The Seven Husbands of Freya Grimm

Freya's problem and a society of couch enthusiasts (apparently).

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Author’s note: This is Episode 2 of “A Game of Corpse and Robbers”. Here’s the full index so you can catch up on the story. Enjoy!

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My sister and I watched The Addams Family a lot when we were children. Freya always fancied herself a cross between Morticia and Wednesday. She tied her hair in twin braids, always wore black, and, whenever possible, ensured she was seen in chiaroscuro lighting. I hadn’t heard from her in nearly two years but she still looked exactly the same as ever.

Freya tapped on the partition and the car began to move. I asked her where we were going. She tutted and said, “We haven’t seen each other for months, and that’s your first question? Honestly, Finn, if I had a heart, you’d break it.”

I apologized and asked her how she was.

“Not bad,” she shrugged. “Did I tell you I got married?”

“No, but congratulations.”

“Thank you. His name’s Roger, or, at least, it was. No, wait, it’s still his name even if he isn’t around to use it, isn’t it? He’s dead, you see.”

This did not surprise me. Freya is what is colloquially called a “Black Widow”. She had a habit of marrying rich people, and they had a habit of turning up dead and leaving her all their money. This was Husband Number 7. So far there had been three suicides, one heart attack, and two unfortunate boating accidents, none of which could be traced back to her.

“How did you do it this time?” I asked.

“That’s the trouble,” she said. “I didn’t kill this one.”

Over the next twenty minutes, Freya told me everything she knew about her late husband, Roger Walters. He was 32 years old and his parents died when he was young, leaving him a massive fortune and an even bigger mansion. He met Freya in North Africa a year before and it wasn’t long before they tied the knot in a joyous celebration of love that I wasn’t invited to. Roger was an easygoing sort but he was quite concerned about Freya spending all his money (who wouldn’t be?) and they fought a lot over that. For the last several months, he’d been spending most of his time at the Settee Club.

“Settee Club?” I asked.

“That’s right,” Freya said. “It’s a gentlemen’s club. I’ve never been but I imagine it’s a place where the old boys can sit around on settees and talk about how much money they have.”

The night before, Roger left for the club sometime in the evening. According to Freya, she was up till midnight and he didn’t come home during that time. In the morning, when there was still no sign of him, she looked around and found his body in the room opposite theirs, lying in bed with blood on the sheets.

“Not a lot of blood, surprisingly,” she said. “I’ve seen gunshot wounds before and this one had an unusually low amount of blood. You should make a note of that, Thorfinn.”

From what I’d heard, it sounded like Freya was the only person who might have wanted Roger Walters dead, and I told her so. She made a face.

“Are you really saying you didn’t do it?” I asked

“Of course,” she said. “Would I lie to you?”

Photo by Muhmed Alaa El-Bank on Unsplash

She would. However, I couldn’t help but think that if my sister wanted to kill a husband, she would have done a much better job. In any case, she had one last bit of information that she felt was the key to the whole thing. As it turned out, Freya hadn’t gotten around to changing her husband’s will yet so she wouldn’t be getting a single penny from his death. I asked her who would.

The car came to a stop. Freya rolled down a window and pointed at a building across the street.

“Those people,” she said. “That’s the club, the Settee Club. Roger told me they get all his money when he dies. There, I’ve solved the case for you. Now all you have to do is go in there and find some proof.”

Five minutes later, I was in the club’s lobby and I realized that Freya was utterly wrong. It wasn’t the Settee Club, a place for rich furniture enthusiasts, it was the Seti Club, a place for rich Egyptology enthusiasts.

The lobby was a beautiful space with high vaulted ceilings, marble floors, and an enormous glass chandelier. The place was practically littered with ornate statues of gods, animals, and animal-headed gods. One piece in particular caught my eye.

It was a black ceramic statuette of the falcon-headed god Ra, standing proudly on the mantel above a crackling fireplace. It had a gold-plated crown encrusted with a big red jewel encircled by a gold snake, with two smaller red gems for eyes. It was an elegant work of art worthy of the highest praise. If only it wasn’t a fake.

The figurine so entranced me that I almost didn’t notice the figure walking up behind me. I turned around just in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of a large man and a heavy walking stick. Then the stick collided with my head and everything went dark.