Heritage of Darkness (10 page)

give things a try. Now three more months had passed, and he still

sometimes felt as if he was trying to hold milkweed fluff in his

hands. Chloe was fragile and strong. He didn’t really understand

her work, or the things that made her happy, or the way her mind

processed information. But none of that shook his faith that they’d do well together.

He did not want to rush her. But tonight, with a killer wander-

ing Decorah and a December wind rattling the windows, he really,

really
wished he could fall asleep with Chloe in his arms.



Chloe spent a high-calorie evening with Bestemor Sabo, a widow

as plump and endearing as Mrs. Santa Claus. Bestemor Sabo

began with a heartfelt apology: “I’m sorry I only have nineteen

kinds of cookies made, Miss Ellefson. If you can come back in a

few days, I’ll be up to my usual two dozen.”

Chloe needed two cassettes to record Bestemor’s family stories

about holiday baking. She was less successful with the taste-test

73

the elderly woman had prepared, begging off after half a dozen

cookies.

“Well, I’ll just pack up the rest for you,” Bestemor Sabo said

cheerfully.

“Your children and grandchildren are lucky,” Chloe observed,

watching as Bestemor made a nest of waxed paper in a cookie tin

that looked old enough to accession into Vesterheim’s collection.

“And everyone else on your list.”

“I like to make people smile.” Bestemor Sabo paused, a delicate

almond cookie in hand. “And this year … after what happened to

Petra Lekstrom … well, we all must try extra-hard to bring holiday cheer back to Decorah.”

“Did you know Petra?”

The older woman got back to work. “Of course.”

Of course, Chloe thought. It was that kind of community. “It’s

awful. I know a lot of people didn’t really like Petra, but still …”

“True enough,” Bestemor agreed. “Except for the ones who

liked her a bit too well, if you know what I mean.”

Chloe thought she did. “You mean men, right?”

Bestemor Sabo ripped off another piece of waxed paper with

one sharp jerk against the strip of tiny metal teeth. “Some say she had an affair with one of the competition judges last summer. As

for what people say about her and Howard … well.”

Petra and
Howard
? Howard Hoff? Chloe tried to look receptive to, but not eager for, gossip.

“I don’t like to speak of such things.” Bestemor Sabo placed the

last cookie in the tin and pressed the lid into place. “You take this along with you.” Chloe thanked her hostess and headed out.

74

Despite layers of thick wool, Chloe’s toes and fingertips were

soon numb. Decorah felt like a different place than the town they’d reached … was it just the evening before? Yesterday’s sparkling

Christmas charm was gone. The night was dark and cloudy. The

air held a damp cold that leached straight to the marrow. Christ-

mas lights seemed more garish than festive. Chloe walked quickly,

alert for any furtive movements. Petra Lekstrom’s murder was giv-

ing her the winter woollies.

At Sigrid’s house, a welcome glow and hum of voices pulled

her to the kitchen. The counter was dusted with flour, dirty bowls filled the sink, and the room smelled of ginger and cloves. Sigrid was nowhere in sight. Mom sat with forearms resting on the table,

staring at a mug of tea. Violet sat beside her, visible in profile.

“… know I shouldn’t let it get to me,” Mom was saying.

Violet put a hand on Mom’s arm. “Don’t be so hard on your-

self, Aunt Marit,” she murmured. “How could it not?”

“Hey,” Chloe said. Too loudly.

Mom straightened. “Why … good evening, Chloe. We were

starting to wonder about you.”

“I was doing my first interview for Vesterheim,” Chloe said.

“Remember? That project you volunteered me for?”

Violet didn’t allow an uncomfortable silence to take root. “How

did it go?”

“It went fine.” Chloe walked to the stove and turned on the

burner beneath the kettle.

“Well, I’m going to call it a night,” Mom said. “Good-night,

girls.”

75

“Good-night,” Chloe echoed. She stared at her mother’s back

until it disappeared, and then listened to her footsteps fading as she climbed the stairs.

Violet picked up her own mug, sipped.

Let it go, Chloe counseled herself silently. Letitgo. Let. It. Go.

Violet sipped again.

“So Violet,” Chloe said, as conversationally as humanly possi-

ble, “did I interrupt something?”

“No. Your mom’s just … you know. Rattled about everything

that’s happened. My mother is too. She went to bed an hour ago.”

Like I’m not rattled? Chloe thought. Like I’m incapable of pro-

viding a word of solace? She closed her eyes and rubbed her fore-

head. Shit.
Was
she incapable of providing a word of solace? Had the past few years, filled with what might euphemistically be called

“challenges,” desensitized her to other people’s feelings? Chloe had no idea. What she did know was that Mom was upset, and needed

to talk about it … and she seemed to prefer doing that with anyone other than her own daughter.

The kettle began to steam. Chloe made a cup of tea and

retreated to the table.

“Want a cookie with that? I made
pepparkakor
.”

Death, family dysfunction, and Christmas cookies.
God Jul
, everyone. “No, thanks,” Chloe said. “I visited Bestemor Sabo this

evening, and—”

“Say no more.” Violet laughed. “Speaking of food, I’d love to

have Roelke and Emil to dinner tomorrow night. Can you pass

that along?”

76

“Sure.” Chloe made a mental note before returning to her topic

of … well, if not her choice, Roelke’s. “Violet? Can I ask you about something else?”

“Of course.”

“Bestemor made a couple of references to some … um, connec-

tion between Petra and Howard …?” Chloe leaned back in her

chair, stretching her legs, pretending that digging up dirt didn’t make her feel sleazy.

“Oh, Lordy.” Violet got up and began putting the gingersnaps

into a cookie jar. “Well, it’s a pretty open secret. Aunt Marit knows all about it, I’m sure.”

Chloe rolled her eyes. That did not, of course, mean that Mom

would ever tell
her
about it.

Violet must have figured that out too. “Rumor says Howard

and Petra had an affair.”

Chloe tried to find a tidy slot in her brain for that little factoid.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. The rumors are serious, anyway.”

“Howard seems an unlikely lothario.”

“I agree,” Violet said dryly. “My guess is that Petra acted as

lotharia, if that’s a word. I bet she went after Howard just because she could.”

“But everyone says Howard adored his wife.”

Violet sighed. “He did. I didn’t believe the whispers until my

mom spotted Petra and Howard in a … shall we say … passionate

embrace late one night in the parking lot.”

Chloe wrinkled her nose. Ew.

“It’s really tragic,” Violet added. “Maybe nothing more hap-

pened, and at worst the relationship evidently didn’t last long. But 77

a couple of months later Howard’s wife was diagnosed with can-

cer.”

“Did Phyllis know about her husband’s maybe-affair?”

“I have no idea,” Violet said.

Chloe really,
really
wanted to go to bed. But Roelke’s request—

that she try to find out how Petra had driven Lavinia from paint-

ing in days of yore—was still unfulfilled.
Geez
, he owes me, Chloe thought. Big time. “Violet? Do you know Lavinia Carmichael?”

“Sure.”

“She’s in Roelke’s carving class, but she’s also a Sixty-Seven. Do you know why she stopped painting?”

Violet began running hot water into the sink, and squirted in

some dish soap. “That happened a long time ago. I’ve heard your

mom and my mom allude to it, but you know how they are. I was

in college at St. Olaf at the time, living on campus in Northfield, so I never heard the scoop.”

“I was just wondering,” Chloe said. “I keep hearing about those

early painting days.” She tried to think of something that would

make her seem like less of a sordid rumor-monger. “That first class sure had an impact on my mother.”

“My mom kept scrapbooks.” Violet plunged a cookie tin into

the sink. “They’re in the tower room off the parlor. I’m sure she

wouldn’t mind if you poke around.”

“Thanks. I’ll do that.” Chloe used the invitation to take her

leave.

The small circular room was a charming space. Whimsical

wooden animals paraded toward a Noah’s Ark tucked beneath a

small Christmas tree. Chloe moved a child-sized wicker rocking

chair so she could sit on the floor by a row of scrapbooks. When

78

she pulled the first album free and saw the date lettered on the

front, her eyebrows rose. “Nineteen forty-nine? Yikes.” That was

eighteen years before Vesterheim’s first rosemaling class. But Chloe had not gone into the history field for nothing. Curiosity piqued, she opened the album.

79

nine:

june, 1949

By the time the parade wound its way through Decorah, Sigrid

was exhausted. From her perch on the Norwegian-American Mu-

seum’s float, she forced herself to keep smiling and waving as they inched past the last of the crowds lining the sidewalk.

“Oh, what fun!” Marit exclaimed. “All our work was worth it.

The Norwegian community was well-represented in Decorah’s

Centennial Celebration.”

“It was indeed,” Frank Ellefson agreed, smiling fondly at his

wife.

Sigrid felt her heart constrict with envy. She knew Frank

wouldn’t have taken the time to travel to Decorah and spend two

days decorating the museum float on his own. But it was impor-

tant to Marit, and therefore it was important to him.

Sigrid realized she was twirling her wedding band on her fin-

ger, and forced her hands to stillness. Preparing the float
had
been 80

fun. Many of the museum’s stalwart volunteers had gotten

involved. The girls made hundreds of crepe paper flowers. Howard

Hoff and the Bergsbakken brothers had taken care of the actual

construction. Howard, who hoped to win a job at Vesterheim one

day, was in his element. Emil was sweet and efficient. Oscar had a wicked sense of humor that diffused minor bickering. One pithy

comment from him got everyone laughing.

Well, everyone but Petra.

Now, Sigrid glanced over her shoulder to the highest seat on

the float. Petra had enthroned herself with queenly glory in the

elaborate
bunad
she’d sewn for the occasion. That woman, Sigrid thought, thrives on conflict.

Although both of them volunteered at the museum, this float

was the first big project they’d worked on together. Sigrid and

Marit had privately agreed that Petra actually seemed uncomfort-

able with harmony. She’d usually been the one to introduce ten-

sion: “Your flowers are too big … You’re putting too many red ones on this side … No, that’s where
I’m
going to sit.”

“I don’t think she even cares what the float looks like,” Marit

whispered. “Petra seems to enjoy tossing monkey wrenches into

the process and then standing back to see what happens.”

“You weren’t here for the early planning sessions.” Sigrid had

rolled her eyes. “Lavinia Carmichael and I had brainstormed a few

ideas to bring to our first meeting. Petra had some plans of her

own, but she went to the museum director
first
and got his tacit seal of approval.”

None of that matters, Sigrid thought now, fanning herself. The

sunshine, the crowds, the noise, the warmth of her own wool

81

bunad
—it was all making her feel a bit queasy. Thank God the parade was almost over.

Emil, who was driving the tractor pulling the float, navigated

the final corner and parked. Everyone cheered.

“Frank,” Petra called, “could you give me a hand?” She aimed

an all-eyes-for-you smile at Frank, pretending herself incapable of stepping down from her throne. Marit and Sigrid, who’d been riding on the edge of the float with legs dangling, exchanged a look of mutual disgust. That, Petra, is a losing battle, Sigrid thought. Anyone with a pair of eyes could see that Frank was crazy about his

wife.

Which was, of course, why Petra was angling to lever herself

between them.

Frank, looking splendid in his own ceremonial attire, politely

helped Petra step down. Then he turned his back and tucked

Marit’s hand through the crook of his arm. Although she wasn’t

showing yet, Marit was three months pregnant.

Marit smiled at him, then caught Sigrid’s gaze. “I think the

gang’s going for ice cream cones at the Whippy Dip. Are you com-

ing?”

Sigrid shook her head. “I got a bit overheated. I’m heading

home.”

Marit looked concerned. “Do you want to meet for one of the

concerts at the fairgrounds later? Or maybe join us for dinner at

the Winneshiek?”

Sigrid liked Frank, but she missed the old days when Marit

stayed at her house when she visited Decorah, instead of the Win-

neshiek Hotel. “Maybe,” she hedged. “I’ll see how I feel later.” She waved good-bye to her friends.

82

Minutes later, she reached the old Queen Anne she’d inherited

from her parents. The house felt warm and stuffy, but at least it