Death & the Viking's Daughter Read online

  The right-hand door stood ajar. Death pushed it open and ventured inside. There were no windows and he had to snap on his flashlight to find his way.

  To his immediate right was an enclosed booth, like the ticket booth in a theater. A faded painted sign asked people to please show their membership cards and offered coat checks for fifty cents. Past the reception area a dark hallway ran left and right, parallel to the front of the building. In the circle of his flashlight, the hallways were papered with a garish, busy design. He ran his hand over it and found that the palm trees and tropical fruits were embossed. Fake potted palms stood in recesses every ten or fifteen feet and Death, stopping to examine one, was surprised to find they were made mostly of curled and rolled art paper.

  He followed the right hallway until it divided into an enclosed stairwell and a smaller corridor that turned left and dead-ended beyond a single doorway. That door led into a small dining room with tiny windows and three other doors leading off of it. One door led to another long corridor that ended in a set of restrooms. One of the others led into a smaller dining room, and the other led into yet another corridor that seemed to have no outlet.

  From this corridor Death could hear familiar voices, just faint enough that he couldn’t make out what they were saying. It made no sense to him to have a hallway that led nowhere, and he paced up and down it three times trying to figure out what the point was. It was only when he noticed an anomaly in the beam of his flashlight that he realized there was a doorway right in front of him, camouflaged to look like part of the wall. The wall here was made of decorative paneling that mimicked the texture of a coconut and there was another wall of the same material some four feet inside the open door, so that you had to step into the wall, then turn left or right to enter the next room.

  Shaking his head, Death went through and found the Keystone twins, not surprisingly, bickering with one another.

  The original sons in Keystone and Sons, the twins were identical, but dressed and acted so differently that you’d never know it unless you were told. They were in their early sixties now, with their own sons and grandsons to help them run the business their father had started. Roy always wore overalls and a flannel work shirt, and Sam invariably dressed in a suit with a hat and a string tie.

  Roy was standing precariously on a rickety table, his head bent sideways under the ceiling, trying to pry up a ceiling tile.

  “It woulda been a stupid thing to do,” he was saying.

  “I’m not saying it wasn’t, although they didn’t know that yet, I suppose. But that’s what they did. I’m sure of it. I remember reading it in the Record at the time.”

  “You remember a forty-five-year-old newspaper story?” Roy scoffed.

  “I remember things,” Sam countered. “That’s what people with brains do. I don’t expect you to understand, of course.”

  Death looked to the side, where Roy’s wife Leona and Sam’s wife Doris were seated on barstools, setting up a filing system in a portable case. The room was large, with a bar along one wall. Short screens and artificial plants divided the open space into cozy dining areas and a dance floor. “Do I want to ask what they’re arguing about?”

  The women smiled at him. It was Leona who answered.

  “Sam thinks this place was modeled after the Beverly Hills Supper Club.”

  “Ah. Should I know what that is?”

  “Was. And not necessarily. It was before your time. It was a fancy nightclub in Cincinnati—”

  “Kentucky,” Sam corrected her. “It was across the river, in Southgate, Kentucky. But just outside Cincinnati.”

  “Right. Whatever. Anyway, it burned down in the late 1970s. It was a terrible fire. Well over a hundred people killed.”

  “And Roy’s trying to climb into the ceiling because …?”

  “One of the things that made the Beverly Hills Supper Club fire so bad,” Roy said, climbing down carefully, “and there were a lot of bad things about it, was that there were no firewalls. The floor plan was a maze, no clearly marked exits, and some of the exits were locked. The place was full of flammable materials, no smoke detectors, no fire alarms, and no sprinkler system.”

  “The wiring was a nightmare too,” Sam said, “and there were way more people present than the building had the capacity for. This room, for example, corresponds to what was called the Cabaret Room in the original building. Now, the one in Southgate was larger—this place isn’t an exact copy and the original was still being modified and added onto when this place was built in the early seventies. Anyway, the Cabaret Room in the original had a seating capacity of about 650, but the night of the fire there were more than a thousand people there.”

  “More than a thousand people,” Death said, “trying to evacuate a burning building through that maze of corridors?”

  Leona had her phone out, looking up the fire. “One hundred and sixty-six fatalities,” she said. “The fire started in the drop ceiling of one of the rooms across the hall. Two employees found it just about a minute before 9:00 p.m. It was only smoldering until they opened the door and then, with the rush of oxygen, it flashed over. The building was rated for a total capacity of 1,500 people but there were an estimated 3,000 actually present. The fire department was called at 9:01 and arrived at 9:05. A busboy stopped the show in the Cabaret Room and began the evacuation at 9:06. The power failed at 9:10.”

  “We tend to forget how quickly tragedy can strike,” Sam said.

  “All but two of the bodies they pulled out of the ruins came from the Cabaret Room,” Leona continued, studying her phone. “There were double doors opening into the corridor. Volunteer firefighters said they found the living and the dead there, all together, stacked like cordwood.”

  “All that,” Roy said, “in spite of the fact that there were clear zoning and building laws that should have kept the Beverly Hills Supper Club from operating under those conditions.”

  “So why … ” Death waved one hand around at the darkened room and the building in general. “I don’t understand why someone would build a replica of a big, fancy nightclub out here in the middle of nowhere in the first place.”

  “You haven’t met Claudio Bender,” Doris said.

  “He’s an odd duck,” Leona explained.

  “Odd how?”

  “Hmm. How do I describe him? He’s this little old man with white hair, kind of looks like Santa might if he were thin and shaved. He has one of those mobility scooters he takes with him, and he rides that everywhere while his son follows him around doing whatever he says and not talking or anything.”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Bender is obsessed with material possessions,” Sam said.

  His brother snorted. “Ya think?” Roy turned to face Death directly. “He got in touch with us right after we contracted for this auction and told us that we need to check with him about everything in here before we sell it, to find out if it’s something he wants to keep.”

  “Don’t the owners of what you’re selling do that sometimes?”

  “Sometimes. But he’s not the owner. He sold the place, lock, stock, and barrel, back in the early eighties.”

  “Ah. What did you tell him?”

  “I told him no.”

  “The issue we have here,” Leona said, “is that out here away from any municipal boundaries, there aren’t really any zoning or building laws. Even though it’s not an exact replica of the one that burned, you can tell by looking at it that this place is poorly designed when it comes to safety. We want to be sure to know all of the problems with it before we try to hold a public auction in the building. We also want to be able to give any prospective buyer a comprehensive list of issues that will need to be addressed, if we’re going to auction off the property.”

  “I thought you had some big hotel chain that wanted to buy the land and raze the building?”

  “There was a develop
er that showed interest, but I think he drifted off when the Vikings next door wouldn’t sell.”

  Roy climbed back up on the table and smacked his palm against the ceiling tile. “Anybody got a hammer?”

  Death froze suddenly and held up his hand. “Wait? Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” Doris asked. “I didn’t hear anything.”

  “I thought I heard someone yelling for help. There it is again. From outside, maybe. What’s the quickest way out of here?”

  “This way,” Leona said, leading him to the back of the building as Roy climbed down and the others followed. Another camouflaged doorway led to another dark corridor that angled off to the left and ended in a glass door. Beyond the door lay a landscaped garden between the building and the lake, its stone paths and fountains and statuary overgrown with dead and dying weeds. The door was locked, but Leona had a master key on a key ring in her hand and she wrestled it open.

  Once they were outside, the could clearly hear young voices, coming from the north, crying for help. They rounded the building in a group, Death’s damaged lungs slowing him down and Roy Keystone outpacing all of them. The rest of the family was converging on teenaged Robin Keystone, who was crouching beside a huddled figure on the footbridge over the creek.

  Death, ever the Marine gunnery sergeant, pushed through the crowd and took charge.

  “Robin, what happened?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I just happened to look over and see him. He was standing on the bridge, looking at the lake, and then he kind of staggered and fell. I think he had a heart attack. I don’t think he’s breathing.”

  two

  “Okay, don’t touch him. Has anyone called 911?”

  “I did.” Surprisingly, it was nine-year-old Matthew who answered, holding up a cell phone that Robin quickly reclaimed.

  “Okay. Good job there.” Death shooed them back and went to one knee beside the crumpled figure. It was an elderly man, he’d guess in his mid-seventies to early eighties. Contrary to Robin’s panicked assessment, Death could see the man’s chest rising and falling. He checked for a pulse and was rewarded with a faint, fluttering heartbeat. “Who is he?”

  “One of the Vikings,” Doris said. “Look at his clothes.”

  The man was wearing a thick blue tunic, tight at the top, that flared out at his waist and reached his knees. He had loose trousers on under it, with simple, leather ankle-length boots. A mustard-yellow cloak, trimmed in braid and fastened at his right shoulder with an ornamental brooch, covered him and pooled around him on the wooden bridge.

  “Do you know his name, though?”

  “No. I’m sorry. When we were here before we talked to a younger couple.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Matthew, hush!”

  “He’s not dead,” Death reassured them, though he was concerned with the older man’s lack of response. “He’s got a bruise starting on his temple. I think he hit his head when he fell. I don’t want to move him unless we have to. He could have other injuries from the fall and moving him could make them worse.”

  Sirens signified the approach of emergency vehicles, the sound growing louder and blending with its own echoes coming back from across the lake. The engine and search and rescue vehicles from the Cold Spring Volunteer Fire Department arrived first, with a sheriff’s department cruiser coming right behind them.

  Wren pulled in just after the deputy and nearly fell out of her truck in a panic.

  “What happened? Is someone hurt? Oh my God! What happened?”

  The Keystones drew back to admit the first responders. Death explained what they knew to the EMT—it only took a few words—and then dragged himself to his feet and went to reassure her.

  The younger members of the family were already explaining, in excited tones, what had happened.

  “I’m the one who called 911,” Matthew bragged.

  “Yeah,” one of his siblings said, “because he’s got experience at that.”

  “Oh for crying out loud!” Matthew huffed out a breath that lifted a lock of hair from his forehead. “I only set the kitchen on fire one time. Get over it already!”

  “Do you know who he is? Or anything about him?” Deputy Orlando Jackson interrupted their conversation. “Any idea what made him pass out?”

  “Nope,” Death said. “Robin saw him fall and started shouting.”

  “Is that his car?”

  “Probably?” Death said. “It doesn’t belong to any of us, and I’d think if there was anyone else on the other side of this bridge all the commotion would have gotten their attention by now.”

  Jackson nodded once and returned to his vehicle for a tool to open the sedan. On the bridge, the EMTs were working over the fallen man. Death put his arm around Wren and they wandered after Jackson, curious.

  He used a slim-jim to pop the lock on the driver’s door and stuck his head into the car. There was nothing under the visor, and he spent only a few seconds examining the contents of the glove compartment. Frustrated, he blew out a breath and then stuck his hand under the seat.

  “Aha!” He pulled out his finds and laid them on the car seat. “Wallet, cell phone, crap!”

  “Crap?” Wren was pale beneath her freckles and her red hair stood out bright around her head. Death knew that following the emergency vehicles to where her friends were had frightened her.

  “He’s got a medic alert bracelet! Cardiac.” Jackson brushed past them and ran the bracelet over to the EMTs, then returned, talking into the radio pinned to his left shoulder. “I’ve called for a medevac helicopter. We’re going to need to find it a place to land. If you’ve got a medic alert bracelet, why the hell aren’t you wearing it?”

  “It was an anachronism?” Wren shrugged when he glared at her. “Some of these reenactors take their roles very seriously. If he’d been doing it for very long, it was probably just second nature to remove anything that didn’t belong to the era. Who is he?”

  “Neils Larsen.”

  “Well, his name’s authentic.”

  The fire department engine crew was already busy preparing a landing zone for the helicopter. They’d tied a bright red streamer to an antenna on the engine in order to determine wind direction and were using red auxiliary lights to mark out the corners of a large, square section of the open field that ran between the yacht club and the creek, down to the lake.

  “Neils Larsen,” Death said. “I know that name. I think he’s the man whose daughter disappeared.”

  “What? When?” Jackson reached through the window of his cruiser and turned off the emergency lights. Across the parking lot, the firefighters were shutting down their own apparatus, turning off lights and closing the doors and windows and compartments. The Keystones were coming toward them in a group, urged on by a couple of young firefighters. Leona Keystone was busy counting heads, making sure her entire brood was accounted for.

  “Back in the late seventies some time,” Death said. “Roy Keystone mentioned it and I was curious so I looked up what I could find about it later. Her family lived in Columbia, but she was last seen alive in Cincinnatti. She disappeared from a Renaissance festival when she was seventeen. Her dad was a guest at the yacht club the weekend she went missing and he said he saw her ghost on the shore. That’s why, when they were looking for a place to build a Viking settlement, they chose that plot of land.”

  With all the sirens turned off, Death could hear the heartbeat sound of an approaching helicopter. An older firefighter waved his hands to get everyone’s attention.

  “Okay, folks, the medevac chopper is going to be coming in for a landing in just a couple of minutes. I need everyone, and I mean every­one, to stay back here, well out of the way. The rotors can come down as low as four feet off the ground and if one hits you in the head, it can kill you. The tail rotors spin so fast they’re nearly invisib
le, and when the bird comes in to land the wind it kicks up is as strong as a hurricane. So stay back, stay together, and you’re going to want to close your eyes as it lands so you don’t get any dust or debris in them.”

  The roar of the approaching helicopter reached a crescendo as it came in and set down without incident. The windstorm it created tugged at Death’s clothing and pushed against him like a physical shove. He put his arms around Wren and pulled her against his chest, burying his face in her hair as dry leaves and small pieces of gravel skittered off across the parking area.

  The pilot shut the aircraft down completely and waited until the rotors stopped turning before he opened the door for the flight crew. A tall, lanky paramedic got off first, ducked out from under the wide blades, and stopped when he’d cleared their path. He glanced around, anxious, until his gaze settled on Death. Then he caught his eye, nodded imperceptibly, and followed the nearest firefighter to the downed man.

  Death sighed.

  “Don’t roll your eyes because we love you,” Wren admonished.

  Randy Bogart had been a firefighter and nationally accredited paramedic with the St. Louis Fire Department before he moved to East Bledsoe Ferry to be closer to his big brother. He now worked for the medevac service and served on the volunteer fire department.

  “I’m not,” Death defended himself. “But you two could not automatically assume that if someone’s in trouble where I might be, that it must be me.”

  “Well,” she hedged, “it’s not without precedent …”

  When the helicopter had gone, the fire department returned to their headquarters. Deputy Jackson locked up Neils Larsen’s sedan and headed back to his own office with Larsen’s wallet and phone to try to locate and notify the man’s next of kin. The Keystones dispersed to whatever tasks they’d been doing before the excitement and Wren and Death lingered beside the bridge to talk.