The Glass Devil (10 page)

To their relief, the lake shore widened into a small sandy beach, and a narrow gravel path led into the woods from the beach. The path ended about ten meters from the Schyttelius cottage’s gate.

“It’s probably a community path to the beach for all of the cottage owners in the area,” Irene suggested.

“Maybe. But there’s nothing keeping someone from turning off the path earlier and climbing over the Schytteliuses’ fence at the back of the property. No one would see. Should we check?”

Fredrik had already turned on his heel and was on his way back in the same direction they had just come. Thirty meters away, he stopped and pointed.

Irene could also see a barely noticeable walkway between some raspberry bushes. It followed the rotten wooden fence along the lake side of the Schytteliuses’ property. The fence sagged to the ground in the middle from age and poor maintenance.

“We can step right onto the property,” Fredrik determined. They did so, taking a good look at where they put their feet.

“If the murderer went this way on Monday, the ground would still have been frozen. It has rained since then, and the frost has started rising out of the topsoil. The murderer didn’t have as much trouble getting here as we did,” said Irene.

“Think about the position of the car and the trails. He knew he was going to get here without risking being seen. Everything points to familiarity with the area.”

Fredrik was right. The murders had been planned, and the murderer had known how to make his way to and from the cottage without being seen.

They walked toward the back of the cottage. The Schyttelius family had built a large glassed-in veranda running the length of the wall. So this was where the superintendent had sat at the crayfish party seventeen years ago. Irene turned her back to the veranda and looked down at the lake. She could glimpse water through the thicket.

“Too bad they didn’t own the property all the way down to the lake. Then they could have cleared it for the sake of the view,” she remarked.

“Must have been irritating for them.”

“Probably.”

“Should we take the road back? It’s longer . . .”

“. . . but it will be faster,” Irene finished.

THEY STOPPED at a hot dog stand and ate before heading for Eva Möller’s house. It was easy to find Landvetter Church, but trickier to locate the right small road. They were on a gravel road that rose steadily. According to Eva Möller’s directions, they were supposed to go over the crest of the hill and then they would almost be there. The coniferous trees didn’t grow as thickly up here. Deciduous forest and fields could be seen.

“Turn to the right after the split oak,” Irene read from her notes.

“I see it,” Fredrik said, indicating the silhouette of a large mangled tree. Most of the crown was gone, and the branches that were left splayed out in all directions. No branches grew at all on one side, since only half of the tree remained. Right after they passed this oak tree, they turned onto an uneven dirt road.

“How can someone live in a place like this?” Irene asked, holding on to the dashboard as they slowly jounced down the rutted road.

After they had lurched forward a good distance, a Falu-red cottage appeared in the back of a glade bathed in sunlight. The forest came up to the eaves on three sides, but there were no woods at all on the western exposure. They parked next to a relatively new bright-red Honda and got out. Because the cottage was located on the crest of the hill, the view to the west was fantastic. Irene and Fredrik stood for a moment to admire it. Irene took the opportunity to look at Eva Möller’s car before they walked up to the house. What Louise Måårdh had said was correct: There was a black knob with a silver-colored pentagram on the gearshift lever.

The blue-painted front door opened and Eva Möller stepped out onto the porch. She was wearing a light-blue floor-length dress with wide sleeves, trimmed with beautiful dark-blue embroidery around the neck and on the chest. The dress matched her eyes. Her blond hair, hanging down to her shoulders, glittered like silver in the sunlight.

“You did a good job of finding the place,” she said, laughing.

Her hearty smile and the smell of coffee that trickled out through the open door made Irene feel welcome.

They hung their coats from the rack of hooks, pulled off their muddy shoes just inside the door, and stepped right into the kitchen. The sun shone through the light-yellow curtains in the western window, bringing a cozy warmth to the small kitchen. It was decorated country-style with a lot of pine that seemed relatively new, like the kitchen appliances. There didn’t appear to be a dishwasher, but the old iron stove had obviously been kept through the renovation. A shelf holding old objects was located above the stove. A three-legged iron pot was enthroned on its center, surrounded by a beautiful glass goblet and a purple stone the size of a fist, cut in half. The crystals on the inside of the stone emitted small flashes of light when the sun shone on it. A half-meter-long glass staff lay in front of the objects, and a small round glass paperweight was located farthest out on the shelf. Sturdy iron hooks were fastened to the wall above the shelf. A double-edged knife with a beautifully carved wooden handle and an old-fashioned table knife with a handle made of bone hung from these hooks. The sun reflected along the sharpened edges, which scintillated in its light.

Eva Möller had set out thin gold-edged coffee cups and a plate with cinnamon rolls by the window. The yellow-and-white checkered cotton tablecloth looked newly ironed. A shallow blue porcelain bowl holding blooming blue windflowers was placed in the middle of the table.

She invited the officers to sit down. The coffee smelled heavenly when she poured it. She told them to help themselves to the rolls.

“Take as many as you want. I have more in the freezer. Unfortunately, I don’t have any coffee cake to serve you,” she said.

“Wonderful rolls,” Fredrik announced with his mouth full.

The cantor flashed him a delighted smile and looked into his eyes. Irene noticed that he stopped chewing for a few seconds. Eva Möller continued to smile as she strolled over to the stove to put the coffeepot back on a burner. Fredrik had a hard time taking his eyes off her, but with an effort he focused on the coffee cup, chewed the rest of the cinnamon roll, and swallowed loudly.

Irene recognized Fredrik’s behavior. The caretaker for the cemetery, Stig Björk, and Pastor Urban Berg had displayed exactly the same kind of reactions at the Fellowship Hall on Wednesday, though Berg had shown a bit more self-control. Tommy was the one who had questioned the cantor on Wednesday. Had he also experienced the same kind of attraction? Irene and Tommy knew each other well enough that she could ask him.

“The blue windflowers are so nice,” Irene said in order to start the conversation.

Eva Möller smiled. “Yes. I’ve borrowed them from Mother Earth. When they are done blooming, I will put them back. And then maybe I’ll be allowed to take a tuft of cowslips instead.”

“Which you will also replant when they start wilting,” Irene assumed.

“Yes. Why did you want to speak with me again?” Eva Möller asked.

Since Fredrik had his mouth filled with cinnamon roll, Irene replied. “We need to supplement the introductory interrogations. The picture is starting to take shape, but new questions come up all the time. We hope that you will be able to help us answer some of them.”

“I’m happy to help, if I can.”

Irene remembered something Tommy had said; she decided to start with it and save the question about the pentagram for later. “Our colleague who spoke with you on Wednesday mentioned that you told him that Sten Schyttelius was a man with hidden depths. Could you explain what you meant by that?”

Eva Möller gave Irene a long, thoughtful look before she replied. “Sten had several sides to his personality, just as we all do. He was a sociable person. He could let loose, and he never turned down a drink. However, he rarely held any parties himself. It was probably because of Elsa’s illness. When it came to his job, he was conservative through and through, with respect to his work in the parish as well as his position in the church. During the service, everything was supposed to go according to tradition. There were supposed to be shining chasubles and polished candelabras, and he was happy to sing the liturgy. If he had been allowed to swing censers, then he would probably have done so.

“Those were perhaps the two opposite sides that were most obvious. But sometimes I thought there was something else about him. Something dark . . . secret . . . or maybe sad. I don’t know really.”

“Did you like Sten Schyttelius as a person?”

Eva Möller took her time before she replied. “I accepted that he was the way he was. He was old and about to retire. We never had any difficulties between us. It was probably because he let me take care of the music and the church choir the way I wanted to. Actually, he never got involved in my work and I stayed away from his.”

“How long have you been the cantor in this . . . congregation, is it called?”

“Church Association. I’ve been here almost exactly four years. It was actually this house that lured me here.”

“First you got the house, and then the job?” Irene asked.

“Yes. I was fortunate enough to buy it very cheaply from an acquaintance who had renovated it but realized he would never have the time to stay here. He wanted to use it as a summer cottage, but his new wife couldn’t imagine spending her vacation in the woods. But I felt that it was my house the first time I saw it.”

“Was it for sale then?”

“No. But I knew it would become mine.”

Fredrik didn’t seem to have a single question. He chewed on rolls and sat and stared, fascinated by the lovely Eva. Irene was slightly irritated at her colleague’s passivity. She decided that it was time to broach the real reason for their visit.

“As I’m sure you’ve read in the papers we found pentagrams at the crime scenes. At both places the pentagrams were painted directly on the computer screens with the victims’ blood.”

Eva Möller nodded.

“I spoke with Louise Måårdh this morning. She mentioned that you have a pentagram on the gearshift of your car. Can you tell us why?”

To Irene’s surprise, Eva Möller burst out laughing. When she managed to stop, she said, still with restrained amusement in her voice, “I got it at Christmas from a friend. He thinks I have too much fire and wind in me. The pentagram is the tool of the earth. It stands for stability. I got the knob simply so that I would keep my feet on the ground. Or rather on the road.”

Irene was disappointed that the explanation was so simple. Or was it?

“Why does a cantor drive around with the devil’s face on her gearshift?” Irene asked.

Eva Möller instantly became serious. “Oh. Was the pentagram on the computer screens turned upside down?”

“Yes.”

“Then it was used for a Satanic purpose. The pentagram, in and of itself, is a strong tool, but it’s only Satanists who turn it upside down. My pentagram isn’t turned the wrong way. But. ...”

Eva pressed her lips together and looked Irene steadily in the eye. She quickly got up and walked over to the shelf above the stove. She took down the paperweight and pressed it hard against her chest as she walked back toward the kitchen table.

“This is my pentagram,” she said. She set the glass object in front of Irene and motioned for her to look closer. She could see that it wasn’t just a paperweight, but a rounded glass dome with a pentagram engraved in its bottom.

“The pentagram in and of itself isn’t a symbol of evil but, like all magical implements, it has strong powers that can be abused. It’s easy to turn my pentagram and then—poof—you have the devil’s face.”

She turned the glass dome so that two of the points faced up and one down.

The devil’s face looked up at Irene from the glass.

The glass devil.

The phrase etched itself on Irene’s brain, though she didn’t really understand why. The pentagram’s power depended on how you used it. And if you believed in it. Clearly, Eva Möller believed. Was she nuts, or was she messing about with funny New-Age foolishness?

“How do you reconcile a belief in the pentagram’s power with your work in the church?” Irene continued.

The cantor looked sincerely surprised. “They don’t have anything to do with each other. Music is my work, and I love it. I love the church as a place of holy energy. But I feel the power of the pentagram as a tool.”

Tool? What kind of tool? Suddenly, Irene was irritated with Eva, batting her eyes and trying to make herself interesting with her New-Ageism.

The worst thing was that it worked. Fredrik sat as though under a spell, with a ridiculous grin on his face.

Unnecessarily brusquely, Irene asked, “What are your opinions about Elsa and Jacob?”

Eva was grave as she said, “Elsa was a very tragic person. There was only darkness within her. She carried a grief which she had bottled inside. Periodically, she became better, but I saw the shadow standing right behind her, just biding its time. It had her in its power. Sometimes she was close to taking her life, but she didn’t have the strength to do that.”

“How do you know she was contemplating suicide?”

“I felt it. For some people, it’s the only way out.”

Eva sat, calm and relaxed, with her hands loosely folded in her lap. Her long hair shone like a halo around her head, adding to her image as a lovely angel. Irene started to wonder how crazy this cute cantor actually was.

“And Jacob?”

“I didn’t know him at all. We only met twice. The association’s employees usually eat breakfast after Christmas Mass. . . .”

“I’m aware of that. That’s the only place you met?”

“Yes. The first time he had his wife with him. They were newlyweds then.”

“What impression did you get from them?”

Eva sat quietly for some time. “There was no energy between them at all. No fire. Only cold.”

Irene was surprised. Had it been bad from the beginning of the marriage? She composed herself; that’s what Eva Möller was claiming.

“You never spoke with Jacob?”