Old World Murder (2010) (23 page)

“Thanks again.” Chloe tried to read Byron’s expression. “But something tells me you didn’t drive over here just to hand-deliver these.”

Byron finally looked her in the eye. “The receptionist told me that Ralph asked her to set up a meeting in Madison this afternoon with the division curator and the division director.” He rubbed his palms on his trousers. “There was only one item on the agenda.”

“Me?”

“Yeah.”

Chloe took that in. “I think I’m toast.”

“I’m sorry.” Behind his little wire-rimmed glasses, Byron’s eyes were concerned.

Chloe chewed her lower lip. So, Ralph
was
going to fire her. But evidently he needed to let the Madison folks know what he wanted to do. And if that didn’t happen until late today,
she
still had a little time to figure out what was going on. Not much time. But a little.

Byron started toward his car, then turned back. “Are you coming to the picnic this afternoon?”

She blinked. “The
picnic
?”

“Didn’t you see the flyer? The interpreters are having an end-of-the-school-tour-season picnic in the village after work. Four o’clock, by the Inn. We’ve still got a few tours scheduled, but we’re definitely over the hump.”

“I don’t think I’m up for a picnic.”

“Well, think about it, OK?”

Chloe almost laughed. In the last few weeks she’d seen two dead people. Someone had broken into her home, and thrown a rock through a window and onto her bed in the middle of the night. She had just learned that her mother—her
mother
—was inexplicably involved in the whole mess. Ralph Petty was gunning to fire her. She was broke and exhausted and fending off clinical depression. And Byron wanted her to come to a picnic.

“Really,” Byron said earnestly. “You should come.”

Chloe couldn’t find the words to say no to someone who had turned, surprisingly enough, into an ally. “OK,” she said. “I’ll be there.”

____

After Byron left, Chloe read her phone messages. One was from a woman who wanted to donate her grandmother’s crazy quilt to Old World. That would have to wait for the next curator, Chloe thought, and put the slip aside. The second made her shoulders sag.
Nika called 7:30 A.M. Has to take Joel to Dr. in Milwaukee today. Will be in later if she can—otherwise will see you tomorrow.

Lovely, Chloe thought. All Nika’s likely to see tomorrow is Ralph Petty kicking my sorry ass off the site.

One day left. A clock seemed to be audibly ticking in her brain. OK. She still had a couple of possibilities. Next: search Stanley Colontuono’s desk.

Stan’s truck was parked by the maintenance building. Chloe waited an hour before she heard an engine starting. After he’d driven away, she hurried across the yard.

Stanley’s desk was a mess. Was he a disorganized slob who wouldn’t notice if his things were shuffled? Or was he—like Leila—in total control of the chaos? Chloe decided to begin with the desk drawers. One held a row of bulging files, grease-stained and dog-eared. As far as she could tell, all were stuffed with state business. The other drawers held junk: thumbtacks, envelopes, loose change, a spark plug, a pack of cigarettes, a doorknob, and various other bits of hardware.

All right, the desktop. Chloe quickly shuffled through requisition forms for paper towels, a bill from the local building supply company, a request for proposal for a new picnic pavilion. Scattered among these were time sheets and loose washers, pencils showing teeth marks, stray coils of wire. Nothing of any use.

Then something caught her eye. A blotter-sized state-issue calendar lay beneath the clutter. Amazingly enough, Stanley actually used his. Chloe moved piles back and forth so she could quickly scan the terse notes inked onto the dated squares.
Staff meeting—9 A.M. Pick up lumber. Dst appt—2:45. Pay day. Oil change. RFP due. Court.

Hold on. Court? Why was Stanley due in court at the end of June?

Chloe high-tailed it back to her trailer, shut the door, fished out Roelke’s card, and called his home number. “Listen,” she said when he answered. “I found something.” She told Roelke about the calendar. “A court date! I—”

“I
told
you not to—”

“I know, I
know
. You can yell at me later, OK? Don’t you think the most important thing to do right now is find out why Stanley is going to court on June 30?”

“I can do some checking,” he said grudgingly. “But I swear to God, Chloe, if you don’t stop—”

“Look. I am almost certainly going to get fired tomorrow. So today is what I’ve got, Roelke. Just today.”

“Stay – away – from – Stanley.”

“I will,” she promised. And since she didn’t have any more ideas regarding the maintenance chief, it was a promise she was pretty sure she could keep.

After hearing from Chloe,
Roelke called a clerk he knew at the Waukesha County Court and asked for a list of scheduled appearances for June 30. “I’m about to head in to work,” he told her. “Could you fax the list to me there?” With any luck, he could snatch the fax before Marie spotted it and started asking questions.

He walked in to the office just as the PD’s new fax machine began to purr. Roelke grabbed the list, settled in an empty chair, and began skimming. Burglary. DUI. Assault. Vandalism. The court schedule for June 30 brimmed with the usual litany of human malfeasance. Unfortunately, he saw no item or name that he could connect with gambling at the Eagle’s Nest, Chloe’s missing ale bowl, or Stanley Colontuono.

Not good. Roelke felt ready to explode. He needed to
do
something. And short of driving to Old World Wisconsin and removing Chloe with a fireman’s carry, he didn’t know what he could do. Rick wouldn’t call before three, when his own shift started—

“Roelke!”

He started, swiveled, and saw Marie sitting with the phone in one hand. “What?”

“Are you on duty? I’ve got a lady here who says her neighbor’s dachshund dug up all of her daffodils. She wants to talk with an officer.”

Roelke glanced at the clock. He was technically not on for another ten minutes, but he didn’t seem to have anything better to do. “Yeah,” he said. “Tell her I’m on my way.”

____

Chloe sat at the table in her stifling, musty trailer with Berget Lund-quist’s genealogy in front of her. The ale bowl had passed from Gro to Astrid to Brita to Berget. Mother to daughter. Gro had delivered five sons before giving birth to Astrid. Had those boys received other mementos of their Norwegian heritage? How did they—and Gro’s husband—feel about Gro’s talents with a paintbrush?

Chloe’s mother hadn’t noted whether Astrid had sons, but Berget had had a brother, Emil, born in 1914. Chloe remembered the young boy she’d seen in Berget Lundquist’s family photographs. Mr. Solberg had said Emil must have died long ago.

But … what if Emil had married and had a child of his own, before his death? Once again Chloe tried to run a filmstrip in her mind of all the faces she’d seen at Old World Wisconsin—interpreters, permanent staff. Was one of them somehow descended from Berget?

Chloe grabbed the phone and dialed her parents’ number for the eighteenth time that day. And this time, her mother answered. Thank God. “Mom? Where the hell have you been?”

Silence. “I don’t like your tone,” her mother said finally. “And there is no need to use foul language. Really, Chloe.”

Chloe shut her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ve just got some startling news about that Norwegian donor thing we were talking about. An embroidered Norwegian apron was donated to the state historical society in 1972, and transferred here to Old World in 1978. And the registrar in Madison says that
your
name was on the accession form.”

“An apron? Hmmn. I
think
I remember an apron.”

“Where did it come from?” Chloe squawked. “Why did you give it away?”

“I didn’t personally give it away,” her mother said, the frown back in her tone. “I was acting on behalf of the Norwegian Women’s Club.”

Chloe vaguely remembered Mom and her cronies gathering for
krumkakke
and slide shows about trips to the fjords.

“By the early seventies our numbers were dwindling. Some felt we were competing with the Daughters of Norway. We decided that we could better serve the Norwegian community by disbanding.”

“But how did the club come to own the apron?”

“The club did collect a few items,” Mom said slowly. “For a time we were hoping we’d find a permanent display area. In the library, or the town hall—something like that. But in the end we voted to give the pieces to the state historical society. I was secretary that year, so I handled the paperwork.”

“What I really need to know is who donated the apron to the club in the first place.” Chloe bounced on her toes.

“Well, I wasn’t directly involved in that. I think Elaine Bakken handled donations.”

“Do you still know her?”

“Of course. Fred Bakken is on your father’s bowling team.”

“OK, that’s great.” Chloe paced in a tight circle, tethered by the phone cord. “So, could you call Elaine and ask if she remembers who donated the apron to the club? It’s kind of urgent. As in,
very
urgent.” Chloe struggled to find the balance between motivating her mother, and freaking her out.

“Certainly, if it’s really that important.”

“It is. Let me know as soon as you find out anything, OK? Thanks … Oh, wait! Mom? Are you still there?”

“I’m here, dear, but—”

“I really,
really
need your help with something else.” Chloe vowed to never
ever
again get frustrated by her mother’s preoccupation with all things Norwegian. “Berget had a brother, Emil, born in 1914. Do you have any more on him? A death date? Marriage information?”

“Well, I’ll have to look. Hold on.” After a short eternity her mother came back on the line. “Chloe? I don’t have any information about Emil. I didn’t pay much attention because you were focused on Berget.”

“I was. But now I’m wondering about Emil. If you could dig into that, Mom—and as quickly as possible—I’d be forever grateful.”

“I can do that.”

“You’re a lifesaver. Really. I’ll explain it all later. Call as soon as you know anything. Oh—wait!
Wait!
Mom?”

“I’m still here.”

Chloe scrabbled through the papers on her table. “I need help with a translation. A Norwegian sentence.”

“Written or spoken?”

“Um, written. It’s—”

“Old Norwegian or New Norwegian?”

Chloe pounded one fist lightly against her forehead. “I’m thinking Old. Here it is.” She spelled the words that had been painted on the plate and embroidered on the apron. “Can you translate that?”

“Of course,” her mother said. “It means, ‘We must educate our daughters.’”

____

Roelke handled the dog-vs.-daffodil skirmish, made a loop through the school parking lot, and spent some time cruising Eagle’s mean streets Being Visible, which taxpayers liked. He got back to the station at 3:03, dropped into a seat beside a phone extension, and dialed. “Rick?” he asked, when the connection went through. “You find anything?”

“Just this minute,” Rick said. “Tanika Austin was arrested in 1975 for shoplifting.”

“Shoplifting?” Roelke pictured a teen pocketing cosmetics.

“She lifted something from an antiques store in the Third Ward.”

Roelke began tapping his pencil against the table.

“It gets better,” Rick added. “When a cop showed up, she resisted arrest. Ended up punching him.”

That was all Roelke needed to know. “Thanks, Rick. I owe you.”

After disconnecting, he tried to reach Chloe. “I’m sorry, sir,” the Old World receptionist said. “That line is busy. May I take a message?”

Dammit. “No thank you,” he told her. “I’ll try again later.”

____

It didn’t take long for Chloe’s mother to call back. “I just had a lovely talk about your apron with Elaine Bakken,” she told her daughter. “Elaine said the apron was donated to the Norwegian Women’s Club by Berget Lundquist! Isn’t that an amazing coincidence? Evidently Elaine’s cousin attended her church.”

Yes!
“Thanks, Mom. I really appreciate your help.”

After hanging up, Chloe stared blindly out the window, trying to add this new bit of information to the puzzle. In the mid-seventies, after her son died, Berget Lundquist had donated an embroidered apron and three rosemaled pieces to historical organizations. The unusual sentiment incorporated into the pieces—
We must educate our daughters
—implied that all had been made by the same artist. Chloe believed that artist was Gro Skavlem, who had emigrated from Norway with her husband in 1845. Gro Skavlem, female rosemaler. Gro Skavlem, way-early feminist.

And if I’m right, Chloe thought, the missing ale bowl would be of enormous interest to any scholar of Norwegian-American material culture. And very,
very
valuable.

She glanced at her watch. She still had time to run out to the site, check in with the two interpreters Byron had mentioned, and make a token appearance at the interpreters’ picnic.

Five minutes later, Chloe felt a flush of relief when she spotted Nika’s white Chevette parked in the visitor center lot. Site business first, though, Chloe decided. Then she would stop by the basement of St. Peter’s Church and try to get some answers from her intern.

Chloe’s trip around the site, however, was fruitless. “I did work in Norwegian for the first couple of years,” an elderly woman now working the Hafford House said apologetically. “But only in the schoolhouse.” From there Chloe jogged cross-country to the Danish farm, arriving breathless—only to learn that her second potential informant had gone home early. “She wasn’t feeling well,” the lead interpreter, equally apologetic, told Chloe. “I’m covering the building.”

Chloe held in a frustrated shriek. Well, she’d tried.

She arrived at the inn just as the interpreter in St. Peter’s tolled the bell four times to announce the site’s closing. “Hey, you came!” Byron called. “I’m really glad.”

Chloe wasn’t. She felt wired and jumpy and completely unsure of her ability to smile and chat.

The picnic tables weren’t even set up yet, so she veered off toward a nearby exhibit. She might as well take a moment and check in with Roelke. The white-haired interpreter in the tidy Victorian-era home looked dismayed to see her. “Um, I was about to lock up,” she said.

“You can go ahead,” Chloe told her. “I just need to make a call.”

The interpreter pointed her toward the hidden phone. “Be sure to stay off the carpet,” she added. “You can only walk on the runner.”

Since I’m the curator, I do know where to walk! Chloe almost said, but didn’t. She wouldn’t be the curator for much longer. Instead she dialed the police station and asked for Officer McKenna.

“Chloe?” His voice was hushed. “Why haven’t you called me? I’ve been trying to—”

“I’m sorry,” Chloe said. “But listen, I’ve got some new information.” She quickly shared what she’d learned from her mother about the apron, and the translation. “So I really think—”

“Have you talked to Nika?”

“I’m about to. I’m in the Crossroads Village now.”

“Do not talk to Nika until—” His voice broke abruptly. Chloe heard an inaudible voice in the background. When Roelke came back, his voice was even quieter. “I gotta go. But I can take a break at five. I’ll swing into the main parking lot. Meet me there. I’ve got some new info on Nika.” The line went dead.

What was that about? No telling. Chloe checked her watch again. She had some time to kill, now. After dutifully locking up the building, she headed toward the plywood-on-sawhorses tables the lead interpreters had set up in the inn’s side yard, with white sheets for tablecloths and a canning jar of flowers as a centerpiece. The interpreters had brought food from their buildings.

“Want some bread?” one of the German interpreters asked. She was hacking at an ash-blackened, crusty round loaf with a knife that obviously needed sharpening. “It’s from the Schultz bakeoven, so just break off the bottom crust. And—” she lowered her voice—“I popped it in Tupperware to keep warm.”

Chloe accepted a piece of the fragrant rye bread and some fresh-churned butter, then retreated to the inn’s front steps. The bread was amazingly good, heavy and seasoned with sorghum and a hint of caraway. European bread. She felt a pang of loss, but let it pass. She didn’t have time to mope over alpine picnics shared with Markus.

A few interpreters nearby were telling My Worst School Tour Ever stories. Delores, the Norwegian area lead, waved her hand for attention. “Did you guys have that group from Grimes today?” she asked. “I was showing them how to card wool, and one kid grabbed a carding comb and brained one of the other kids with it. For a minute I thought we were about to have an all-out brawl right there in the stabbur. The teacher said that if the stabbur was such a good storage place, maybe she could store her seventh-graders there for the rest of the day …”