you an actor?' I asked.
Ragnar nodded eagerly. 'I am, yah. But acting does not pay so well the bills.'
Especially this far from the legitimate stage in New York and the sound stage in Los Angeles. Though our northern climate probably made him feel right at home.
'You work for Kevin, then?'
'It is a good putting together. Clients sometime need performer and, when I am not that, I can help the display work with Kevin.'
He pointed to the white-clothed table from which Tien had served coffee. The eight-foot table had been pushed up against the building, empty except for a cluster of Mylar 'Celebrate!' balloons tethered to a clear round bowl filled with pink and white quartz for ballast.
'Pretty,' I said. 'There are two more on the stage.'
'Thank you. The police say I must leave those for now.' Ragnar thumped the balloons with his thumb and middle finger. 'I must have this bowl, but you keep the balloons. They are good still.'
'No, thank you.' The metallic floaty things lasted forever. When my son was little, I'd resorted to skewering 'Barney' balloons with a letter opener after Eric was in bed, so I could finally get rid of the dang things.
As Ragnar took the bowl to the truck, balloons trailing, I, in turn, trailed after them.
'I know you talked to Kevin,' I said. 'Did he say whether JoLynne had been sick or anything?'
'Sick?' Ragnar carefully put the breakable bowl on the passenger seat, pushing down the balloons like a deputy guiding the head of a bad guy into a police cruiser.
'Yes. I'm wondering why a healthy young woman would die so suddenly.' And without dignity. In a giant coffee cup.
'Kevin tell me only JoLynne is killed.' Ragnar closed the passenger door and now moved on to the rows of folding chairs in front of the stage. The cop-as-sentry gave a nod to let him know he could clear them but was still being watched.
I lowered my voice so the officer couldn't hear. 'Ragnar, killed, as in "murdered"?'
'Kill, murder – is all the same, yah?'
'Yah,' I replied, my own Norwegian coming back to me. 'And yah, not.' I collapsed a chair and put it on the pile Ragnar had started. 'Killed could also mean accident.'
'I do not know.' Ragnar said, picking up the stack. 'All they say is Mrs Kevin was. . .'
He lifted his burden into the back of the pick-up and looked around to see if anyone else was within hearing range.
I did, too. Nobody.
Ragnar Norstaadt lowered his voice anyway. 'Mrs Kevin was stuffercated.'
Chapter Five
In normal towns, the fact that the south-west side of our building was a crime scene would ward people off.
In Brookhills, though, notoriety served as a doorbuster special. By noon the tidal wave that had receded when the press left had been rehydrated by locals. It was now about three in the afternoon, however, and the trickle was down far enough for me to send Amy for milk, cream and other staples we were running low on.
I drew the line at asking her to also pick up kibbles for Frank and a light bulb for my porch.
'It might be good for business,' I said to Sarah, who was back to poking at the cash register like it was going to bite her, 'but it's too bad tragedy brings out the ambulance chasers.'
I looked at octogenarian Sophie Daystrom, our sole customer at the moment. 'Present company excepted.'
'Oh, fudge, Maggy,' Sophie said. 'I chase ambulances with the best of 'em.'
'Fudge?' Sarah echoed. 'That's not up to your usual swearing standards.'
Sophie shrugged. 'Henry is giving me shit . . . sorry, crap over what he calls profanity. So, I'm trying to clean up my act.'
I didn't think Henry, Sophie's current old-goy boy-toy, meant she should turn to a thesaurus in search of synonyms for excrement. Henry was a true gentleman and, much as I loved Sophie, the old bird admittedly had a mouth on her.
Even as I had the thought, a staccato birdsong pierced the room, sending Sophie frantically digging through her handbag.
Finally, a cellphone found, button punched, and screen studied.
Ragnar nodded eagerly. 'I am, yah. But acting does not pay so well the bills.'
Especially this far from the legitimate stage in New York and the sound stage in Los Angeles. Though our northern climate probably made him feel right at home.
'You work for Kevin, then?'
'It is a good putting together. Clients sometime need performer and, when I am not that, I can help the display work with Kevin.'
He pointed to the white-clothed table from which Tien had served coffee. The eight-foot table had been pushed up against the building, empty except for a cluster of Mylar 'Celebrate!' balloons tethered to a clear round bowl filled with pink and white quartz for ballast.
'Pretty,' I said. 'There are two more on the stage.'
'Thank you. The police say I must leave those for now.' Ragnar thumped the balloons with his thumb and middle finger. 'I must have this bowl, but you keep the balloons. They are good still.'
'No, thank you.' The metallic floaty things lasted forever. When my son was little, I'd resorted to skewering 'Barney' balloons with a letter opener after Eric was in bed, so I could finally get rid of the dang things.
As Ragnar took the bowl to the truck, balloons trailing, I, in turn, trailed after them.
'I know you talked to Kevin,' I said. 'Did he say whether JoLynne had been sick or anything?'
'Sick?' Ragnar carefully put the breakable bowl on the passenger seat, pushing down the balloons like a deputy guiding the head of a bad guy into a police cruiser.
'Yes. I'm wondering why a healthy young woman would die so suddenly.' And without dignity. In a giant coffee cup.
'Kevin tell me only JoLynne is killed.' Ragnar closed the passenger door and now moved on to the rows of folding chairs in front of the stage. The cop-as-sentry gave a nod to let him know he could clear them but was still being watched.
I lowered my voice so the officer couldn't hear. 'Ragnar, killed, as in "murdered"?'
'Kill, murder – is all the same, yah?'
'Yah,' I replied, my own Norwegian coming back to me. 'And yah, not.' I collapsed a chair and put it on the pile Ragnar had started. 'Killed could also mean accident.'
'I do not know.' Ragnar said, picking up the stack. 'All they say is Mrs Kevin was. . .'
He lifted his burden into the back of the pick-up and looked around to see if anyone else was within hearing range.
I did, too. Nobody.
Ragnar Norstaadt lowered his voice anyway. 'Mrs Kevin was stuffercated.'
Chapter Five
In normal towns, the fact that the south-west side of our building was a crime scene would ward people off.
In Brookhills, though, notoriety served as a doorbuster special. By noon the tidal wave that had receded when the press left had been rehydrated by locals. It was now about three in the afternoon, however, and the trickle was down far enough for me to send Amy for milk, cream and other staples we were running low on.
I drew the line at asking her to also pick up kibbles for Frank and a light bulb for my porch.
'It might be good for business,' I said to Sarah, who was back to poking at the cash register like it was going to bite her, 'but it's too bad tragedy brings out the ambulance chasers.'
I looked at octogenarian Sophie Daystrom, our sole customer at the moment. 'Present company excepted.'
'Oh, fudge, Maggy,' Sophie said. 'I chase ambulances with the best of 'em.'
'Fudge?' Sarah echoed. 'That's not up to your usual swearing standards.'
Sophie shrugged. 'Henry is giving me shit . . . sorry, crap over what he calls profanity. So, I'm trying to clean up my act.'
I didn't think Henry, Sophie's current old-goy boy-toy, meant she should turn to a thesaurus in search of synonyms for excrement. Henry was a true gentleman and, much as I loved Sophie, the old bird admittedly had a mouth on her.
Even as I had the thought, a staccato birdsong pierced the room, sending Sophie frantically digging through her handbag.
Finally, a cellphone found, button punched, and screen studied.
Similar Books
