Old World Murder (2010) (16 page)

“Yeah. I didn’t like it either.” Roelke mentally shuffled facts into a row. Someone had left a lock open at the storage trailers—possibly in haste, or perhaps just uncaring. Someone had tried to break into Chloe’s house. Someone had now, it seemed, entered the Kvaale house after-hours.

As they left the old home, Roelke realized that his jaw muscles were beginning to ache from being clenched. He’d been wrong to discount Chloe’s instincts about an old woman’s fears and an antique gone missing. He pictured Chloe, thin and vulnerable and foolishly unafraid, and swallowed a growl. What in the hell had she stumbled into?

Removing the textiles to
the church basement gave Chloe the wiggle room she needed to mount a thorough search of the trailers. She tackled one on Thursday and the second on Friday. She’d held out hope that Berget’s ale bowl was small, perhaps hiding behind other objects. No such luck. When the light began to fade on Friday she reluctantly admitted defeat.

She’d searched storage. She’d searched on site. Berget’s ale bowl was definitely, officially missing.

“Shit,” she muttered. What should she do about it? Report the bowl’s status to Ralph Petty, after he’d ordered her not to look for it?

Well, she’d figure that out later. It was time to call it a day. “And a week,” she added, tugging on the padlock to be sure the trailer was secure. “It’s the weekend. Normal people do normal things on weekends.” She was determined not to return until Monday morning. She had managed to finish summer staff training without further antagonizing Byron. She had managed to avoid Ralph Petty since their uncomfortable meeting. Better to leave while she was … if not ahead, then at least not in deeper doo.

As Chloe was uncoiling the chain on the restoration area’s security gate, headlights approached on Highway S. She pulled the gate open when she recognized Nika’s Chevette. Nika parked beside the trailers.

“You’re working late,” Chloe said, as Nika emerged from her car.

Nika shrugged. “You too.”

“Yes, but I don’t have an adoring fiancé waiting at home.” Chloe gestured toward the Chevette. “I’m glad to see you back in motion.”

Nika scowled. “Four new tires later.”

“Ouch.”

“Here.” The younger woman deposited a small wooden box into Chloe’s hands. “Be careful, the joints are loose. When we were all at Sasso’s the other night, the German lead told me she was worried about this piece. They’re supposed to bring stuff to Byron, but she was afraid to transport it herself, so she put it upstairs in the Schulz house for safekeeping. She wanted me to come get it. I told her she should talk to you, but …” Nika spread slim hands expressively:
What else could I do?
“I figured I’d swing by now in hopes you were still here.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Chloe said. “So, any plans for the weekend?”

“Nothing special.” Nika swung gracefully back into her car. “See you Monday.”

The intern was gone before Chloe realized she should have asked Nika for a progress report on the textile storage project. It would have been the responsible, supervisorly thing to do. Shit.

She carried the sweet little box inside. It was well constructed, with small dovetail joints. Some long-gone
hausfrau
had probably used it to store sugar or coffee. Chloe filled a plastic tub with water and gently submerged the artifact. The thirsty wood would soon swell, tightening the joints.

“I solved a problem,” Chloe announced. This was the way to approach things. Today, she had helped this artifact. On Monday, she would help one more artifact. Maybe even two.

That dollop of tranquility disappeared as a stray thought wormed into her consciousness. What had Nika said? The lead interpreter in the German area was worried about transporting the artifact, so she’d put it upstairs in the Schulz House.

Upstairs. For safekeeping.
Upstairs.
Out of public view, away from even interpreters’ hands.

I, Chloe thought, am a complete idiot.

She reached for the phone and dialed an extension. A gruff male voice answered. Lovely. Why did Cranky Hank have to be on duty every time she needed something from Security?

“Hi, it’s Chloe Ellefson,” she said, twitching the phone cord impatiently. “I’ll be stopping by Kvaale in a few minutes. I know the mikes are out, so shall I call you when I leave the building again?”

She heard a long sigh exhaled into the receiver. “What’s all the fuss about Kvaale?”

Chloe went perfectly still. “What do you mean?”

“Last night, tonight—”

“What – do – you – mean?”

“Look, don’t pop your cork. Marv was on duty last night. According to the log book, the sound system in Kvaale picked up some noise—”

“What?”

“It happens all the time. A breeze blows a branch down on the roof, a mouse gets inside—”

Chloe wanted to reach through the line and smack the man. “Did Marv check it?”

“Sure, sure. Didn’t find anything.”

“Look,” Chloe said. “As curator of collections, I
must
be informed any time there’s a possibility of—”

“Keep your shorts on. Marv even called in the Eagle cops. Mc-Kenna didn’t find any sign of trouble either.”

McKenna. Roelke McKenna. Officer Roelke McKenna had been called to Kvaale last night to investigate a possible break-in.

“The next time something happens in one of the exhibits that prompts a call to the Eagle police,” Chloe snapped, “I
expect
to be informed. Immediately. Make a note of it.” And she slammed the phone down.

Her palm was still stinging as she fished another number from her bag and dialed. Be home. Be home, you jerk.

“McKenna here.”

“Why the hell didn’t you call me last night?”

Silence.

“It’s Chloe.” She suddenly wondered if there might be any number of women waiting impatiently for Roelke McKenna’s call. “I heard you got called out to Kvaale last night. Why didn’t you let me know?”

“Because I didn’t see any need to. There was no sign of any theft or damage.” His tone was careful, considered, as if he was talking a crazy woman off a ledge. Maybe he thought he was.

“That’s bullshit. You
know
I’d want to hear about something like that.”

“OK, I do. But you haven’t shown the best judgment—”

Chloe clenched the receiver. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m concerned for your welfare.”

“Well, don’t be. And don’t patronize me. I came to you for help about the ale bowl, and you blew me off, remember? And now you think you can decide what to share with me about my own job?”

“I—”

“Don’t
ever
do that to me again.” For the second time in five minutes, she slammed down the phone.

Her hands were shaking, and she pressed them against her thighs. The little wooden box shifted in its tub of water and one lone bubble bobbed to the surface. That might as well be my contribution to Old World Wisconsin so far, she thought. One lone bubble. Pop.

Chloe stared at the artifact sitting in a green plastic tub of water in a matchbox-sized kitchenette in an ancient pink trailer, and tried to laugh. No laughter came. She dropped into a chair, folded her arms on the tiny table, and rested her head.

She
did
deserve to know if a security guard summoned a police officer to one of the historic structures. She shouldn’t have blasted Hank about it, though. There were effective ways to accomplish change in a professional setting. Shrieking ultimatums into the phone didn’t make the list.

And … she
did
feel justified in her anger toward Roelke. She’d gone to him for help, maybe even started thinking of him as a friend. And in return, he’d turned into a pompous ass. Well. He’d never tell her anything, now.

A moth fluttered against the window. The restoration area was silent. Everyone else had long since gone home to their families, their fiancés, their lives.

Chloe stared at the bobbing little box and longed mightily to rest like that, to fill up and sink under and slip away.

The moth beat frantically at the pane. Chloe blinked. In an explosion of action she grabbed her briefcase, banged out of the trailer, and—after locking all locks—headed for home.

____

The first thing Chloe did when she got home was call her mother. Screw you, Officer McKenna, she thought, as she used a pencil to dial. She, Chloe, had her own
über
-resource.

“Chloe?” Her mother’s voice sounded warm in her ear. “I’m glad you caught us, dear. Your father and I are off to Decorah first thing in the morning. I’m giving a workshop at Vesterheim.” Vesterheim, a museum in Decorah, Iowa, was a Mecca for all Midwestern Norwegian-Americans.

Chloe had assumed she could visit her parents that weekend, eat some real food, use their washing machine, and find out what her mother had learned about Berget Lundquist. “Mom,” she said, trying not to sound pitiful, “I was hoping you’d had time to do that genealogical work I asked you about.”

“Haugen.”

“… Beg pardon?”

“H-a-u-g-e-n. Your Berget’s original surname. Before she married Mr. Lundquist.”

Chloe scrabbled for the pencil, which had disappeared behind the chair cushion. “Wait—I need you to spell it again. You’re sure?”

“Of course, Chloe. It means ‘the hill.’ I’d guess that the first Haugen immigrant came from a farm on a hill.”

A farm on a hill. That narrowed things right down.

“Berget Haugen married Jack Lundquist in 1934, when she was twenty-two. It was a small, private ceremony, I gather. But of course the Depression was on then, and—”

“Mom!” Chloe rubbed her forehead. “Why didn’t you let me know? It’s kind of urgent that I learn as much as I can about Berget Haugen Lundquist. Is there anything else?”

“Not yet,” her mother said, with a hint of reproach in her voice. “It’s only been a week, Chloe. I had three lessons to give, and the scholarship lunch at the high school to help organize, and—”

“OK, OK. Sorry, Mom.” Chloe frowned at a bruise on her shin, legacy of an unplanned meeting with a corner of the artifact shelving. “I do appreciate your help. Truly, I do.”

“We’ll talk again soon, all right?”

“Sure, Mom,” Chloe said, and just in time remembered to add, “and have a good weekend.”

So. What now? She sat in the gloom, thinking. Finally she dialed information, asked for a number, and waited while the operator put the call through.

The phone was answered on the fifth ring. “Hello?”

“Mr. Solberg?” she said. “This is Chloe Ellefson. We met at Mrs. Lundquist’s funeral. I’m terribly sorry to call so late.”

He chuckled. “That’s all right. I don’t go to bed until after Johnny Carson. I don’t like that new guy, that David Letterman. I don’t think he’ll last. And I never turn the darned tube on during the day. But Johnny’s always good. He’s got Bob Newhart on tonight.”

Chloe glanced at her watch, making sure she wasn’t encroaching on Johnny’s monologue. “I was wondering if I could visit you this weekend. I’m still trying to learn more about your friend’s missing heirloom, and I hoped you might take me back into her house.” She waited, hoping Mr. Solberg didn’t ask what she thought she’d find that she hadn’t found the first time.

“Well, let’s see,” he said thoughtfully. “I’ve got a boy coming ’round to take out the storm windows tomorrow, and there’s a Carol Burnett reunion show on tomorrow night. I’ll be ready for bed after that. Then service on Sunday morning. So Sunday afternoon would be best.”

Chloe wondered if the storm window operation would take all day, or if the lonely old man simply wanted to spread out his company. “Sunday it is,” she told him. “Thank you.”

____

By mid-afternoon on Saturday, Chloe was walking in circles inside her farmhouse. She’d gone to a Laundromat in Elkhorn, and picked up crackers, peanut butter, coffee, and a few other non-perishables at the grocery store. What she wanted to do was head back to Old World to continue her search for Berget’s ale bowl. “But I don’t know where to look!” she muttered.

OK, she needed a new strategy. And she needed to get out of the house.

She stuffed a towel and notebook into a canvas bag and drove to Palmyra’s public beach. Since Libby had mentioned that her kids would be with their dad this weekend, there was little chance of running into anyone she knew. Libby did not strike Chloe as a lay-in-the-sun kind of person.

The beach at Lower Spring Lake was small, with a picnic pavilion sporting a Lions International sign, a couple of grills, and a small playground. A studly young man with zinc oxide on his nose reigned supreme from his lifeguard chair. Toddlers played in the sand with brightly colored buckets and pails.