Heritage of Darkness (14 page)

over from when the building was a hotel. It’s not climate-con-

trolled, so it’s used as overflow storage for the less valuable prints and paintings.”

“That’s where Mom went?”

“Marit asked me for the combination, but Chloe, she should

have been back by now.” Sigrid stared at Chloe with growing

alarm. “What if she got locked in by mistake? I always worry about that when I—”

“Let’s check.” Chloe made herself smile reassuringly. “Did

Mom write the combination down, or did she take yours?”

Sigrid darted back into the classroom. A moment later she

returned, clutching a piece of well-creased paper. “She must have

copied it.”

“Good. Let’s go.” Chloe led the way, trying to ignore the frisson

of unease skittering over her skin. If this vault was not climate-

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controlled, what kind of ventilation system did it have? Did it even
have
a ventilation system?

And if Mom had somehow ended up locked inside … how

much time would she have?



“You’re running out of time,” Emil told his carving students, “if

you haven’t picked your class project yet. Remember, pieces carved in the Norwegian tradition are beautiful
and
functional.”

Roelke bounced one knee as he tried to think. What would

Chloe like?

“What are you going to carve?” Lavinia asked him.

“I have absolutely no idea,” he confessed. “You?”

“A serving platter.” With obvious effort, she opened her huge

three-ring notebook and flipped to a section near the front. “I save everything,” she confided, looking a big chagrined. “I have a couple of sketches in here somewhere …” She scanned through dog-

eared pieces of lined paper covered with written notes,

mimeographed pattern sheets, and a few black and white photo-

graphs taped to individual pages.

Suddenly Roelke’s gaze caught two unexpected words:
Petra

Lekstrom
, written in blue ink—with a violent black marker slash added later. His hand shot out toward the page. “Did Petra Lekstrom take a chip carving class?”

Lavinia firmly removed his hand. “No,” she said, also firmly.

She flipped a few more pages. “Ah, here we go. What do you think

of these two?”

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“They’re both pretty,” he said absently. “I do like that one bet-

ter.” He pointed. Lavinia considered his choice, but did not ask

why that particular design appealed to him. That was good,

because his brain had stalled on that unexpected reference to the

dead woman.

So far, Chloe hadn’t delivered on her task of finding out what

Petra had done to drive Lavinia from rosemaling. Lavinia did not

appear to be a woman easily cowed. Need to follow up on that, he

thought, watching Lavinia close the stuffed notebook and slid it

back into her canvas totebag.



Chloe and Sigrid hurried down the stairwell and plunged outside.

“You should go back and grab your coat,” Chloe told Sigrid. Snow

still drifted from low gray clouds, and the wind was sharp. The

older woman ignored her. She’s really frightened, Chloe thought

grimly.

When they reached the museum, Chloe and Sigrid cut through

the lobby and plunged down a stairwell. “This way,” Sigrid said.

She hurried through the “Immigrants at Leisure” exhibit—

deserted, at the moment. Then she stopped.

The door to the vault was smack-dab between a display of sleds

and skis and a case full of toys. It looked like something from an old movie—heavy black metal, maybe six feet tall. It was embellished with faded scrolls and flourishes that any rosemaler might

envy, and the words “Diebold Safe and Lock Co.” in gothic script.

Chloe tugged the handle without success before pounding the

closed door. “Mom? Are you in there? Mom!” She paused, pressing

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her ear against the metal. Nothing. Did that mean Mom wasn’t in

there at all? Was the door so heavy that no sound could pass from

one side to the other? Or …

Sigrid pointed to a newer tumbler in the door, and held out the

combination code. “You try. It’s tricky.”

Chloe dropped to her knees and began working the tumbler.

The combination
was
tricky—long and convoluted. “Turn right to seventeen … turn three complete revolutions to the left … turn

right to six …” She completed the sequence once without effect.

“Dammit!” she exploded, and handed the paper back to Sigrid. “I

screwed it up. Would you read it out loud? Slowly.”

It took four tries but finally,
finally
, they managed to release the lock. Chloe heard the grudging click, scrambled to her feet, and

heaved the door open. A wave of musty air emerged from the

darkness. “Mom?”

The narrow vault was lined on both sides with storage slots for

artwork. In the dim light Chloe saw her mother sitting on the floor in the center aisle with her legs extended in front of her. Her

breathing came in audible gasps.

“Oh Marit, honey.” Sigrid flicked a light switch. Marit raised

one arm, shielding her eyes.

Chloe ran inside and crouched beside her mother. “Are you all

right?”

Mom made a visible effort to rally. “I … I … yes.”

“Let’s get out of here.” Chloe grasped one of her mother’s arms

and helped haul her upright. They stumbled from the vault

together.

Mom gulped several times, as if trying to flush fresh air

through her lungs. Her face was white and dotted with perspira-

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tion. Finally she gave a forced, shaky little laugh. “Thank you for rescuing me.”

“What happened?” Sigrid exclaimed.

“I don’t know,” Mom said. “I made sure to open the door all

the way, resting it back against that wall.” She pointed. Except for a small plywood
nisse
propped against it, the wall was blank.

Chloe glared at the offensive folk figure as she experimented

with the vault door. “This wouldn’t have shut by itself. And I don’t think a
nisse
is responsible. Someone must have come along and deliberately closed the door.” The thought turned her ribs to ice.

“It didn’t just close,” Mom said. “It
slammed
. I was looking for the painting I wanted, toward the back.” She made a vague gesture

with one hand. “There was enough ambient light from the hall-

way, so I didn’t turn on the overhead light. But once the door shut, I—I …” She shuddered, and a sheen of tears appeared in her eyes.

“I couldn’t find the light switch, and …”

“Oh, Mom.” Chloe pulled her mother close in a spontaneous

hug.

A hug Mom tolerated for about two seconds. “I’m fine, now.”

She poked at her hair, avoiding eye contact. “Really.

“It’s those kids running around,” Sigrid said angrily. “A little

holiday hijinks is one thing, but this prank went way too far. Let’s go talk to Howard. He needs to tell parents and grandparents

that—”

“No.” Mom shook her head. “There’s no need to tell Howard.

Or anyone else.”

“Mom,” Chloe protested, “if some kids thought this was a fun

prank, they need to understand that—”

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“Neither of you will say one word about this to anyone.” Mom

looked sternly from her daughter to her friend. “Perhaps a staff

member or volunteer saw the door open, didn’t see me inside since

the light was off, and thought they were doing the responsible

thing by closing the door.”

“It’s hard to believe that anyone would close the vault without

checking to be sure no one was inside,” Chloe said. “I really think we need to—”

“No.”
Mom’s face was red. “I’ve been humiliated enough for one day. All I want to do now is get back to class. My poor students must think I abandoned them.” She turned and marched away.

Chloe looked at Sigrid:
Can you talk some sense into her?

Sigrid gave a helpless little hitch of her shoulders:
No.
Then she followed her friend toward the stairwell.

Chloe trailed behind, both sympathetic and frustrated. She

understood that there was no room in Marit-world for public

embarrassment, vulnerability, loss of poise. But this is serious,

Chloe thought. Too serious to let go. That meant
she
would have to talk to Howard, who then would—she hoped—put the mighty

fear of God into whatever wise-ass adolescent posse was running

wild in the name of Christmas merrymaking.

An image of Petra Lekstrom in the immigrant trunk popped

into Chloe’s memory like a flash bulb.
Someone
had found Petra alone in a deserted room in the museum—and killed her. And

Mom had been alone in just such a deserted spot …

But Mom was
not
attacked. If Petra’s killer had been looking for another victim, he—or she—had stumbled on a perfect opportunity for assault, and passed.

115

Chloe paused as she reached the entrance lobby. Should she

ask the ticket seller who had gone to the basement floor lately?

That would likely do more harm than good. There was more than

one way to get into the exhibit areas on each floor. Whoever had

slammed the door, locking Mom into the old vault, had obviously

attracted no particular notice. He or she might have been in the

museum for hours before slipping down to the basement. He or

she might have been a visitor, a volunteer, a member of the

staff … or just some punk kid.

When Chloe went back outside, she glimpsed Sigrid and Mom

down the block as they disappeared back inside the Education

Center. Chloe knew she had to make a detour to Howard’s office—

missing more class time in the process. Not only would she be

dinged for that, Mom would realize that Chloe had ignored her

wishes.

Well, joy to the world, Chloe thought. Maybe Mom should just

put me up for adoption and be done with it.

She gave herself one moment to feel sorry for herself. Then she

hunched her shoulders against the wind and went to find Howard

Hoff.

116

thirteen

That evening, Roelke tucked happily enough into Violet’s

boiled cod and root veggies in wine sauce. But friction crackled

faintly just beneath the surface of polite conversation. Marit and Chloe never looked each other in the eye. Emil, away from his

tools and his wood, didn’t look anyone in the eye. Sigrid poked silently at her food. It was all very awkward.

The meal ended with bowls of fruit soup. In Roelke’s world

“soup” and “dessert” didn’t go together, but the dish was deli-

cious—warm and thick and cinnamon-y. “So,” Violet said, as

everyone scooped up their last bite, “what is on everyone’s agenda for the evening?”

Chloe studiously scraped one last raisin from the bottom of

her dish. “I’ve got another interview lined up.”

“I’m heading back to the classroom,” Mom told the tablecloth.

“Me too,” Sigrid echoed.

Emil cleared a throat rusty from recent disuse. “I will escort

you ladies back to the classrooms.”

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“And I’ll walk with you to your interview,” Roelke told Chloe,

choosing his words carefully. He figured she wouldn’t want to be

“escorted” anywhere. “That is … it’s in walking distance?”

She nodded. “Just a couple of blocks from here.”

After thanking Violet, Roelke and Chloe bundled up and

headed out into a snowy evening. “Do you know these people

you’re visiting?” Roelke asked. He didn’t like the idea of her visiting strangers, alone. Maybe he should blow off his meeting with

the chief after all.

“Stand down, officer,” Chloe said. “I’m visiting Adelle and Tom

Rimestad. I haven’t met them, but they’re tight with my mom and

Sigrid. Adelle is one of the Sixty-Sevens.”

“OK, then.” Roelke pulled his trusty yellow flashlight from his

pocket and illuminated a bizarre lawn ornament—a three-foot

gnome dangling a huge plastic spider. “What’s with that? Seems

more Halloween than Christmas.”

“The
nisse
is a prankster,” Chloe said. Snowflakes had caught on her wool hat. A lamp pole by the driveway cast a soft glow on

her cheeks.

God
, she was lovely.

He belatedly realized she was waiting for some response from

him. “Um … yeah?”

“If the milkmaid didn’t remember to leave a dish out for their

nisse
, for example, he might dangle a spider the next morning to startle her into spilling the family’s milk.”

“Oh.”

Chloe started walking again. “Speaking of pranks …” She told

him what had happened to Marit that afternoon. “Mom
ordered

me and Sigrid not to say anything to anyone,” she concluded. “I

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know kids have been playing tricks, but …” She stopped walking

abruptly, looking suddenly perplexed. “That makes no sense.”

“What?” Roelke demanded. Sometimes Chloe’s insights helped

him sort out complicated problems.

“Why would someone add Greek revival columns to a house

with gothic features?” She pointed across the street. “Odd choice, but still, you could teach an entire architectural survey course in this neighborhood.”

And sometimes, Chloe’s insights did nothing helpful at all.

Roelke tugged her hand and they started walking again. “A few

boys slammed the door to our classroom today,” he told her.

“Right when Emil was making a delicate cut.”

“I know the kids are excited to be out of school, but these

pranks are going too far.” She twisted her mouth. “I thought How-