Copenhagen Cozenage Page 2

  Hmmm…apparently strange packages were more common than I had thought. It made me feel a little bit better, knowing that I was not the only one chasing a mystery halfway around the world.

  Upon the death of Silje Østergaard, who appeared to be my grandmother, I’d received a mysterious package from her lawyer. Apparently I was the only child of her youngest daughter. My mother had run away to the States thirty years ago and disappeared. All she left behind was a baby girl in foster care. Somehow the lawyer had found me. That single, oversized envelope from Denmark contained everything I knew about my past.

  There was a round-trip plane ticket to Copenhagen, an antique watch with a key to wind it, a brochure about the crown jewels of Denmark, and a receipt for a room and the Sunday luxury brunch at the Nimb Hotel in Tivoli Gardens. The package even held instructions regarding where I should sit during brunch. My grandmother’s favorite table was near the fireplace, next to an antique elephant’s head displayed on a short marble pillar.

  The similarities between mine and August’s packages wasn’t lost on me. Apparently, the Danes had different customs than Americans upon the death of a loved one. Giving out family heirlooms, sending brochures about national treasures, and having one eat at a favorite restaurant of the deceased was obviously some kind of tradition.

  Right before my plane left, I’d won the bonus prize. An e-mail from Freja, my Danish cousin, wanting to meet for the brunch. I had family in Denmark, living family. Nothing short of three hurricanes and a broken arm would make me miss meeting my birth family.

  My attention snapped back to the conversation at hand when Leroy gave me a generous slurp across the arm. “So, why did you bring Leroy?” I scooted back a step and wiped the slobber on the side of my suitcase.

  “Leroy’s here to work. A local artist needed the loan of an enormous dog. I was here anyway, so bringing Leroy wasn’t too much hassle since the other guy is paying.”

  I stood and tried to dust some of Leroy’s hairs off my new skirt. They just smeared around. “Um, well…thank you for rescuing me, and good luck with the jewel thief and Leroy’s job.”

  “No, thank you for watching Leroy.” Our conversation dwindled down to a thick awkward silence that sat between us like that lava monster Snarvich The Reticent was forced to calm with his telepathic abilities in Season One of the original series.

  August fumbled a paper out of his back pocket, braced it against Leroy’s crate, and scribbled something down. His blue eyes were strangely serious as he broke our silence. “Here, take my number. I’ll be visiting the crown jewels and snooping around some fancy hotel, but other than that I’m free if you need a tour guide.”

  I smiled and took the scrap of paper he slipped into my hand. Wow, what were the odds I’d meet a man undeterred by the sorry state of my appearance.

  I attempted to keep a blush at bay, gathered up all my pink items, and clicked off toward the bathrooms. A few steps into my grand exit I couldn’t help myself and looked back.

  August had opened the cage to give Leroy a drink, and was now attempting to stuff the dog back into the crate. The latch on the crate appeared to be giving him trouble again.

  Leroy burst free. The dog’s wagging tail swept across a stand featuring Copenhagen’s most popular attractions. The flyers fluttered out of their carefully labeled pockets and scattered across the floor.

  Man, he was cute, and I was not talking about the dog.

  2

  The Taxi

  I may not be considered much of an artist. Sadly, the complexities of creating a fierce unicorn that remains majestic without appearing too proud is lost to most of the artistic community. Still, I love art. And God added a bonus blessing to this trip I would never have thought up on my own. My favorite artist in all the world would be at the Nimb Hotel today—the very day my Grandmother arranged for my brunch.

  Axel Rasmussen was famous for his candid sketches of everyday people on a bad day. How he thought up his subjects’ misadventures and coaxed his models to accurately portray every indignant pose was a mystery. They were unequivocally hilarious, especially the one of a businessman whose briefcase got hooked by a passing trolley. By the time he retrieved the tooled leather case, it had been run over by five cars, a garbage truck, and a mounted policeman.

  I owned ten of his coffee table books. I’d heard rumors, in a few online chat rooms, that Axel Rasmussen would finally reveal his process. And I, Morgan Nicole Ravn, would witness his genius first hand.

  I dragged my luggage to the ladies’ room where I changed out of my damaged attire. I donned a slim navy dress with a wiggle skirt, cap sleeves, and matching heels. I hid the pink purse at the very bottom of my suitcase underneath my ragged jeans and orange “Live Long and Thrive” T-shirt featuring Snarvich The Reticent and his intergalactic space craft. It was the only classic Morgan outfit I had condescended to bring—just for emergencies. I pulled out a small leather backpack that Bret had given me and stuffed my wallet inside.

  The navy heels were even higher than the pink ones, but they made such satisfying clicks on the shiny airport floors that it almost made up for how I lived in fear for my ankles. What if I hit a puddle and my ankle bent and my leg snapped right off? No, I had to focus. This was what normal women dealt with every day.

  I could sculpt six different styles of the same movie hero in two weeks (one Somalian, one Japanese, one Swedish, one Peloponnesian, one French, and my favorite, the Chilean hero). I was going to this fancy schmancy brunch as a woman. Heels and a slick floor would not thwart my plans.

  I flagged down a taxi, tossed my carry-on into the seat, and stashed my larger bag in the trunk.

  Someone behind me gasped.

  I turned.

  Several travelers ran toward me waving their arms and shouting in Danish.

  Oh, no, this was my taxi. The frantic travelers would just have to wait their turn. I leapt inside and slammed the door, shouting out the address for Tivoli Gardens where the Nimb Hotel and Restaurant was located. Sensing my urgency, the driver zipped out into traffic. I sighed and looked across the seat to make sure that my carry-on and purse had made it.

  I screamed and scrambled back against the door.

  A massive black dog looked back at me. I covered my eyes and peeked through my fingers. Leroy was still there. I could see neither my carry-on nor my purse, for the giant animal lounged across most of the seat in a great, floppy mess of fur and slobber.

  How had I missed him? My mind flew back to the shouting travelers who had charged my taxi at the airport. Perhaps they weren’t trying to pirate my ride. Chivalrous knights, the strangers had hoped to save me the horror of a giant canine sharing my seat.

  I looked back.

  Leroy had not disappeared. In fact, he panted and oozed closer to me across the seat. This could not be happening. I couldn’t take this massive beast on my tour of Rosenborg Castle to see the crown jewels. He would not blend in during Sunday Luxury Brunch at Nimb. And I would not tolerate another hair on my newly-acquired girly clothes.

  The dog had to go.

  I informed my driver that we had an unwelcome guest. He almost crashed the taxi when he glanced in the mirror to see if I was joking. Fortunately, there were no cars in the opposite lane and he managed to swerve us back to safety.

  Soon I was back at the airport, paying him to wait for me.

  I yanked on Leroy’s leash trying to coax him out of the taxi. Leroy would not budge. I called August on my cell, but it went right to voice mail. How could I move Leroy without obtaining a whole new coating of hair? I pulled on his front paws, which didn’t help any, and then tugged at his tail from a distance. The meter continued to tick, ringing up a larger and larger fare. Finally I lowered my shoulder and shoved Leroy’s hairy rear across the slick seat until the beast yawned and stepped out of the car. OK, now all I had to do was find his person.

  August was nowhere. I called his number twelve times. I searched baggage claim and every taxi out front. I ev
en stood in line at the help desk and asked if they could hold Leroy with the other lost suitcases until August came to get him.

  No, they could not. They couldn’t even find the flight that August and Leroy had taken to Denmark. However, the smiling lady behind the counter did suggest that I would feel much better if I got a nice, strong coffee and had some cake. Cake?

  I wanted August Bruun. I mean, really, how hard could it be to locate his flight? It had to have arrived today. August had gotten his suitcase the same time he’d brought mine. But the tall, thin woman who guarded the counter simply shook her head. I was stuck with my new best friend.

  Leroy and I trudged back to the taxi. I grimaced as a text from my cousin Freja popped up on my phone. Did your plane land? Can’t wait to meet you! This is so exciting!! Be sure to wear your scarf!!!

  I stared down at Leroy and could feel the color drain from my face. I texted her back, trying to stay upbeat. Just got here. Found a taxi. I’ll see you at 4:00 at the elephant table. Can’t wait!

  I’d dreamed about this moment for years. I mean, Bret was awesome, but I still needed to know where I had come from. I wanted to see where my mom had grown up and meet someone who knew my history, knew a thing or two about my past.

  This was not the way I wanted to meet my biological family. My navy dress was now a hair-infested monstrosity and my shoes had a smear of slobber across the toe.

  What if Leroy had to go potty?

  We were in the middle of the city without a pooper scooper.

  I didn’t know a thing about dogs. I looked through my purse hoping for inspiration. Nail clippers, lip gloss that matched my first pair of shoes, and a brochure for the Rosenborg Castle featuring Denmark’s crown jewels. Hmmm…August’s grandpa was obsessed with that jewel thief. Hadn’t August said he was taking the tour and would search around the castle for more clues?

  I yanked Leroy back toward the taxi, where I was forced to pay extra to squeeze him into the seat next to me. At least I had a direction. To the jewels! August might not find his famous villain, but by the pointy ears of Snarvich The Reticent, I was going to make sure he found his dog.

  3

  The Castle

  Rosenborg Castle was not difficult to locate. It was, however, difficult to navigate with a full-sized pink suitcase, a rolling carry-on, and a one-hundred-fifty-pound dog. Leroy might have been well brushed, but his leash skills were quite unsightly. In fact, I wasn’t convinced that anyone had ever succeeded in making him walk politely on a lead.

  August probably tied his leash to a tractor or small tank, and then took off for their walk confident that no amount of pulling from his pet would drag them off course.

  I wore very tippy shoes and had neither a tractor nor a small tank.

  Leroy and I were off course immediately. We plunged down lovingly tended paths and dashed through the exquisite gardens, with me losing luggage and having to retrieve it at every bend in the trail.

  Long stretches of immaculate lawn put the delicious scent of freshly cut grass on the wind. Graceful willows bent and bowed, trailing their flowing skirts across the ground. Buttery tulips grew in great colorful swaths, rivaling the sun in all its brightness. An ancient dogwood tree crouched next to a wooden bench. I plopped onto it and attempted to fix my tattered hose. Its knobby limbs twisted toward the sky, blanketed in delicate blossoms and courted by a few gently buzzing bees.

  The gardens were fantastic, but I was betting that August would have gone right in to see the jewels. I could glimpse the castle in the distance. It rose up out of the horticultural grandeur of the garden like an elegant matron. Over four hundred years old, the structure remained stately, beautiful, and strong. Rosenborg Castle was protected by a half moat around the front. A narrow little bridge spanned the water so onlookers could view the indoor splendors without laying siege.

  If I could get Leroy and my suitcases across the bridge, I had a chance of finding August and reuniting him with his slobbery pet. I stood and lurched forward with my luggage. The little wheels were made for tile and concrete, not the rustic trails of Rosenborg’s gardens. Instead of rolling smartly behind me, my suitcases dug a swath through the dirt as I yanked them along. A small cloud of dust followed in my wake. I needed to get rid of this dog.

  Leroy looked up at me and wagged.

  I stared down at him. “Yes, you are a pretty boy. And I suppose you’re snuggly enough. But you need to understand that not everyone can handle all the hair and oozing drool.”

  Leroy snuffled off toward a little bird that hopped and pecked in the grass on our left. Had I insulted the shaggy beast? What if he set his mind on revolt and yanked the leash from my hands? I patted his head in what I hoped was a conciliatory manner.

  Leroy bounded toward my face and slobbered on me with great enthusiasm.

  I sidestepped and wiped the moist trail off my cheek. Ugh, I was forgiven. But had it been worth it?

  Leroy yanked me out of my shoes as he spotted a squirrel scolding passersby from a tall leafy oak.

  I wrangled the fierce squirrel hunter away from the tree and crammed my feet back into my dusty heels. This dog was incredibly strong. Why should I fight him when I could put his power to good use? I took the Newfoundland’s leash and looped it through the handles of both my suitcase and carry-on. Then I put out a hand to steady them, and directed Leroy away from the squirrel and toward the bridge.

  Leroy snuffled at a strip of red tulips and nibbled a few strands of grass.

  I nudged his shoulder with my hip and pointed at the bridge.

  Leroy’s head came up and his tail thumped against the suitcases.

  “The bridge Leroy, we need to cross that bridge.” I pointed again. “It’s right there, by the water.” At the word “water” his ears pricked slightly.

  Leroy stared at the bridge. His body trembled and his gaze became deeply intent.

  The velvety lawn curled down toward the moat where a few stones set into the bank kept the soil from sloughing into the murky water. Our little path cut across the lawn and meandered through a few lazy turns before reaching the bridge.

  “Let’s go, boy, to the bridge,” I urged.

  Leroy launched himself toward the bridge. He did not meander with the path.

  I was left standing alone in the path, clutching a few silky black hairs in one fist.

  My luggage bounced along behind the dog like cans tied to a newlywed’s car. I suppose the simile only works if those newlyweds had been speeding and swerving and intent on ending their lives before they even made it to the honeymoon.

  Leroy thundered past the regal forms of twin bronze lions lying on pedestals of stone, smashed by a guy with sunglasses and a cane taking pictures of the garden, and then barreled through an iron gate and onto the bridge itself. But Leroy did not cross the bridge. Oh, no, he made right for the railing, his gaze set upon the moat.

  Everything slowed down into agonizing snapshots of horror. Leroy was leaping toward the rail, my suitcases bounding along behind.

  The camera guy snapped a picture of me, and then spun to take photos of the crazed animal’s demise. He kept clicking even as he twisted an ankle and fell to the path.

  Leroy, hair flying, launched off the railing, his front paws stretched over nothing but open air. The suitcases slammed against the railing bars and got wedged. Leroy plunged down toward the dark gray water. Then, snap, the leash caught tight.

  Suddenly, the world whipped by at full speed again.

  Leroy hung from the bridge by his leash and one back leg that was wedged into the iron bars. He swung and struggled and howled in terror.

  Oh, my goodness! I’d just killed August’s dog. I raced to the bridge.

  The camera guy leaned over the edge, his burgundy sweater a mess of gravel and dust. He slid his hands carefully over Leroy’s trapped leg. “It’s OK, boy. Stop fighting, we’ll get ya.” His tone was soothing, but I noticed a gleam of sweat on his forehead.

  I pushed past. I hung over
the rail and tried to reach the struggling animal. He would choke if I didn’t get him free. It was a miracle he hadn’t broken his neck. But I couldn’t reach. “Give me your cane!” I shouted over my shoulder.

  The camera guy was there in an instant, cane in hand. It wasn’t quite long enough.

  Leroy was barely whimpering now.

  I didn’t have much time. I grabbed the camera guy by the shoulder. His eyes were brown, a dimple dented one cheek, and his dark hair was stiff even in the breeze. He seemed familiar, but I had no time to wonder why. “Hang onto me, I can’t reach him.”

  I draped myself over the rail and the camera guy grabbed me around the waist. Both of us leaned out over the water toward the crying dog. I snagged the collar once, but the buckle held. If I could just get it to loosen I figured the whole thing would fall off. The loose end was wedged under a small red strap. I hooked the collar with the cane, once, twice. I twisted and shoved at the little strap, slipping farther over the rail. My shoe fell past my face, making a small splash in the quiet water below. The camera guy jolted forward and grabbed my legs. This was mortifying. He’d better not be looking up my dress. But the slip made me jostle Leroy’s back leg.

  With a twist, Leroy swung free of the bridge and the collar slipped over his shaggy head. The heavy Newfoundland yelped and plunged into the moat below. The subsequent splash was impressive, but Leroy swam to shore without incident. Water didn’t seem to cause him any trauma, only bridges.

  The camera guy was surprisingly strong for an older man. He hauled me back over the rail without losing my other shoe.