Heritage of Darkness (19 page)

I could see who they were,” Chloe added. “But I cried for days. My dad told me that the goat had died of old age on one of their

farms, but I didn’t believe it.”

What a stupid-ass thing to do to a child! Roelke frowned at the

julebukkers
.

“Relax, officer,” Chloe said. She patted his hand. “I need to get

over that childhood trauma. Tom and Adelle told me last night

that Vesterheim’s folklore project has revived some of the old traditions. People are just having a good time.”

Roelke had more questions, but decided not to press Chloe for

details. Maybe I can ask someone else, he thought. He didn’t

understand this custom. He didn’t understand this community.

154

Emil’s voice rang in his memory:
You got trouble there
.

Yeah, well, screw it. Roelke looked at Chloe’s face—still tense,

still pale—and felt something inside snap like a brittle twig. He

was tired of seeing her upset. He was tired of reporting to the cops like some obedient puppy. He needed to stop talking and take

action.

155

sixteen

“Remember,” Mom chirped, “anyone using spray varnish needs

to step out on the fire escape. We don’t want fumes to collect in

the classroom! Just prop the door open so you don’t get locked

out.”

Varnish, Chloe thought. Yeah, right. Only people who’d actu-

ally finished a project needed varnish. She dipped her brush in the red paint on her palette. It was drying out, so she added a few

drops of linseed oil. … A few too many drops, apparently. Globs of pigment now floated in oil. “Shit,” she whispered.

Her tablemate looked up from the recipe box she was sanding.

Gwen had finished the assigned tray and was filling time with

projects of her own. “Problem?”

“I just ruined my middle red.”

Gwen looked at Chloe’s palette. “Yes you did. Want some of

mine?”

“That - would - be -
great
,” Chloe said, trying to inflect each word with profound gratitude. “Thanks.”

156

“No problem.” Gwen scooped up her leftovers with a palette

knife. “My middle red won’t be an exact match for yours, though.”

“I do not care,” Chloe admitted. “I just want to get this tray

done.”

“Especially since we’ll start on our next project tomorrow,”

Gwen reminded her cheerfully. “A bowl with a
nisse
in the center.

That will be fun.”

Since Chloe hadn’t mastered the most basic of strokes, much

less color theory, it was hard to imagine that the Christmas-

themed bowl wouldn’t be an even bigger disaster than the tray.

“Remember,” Mom called, “don’t turn your pieces as you paint.

We need to train ourselves to make strokes in any direction.”

Chloe’s tray was upside-down, and she left it that way. After

forcing herself to finish one more motif, she took a break and

headed to Howard’s office.

He was on the phone, but beckoned her inside. “How long … of

course. I see.” He sighed. “Well, I appreciate whatever you can do to speed the process along, but care of the artifacts is my primary concern. Will your technicians … OK. I’ll meet you there.”

Chloe sat down as he replaced the receiver to its cradle. “Were

you talking about the Norwegian House?”

“I was.” Howard blew out a very long, very slow sigh. “The

police have released it, but it’s a mess. Did you know that finger-print powder is black? I always imagined it was white.”

Chloe winced as she imagined artifacts covered with powder of

any color. “Who’s going to clean up?”

“I contacted a professional service out of Dubuque. They have

experience with crime scenes—”

“Do they have experience with priceless artifacts?”

157

Howard turned a gaze on her that was half worried, half weary.

Chloe was already regretting her words. She tensed, expecting

Howard to pounce:
You’re right, Chloe. Could you clean the Norwegian House? Could you at least supervise the crew?

But he surprised her. “It’s my responsibility. I’ll do my best to

keep the cleaners in line.”

“I—I suppose I could be there when you meet the crew. Just to

impress the basics on them.”

Howard sat taller and shook his head. “Absolutely not. I’ve

imposed on you too much already.” He made an obvious effort to

find a more cheerful topic. “Are you enjoying your class? I’m sure that any daughter of Marit’s—”

“It’s fine. And I interviewed Tom and Adelle Rimestad about

julebukking
last evening. Tonight I’m meeting someone named Edwina Ree.”

“Edwina?” His expression changed. “Ah. Of course. Edwina.”

Chloe couldn’t quite decipher the look in his eyes. “What can

you tell me about her?”

“She’s an interesting lady.” He busied himself arranging a cup

of pens. “She worked as an archivist at Luther College for years.

She’s in her nineties, so she comes at all this with both professional interest and personal experience.”

“I’ll let you know how it goes.” Chloe rubbed her palms on her

jeans and stood. “By the way, I encountered a group of
julebukkers
this morning.”

“I heard about that.” The ghost of a smile quirked one corner

of Howard’s mouth. “They hit several businesses, delighting the

Norwegians and bewildering everyone else.”

158

“Evidently the museum’s Christmas folklore project is inspir-

ing people to resurrect some old customs.”

“Old customs,” Howard repeated. His voice sounded strained.

“Howard?” She sat back down.

“Oh. Sorry. It’s probably nothing—”

“
What’s
nothing?”

“I shouldn’t burden you. It’s just that … do you know what a

budstikke
is?”

Chloe hadn’t been expecting a quiz on material culture.

“Um … a wooden tube, right? Used for delivering messages in days

of yore?”

“Right. One end has a metal spike so it can be thrust into a

door.” He took a shuddery breath. “A few months ago I came to

work one morning—quite early, I was the first to arrive—and

found a
budstikke
stabbed into my desk.” With an effort he shifted one of the towering piles of paper, revealing a gash.

The raw gouge gave Chloe a chill. “My God! Do you lock your

office at night?”

“I do now.”

“Was there something inside the tube?”

“A note. Unsigned.” He got up, paced his office twice, finally

stopped by the window. “It was a—a rant. Someone raging because

Petra won her Gold Medal at the exhibition last July. Whoever

wrote the note said that the only reason Petra won was …” He

turned abruptly. “The person blamed me! As if I could influence

the judges. As if anything I did could influence—well. It was ridiculous.”

159

OK, Chloe thought, I’m catching on. Someone had complained

that Petra benefitted from her supposed relationship with Vester-

heim’s director. “Did you give the note to the police?”

“I destroyed it. It was just—just someone venting. Someone

who entered the competition and didn’t get a ribbon.”

“But how did that person get into the building? You said you

were the first to arrive the day you found it.”

He shrugged. “They probably slipped in the evening before,

when someone was working late in the building. It happens. Deco-

rah is a safe town.”

Tell that to Petra Lekstrom, Chloe thought. “Did you tell the

police about this after Petra was killed?”

“Well, no. I—I couldn’t imagine that one thing is related to the

other. But … it
has
been preying on my mind this week.”

Yep, Chloe thought, Roelke is going to love this. “Did you

destroy the message tube, too?”

“Good Lord, of course not!” His look of horror suggested that

she’d proposed destroying the holy grail while Christ himself

looked on. “It’s at least a century old.” He stepped to a tall filing cabinet, crouched, opened the bottom drawer, and scrabbled past

files to the very back. Then he withdrew the antique in question

and handed it to her.

The
budstikke
was about four inches in diameter and six or eight inches long. The carver had created a flowing design of acanthus vines that seemed at odds with the wicked-looking spike pro-

truding from one end. A wooden cap fit snugly over the bottom.

“It’s a marvelous piece, really,” Howard said bleakly.

“It is, but I think you need to show that to the police.” Chloe

stood and passed it back. “And I need to get to class.”

160



Lavinia Carmichael was conspicuously absent when Roelke ar-

rived in the classroom at 8:45 that morning. Fifteen minutes later Emil shrugged and began class without her. “You’ve all done good,

real good, with practice boards,” he announced. “Today, I want you to develop the design for your own project. I’ll come around and

help.”

Roelke was still stewing about Petra Lekstrom’s murder, but

Emil’s instruction knocked that frustration on its ass. He’d stopped by the museum shop earlier and picked out a wooden piece to

carve, but had no idea what to do with it.

He hadn’t gotten far with any design sketches when Lavinia

hurried into the classroom. She dropped her totebag to the

ground, hung her parka on the back of her chair, and settled down.

The elderly woman’s mouth was pressed into a tight line.

“You OK?” Roelke murmured.

“No, I am not.” The long pull she took from her soda suggested

that the can was filled with brandy, not ginger ale. “So. What are we doing?”

“Emil’s coming around to talk with us about our projects.”

“Good.” Lavinia smoothed her wool skirt over her knees. She

picked up a pencil, put it back down. She picked up her knife and

put that back down, too. Then she leaned close to Roelke. “I was

called back to the police station this morning!” she hissed.

Lavinia? Back for a second round of questioning? Roelke

frowned thoughtfully. Had the cops called Lavinia in because of

what
he’d
told them? He’d mentioned two days ago that there had been some bad blood between Lavinia and Petra, but he still didn’t 161

know the details. Maybe Buzzelli got tired of waiting for him to

discover that information. Maybe the cops had uncovered some-

thing else about Lavinia in the course of their investigation. “What did they want?” he whispered.

“The investigator and the Criminal Investigation agent ques-

tioned me again! They wanted to know how long I’d known Petra,

what my relationship with her was like—things like that.” She

sniffed indignantly. “I told them once again that I didn’t
have
a relationship with Petra. That I’d washed my hands of her years

ago.”

Roelke considered, remembering the marked-out name he’d

spotted in Lavinia’s notebook.

“It was most upsetting,” Lavinia added tartly, “to be interro-

gated like some criminal.”

Roelke’s knee began to bounce. Dammit! It was
so
frustrating to hover on the periphery of this investigation. “I imagine it was just routine,” he tried. “The cops need to gather information so

they can start eliminating people who knew the victim from the

suspect list as soon as possible.”

“Hmmph,” Lavinia snorted. “Well, I resent being made late for

class. I’m eager to show Emil my project plan.” Her bulging note-

book stayed in her totebag, today, and instead she pulled out a single page. “I worked on this last night.” She held an elaborate

penciled design up for review.

He whistled in admiration. “Holy toboggans.”

“I need Emil’s advice about the border,” she said. “How about

you?”

He showed her his plate, approximately one-sixth the size of

hers. “I picked this out, but I don’t have a design yet.”

162

“Then you better get to it.”

Roelke nodded. He wanted to lose himself in the pleasure of

chip carving again, wanted to enjoy it, wanted to make Emil

proud. But his conversation with Lavinia brought all of the ques-

tions swirling in his brain back to the frontal lobe. He shot her a sideways glance, assessing this gray-haired lady who wore sensible shoes and butterflies in her hair.
Interrogated like a criminal
, she’d said. Was that Lavinia’s take on routine questioning? Or did Buzzelli have good cause to go digging for information from Lavinia

Carmichael?

163

seventeen:

august, 1967

“There, you see?” Sigmund Aarseth held up his canvas so the

students could study the flower he’d just painted. “Just like that.”

Just like that, Lavinia thought. Although it was a fun challenge

to contemplate, she’d need a lot of practice to come anywhere

close to “that.”

“Remember,” Sigmund added, “you should not rely on pat-

terns. Free yourself! Let your design be original, expressing your own artistry within the tradition.”

Most of the women clustered around their instructor’s chair

nodded. Lavinia glanced at Adelle and saw concern on her friend’s

face.

“We will talk more of this after lunch,” Sigmund said, pushing

back his hair. “I will see you in an hour.”

A few students followed Sigmund out of their makeshift class-

room—several tables set up in the museum lounge. Others paused

164

to finish scribbling notes. Lavinia nudged Adelle. “Let’s go down to the diner, all right?”

“Perhaps I should stay,” Adelle said in a low tone. “I’m feeling