Soon they drove by the official green sign welcoming the visitor to Solvang—population 5,332.

Danish Disneyland.

The little tourist town really had an amusement-park feel to it, down to the street names—Vester, Aarhus, Nykobing, Midten— using Hof and Sted instead of street, avenue, or lane.

Lifted right out of a fairy tale: picture-perfect cottages with mullion-paned windows, dozens of gables, and multipeaked roofs topped with special tiles evoking thatched straw. Cute little bungalows of sparkling white stucco and red brick, overwhelmed with gingerbread, set on lots with meticulously planted flower gardens. Almost all the dwellings had exterior walls deluged with Tudor-style trim—stripes and triangles and squares of brightly painted wood appliqué, light blue being the most common color for the decorative beams. But some of the owners had chosen brown or green or in some cases bright red. There were lots of white picket fences and many second-story balconies ringed with white dowel railings. Two of the motels on Mission Avenue had life-size windmills, another had a clock tower with a weather vane.

Decker had never seen streets so clean, as if they were washed daily.

The business district, also on Mission, was a couple of miles long with architecture that was nearly identical to the residences. The shops and restaurants and bacaris were owned by individuals with names like Mortensen, Petersen, and Olsen. And the names weren’t just for atmosphere. Both he and Rina agreed that they had never seen so many white-haired, pink-complexioned elderly people in such a small geographical area. When they drove past the local school—across the street from a Lutheran Church—it was all fair skin and light hair, except for a clique of Native American children.

Anika Lubke lived in a bright yellow one-story house, the door surrounded by two bay windows and the sides trimmed with blue wood beams. Set into a pole was a Danish flag guarding the entry-way; the hand-painted address numbers were red on blue-and-white delft tiles. The front yard was a pallet of color, a profusion of wildflowers. Someone had plunked a stuffed Nordic seaman, complete with beard and cap, smack in the middle of a daisy bush—the Danes’ answer to a scarecrow. Decker parked the Porsche and checked his watch. Ten-forty: They were twenty minutes early.

“What do you think?” he asked Rina.

“I don’t think they’d mind. But if you’d feel uncomfortable, we can walk around for a few minutes.”

Before they could decide, the door opened. The woman who came out was tall and thin, wearing a housecoat printed with calla lilies. Her white hair was tied into a long ponytail, her complexion fair with rosy cheeks. “You are Lieutenant and Mrs. Decker?”

“Hi,” Rina said from the curb. “We’re a little early.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Her accent was light and crisp. “Come in, please.”

The pathway to the front was narrow. Decker told Rina to go first. The woman introduced herself as Anika, then stepped aside, allowing them to walk into a compact living room with blond hardwood floors and yellow washed walls. The furniture was simple in design and made by someone with a utilitarian eye. The couch and chairs were straight backed and upholstered in tiny blue checks, holding a couple of rudimentary pillows. The coffee table was a trunk, with hand-painted flowers and swirls, which looked to be genuinely old. The walls were hung with oil still lifes, mostly florals: original paintings but not very good. There were also a couple of sketches and a map of Denmark. No family photos. Maybe she kept them in the bedroom.