Chapter 17 #2
About eight hundred of them actually live out here, strolling past cannons the way the rest of us stroll past mailboxes.
Grass grows soft over the old earthworks, cobblestone lanes dip and wander between pastel buildings, and the air smells of sea salt, cold stone, and coffee drifting from a café tucked into the ramparts.
It’s the most peaceful heavily armed place I’ve ever stood in.
I spot the Velvet Viking Book Club already gathering near an old cannon. They’re wearing their usual array of velvet and leather, which looks both out of place and somehow perfect against the backdrop of historic warfare architecture.
Sienna’s at the front, white-knuckling a laminated itinerary. She’s been the de facto leader since Astrid died, though her face says she’d rather be anywhere else on the planet, up to and including the bottom of the Baltic.
Her auburn hair whips loose in the wind, and she’s clutching her tote bag like it contains the secrets of the universe. Or at least the secrets of how to manage fifty women hoping to bump into a shirtless Viking.
“All right, ladies!” Sienna calls out, her voice barely carrying over the wind. “We’re doing our Shieldmaiden Strength photo shoot at various locations around the fortress! Please stay with the group and don’t wander into restricted areas!”
Restricted areas. On a fortress. During a murder investigation. I give it an hour.
“That feels like a challenge,” Nettie whispers.
“It’s not a challenge,” Bess says firmly.
“Everything’s a challenge if you’re brave enough.”
“There’s no such thing as a self-issued challenge,” Bess counters.
“That’s exactly what a coward would say.”
“It’s what a woman who plans to die in her own bed would say.”
I leave them to it. Some fights aren’t mine to referee, and this one has been going since the Nixon administration. Neither side has ever won, but the trash talk has aged beautifully.
Marina appears at my elbow. She’s windswept and gorgeous in a peach-colored peacoat, because some women get to be windswept and gorgeous while the rest of us get hair in our lip gloss. “This place is incredible. Have you been here before?”
“First time. You?”
“Same.” She glances around, and I catch that thing she does—scanning exits, noting camera positions, cataloging escape routes. Most people tour a fortress. Marina cases it.
“It’s very secure,” she says.
“That’s the point of a fortress,” I say with a wink.
“So they tell me.” She’s not winking back or smiling, for that matter.
I tuck that one away with the rest of my Marina collection. A woman doesn’t rate a tourist attraction by how hard it would be to get caught in it unless she’s spent time doing the math. Long division, from the look of her.
Wes strides up in his captain’s jacket, looking official, handsome, and dimpled to a fault, and Marina’s face does that thing where it tries very hard to stay neutral and fails spectacularly.
“Ladies,” he greets us with a nod. “Enjoying the fortress?”
“That we are,” I say. “Despite the fact we just got here.”
“Then enjoy it preemptively.” He smiles and those dimples dig in. I swear I just heard Marina sigh.
“Will do, Captain,” she says dreamily.
Oh brother. Lucky for Wes, she’s got it bad.
He takes a step toward Marina. “Walk with me? I’d like to hear your thoughts on the historical significance of maritime defensive structures.”
Marina blinks. “Is that actually what you want to talk about?”
“Not even a little bit.” His lips curve with wicked intent.
She laughs and takes his offered arm, and they head off toward a stretch of ramparts while Bess and I exchange glances.
“They’re adorable,” Bess observes.
“Painfully adorable,” I agree.
“Think he knows about her mysterious past?”
“He knows as much as Ransom told us the other evening.” I filled Bess and Nettie in on it that night at the midnight buffet. “Ransom ran a background check, and we’re still in the dark about so many things.”
“And he’s still pursuing her?”
I nod. “I have a feeling complicated women are his type.”
Bess snorts. “He did almost marry you.”
“Excuse me,” I laugh. “I’m delightfully uncomplicated.”
Bess scoffs. “You see ghosts and solve murders for fun.”
“See? Simple.”
Nettie slaps her thigh with a cackle. “Trix, you’re a jigsaw puzzle missing half the box.”
I tip my head her way. “I’ve never heard a more accurate assessment of myself.”
The Velvet Vikings have scattered across the fortress in velvet-clad clusters, fifty book lovers storming Finland one dramatic photo at a time.
I spot Poppy near a historic building, looking elegant in a camel-colored coat and tall boots over dark jeans, helping some of the older members navigate the uneven cobblestones.
Freya’s at a cannon platform, posing with all the drama she can afford while someone takes photos with her phone. And Sienna is breaking away from the group, heading toward a more isolated section of the fortress walls.
Alone.
That’s my favorite number when it comes to my suspects.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Bess.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to have a word with a certain someone about a certain homicide that’s yet unsolved.”
“Want backup?”
I glance around and wince. “I think Nettie’s about to climb inside a cannon. You’d better supervise.”
Bess looks over at Nettie, who is indeed eyeing a particularly large artillery piece with disturbing interest. “Oh my word. Yes. Go. Interrogate. I’ll handle the man-eating menace.”
We all have our callings. Hers just comes in a muumuu.
I follow Sienna across a small bridge connecting two sections of the fortress as the wind lashes my hair into my face and makes my eyes water.
The Baltic stretches gray and endless on all sides of us, and I can see Helsinki in the distance with its spires and modern architecture and Scandinavian tidiness. Even their skyline looks organized. I bet nobody over there has a junk drawer.
Magnus falls in beside me and keeps pace. “The little teacher flees again.” He strokes his beard and lingers over the words just long enough to make them sound filthy. “She’s had practice, that one.”
“Coming from a man who’s spent a decade fleeing the name Gerald, that’s rich.”
“We’re discussing her flaws, not mine.”
“She’s not fleeing. She’s walking.” At least I hope she’s not fleeing. I can hardly walk in these shoes, let alone break into a full sprint.
“Purposefully,” he counters. “Away from others. That’s fleeing.”
“Or she just wants some quiet time to herself.” And me, if I’m lucky.
“Or she’s guilty.” He says it flatly, without any of his usual theater, and that stops me more than the words do. Magnus performs everything. When he stops performing, I listen.
I don’t respond because I’m too busy climbing a set of stone steps that lead to a section of ramparts overlooking the sea. Also because he might be right, and I hate it when the dead man scores a point.
Sienna’s standing at the wall, staring out at the water, a quilted tote bag hugged to her chest. She looks small out here. Small, and sad, and thoroughly wrung out, and my chest pinches at the sight of her. Whatever she’s carrying inside of her, she’s been carrying it alone.
Somewhere on this fortress built to withstand an invasion, a killer is walking free—and I’m done letting them hide behind grief and good manners.