Heritage of Darkness (20 page)

overwhelmed. I didn’t know he’d expect us to design our own pat-

terns! I’ve never done anything but copy designs.”

Lavinia untied her apron and draped it over her chair. “And

I’m a complete beginner,” she reminded Adelle, “so you’re way

ahead of me.”

“I just want to make the most of this opportunity. The pace is a

bit … intense. Sigmund Aarseth is so talented, and such a generous instructor. I don’t want to disappoint him.”

“You couldn’t possibly—”

“Petra!” Marit Kallerud’s sharp tone stilled all other conversa-

tion. “I wanted to copy that!”

Lavinia turned and saw Petra Lekstrom at the chalkboard with

an eraser poised above Sigmund’s morning notes and sketches.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Petra said, with honey dripping from every

word. “I was just trying to be helpful. I thought Sigmund would

appreciate a clean board to start the afternoon.”

“Well, please stop,” Sigrid Sorensen chimed in. “I haven’t cop-

ied it yet either.”

Lavinia rolled her eyes and grabbed her friend’s hand. “Come

on.” She waited until they’d left the room before picking up their conversation. “It’s only the second day of class, Adelle. You’ll do fine.
We’ll
do fine.”

“I wish I had your self-confidence,” Adelle said wistfully.

Lavinia was surprised. Self-confidence? Is that what she pro-

jected? She’d only signed up for the class because Adelle had asked her to. “I have no idea if I can become a competent rosemaler, but 165

I’m having fun,” she said honestly. “I realized last night that the class was so new and challenging that for the first time since Sid died, I didn’t think about him and the farm all day. It was … rest-ful.”

“Oh, I’m glad!” Adelle exclaimed. “After everything that’s hap-

pened in the past few years, you deserve that.”

I do, Lavinia thought. Three years ago she had a husband, chil-

dren to care for, a farm to help manage. Two years ago her hus-

band died of flu, and the social worker had removed the foster

kids Lavinia loved as her own—“So they have a stable home.” Less

than a year ago, Lavinia’s house had been struck by lightning and

set on fire. She and her dog had escaped to safety, but she’d lost almost everything else. Three months ago she’d sold the farm.

The two women emerged into a muggy heat, and Adelle paused

to search through her handbag for sunglasses. “Decorah seems so

quiet
. After Nordic Fest, I mean. I hope they make it an annual event.”

“Since thirty-seven thousand people showed up,” Lavinia said,

“I imagine Nordic Fest will become a tradition.” She and Adelle

had helped the museum prepare for the community festival, and

she’d been lucky enough to score a plum volunteer assignment—

serving refreshments out front, which let her enjoy the folk danc-

ing and Luren Singers concert in Water Street.

“It was marvelous,” Adelle agreed. “Since Tom is on the muse-

um’s Board of Directors, he had a lot more to worry about. And

there’s no rest for the Board. They met last night, and Tom

reported that they’re hoping to revise the museum’s contract with

Luther College. Having so many artifacts on long-term loan cre-

ates some unique challenges. But he also reported that everyone is 166

thrilled with the response to the first National Exhibition. The

museum definitely will make that an annual event.”

“Do you think you’ll enter a piece one day?”

“I’d love to,” Adelle admitted, “but I don’t think I’d ever find

the courage. Not when the entries are put on public display! How

about you?”

“Absolutely not,” Lavinia said flatly. “I’m just pleased to have a new hobby.” She had never shied from helping Sid in the barn or

the fields when needed, so for years she hadn’t needed extra activities. But after losing her husband, her children, and her home, she had too many quiet hours to fill.

“You know,” Adelle began, “Tom’s gotten friendly with a new

gentleman on the Board. He’s a widower, and—”

“No, thank you,” Lavinia said firmly, as she’d said more than

once since Sid died. She had adored her husband, and that was

that. “But as I was saying, I welcome the chance to make new

friends in the rosemaling class.”

They paused in front of the Ben Franklin store, waiting for a

boy on a bicycle to pedal past so they could cross the street to the diner. “It’s interesting to meet painters from other states,” Adelle said. “Everyone is so nice.”

“Well,
almost
everyone.” Lavinia held the door open, and was greeted by the smell of frying hamburgers. “Petra Lekstrom is a bit too full of herself.” She’d met Petra several times earlier, at various museum events, but this was her first opportunity to spend time

with the woman.

“She’s all right,” Adelle said. They approached the counter and

settled onto swivel seats. “I’m sure she didn’t mean to inconve-

nience anyone by erasing the chalkboard.”

167

Lavinia held her tongue. Adelle was the sweetest person in the

world, and she’d only be distressed if Lavinia pushed the issue. But I’m right on this one, Lavinia thought. She was a very good judge

of character, and if she still owned a farm, she’d bet every acre that Petra Lekstrom was trouble.

168

eighteen

By mid-morning Roelke had made little progress with either

his project design or conclusions about Lavinia’s role in the official investigation. Then he noticed Chloe at the classroom door. She

cocked her head toward the hallway:
Can you come outside?
He got up at once, pleased for all kinds of reasons.

“Sorry to interrupt you,” she murmured. “But Howard Hoff

told me something just now you need to know.” She told her tale

quickly.

When she finished, he still felt fuzzy on the details. “Explain

again what this thing is?”

“It’s a wooden tube. Once upon a time rural people used them

to send important messages from house to house, farm to farm.”

“Always bad stuff? Or ‘Hey, how are you?’ things too?”

“I’m not sure.” She scratched her nose. “Anyway, I don’t trust

Howard to tell the cops about it. The note reflects his personal life in a way he’d surely rather not broadcast.”

“I’ll let Moyer and Buzzelli know.”

169

Chloe leaned against the wall and gave him a bleak look. “I’ve

become Decorah’s number one snitch. First I told Howard about

Mom getting locked in the vault. Now I’m telling you—and there-

fore, the cops—about Howard’s little … problem. There may not

be a person left speaking to me by the end of the week.”

“I will be speaking to you,” he promised, and kissed the tip of

her right ear. “Listen, I feel like I should stop by the PD over the lunch hour …” His voice trailed away as her shoulders slumped.

“Sorry. Any chance we can have dinner together?”

“That would work. I’m interviewing my last informant tonight,

but she asked me not to come before eight o’clock.” Chloe

shrugged. “Maybe what
I’ll
do over the lunch break is see what I can learn about
budstikker
.”

“That would be good, but consider dinner together a done

deal,” he said firmly. “Maybe there will be time to swing by Emil’s place. You’d love it. I feel like I’m staying in a museum.”

She gifted him with a glowing smile. “Folk art and dinner?

Consider it a date.”

Score, Roelke thought. And Emil, put that in your pipe and

smoke it. Maybe he, German/Irish-American cop, was actually

starting to figure out what could make Chloe Ellefson, Norwegian-

American curator, happy.



At lunchtime, Chloe grabbed a caprese sandwich at the Co-op—

tomatoes, basil, and mozzarella cheese so fresh that she almost

swooned. That powered her through twenty minutes in Vesterhe-

im’s small and deserted research library. She found an article—

170

“
Budstikker
Use in Northern Europe”—that detailed protocol

when a king wanted to spread word about meetings or new regula-

tions. It all sounded very pompous.

Frustrated, she backtracked to a pay phone in the hall. After

stacking her change in case quick additions were needed, she

called Old World Wisconsin and asked to be connected with her

intern.

“Nika Austin,” a young woman said briskly after one ring.

“Wow,” Chloe said. “I’m amazed I actually caught you.” Nika

was starting on her Ph.D. and only worked ten hours a week now.

“It’s more amazing than you thought,” Nika said dryly. “Petty

cut my hours in half.”

Chloe’s free hand clenched into a fist. “Why? He promised us

ten hours a week through the off-season!” Nika had worked for

free the previous season, and was only making minimum wage

now.

“Director Petty giveth and Director Petty taketh away. He did

not reveal his thoughts to a lowly intern.”

“Another Petty atrocity,” Chloe muttered. “I’ll talk to him when

I get back.”

“Don’t worry,” Nika said. “I’ll still finish my projects. So, what can I do for you?”

“A favor, if you will. I’m looking for information about
buds-

tikker
…”

Five minutes later, Chloe hung up. Nika was an intellectual

bloodhound. If there were more to learn, Nika would find it.

Chloe returned to the library, sat at the table, and tried to organize her thoughts. She wished that Howard hadn’t destroyed the

message he’d received. Had the “rant” been a complaint, or an

171

actual threat? She leaned back in her chair, trying to think, trying to connect dots that danced like mischievous
nisser
just out of reach.

Was it possible that Petra hadn’t been the killer’s only target?

Was it possible that whoever was angry at Petra—angry enough to

attack her—was equally angry at Howard? Or even Vesterheim

itself?

Chloe nibbled her lower lip. Her own foray into rosemaling

was a complete debacle. Nonetheless, it was horrid to think that a beloved folk art tradition could be at the root of such evil.

Don’t assume you understand anything, she told herself. She

grabbed a piece of paper from the copy machine stack and liber-

ated a pencil from a handy supply left for any researcher foolish

enough to think it was permissible to examine old books with ink

pen in hand. Then she captured some notes, starting with the

obvious.

1. Some disgruntled rosemaler hated Petra for winning her

medal; maybe held Howard and the museum responsible

That one would not be easy to pin down. The Sixty-Sevens had

a long history of disliking Petra. Violet had, in some observers’

views, been cheated last July. But anyone who entered the compe-

tition—a ribbon winner or not—might resent Petra’s success.

2. Someone angry because Howard took the museum into

debt

Before last night, Chloe would have pegged some staff member

for that one, or a museum Board of Directors member. But hear-

ing about the impact of the debt on the entire city cast new light 172

on that point. Having a museum of Vesterheim’s caliber in Deco-

rah could only be a boon for the local economy, but that didn’t

mean all locals would appreciate the fundraising campaign.

OK, what else? What was less obvious? What might they all be

missing?

3. Someone trying to keep Vesterheim from being reaccredited

That seemed ridiculous. Chloe nibbled her lower lip, trying to

imagine who would care. Someone with an ax to grind against

Howard Hoff, maybe. But it would have to be someone from the

museum world. She was willing to bet that most people in Deco-

rah, both fans of the museum and foes of the fundraising drive,

had never heard of museum accreditation.

4. Someone with ties to Luther College wants V to look bad, so
collection can be returned

That seemed more ridiculous, and almost impossible to pur-

sue. Violet worked at Luther—but so did a whole lot of people

who lived in Decorah. Tom Rimestad was a Luther grad—but

again, so were a whole lot of other people, including Mom. And

Petra, but if that had relevance, she didn’t see it.

5. Someone wants an artifact—maybe the wedding rug?—do-

nated to their institution instead of Vesterheim

That seemed most ridiculous of all. You are more than grasp-

ing at straws, Ellefson, Chloe told herself. You are grasping at

pieces of straw. You are grasping at specks of chaff blown away by a wailing winter wind.

173

She massaged her temples, trying to think of another reason

why someone might harbor Howard-hatred in their hearts. Noth-

ing came. Finally she folded the paper, stuffed it into a pocket in her jeans, and headed for the door. She was out of ideas, and it was time for class.



The modern collections storage building, where Chloe was to meet

Emil’s class during afternoon break, was around the corner on

North Mechanic street. The one minute walk took her past the

eastern edge of Vesterheim’s Open Air Division, a dozen buildings

ranging from tiny immigrant cabins to a huge flour mill.

According to an informational sign, the Upper Iowa River had

once flowed through the site. After World War II, the Army Corps

of Engineers had rerouted the river to minimize flooding. That

had left a vertical drop of perhaps fifteen feet in the middle of the grounds, but Vesterheim staff had put it to good use. From the low ground below, Chloe could see the back corners of two historic