Free The Bodyguard by Leena Lehtolainen

deal, for which I had Mike Virtue to thank, as he was Mary’s cousin. The location in the West Village was perfect for me, and I suppose he wanted me to keep an eye on her. She was a performance artist who’d sometimes take me to clubs where I never necessarily knew the sex of the person I was talking to. Although I was less enthusiastic about these outings than Mary, I did enjoy seeing people adopt a role for an evening.
    Studying at the academy was like a full-time job, and it was a thirty-minute commute to get there. At that time the dollar was worth more than the Finnish markka, so my disposable income was limited. In Manhattan I felt disconnected from home, but I enjoyed telling strangers stories about my past and creating a new identity. One day I was a Finnish cleaning lady, Anneli; the next I was Helene, a Danish art student. I returned to Finland with a large supply of Mary’s beloved antinausea pills and business cards from people I’d met; people I’d left in the morning with a promise to call but never did.
    I gave Jenni a double dose of the pills once she’d crawled out of the bathroom. They’d taken a toll on Mary’s memory, and the next morning, when I returned from my morning run, I hoped they’d done the same to Jenni. She was sitting in the kitchen, slowly sipping on orange juice. She was sickly pale, except for her bloodshot eyes.
    “Hi. Nice to see you here,” she greeted me and took another laborious gulp from her juice. Mary’s pills would keep her from throwing up, but she didn’t seem to remember that I’d given her anything. “Riikka told me I woke you up some time around three when I got home. Sorry. I guess we started the semester with a bang.”
    “No problem. I fell asleep shortly after. Can I have some of your juice? I’ll buy you some more later.”
    It was Sunday, so I’d have to wait a day before signing up for unemployment. I had no intention of waiting the requisite three months before starting a new job, so I started looking. I checked the help-wanted ads in the newspaper and saw one for a security gig at the Helsinki-Vantaa airport. I applied for it online. While logged in, I sent another e-mail to Monika von Hertzen as well, although I didn’t know what kind of Internet access she had these days. She was one of the few people who knew about Frida.
    Elli Voutilainen, our neighbor, must have been at home because of the lousy weather. She’d lived here since the building had been constructed and acted as a godmother to most of the other residents. Occasionally I helped her with cleaning her windows or taking the rugs downstairs to be aired out. When I rang her doorbell, she came to the door in an apron, releasing the wonderful aroma of lingonberry pie into the stairwell.
    “Well, hello, Hilja! I haven’t seen you in a while, but I did notice you running out there in the rain this morning. Be careful you don’t catch a cold!”
    “I don’t get sick easily; I’ll be fine. May I come in?”
    “Come, come! I was just making a lingonberry pie—I was in Nuuksio with Sylvi and Väinö picking the berries. Just another five minutes and it’ll be done. Want some coffee, too?”
    We sat in her living room, where the walls were covered in the miniature porcelain plates she’d produced over the years. She’d given me a couple in the past. Mrs. Voutilainen’s specialty was flowers and birds, and the paintings she had collected depicted the same. I noticed there was a new print on the wall. It gave me chills.
    “The girls told me you had a Russian salesman over. Is this the painting you bought from him?” I looked at Mrs. Voutilainen, who was about five feet tall and as fragile as her porcelain. “You really shouldn’t let complete strangers into your home,” I said, turning back to the painting, unable to look away.
    “You think I’m helpless, don’t you? No need to worry; I can tell who is having a hard time and who isn’t. This Yuri seemed like a kindred spirit.