobbed, but
eventually she found an open spot in the back, close to where the
suitcases disappeared back into the bowels of the airport. And
there she stood, watching as suitcase after suitcase swirled by,
many of them black cloth with wheels, just like hers. She should
have tied a ribbon or something to the handle before she left home,
so it would have been easier to pick out. Or instead of something
staid and boring, like black cloth, maybe she should have splurged
on a hot pink suitcase with polka-dots instead, like the one just
now moving past. No chance of anyone picking that up by
mistake.

She tried to picture herself wheeling a pink
suitcase with polka-dots, but couldn’t. Pink polka-dots belonged to
long-legged nymphs with flowing, wheat-blonde hair and skimpy
shorts, like the one who just now leaned over to snag it. The James
Bond type from earlier was standing nearby, and Annika couldn’t
help but notice that his attention—and eyes—snagged for a second on
the girl’s upturned rear and the long length of her legs.

The girl didn’t miss it, either, and when
she turned to sashay off, polka-dotted suitcase in tow, she flashed
him a smile, one he returned with interest.

Figured.

Annika turned back to the carousel, looking
for her own suitcase. There were several black ones on the band,
and more coming all the time. That one coming her way—with the tiny
nick at the corner—looked somewhat familiar. If she could just get
a look at the tag...

She took two steps forward and leaned
in.

The next second, the world turned upside
down, quite literally. Something hit her from behind, and she found
herself sprawling beside the suitcase, legs waving in the air, with
her skirt bunched around her hips and her thighs on display. She
was stunned, unable to move for a second; unable to do anything but
watch as surprised faces flashes by, their eyes wide and their
mouths open. If they were talking to her, she couldn’t hear them.
The noises seemed distant, like the buzzing of a bumblebee in a
jar, a sort of dull background hum.

And then a pair of strong hands grabbed her
and she was unceremoniously yanked off the luggage carousel and to
her feet, and the noises became voices, babbling in a lot of
different languages. People crowded around, jostling her. Arms
reached past her to grab their suitcases and bags off the belt.
Eyes stared, mentally stripping her down, and she could feel her
face flush. As reality came back, she realized her knees hurt, and
she wobbled again. The hands on her arms tightened.

“You’d better come over here and sit
down.”

The voice was male, deep and smooth. And
American. Annika looked up, and found herself staring into those
same chocolate brown eyes as earlier.