Allyn Allyn - Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. Vol. 135, No. 1. Whole No. 821, January 2010

He shoved the limp body into the depths, and all was done. In more ways than one he felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders as he returned to where he had found his father-in-law. He carefully checked that no trace remained before picking up his own backpack and heading towards the cabin. He arrived in late afternoon, tired and despondent.

“I couldn’t find him. We need help to search for him. Give me some food and a short rest, then I’ll head down to the village to organize a search party.”

He had done everything humanly possible, and no one would doubt his genuine concern. He was a permanent fixture of the search party, but not a trace of the missing man was to be found. Torrential rain made things worse. The glacier was not searched, as it was a well-known fact that Birger Lindbo detested the cold and ice.

The days passed, and the old man remained missing, and the three remaining occupants of the cabin became closer while discussing the dreadful events.

A new year came around, a new summer. Robert Odden adjusted his position, full of well-being and pleasant thoughts.

“I have a great debt of gratitude to Birger,” he said. “He taught me everything I know about good management. He was an indispensable mentor. I hope you have no objections to my plan of having a bust made. By a renowned sculptor, obviously. The bust will have a place of honor at the factory.”

“Of course we don’t mind,” said Marta Lindbo.

“Of course not,” her daughter concurred.

They raised their glasses for another toast. Then Robert Odden set his sights on the edge of the wood down the hill.

“There come Else and Torstein Moen,” he declared.

The two women stared in the same direction, and Marta Lindbo exclaimed:

“Oh, how pleasant. You do have more trout sandwiches and waffles, don’t you, Linda?”

“Of course, I did take guests into account.”

“And I have some more Champagne hidden away,” said Robert Odden.

The retired district doctor was a short, cheerful man with grey hair and steel-rimmed glasses. His wife was blond, chubby, and almost as talkative as he was. She handed Marta Lindbo a beautiful flower arrangement, a bundle of dried wildflowers in a lacquered pine bowl. Her husband had brought a bottle of fine cognac.

“Oh, it’s just too much,” said Marta Lindbo emotionally.

She put the gifts on the table and asked the guests to be seated. Soon there was another toast, and chatter continued.

“We weren’t expecting guests today,” said Marta Lindbo with little conviction. The remark sparked mild indignation with Torstein Moen:

“You must have realized that we would come to celebrate Birger’s birthday. He was very important to both Else and myself.”

“There are two more guests,” said Linda Odden.

They all turned their heads in the same direction. Two aging men came walking up the slope.

“Arne and Erik Midtli,” said Robert Odden. “Two of Birger’s best hunting buddies.”

“Indeed, almost as good as me,” said the retired doctor humorously. “They are two spirited old bachelors. But I am afraid they will remain unmarried. Unless miracles happen, that is.”

The two brothers were slim, dark-skinned, and taciturn. Erik Midtli had brought a small bear carved from birchwood, while his brother presented Marta Lindbo with two fishing flies in a plastic case. She folded her hands.

“My goodness, you are true artists, I have always said so. And you, Arne, I owe you so much. You taught Birger everything he knew about tying flies. But no matter how hard he tried, he never became as good as you. What are these flies called?”

“One is called ‘Birger,’ and the other is called ‘Lindbo,’” said the old man. “I think they’ll do well in the lake here.”

“Such a shame that Father never had the opportunity to see these wonderful gifts,” said Linda Odden, tears in her eyes. “You are so wonderful, all of you!”

The brothers sat down at the table and the conversation picked up. It was all about the deceased. The four guests testingly glanced at the hosts occasionally, fearful of recalling sore memories.

The atmosphere lightened. Even the taciturn brothers became lively. However, the gathering never lost its sense of dignity. Not even when jokes and good hunting stories were told did the party surrender to unrestrained liveliness.

Later on, when Robert Odden and the retired district doctor stood admiring the fabulous view, Robert Odden said:

“It’s strange, but Marta, Linda, and I all feel that Birger is present.”

“Indeed, I feel the same way myself,” said Torstein Moen. “I’m not a superstitious man, but so-called animism has fascinated me for a long time. That everything has a soul is easy to believe when confronted by such beautiful natural surroundings.”

Robert Odden turned around and called for the attention of the others.

“Dear all of you. If Birger were amongst us today, you know he would have suggested a fishing trip. Well, the two boats are ready. Torstein, you use Birger’s favourite rod. And you two, Arne and Erik, can be the first to try the new flies with my rods.”

The suggestion was received enthusiastically. Everyone moved to where the two boats lay. The sun had become even warmer, the breeze had relented, and the mountains were mirrored in the still lake.

“It’s been a surprisingly mild winter,” said Torstein Moen. “I can’t recall anything like it for as far as I can remember.”

He looked towards the river that plummeted downwards and emptied into the lake, only a few feet from the boats. The water level was high, and in the eddies along the shore twigs and strangely shaped branches swirled around and around. Linda Odden was the first to arrive at the boat closest to the river mouth. Suddenly she froze in a strangely stiff posture. Then she screamed, loud and shrill.

The others ran towards her and surrounded her. Then there were more screams and shouts before a paralyzing silence arose.

In an eddy a small distance from the boat lay Birger Lindbo, floating on his back. The time beneath the ice and in the cold river had given his face a greenish-white tinge. He was otherwise strangely unaffected by his lengthy absence. His clothes were whole, the belt around his neck still tightly fastened. The apples of his eyes glowed a pale white in the afternoon sun. His right arm pointed upwards with fingers apart, as if in greeting. His mouth gaped at them.

As if to cry a silent hello.

©2009 by Richard Macker; translation ©2009 by Runar Fergus

Once, Christmas mysteries were relatively rare, but in today’s commercially driven market we get a slew of them annually. (My own contribution is the Big Trial comedy Probable Claus [Five Star, $25.95].) Some writers have become specialists in the subgenre: Mary Higgins Clark and Carol Higgins Clark have collaborated on several novellas, and Steve Hockensmith has done various seasonal stories for EQMM . Another holiday specialist is longtime EQMM fixture James Powell, whose A Pocketful of Noses: Stories of One Ganelon or Another (Crippen & Landru, $42 signed limited hardcover, $17 trade paper) gathers a dozen stories from these pages about four sleuthing generations in the fictional European principality San Sebastiano. Among them is one of the most chilling and unforgettable Christmas ghost stories you’ll ever read: “Harps of Gold,” in which opposing World War I leaders want to be certain that the previous year’s unseemly fraternization with the enemy is not repeated on December 24, 1916.

*** Anne Perry: A Christmas Promise, Ballantine, $18. In each annual holiday novella, Perry focuses on a different secondary character from one of her Victorian series, in this case Gracie Phipps, thirteen years old in 1883, a few years before becoming a servant to London cop Thomas Pitt and wife Charlotte. Gracie helps a younger East End child, whose uncle, a rag-and-bone man, has died suspiciously, his donkey and cart disappeared. First-rate description and atmosphere, neat plot, and inspirational denouement mark this one of the best in the series, with one drawback: the Zane Grey method of rendering dialect phonetically makes it harder to read. It’s even more bothersome when nearly all the characters are Cockneys.