Old World Murder (2010) (4 page)

Chloe wondered if Nika expected her to have those bearings magically aligned after a day and a half. “I was just about to go out for lunch,” Chloe said, groping for a reprieve. “Care to join me?”

Nika hesitated, then nodded. “All right.”

“I’ll drive,” Chloe added. Maybe eating lunch would buy her enough time to figure out how she was going to keep an intern busy. After they’d slid into the Pinto, she tried to postpone the inevitable by turning on the car radio. A reporter was cheerily chattering about President Reagan’s trip to discuss the Falklands War with Prime Minister Thatcher. Chloe turned the radio off again.

“Not many places to eat in Eagle,” Nika told her, as they came into town. “Best is Sasso’s.” She directed Chloe to a tavern near the railroad tracks that bisected the village. Chloe pulled the Pinto in line on the gravel lot on the far side of the tracks. The three-story building had a vaguely Western motif. Peeking over the roof was the steeple of a church, and a yellow water tower painted with a huge smiley face. A typical message from small town Wisconsin:
Welcome to Eagle. Drink, repent, be happy.

Inside the tavern, half a dozen tables clustered near the front windows. An L-shaped bar ran the length of the north and east walls. A crowd at the bar watching a television mounted in one corner began wildly cheering for race cars circling some track in a maniacal pack.

Chloe had never understood the appeal of watching cars drive in circles, wasting gas and spewing fumes and noise. She picked a table farthest from the bar. A waitress appeared quickly, gave the red-and-white checked plastic tablecloth a swipe, and handed them menus. “Anything to drink?”

Chloe suppressed the urge to order a cocktail; surely guzzling booze on state time was
verboten
. She ordered diet soda and talked the young waitress into asking the cook for a grilled cheese sandwich.

Nika ordered a cheeseburger and a side of fries. “Don’t eat meat?” she asked.

“Nope.” Chloe leaned back in the wooden chair. “So. You started last week? What did you do?”

“Well, not much.” Nika made a dismissive gesture with elegant fingers. “Byron gave me a quick tour of the site. Then I spent most of the rest of my time in the exhibit buildings. I made some notes about objects that need attention. Some need actual repair, but most of it would be minor cleaning. Whenever you have time, we can go over my notes.”

“We’ll do that this afternoon,” Chloe promised. Maybe this intern thing wouldn’t be a total disaster. “You’re in museum studies? I apologize, but I haven’t seen your records. What’s your focus?”

The waitress arrived with their drinks. Nika took a delicate sip of root beer before answering. “I got a BA in History from Marquette, and now I’m finishing up the graduate program in museum studies at Eastern Illinois.”

“Why did you apply to Old World for your internship?” Chloe was curious why a black woman would choose to work in a museum focused on white history.

“I have formal museum experience, so I wanted to work at a living history site to round out my resume. I’m particularly interested in racial and ethnic expression manifested in material culture. My fiancé’s in the pharmacy program at UW-Madison, but he’d gotten a summer job in a lab in Milwaukee, so I wanted to be in southeast Wisconsin.”

Chloe blinked. Had she ever been so focused? She doubted it. She certainly couldn’t remember it.

“I plan to get my Ph.D. in women’s studies,” Nika added coolly. “And I may do some extra course work in museum administration.”

Chloe wondered if she would find herself working for Nika one day. There seemed to be a challenge in the younger woman’s eyes:
You better prove yourself, because I’m right on your tail.

The arrival of their lunch eased the moment. Chloe took a bite of her sandwich—American cheese. Tolerable at best.

“How about you?” Nika asked. “Mr. Petty hadn’t even done interviews for your position yet when he hired me.”

“I have a Bachelor of Science from the School of Forestry at West Virginia University.
My
particular interest is the historical interaction between people and their environment.”

“How … intriguing.”

“I did seasonal work as an interpreter for a couple of years, then did graduate work at Cooperstown,” Chloe added.

“Oh!” This met with more approval. The two-year New York program, the oldest in the country, led to an MA in History Museum Studies. “And somebody told me you worked in Europe?”

Chloe should have been expecting the question. She wasn’t. “I, um … yes. I worked in the education department at
Freilichtmuseum
Ballenberg
for five years. That’s in Switzerland.”

“Oh, I know! What was it like?”

“It’s similar to Old World,” Chloe said, hoping the conversation wouldn’t digress into a long Q&A about Switzerland. “They’ve got about a hundred historic buildings, all dismantled, moved to the site, and restored. The biggest difference is that there, buildings are grouped together based on the area of origin, instead of by ethnic group like we’ve got.”

“Five years at an open-air museum in Europe.” Nika looked wistful. “I’d
kill
for a chance like that.”

It damn near killed
me
, Chloe thought, but she pasted on her artificial smile. “I learned a lot. Then I moved back to the States. Took a curator of interpretation position at a small site in North Dakota last September.”

“Why’d you come here? I mean, most people don’t switch from education to collections mid-career.” Nika nibbled a French fry.

Chloe shrugged. “I suppose not. But I’ve had basic training in collections care. When I interviewed here, Ralph probably thought my experience at Ballenberg was a big advantage. And I’m a Wisconsin native.” Chloe hitched her chair closer to the table as three men in paint-stained coveralls squeezed past. “How about you?”

“Oh, me too.” Nika took a bite of her cheeseburger and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “Wisconsin born and bred.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“Milwaukee.”

“Where in Milwaukee?”

Nika picked up another French fry. “Near the lake.”

Well, Chloe thought, that narrows it right down. The entire city of Milwaukee, it could be argued, squatted near Lake Michigan.

“Where are you from?” Nika asked, before Chloe could ask for more details.

“Stoughton.”

“Settled by Norwegians, right? Between my coursework at Marquette and the prep I did for this internship, I have a pretty good handle on Wisconsin’s nineteenth-century settlement patterns.”

“Yep. I’m fourth generation, but pure Norwegian.” At least in the States, Chloe thought. Her European friends were baffled by American tourists’ proud insistence on referring to themselves as Norwegian or German or French.

“So this job brought you home.”

“I suppose, although that’s not why I applied for the job.” Chloe chewed the last bit of her sandwich. The conversation felt strained, with unspoken undercurrents running beneath.

She tried for a brighter tone. “I was ready for a change. Supervising interpreters is exhausting. Classic middle-management, getting complaints from two directions. I guess I thought objects would be easier to handle.” She made a derisive noise. “Little did I know …”

Nika stiffened, almost imperceptively alert. “What?”

The waitress slapped a check on the table. “Pay at the bar,” she called over her shoulder.

“I’ll get that.” Chloe picked up the check.

“Well … thanks.” Relief flashed in Nika’s eyes. That, Chloe understood. Her own financial situation was precarious, but the younger woman was planning a wedding, and no doubt staring at college loans, all while likely working for minimum wage.

Nika brought the conversation back. “What were you about to say?”

“I had a bit of a rocky start in collections work. An elderly woman came to see me yesterday about an artifact. And as I was heading home … I came across her car. She’d crashed into a tree. She was dead.”

“Oh my God! That’s—that’s awful!”

“Yeah.” Chloe left a couple of dollars on the table for the waitress, and shoved her chair back. “Let’s head back, OK?” She didn’t want to talk about Mrs. Lundquist anymore.

Chloe and Nika seized
possession of a wooden picnic table under the pines near the trailers. Nika fetched a briefcase from the trunk of her car, and produced a notebook and some files. “I made copies of those notes I mentioned. You can have these.”

“Thanks.” Chloe glanced at the photocopies: neat tables, with columns labeled “Exhibit Building,” “Artifact,” “Accession Number,” and “Notes.” Impressive. “I have to figure out where we can even claim a workspace—”

“I have a plan for that.”

Chloe raised her eyebrows. “Oh?”

“Just a suggestion, of course.” Nika met Chloe’s gaze calmly. “I’m not trying to do your job or anything.”

Right. “Did you go into the trailers?” Chloe asked. “I could tell that someone had been in there recently.”

“I took a quick look.”

“Do you have a key?”

Nika shook her head. “No, Stanley let me in. You know, the maintenance guy?” The barest hint of distaste—a narrowing of her catlike eyes, a slight tightening of her mouth—made her opinion of Stanley clear. “I didn’t do anything but look around, though.”

“So …?”

“Well, I think our best option for expanded storage is the basement of St. Peter’s Church.” Nika began talking quickly. “I know it’s not ideal, especially since the church is in the public area.
But
, the basement does have a separate door, near the back of the building. We could fit a fair amount of shelving and storage cupboards down there. And I don’t think it would take more than a dehumidifier or two to control the environment. The basement already has its own temperature system.”

“It does?” Chloe was struggling to keep up. “Why on earth does the church basement have its own temperature system?”

“The first year Old World Wisconsin was open, visitors received their orientation down there.” Nika smiled at Chloe’s look of disbelief. “Yeah, I know. Byron said it was the only space available. A slide projector, a few rows of folding chairs, and an interpreter to give directions. The visitor center didn’t exist yet.”

“Well, what do you know.” Chloe considered. She didn’t want to confront her intern’s unmasked ambition on an hourly basis. “Nika, we’ve got you for what, three months? How would you like to make designing and setting up our first controlled storage area your project? Assuming we can scrounge basic storage supplies.”

“That’d be great.” A satisfied smile lit Nika’s face. “We can move the woodenware.”

Chloe shook her head. “Textiles are most vulnerable.”

“But … the thing is, I started making plans already. Based on moving the wooden pieces.”

Chloe met her intern’s gaze. “I want the textiles tended to first.”

Nika shrugged, and gave a palms-up gesture of compliance. “Textiles it is.”

“I’ll talk to the division curator in Madison, and let her know what we’re planning. Evidently the historic sites division’s curator in Madison provides some kind of oversight to the curators at each of the State Historical Society’s historic sites.”

“Right.”

Nika clearly knew as much as Chloe about the historical society’s organization. Probably more. Chloe got to the point. “Once you get the proposal together, I’ll add that to my ‘needed supplies’ list.”

“I brought a bunch of catalogs with me, so I can get cost estimates.” Nika began scribbling notes on a legal pad. “I’ll call around to see if we can get shelving donated, too.” She stared thoughtfully at a chickadee darting among the pines for a moment, then focused her direct gaze back on Chloe. “I’d like to ask a favor. I want to get published before applying for a doctoral program. I—I really need financial aid, and publication credits might help a lot.”

The admission of need was clearly not an easy one for Nika to make. “You’re right,” Chloe said. “Pub credits do count.”

“As you familiarize yourself with the collection, could you let me know if you happen to find any artifacts with a particularly strong ethnic story, or a story to tell about a woman, or any pieces documented to African-Americans? There might be an article in it.”

Chloe thought of Mrs. Lundquist’s ale bowl—it’s story would never be known, now—then forced herself back to the moment. “Sure, although I doubt we’ll find many artifacts from early African-Americans. Anything like that is probably held in Madison. The history presented at Old World is pretty much white bread European.”

“It is
now
. That needs changing.”

Chloe couldn’t hold back a tiny smile. “Fair enough. If I find any tidbits, I’ll pass them along.”

“Thanks.” Nika stood and gathered up her things. “I’ll head over to the church now and get started.”

When she was alone again, Chloe sat for a moment, collecting her thoughts, appreciating the stillness and the way the sunlight filtered through the pine trees. Nika was too driven for Chloe’s tastes, but at least she was a self-starter.

So, what now? Chloe’s previous museum jobs had all involved supervising interpreters and meeting tour groups and planning special events and the myriad of on-site tasks that kept each day humming. She wasn’t used to the change of pace. She really should start on that proposal for the new storage building.

“Later,” Chloe promised herself. She got into her car and drove back on County S. Her fingers tightened involuntarily on the steering wheel as she passed the crash site. Would she ever pass this spot without seeing the dead woman in her mind? Without feeling those fragile fingers patting her hand? Probably not.

After turning onto Highway 67, she drove slowly until she saw a large sign: “Norwegian Area—School Bus parking only.” Plus staff, surely? Chloe pulled in the open gate and parked her car as unobtrusively as possible among the trees.

Although most Wisconsin children in 1982 could celebrate more than one racial or ethnic branches on their family tree, there had been a time when “old world Wisconsin” was a mostly-apt description. Now, Old World Wisconsin celebrated a heritage that was quickly disappearing. And a big part of that heritage had come from the women and men who had once traded Norway’s fjords and soaring mountains for the upper Midwest’s unknown prairies and pineries.

Old World Wisconsin’s Norwegian area was the farthest from the site’s visitor center. A public restroom and picnic area had been placed discreetly in the trees near the highway. The historic structures were a five-minute walk away. Holding her clipboard—the universal emblem of officialdom—Chloe headed down the gravel lane toward the old buildings.

When Chloe reached a junction in the road, she checked her site map. From this spot she could see the Raspberry School, brought from the northern tip of the state; the 1845 Fossebrekke farm, a tiny log cabin nestled between trees and corn patch and pig pen; and the more substantial Kvaale farm, restored to its 1865 appearance. Two interpreters in period clothing walked down the Kvaale lane, baskets over their arms. A farmer attacked weeds in the Fossebrekke corn patch with a hoe. The air smelled faintly of wood smoke. The sound of the schoolteacher questioning a class drifted through the open windows of the school. A sandhill crane’s faint rattling call floated earthwards.

For a moment Chloe forgot Markus and Switzerland. She forgot the depression that had almost consumed her during the long, bleak North Dakota winter. She forgot that she’d pissed off a security guard and the curator of interpretation. She forgot that her intern probably had more to offer Old World Wisconsin, this summer, than she did. She forgot that she’d seen a sweet old woman in the last moments of life and first moments of death. Chloe allowed herself to simply soak in the intangible pleasures and sensory delights that compensated historic site workers for long hours and low wages.

Then one of the open-sided trams used to haul visitors around the huge site roared from the trees. With a screech of brakes the tram driver pulled into the tram stop and used a microphone to give directions to the visitors spilling from the vehicle. Half of the tourists headed toward the rest area, and most of the others trooped toward the school. Chloe hurried down the long driveway toward the Kvaale farm.

The hewn-timber farmhouse was small, furnished with both Norwegian artifacts—rosemaled pieces, several tapestries, one chip-carved box—and obviously American-made furniture. The curator who’d furnished the building had clearly intended to convey a well-settled Norwegian family, blending old world and new. Chloe paused in the doorway, allowing impressions of the layers of life in the old building to present themselves. Nothing too strong here in Kvaale, just the common jumble … good. She stepped inside.

In the sitting room, a young woman sat behind a spinning wheel. She wore a faded blue dress, a stained apron, and a brown headscarf tied European-style over her hair. She was frowning at the spool, picking at the strands of newly spun yarn. Chloe guessed she was learning to spin wool, had treadled too hard, and had lost the end of her yarn when it whipped around the spool.

“Welcome to the Kvaale farm,” the interpreter said, still poking at her yarn.

Chloe quickly introduced herself. “Don’t mind me. I’m just getting oriented.” She homed in on a high shelf near the kitchen door, where several rosemaled pieces were displayed at a safe distance from children’s grasping hands. One lovely tankard was painted orange with blue, green, yellow, and black floral designs. One carved but unpainted ale bowl featured two squarish heads—horses, or possibly dragons, but definitely not cows. No painted bowl with cow heads.

“Do you want to go talk to Delores?” the interpreter asked.

“Um …” Chloe spread her hands. “Who is Delores?”

“Delores is the Norwegian area lead. Lead interpreter. She’s with a group in the stabbur. Out back.”

Outside, Chloe wandered on toward the back of the farmyard … and stopped, rock-like, when two tiny Cotswold lambs cavorted across the pasture toward the fence to meet her. Living and working with Markus, whose great driving passion had been the preservation of historic livestock breeds, ensured that Chloe recognized many of those breeds herself.

She quickly turned away from the lambs. Markus had nothing to do with her life, now. It was time—long past time—to move on.

The stabbur, a small two-story building of weathered-gray logs, was so crammed with school children that Chloe got no further than the steps outside. “… So, can anyone guess why the Norwegians built their stabburs up on posts?” an unseen interpreter was asking—Delores, no doubt.

No one could.

“Do you remember what I said the farmers used this building for?” Delores asked. Finally a boy retrieved the answer: food or grain storage. “Exactly!” Delores said. “Do you think the farmer wanted to store his grain in a place where mice and other critters could get at it easily?”

“Come on, come on, come on!” Chloe muttered. She walked past the stabbur to explore a two-bay barn nearby. Two squealing hogs raced across their pen behind the barn. Chloe stopped at the back of the barn’s breezeway, contemplating them.

This time she forced herself to stand still. She had to get used to being around livestock—even these damn Ossabaw hogs, with their familiar rough coats and long snouts. They were likely half-feral. Chloe took care to stand well back from the fence as they rubbed against it, grunting. And when she felt ready she walked back to the stabbur, congratulating herself on her composure.

Delores was winding down. “Who remembers visiting the 1860s Yankee house? Did the lady there do a lot of farm labor? So why do you think the Norwegian women were responsible for the cows and milk and butter?”

Once the kids had bounded from the stabbur, Chloe went inside and introduced herself. Delores Timberlake sat at a four-harness loom upon which a few inches of cream-colored wool cloth had been woven. She was perhaps a decade older than Chloe, with gray-streaked brown hair pinned neatly behind her head. She wore a russet-colored dress and a stained and patched apron.

“I’m glad to meet you!” the lead said, so fervently that Chloe felt a twinge of apprehension. “Your timing is good. That was our last school group of the day.”

“I caught the tail end of it, but decided I’d do better to wait outside,” Chloe confessed.

“The kids get squirrely this time of year,” Delores agreed cheerfully. She set a shuttle aside and emerged from behind the loom. “I need to check on Cindy, the interpreter in the house. She’s new this spring, and Ginny is still on lunch break.” Delores led Chloe back into the sunshine.