Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - My Soul to Take

“Beer’s a vegetable.” Thóra grinned. “Or made from vegetables, anyway.”

Matthew shook his head ruefully. “I don’t know what information you have about beer, but believe me, that’s not right.” He followed her inside. “At most, beer is a grain product.”

“Grain, vegetable,” said Thóra as she looked around for a waiter. “There’s no difference.” She noticed a woman she recognized sitting at the bar and gave Matthew a nudge. “That woman works at the hotel. Maybe we should go over and talk to her.”

“I’m not going over there unless we can get a menu and order from there,” Matthew said. “And only if they have salted peanuts.”

“It’s a deal,” said Thóra, and smiled at the waiter who came over. “We’d like to start at the bar, if that’s okay,” she said. “But we’re pretty hungry, so it would be great if we could see the menu now.”

They went over to the bar area, which was small compared with the dining room, and Thóra sat on a barstool beside the woman. There were only four stools, so Matthew sat down on the other side of Thóra, directly in front of a bowl of peanuts.

“Hello,” Thóra said, leaning forward so the woman could see her face. “Don’t I know you from the hotel? Jónas’s place?”

The woman had clearly had a little too much to drink. In front of her was a gaudy glass with a bright green mixture in it, and beside it were several tiny red plastic swords, each speared through a cocktail cherry. It took her a while to register that she’d been asked a question and she used the time to refocus her eyes, which seemed to be half full of tears behind heavy makeup. When she started speaking, though, she didn’t sound anywhere near as drunk as she looked. “Do I know you?” she asked, fairly coherently.

“No, we’ve never met, but I’ve seen you around. My name’s Thóra, and I’m doing a little project for Jónas.” Thóra held out her hand.

The woman’s handshake was feeble. “Oh, yes, that’s right. Now I remember you. I’m Stefanía, the hotel’s sex therapist.”

Thóra managed to stop her eyebrows shooting up, as she was certain the woman would not appreciate it. “I see. Is it a busy job?”

The woman shrugged and sipped her cocktail. “Sometimes. Sometimes not so much.” She put down her glass and licked her red lips. “Jónas claims business will pick up. To tell the truth, it’s got off to a very slow start.”

“Oh, dear,” Thóra said sympathetically. “But isn’t it a nice place to work apart from that? It’s a lovely hotel.”

The woman snorted and scowled. “No it isn’t!” She turned to look at Thóra, but was still having trouble focusing.

“Are you talking about the ghost?” asked Thóra. “Does it disturb you?”

Stefanía shook her head firmly. “No. Fortunately I’m never there in the evenings. I haven’t seen any ghosts, but I guess they only work nights. I’ve never heard of a ghost scaring people during the day.” She pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen over one eye. “No, my problem is the women who work there.” She sighed. “It’s always the women. It would be great if it was all men.” She hiccupped. “And me, of course.”

“Well, yes, of course,” agreed Thóra. “But which women do you mean? I haven’t met many, though I did speak to Vigdís in reception.”

“Vigdís, Pigdís,” Stefanía mumbled. “She’s a real bitch.”

“Oh,” said Thóra, startled. “Obviously I don’t know her well, but she seems all right. Maybe I’ve got that wrong.”

“You bet you have,” Stefanía hissed. “She can’t stand me, even though I’ve never done anything to her.” Suddenly serious, she added, “Actually, I’ve analyzed it and know what her problem is.” She paused dramatically. “I’m a threat to her—a sexual threat.” She looked at Thóra triumphantly.

“What do you mean?” said Thóra, perplexed. “Is she frightened you’ll rape her?”

Stefanía chuckled. Her laugh was unexpectedly light and natural. “No, silly. As a woman, she feels a primal threat from other women who are more attractive.” She smiled smugly. “A blind man would see that I’m sexier than her.” She took a sip of her drink. “It’s always happening to me. I ought to know the signs by now.”

Matthew tugged at Thóra’s sleeve. “Can we order? I know what I want, and I’m starving.”

Thóra looked at the empty bowl of peanuts. “No problem. Just call the waiter and order.” She went to turn back to Stefanía, but Matthew stopped her.

“What about you? What do you want?” Matthew pointed at the menu. Thóra hadn’t even glanced at it.

“Anything,” she replied. “Just order me anything.” She went back to Stefanía while Matthew called the waiter over. “Speaking of women,” she said, “did you know Birna, the architect?”

Stefanía’s expression changed instantly. Her face fell and for a fraction of a second it seemed to be melting. “Oh, God,” she said with a lump in her throat. “It’s so awful.”

“Yes, it is,” agreed Thóra. “So she wasn’t one of those annoying women?”

“No, not at all. She was lovely,” said Stefanía. She emptied her glass in one gulp. Then she removed the tiny sword with the cocktail cherry, which she put in her mouth and sucked before ceremoniously placing it on the bar beside the others. “I’m devastated by all this, and I don’t really know how I feel.” She looked up at Thóra. “I’m not in the habit of coming here on Sunday evenings, even though I live locally.”

“I understand,” said Thóra, although she didn’t, not at all. “You seem to have known Birna well—do you have any idea who could possibly have wanted to harm her?”

Stefanía lifted her empty glass and spun it. The last few drops swirled around in the bottom. “Yes, I do,” she said calmly.

“Really?” Thóra could not conceal her eagerness. “Who is it?” Stefanía regarded her beadily. “I’m sworn to confidentiality. Sex therapists are like doctors in that respect. And lawyers.”

Thóra was careful not to burst out laughing at the analogy. Perhaps it was not so far-fetched—some of the divorce cases handled by her colleague Bragi could verge on sex counseling. “Well, I’m a lawyer and there are exceptions to the rule. The greater good, for instance.”

After thinking for a while, Stefanía conceded, “If you’re a lawyer, it’s safe to tell you, right? It’s only a couple of names, and you won’t tell anyone, will you? It’s certainly not a question of that ‘greater good’ of yours.”

Thóra could hardly believe how well this was going. She had envisaged a long session at the bar, waiting for Stefanía to drink enough to forget her oath of confidentiality. “Absolutely not, I can’t tell anyone, I promise.”

“Great,” Stefanía said. “I’ve felt sick ever since I heard the news, because I can’t tell anyone. Maybe this’ll make me feel better.” She looked Thóra in the eye. “Promise?”

“I promise,” Thóra repeated. She crossed her fingers behind her back—she’d have to tell Matthew. “Who wanted to harm Birna?”

Stefanía clearly hadn’t exaggerated about needing to get this secret off her chest. When she spoke, it was at triple speed. “She was having an affair with a married farmer from around here. His name’s Bergur and he lives at Tunga. The sex was kind of extreme, and she came to me for counseling. She thought it had gone too far.”

“And could you help her?” asked Thóra. “Did you advise her to stop seeing him?” A breakup might be sufficient grounds for a man to commit murder, if he was unbalanced.

Stefanía put down her glass. “No.” She put one of her red fingernails in her mouth and bit it, hard. When she removed the finger, there was a white mark on the nail where the varnish had cracked. “No, I didn’t.” She stared at her empty glass as if in a trance. “I told her just to go for it. That rough sex wasn’t necessarily dangerous.”