to be buried with him and I also want to be cremated,” Gerd continued.
Irene cast a glance at her. She asked uncertainly, “Why are you talking about this now? Are you feeling sick?”
“Not at all. My health is superb. I just wanted you to know in case it goes quickly. At my age, it can strike like lightning. You know Stina and Bertil Karlsson in the building next door. . . .”
Irene nodded. She had been friends with their youngest daughter.
“He died on Friday. Heart attack. On the spot! And he’s three years younger than me.”
So that’s why Mamma Gerd was bringing this up. And if Irene thought that what she had heard so far was enough, she was wrong, as Gerd continued, “And I want them to sing ‘Day by Day’ and ‘The Beggar from Luossa.’”
“‘The Beggar from Luossa.’ But that’s not a hymn!”
“No. But it’s my favorite song, and it’s the one I want. And it would be great if someone could play the trumpet. That part that Arne Lambert usually plays. You know the one. ‘. . . home to Ukraine’s dark blue sky where the scent of. ...’”
When her mother sang the short verse, Irene recognized it.
“Doesn’t it go something like ‘...hm-hm the little bell rings’?”
“No idea. But I want that one.”
Irene nodded in response. She didn’t like the way this conversation was going. Even if she didn’t have time to visit her mother very often, they both knew that they meant a lot to each other. Her mother had helped out when the twins were small and Irene was working. There weren’t any part-time jobs for crime inspectors. And if Krister hadn’t reduced his hours to part-time and Mamma Gerd hadn’t helped out after preschool, Irene would never have been able to become an inspector.
BOTH KATARINA and Jenny were home. They were both very fond of their grandmother. Maybe it was because they rarely saw Krister’s parents, who lived so far away in Säffle. That and the fact that their paternal grandparents were over eighty, and had five children and eleven grandchildren. Gerd only had Jenny and Katarina, because Irene was an only child.
Krister had fixed a spring-theme dinner. The meal started with steamed fresh asparagus served with whipped butter. For the main course, he’d prepared pan-fried chicken with a rosemary sauce, and duchess potatoes. Jenny ate fried mushrooms instead of the chicken. Jenny had made the dessert, a gooey chocolate cake with whipped cream. It was something of a specialty for her, even though she didn’t eat whipped cream. (Of course the butter in the recipe had been replaced with vegetable margarine.) Jenny had inherited some of Krister’s interest in cooking. Katarina was like her mother: You ate to survive. If it tasted good, that was wonderful; otherwise it would just have to do, as long as you didn’t have to fix it yourself.
A little while after dinner, the phone rang. Jenny was the closest and answered. She gave the cordless phone to Irene, whispering, “It’s a guy who speaks English. He wants to talk to you.”
“If he speaks English, then you don’t need to whisper. He won’t understand anyway,” Katarina remarked.
Irene took the receiver and went into the hall to escape the twins’ fussing.
“Irene Huss here.”
“This is Christian Lefévre. We spoke earlier today.”
“I remember.”
“Rebecka asked me to call. She doesn’t feel well and hasn’t the strength to talk about . . . what has happened.”
“She won’t speak with me at all?”
“No.”
Irene thought feverishly. Finally, she said, firmly, “She has to. We think she can help us with our investigation.”
“She says that she doesn’t know anything.”
“She probably does. Maybe it doesn’t seem important to her, but we’ve gotten a lot of information and we know that she can help us,” Irene said, trying to sound more certain than she felt.
Christian Lefévre asked, “What have you found out that makes you think Rebecka knows something?”
The question surprised her, but she pulled herself together quickly. “I can’t tell you that.”
It was quiet on the other end of the phone. Then Lefévre cleared his throat. “Her doctor says that she needs to rest. She mustn’t get more upset. I didn’t know her family, but I know Rebecka and I care about her a great deal.”
“Is that why you were in her apartment?”
“Her apartment? It’s just as much mine.”
“So you live together?”
“No. But almost,” he answered shortly.
It was a strange answer. In Irene’s opinion, either you live together or you don’t. In a tone just as curt as