Free Island Getaway, An Art Crime Team Mystery by Jenna Bennett Page A

shrugged. “I figure if the silver had
been inside, you would have said so. If she doesn’t have the
silver, she’s not involved.”
    Fredrik didn’t answer, and Nick added, “What
was in the bag?”
    “Ashes,” Fredrik said.
    Just as Nick had thought.
    He reached for the doorknob. “I’m on my way
to the bus station. Call me with any news.”
    “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Fredrik
threw after him. Nick lifted a finger in response—the middle
one—but kept moving.

Chapter Seven
     
    The restaurant Curt took her to for dinner was more properly a
tavern, in true medieval style: dark and full of atmosphere, with
low ceilings and rough plank floors. Seating was family style, on
long wooden benches by rough wooden tables. Annika had thought
about putting on her blue dress again, but when she walked through
the door, she was glad she hadn’t. The place wasn’t fancy; most of
the patrons were dressed just as she was, in jeans and T-shirts.
She’d have looked severely out of place in the blue silk.
    The food was good, though. Traditional
Swedish cuisine: pickled herring and wheat bread, boiled potatoes
with a sprinkling of fresh parsley, and thick pea soup. Annika ate
until her stomach hurt, and then sat back and looked around. “This
is a great place. How did you know about it?”
    It was tucked up close to the city wall, out
of the way of the tourists, and she doubted it featured in the
vacation brochures. Most of the patrons seemed to be local:
grizzled old men with rosy cheeks and clear blue eyes, and young
families with tow-headed children.
    A shadow seemed to cross Curt’s face, or
maybe it was just the darkness inside the tavern. “My mother used
to come here when she was young. With her husband.”
    “Your father?”
    Curt nodded. “I never knew him. He died
before I was born.”
    Not too far before, Annika surmised, or he
couldn’t be Curt’s father.
    “That’s when your mother emigrated to
America?”
    “When I was one,” Curt nodded. “She had
family there, in Minnesota, that she went to stay with.”
    “Lots of Scandinavians in Minnesota.” Just
like in Brooklyn. “So your mother never went back? Not even to
visit?”
    He shook his head. “She didn’t like to talk
about Sweden. I never knew what happened with her and my dad. Not
until about six months ago. That was when she realized she didn’t
have much time left, and she started telling me everything.”
    “That must have been...” Annika hesitated,
“difficult.”
    Curt shrugged. “The whole thing was
difficult. But at least now I know.”
    True. Curt didn’t have to dig into his
mother’s past. She’d shared it with him. Annika’s father hadn’t had
that opportunity.
    “You’re lucky. All I know about my dad is
his name and that he grew up on Gotland. I guess tomorrow I’ll
start looking around. See if anyone remembers Carl Magnusson.” She
lifted her glass and took a small sip of beer, managing not to
wince at the taste. Everyone drank beer, Curt said, and since there
was so little alcohol in it, Annika had let herself be persuaded to
give it a try. At the moment, she wished she’d asked for Pommac , the local fruit-flavored soft drink, or a good
old-fashioned Coca-Cola. Or just plain water.
    “We could start by asking right here,” Curt
suggested. “How old was your dad?”
    Thirty when he left Gotland. Thirty two when
Astrid was born. Thirty three when Andy was born, and thirty five
when Annika was born. Twenty seven years ago. “Sixty two.”
    “A couple of these guys look like they might
be around that age.” Curt looked around the tavern. “How about that
guy, over there?”
    The man he indicated sat alone in the
corner, his hands wrapped around something stronger than beer. He
had the air of a man bent on serious drinking. But he did look like
he might be around the right age.
    “I don’t know...” Annika said, biting her
lip.
    “Oh, come on. I’ll go with you.” Curt gave
her a