Bones in Brown Boots: Viking P.I., #8

By Tommy Ueland

Uncovering the past, solving the present: The Viking P.I. and his detective girlfriend take on a bone-chilling case in the snowy Norwegian mountains.

This is book seven in the Viking P.I. series. When the Viking P.I. learns he has inherited a cabin in the mountains, he packs his trusty Prius and goes on a well-deserved holiday with his family: Alvilde, his detective girlfriend, and their two-year-old son.

The idyll last for the better part of an hour, until his son enters the cabin with a worn brown boot containing a bone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tommy Ueland
• Release date: Feb 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224173259

Book preview

1

THE SLIDING PRIUS

I ’m going to murder you so hard if you run us off the road, Alvilde, my son’s mother and—hopefully still—my girlfriend, said.

I could feel her stare from the passenger seat as my sweaty hands clutched the steering wheel, trying to maneuver the old Prius through heavy snowfall up the mountain.

I glanced over at Alvilde, catching her green eyes framed by red hair that looked like flames against the winter backdrop.

I had promised her that the old winter tires were more than good enough for another season, but when I drove onto the snowy mountain road I understood how mistaken I had been.

We were in Røldal, home of the famous Myra Alpine Resort – a winter haven for snowboarders and free-riders, but we were there to spend New Year’s Eve at our brand-new, old cabin.

In the backseat, our 15-month-old kid, Sigurd, was screaming his lungs out. He had taken his first steps the day before Christmas, knocking over our meticulously decorated Christmas tree so many times it had lost most of its needles. Now, it seemed only useful as a funny meme on social media.

It had taken Sigurd exactly ten seconds from the moment we placed him in the child’s seat until he started complaining, and now, almost three hours later, his decibel levels had hit an all-time high.

Being a detective, you should know that threatening to murder someone is a serious felony, I said, smiling. 

I could almost feel the warmth of Alvilde's wrath radiating on the right side of my body.

Alvilde was a detective in Andebu, the small town where we lived. We first met on a case when she worked for Kripos, the Norwegian equivalent of FBI, and I as a P.I. And still, even though she probably was fantasizing about painting the white mountain scarlet with my blood, I was head over heels in love with her.

Fudge! You promised me a calm and relaxing holiday. So far, it’s been the complete opposite, Alvilde said, fudge being her go-to swearing alternative.

When I got the yearly Christmas letter from my uncle who lived in the US, it wasn’t just a holiday greeting - it came with a key. He wrote that he owned an old cabin in Røldal and that he wouldn’t be able to return to his homeland again. As his only relative in Norway, he wanted me to have it.

I hadn’t seen my uncle for over twenty years, and suddenly he was giving me a cabin I didn't even know he had! When I told Alvilde and asked if she wanted to celebrate New Year’s Eve in my newly attained cabin, she didn’t hesitate. It had been a crazy year for the both of us, and we needed to get away.

Shouldn’t we be there by now? Alvilde said, white-knuckling the grab handle.

I looked at her. I haven’t been here before, remember? A mix of annoyance and fear burned between my eyes. I turned my gaze back to the road just in time to see the flashing lights from an oncoming tractor. I yanked the steering wheel hard right, but the car didn’t respond. Alvilde screamed and pressed her hands against the dashboard. I braced for impact, but, to my surprise, the tires gripped the road at the last possible second and the car halted next to the tractor. I turned to the driver and forced a smile, nonchalantly waving as if nothing had happened.

The driver, an old man with a long white beard, smiled and waved back.

Ho-ho-ho, Sigurd said from the backseat as I got the car moving again.

I looked over at Alvilde, who was still holding onto the dashboard, and I could see that she was fighting hard to suppress a smile.

No, it wasn’t Santa, I said and looked at Sigurd in the rear-view mirror. He just looked like him. Behind Sigurd I could barely make out the tractor’s taillights because of the heavy snowfall. He had really looked like him, though.

There it is! Alvilde suddenly said, pointing at a small cluster of buildings hardly visible from the road.

I turned off the main road and drove under a wooden arch with the word Pustebu carved into it. The word translated to breathing shack. It was exactly what we were there to do. To breathe. I parked the car and let go of