Island Getaway, An Art Crime Team Mystery (22 page)

Bury me standing... that was the name of a
book, wasn’t it? Something to do with gypsies?

It was a long time since she’d seen it, but
if memory served, the Brooklyn College Library had a copy, for
students reading anthropology. She’d dealt with it in her library
science classes. She’d even read a bit of it, since the title was
intriguing.

At least when I die, bury me standing, I’ve
been on my knees all of my life.

Her father hadn’t been a gypsy, though. He’d
never mentioned it, nor had anyone else. And he’d looked like a
Swede, tall, blond and rugged.

And anyway, he’d wanted to be cremated. How
could she bury him standing if all that was left was ash?

The reference to the stone was equally
frustrating. Which stone? It wasn’t like there was any lack of
them. There were foundation stones all over the place. The entire
Visby city wall was made of stones, all three and a half kilometers
of it. There was a ring of standing stones on the southern part of
the island and a ship burial on the west coast. A tall monument
stood in the middle of the Martebo cemetery, commemorating Knut
Stare and his son—maybe the locals were trying to placate their
restless ghost. And of course there were plenty of other stones
here too, in every direction. Obviously, the Gotlanders had never
considered cremation as a viable option.

Annika turned in a slow circle, scanning the
cemetery. It was small, but then the town it served was small as
well. So was the church; the tiny white building looked like it
might seat thirty people at most.

Her father had probably been christened
there. Her grandparents might have been married there. If her
grandmother had had a funeral, it had probably taken place there,
too.

The cemetery was small enough that it only
took her a few minutes to find Margareta Magnusson’s grave. She lay
beside her husband Björn; both names carved into their headstone so
long ago that they were worn shallow by wind and weather.

Did her father want her to dig a hole here,
and pour him over his parents’ grave? That would make sense. He’d
never gone back to see them—or his mother—in life; maybe he wanted
to be laid to rest with them in death.

He could have been a little more specific,
though. There was nothing to separate this stone from any other,
and anyway, how was she supposed to get under it? If she dug
beneath a gravestone, wouldn’t it fall?

If she dug beneath a gravestone, wouldn’t
she be digging into a grave?

Her father had never seemed to be
particularly religious. But surely he’d draw the line at
desecrating graves. Wouldn’t he?

Bury me standing, under the
stone
.

There was really only one stone in Martebo
that someone might refer to as
the
stone. The commemorative
stone for Knut Stare and his son stood head and shoulders above the
others in the cemetery.

She picked up the bag and wandered toward
it, gnawing on her lip.

Something about this didn’t make sense.

Customarily, you didn’t bury cremains;
that’s why people got cremated, because they didn’t want to go in
the ground for the worms to feast on.

Then again, her father might have realized
that there was no way she’d be able to carry a coffin out here to
bury. Nor would she get permission to do so, she suspected. While a
container of ashes was easy to dispose of.

But God, what had he been thinking? She
looked from the stone to the church, over her shoulder, to the
landscape of headstones stretching in every direction. This was
holy ground. She couldn’t dig here!

It isn’t a grave. Just a
monument
.

True. She wouldn’t be digging where anyone
was buried. And besides, people dug up graves all the time for the
treasure they might find. Look at all the Viking ship burials. For
that matter, look at King Tut.

And there was nobody around to see. She made
sure of that. She looked around very carefully in every direction
before she put the bag to the side, sank to her knees, and began
scraping at the ground in front of the monument with her hands.

Now
where the hell was she?

Nick had woken from the deepest sleep he’d
enjoyed in days, with the scent of Annika in his nostrils and the
sense of her imprinted on his body. Eyes still closed, he’d reached
for her—and found nothing. The bed was empty, and more, cold.

Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes and looked
around. No, no sign of her. She was gone, along with her clothes,
her shoes, and her glasses from the bedside table.

That couldn’t be good.

But maybe she’d just woken early and gone to
take a shower. The shared bath was down the hall. And they were
both a bit sticky from last night. Or at least he was, and he had
to assume she was too.

Last night had been amazing.
She’d
been amazing. It had taken her a little time to warm up, but once
they were over the hump—
bad choice of words, Costa
—she’d
blown him away.

Did it again
.
Get your mind out of
the gutter.

She’d been amazing. She’d made him
reconsider everything he’d ever known or thought he knew about
librarians. And he’d been pretty sure she’d enjoyed herself
too.

So where the hell was she? Hadn’t she
realized he’d wake up wanting her again? Hadn’t she woken up
wanting him?

He rolled out of bed and bent to grab his
pants. And it was while he was walking toward the door, zipping
them up, that he realized something was missing.

Something other than Annika. And her
clothes. And her glasses from his bedside table.

Lena had brought Annika’s luggage up to his
room yesterday morning. Of course she had; he’d been in too much of
a hurry to tell her the bags weren’t his. Both bags had been there
when he went downstairs to wait for Annika yesterday evening,
sitting beside the door. Her room had been locked, and while he
could have opened it, he’d decided to respect her privacy. He’d
just tell her he had her stuff, and hope she’d be grateful. But
then he’d forgotten all about it, and when they made it back
upstairs, he’d had other things on his mind. He hadn’t looked for
the bags. He could probably assume they’d both been there,
though.

Now the overnight bag was gone.

And he hadn’t explained to her why he had
it.

Shit!

She probably thought he was the one who had
stolen it at the airport. That he’d had it all along.

That he’d had some ulterior motive for
seducing her last night.

He yanked the door open and stormed into the
hallway, not caring who saw him or what they thought. “Annika!”

The bathroom was empty, the door half open.
It held no hint of lingering steam, so he could probably assume she
hadn’t stopped to take a shower.

“Annika!”

Her door was closed, and when he tried the
handle, locked. He banged on it. “Annika! Open up!”

There was no answer, and part of him had
expected none. She probably hadn’t stuck around once she found the
bag. Maybe she’d just gone out. Or maybe she’d done what she did in
Stockholm, and had left everything behind and just run.

Once he got his tools, opening her door was
a cinch. Lena’s house was old, and the locks were basic. It took
him less than a minute to get into Annika’s room. He stopped in the
middle of the floor and looked around.

It looked much like his own. Sloped ceiling,
wood floors, antique full size bed, since they probably couldn’t
get a queen, much less a king, up the narrow stairs. The bed was
made. A couple pieces of clothing—T-shirt, shorts, and bra—were
crumpled on the coverlet. He recognized them from when he took them
off her last night.

So at least she’d been here after she left
him. But she wasn’t here now. She must have thrown on clean clothes
and headed out. Did that mean she planned to come back? It wouldn’t
have taken her long to toss her few belongings back into the
plastic bag she’d come here with. Now that he’d brought her her
suitcase, she could have taken that, as well. Yet she hadn’t. The
only thing she’d taken was the bag with the ashes.

So maybe she hadn’t left permanently?

Maybe she’d just gone somewhere with the
bag, and she planned to return?

At least he’d get his chance to explain if
she came back. But it didn’t ease his tension. Someone was out
there with a gun, someone who wasn’t opposed to committing murder,
and Nick was pretty sure Annika was in the middle of it. There may
not be a target on her forehead—unless he was wrong about her—but
when bullets went flying, it was easy for an innocent librarian to
be caught in the crossfire. Especially as she probably didn’t have
enough sense to duck.

His phone signaled from the other room, and
he ran to get it. Maybe she was calling him. Maybe she’d realized
that he’d worry, and she’d want to put his mind at ease. Maybe
nothing was wrong. Maybe...

He grabbed the phone with a hand that shook.
“Hello?”

“Good morning to you too,” Fredrik’s smooth
voice said.

“Oh.” Nick closed his eyes and ran his free
hand over his face. “It’s you.”

“Who did you expect?”

“Annika’s gone. Again.”

“So?” Fredrik said. “It’s a nice day. She’s
probably just taking a walk.”

Maybe. But probably not. “She found the bag
with the ashes.”

There was a beat of silence. “Did you tell
her about the investigation?” Fredrik’s voice was carefully
neutral.

“I didn’t get a chance. I was...
asleep.”

There was another short silence. Nick could
hear Fredrik’s silent commentary loud and clear, and decided to
short-circuit it. There were more important issues at stake here.
“When I woke up, she was gone. With the ashes. And there’s someone
out there with a gun.”

“Right,” Fredrik said. “I actually called to
talk to you about that.”

“About someone with a gun?”

“The gun that was used to shoot Gustav
Sundin? Turns out it’s the same caliber as the one that was used on
your girl’s father in Brooklyn last month.”

For a second, the world stood still. “You’re
kidding,” Nick managed.

“They haven’t made a ballistics match yet.
It may not be the same gun. But it’s the same type of gun. And it
isn’t a common type. It’s suggestive.”

It sure as hell was.

“So are you positive that your girl doesn’t
carry?”

What the hell?
“You think Annika shot
her father?”

“I don’t think anything,” Fredrik said. “I’m
asking. Because she was there. Just like she was here on Gotland
when Sundin was shot. We don’t know of anyone else who was in both
places at the time of both murders.”

Unfortunately, that was true.
Nonetheless—

“It wasn’t her. She’d never do that.”

“Uh-huh,” Fredrik said. “You sure you aren’t
thinking with your other head on this one, Nick?”

No, he wasn’t. He knew in his gut that
Annika couldn’t have done any of the things Fredrik said she might
have; but his head—the one with the brain inside it—kept reminding
him he might be wrong. Good instincts and trust was one thing;
logic and reason another. He didn’t think she was involved, as
anything other than an innocent bystander caught in a web of lies
and violence she didn’t understand, but until he knew for sure, he
couldn’t discount Fredrik’s caution, or the evidence staring him in
the face. He was still an FBI agent, and she was still a suspect,
even if he’d broken every code of ethics he knew by sleeping with
her. He had to look at the situation with an open mind. Not assume
she was guilty—of course not—but not assume she couldn’t be,
either. No matter how difficult that was.

“You may be right.”

Fredrik, bless him, didn’t gloat or rub
anything in, and Nick added, “But if you’re not, someone else is
out there with a gun. And either way, someone could get hurt. So
let’s just put aside who’s guilty and who’s innocent until we know
more, and concentrate on finding her. OK?”

“Sure,” Fredrik said. “You want me to call
Chief Steen and ask for a car to meet you?”

“No.”
God, no
. If he was wrong—if
Annika was simply lying on the beach soaking up sun, or wandering
around town taking pictures, he’d look like an idiot. And then that
patronizing bastard Steen would have every right to feel superior.
“I can get there as fast on my own. And if something’s going on, we
don’t want to spook them. Whoever they are.”

“Right,” Fredrik said.

“Do me a favor. Call a cab and tell the
driver to pick me up at the north gate in ten minutes.”

“Sure thing.”

“And tell him we’ll be driving a while, so
make sure he has enough gas.”

“Anything else?”

“No,” Nick said. “I’ll go throw some clothes
on.”

“That’s more information than I wanted.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, thanks,” Fredrik retorted, “I’m sure
you’d rather... Oh, wait. You already did.”

He hung up, chuckling, before Nick had the
chance to answer.

He was just about to take out his
frustration with Fredrik—hell, with the whole situation!—by
viciously stabbing the off-button, when he realized he had a
message.

That’s right, the phone had rung in the
middle of everything last night, and he’d ignored it because what
he was doing to Annika was a lot more important, at least at that
moment. And anyway, it was the middle of the night, and who called
him in the middle of the night?

But it hadn’t been the middle of the night
where Kitty was. “Hi, Nick,” she purred in his ear. “I guess I
caught you sleeping. Sorry about that. I just wanted to give you
that information you wanted.”

Information?

Oh, yeah: “The guy’s name is Curt Gardiner.
He’s from Minnesota. Mother Caroline Gardiner, born Carola Bergman,
from Gotland, Sweden. Stepfather, Arthur Thomas Gardiner, native of
St. Paul, Minnesota. Father was a welder, mother a school teacher.
She died four months ago of cancer. Father has been dead six years.
Heart failure.”