Heritage of Darkness (28 page)

instead of cuddled up beside Roelke …

“Chloe?”

She sighed. “I’m still here. Listen, I’m going to the Rimestads’

party tonight. There’s a good chance I can meet a couple more

members of the Sixty-Seven Club. Do you want to come?”

He hesitated. “I asked Emil to help me with my carving, so I

think I need to hang by his place this evening. You’ll be safe in a crowd, though, and—”

“I’ll be fine,” she said, although she hadn’t realized until that

moment just how badly she’d wanted him to come.

“Promise me you won’t walk home alone.”

“I
won’t
. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, OK? I gotta go.” Chloe hung up the phone. Stupid man. She wasn’t yearning for Roelke’s protection. What she wanted was something altogether different.

Well, romance was obviously not in the cards tonight. And she

had work to do.

Chloe returned to the tower room and sat down on the floor

by the shelf of scrapbooks. She checked the dates on each volume

until she found a fat one labeled
1967
. It had been a momentous 235

year. Yellowed articles clipped from the
Decorah Journal
described the city’s first Nordic Fest and the first Exhibition of Folk Art in the Norwegian Tradition.

More pages were devoted to the inaugural rosemaling class.

Sigmund Aarseth, the instructor, was a young man from Norway

who wore a white shirt while painting. Several color snapshots

showed the master demonstrating while students clustered around

him to observe. Mom was leaning over his shoulder, wearing a

truly ugly dress beneath her apron. Sigrid’s cat’s-eye glasses were equally ill-advised, but the photographer had captured the intensity of their interest. Chloe wondered if Sigmund had any idea

how profoundly he’d inspired his students.

Chloe also found a more formal photograph with “The Sixty

Seven Club” written beneath it. The women were posed with rose-

maled pieces arrayed on a table in front of them, grinning joyfully.

Bingo! Chloe slipped the picture from the little black corners affix-ing it to the page. “Good job, Aunt Sigrid,” she whispered, for the name of each student was penciled on the back. On the next page

Chloe found a class list with addresses. Even better.

Some names and faces were familiar: Mom, Sigrid, Adelle,

Phyllis, Petra, Lavinia. The roster also included two Decorah

women Chloe hadn’t met, Linda Skatrud and Peggy Nelson. The

other six students had traveled from all over the country to attend that first class. Chloe copied all the names and addresses.

She still had some time before she needed to leave for the

Rimestads’ party, so she flipped through a few more scrapbooks.

Sigrid had saved every Exhibition program, and Chloe was able to

chart her and Mom’s progress as they collected ribbons and points

on their march toward their Gold Medals. Petra’s name appeared

236

as well, although—as Violet had said—her ribbons came with less

frequency. Lavinia Carmichael’s name didn’t appear at all, so she

evidently had never entered the Exhibition. Adelle Rimestad

entered a platter in 1972. She did not earn a ribbon, and her name didn’t appear in Exhibition records again.

A clock chiming in the parlor jolted Chloe from her survey.

She was ready to quit. The women in the photographs looked so

young, so excited. Quite the contrast from the sad and worried

faces on all sides this week.

Well, except Adelle, she thought fairly. The 1967 Adelle had

beamed at the photographer, brush in hand:
I am a rosemaler!

Even though life—and Petra Lekstrom—had pushed her onto a

different path, Adelle had somehow maintained her sweet smile.

I’m making progress, Chloe thought. Most of the women she

hadn’t met were out-of-reach, but with luck, Linda and Peggy still lived in the area. If so, she might be able to learn if either of them had experienced any illnesses, accidents, or threats in the past couple of years. And with a little more luck, she might even learn what Petra had done to drive Adelle out of rosemaling altogether.

237

twenty-five: july, 1972

“Oh my.” Adelle Rimestad stopped on the sidewalk in front of

the museum and looked from her husband to her best friend. “My

stomach is filled with butterflies.”

“This is an exciting day,” Lavinia said.

Tom kissed Adelle’s cheek. “I am
so
proud of you. It took courage to enter a piece in the Exhibition. You’re already a winner to me.”

Adelle’s nerves settled—a little. “I certainly don’t expect to win a ribbon,” she said. “And I
am
proud.” She’d worked hard to develop all the skills Sigmund Aarseth had tried to instill during that first class five years earlier. It had been challenging, exhilarat-ing, frustrating, rewarding. Although Lavinia had continued to

attend classes, she’d never developed any interest in competing.

But for Adelle, what had started as a niggle in the back of her mind became stronger as her skills developed.

238

I’m challenging myself, she reminded herself now. Every

entrant received the judges’ comments. Their advice would help

her grow as a painter.

“I’m lucky to have an entourage,” she said, as Tom held the

door for the two women. “I’ve had support and encouragement

from so many friends and teachers. The rosemaling community is

generous.” She caught Lavinia’s eye. “Even Petra can be nice when

she wants to be. She shared some great tips after she got back from her last class in Norway.” Adelle knew that Lavinia had never

warmed to Petra, but it just took a little patience to draw her out.

“You’re a good soul,” Tom said fondly. He often said that when

he didn’t agree with her outlook but didn’t want to argue.

“No, really,” Adelle insisted. “Petra showed me some examples

of colorwork that helped me develop a fresh palette. And when I

was dithering over what saying I wanted to paint around the edge

of my platter, she came up with the perfect phrase.”

They’d reached the Exhibition gallery. The curator, hovering

near the door, shuffled through a pouch and handed Adelle a

sealed envelope. “The judges’ comments,” he said.

“Thank you.” She was already scanning the room for her piece.

Her
piece, on display in Vesterheim, part of the National Exhibition! Her heart skittered with excitement.

The curator had arranged fifty or so entries with care—some

pieces hung on walls, larger pieces were arrayed on platforms.

Lavinia pointed across the room. “There it is!”

Adelle saw at once that there was indeed no ribbon hanging

beside her platter. Well, that truly was all right. She saw Marit Kallerud beaming beside the blue ribbon that had just earned her a

Gold Medal. Good for her, Adelle thought .

239

As she led Tom and Lavinia across the crowded room several

conversations seemed to fade away, and that was a bit thrilling in itself. I’m being recognized as an exhibitor, she thought proudly.

Tom took several Polaroids of Adelle standing beside her plat-

ter. While waiting for the prints to develop, Adelle held up the

envelope. “Let’s see what the judges think,” she said, feeling a little breathless. She slid one finger beneath the flap and tore it open.

Three people had judged the exhibit, and she was so excited

that it took a moment to focus. “‘Excellent brushwork and design,’”

she read. “And … Oh. ‘Painter’s understanding of color needs

improvement.’” She glanced up. “Well, that’s helpful to know.”

“I like your color scheme just fine,” Lavinia said loyally.

Adelle continued reading … and her mouth opened with

shock. Heat scalded her face.

Tom frowned. “Oh, sweetie, what?”

Adelle couldn’t find words. She glanced up and saw several

people watching her. Sigrid and Marit looked sympathetic. They

would know, Adelle thought. Many people here—most, proba-

bly—didn’t speak Norwegian. But some did.

Then Adelle spotted Petra, watching from a far corner. A little

smirk turned up the corners of Petra’s mouth.

Lavinia snatched the report. “What’s the matter? The judges’

comments are supposed to be constructive.” She read in silence for a moment before her fist clenched, crumpling the page. “Petra

Lekstrom,” she said with quiet fury. “That
bitch
.”

240

twenty-six

At the Rimestads’ house electric candles glowed in every win-

dow, and real ones flickered from the mantel. The house smelled

of mulled wine. In the dining room, a buffet table sparkled with

cut crystal and polished silver. Christmas carols played from the

stereo, interrupted occasionally by impromptu performances by

members of Decorah’s Luren Singers. A few
julebukkers
appeared early, were quickly identified, and divested themselves of costumes to enjoy the party. Only the conversation was a bit off—more subdued than at most festive gatherings, as if the guests hoped that

keeping their voices down might help Adelle conserve her strength.

Adelle didn’t leave her chair, but her face glowed like the can-

dles. “She’s still beautiful, isn’t she?” Sigrid whispered to Chloe.

“She’s so happy to be surrounded by friends.”

Chloe, who was feeling sad and very un-sleuth-like, was grate-

ful for the opening. “Other than Lavinia and you and Mom, are

there other Sixty-Sevens here?”

241

“Well, let’s see …” Sigrid scanned the room. “Peggy Nelson’s

here somewhere. And I know I saw Linda Skatrud earlier—oh,

there she is, collecting punch cups.”

Chloe followed Linda into the kitchen and introduced herself.

She was a sixty-ish woman wearing a gorgeous sweater. She

beamed when she realized who Chloe was. “Oh, sweetie, it’s good

to see you. We met back when Marit won her Gold Medal, remem-

ber?”

“I do,” Chloe lied, since she didn’t want to hurt Linda’s feelings.

“How have you been?”

“Oh fine, honey. Just fine.”

Chloe mentally placed a pox on Petra’s killer for putting her in

this position—trying to pump this nice lady for information at a

Christmas party. “I’m glad to hear that,” she said. “After … well, you know.”

Linda’s pretty smile vanished. “Petra,” she said in a clipped

tone.

OK, no love lost between Linda Skatrud and Petra. “Well, yes,”

Chloe murmured. “But I’ve been a little concerned about other

Sixty-Sevens too. My mom looks forward to seeing you all when

she visits Decorah, and it seems as if a string of bad luck has been plaguing your group. Phyllis Hoff died of cancer, Adelle’s so terribly ill, a fire started in my mom’s rosemaling classroom …” Chloe

began stacking cups beside the sink with what she hoped was a

sheepish shrug. “I’m not usually so superstitious, but I admit, I’ve started to wonder
.
”

“Well, wonder no more,” Linda said firmly. “I’m healthy as a

horse, and can’t remember the last time I so much as stumbled.”

242

She beamed as Lavinia entered the kitchen with an empty platter.

“Some of us are doing just fine. Aren’t we, Lavinia?”

“We are,” Lavinia confirmed. She headed for a towering stack

of cookie tins. “Heavens, I think every woman in Decorah pitched

in to make this party happen for Adelle and Tom.”

“People are good,” Linda agreed. “Most of them, anyway. Now,

Chloe.” She made a shooing motion with both hands. “You go on

back to the party, and let Lavinia and me take care of this.”

Chloe obediently returned to the party, considering what she’d

learned from Linda. Her hypothesis that someone was targeting

the Sixty-Sevens appeared to be faulty. Actually, Chloe thought, I didn’t learn squat from Linda.

Unless, of course, that Linda and Lavinia hadn’t been tar-

geted …
yet
.

That thought put a snowball in the pit of Chloe’s stomach.

Don’t speculate, she told herself. Focus on facts.

Chloe spotted her mother alone by the enormous Christmas

tree, admiring the ornaments. Mom could point out Peggy Nelson

and make the introductions. Maybe, Chloe thought hopefully,

Mom would even be pleased that I
want
to be introduced to one of her long-time friends. She began eeling through the crowd.

Just as Chloe was about to greet Mom, she heard someone

standing on the far side of the tree say “Gold Medal” in such a

hushed tone that she instinctively swallowed her words. “… but at

least Petra didn’t have long to enjoy her Gold Medal,” a woman

was saying. “That doesn’t make things right by you, though.”

“It was bad enough to miss a medal by one point,” a second

female voice said bitterly, “but having to watch Petra Lekstrom

prance about with
her
medal … that was hard to take.”

243

That second voice was familiar: Violet Sorensen, Sigrid’s

daughter. Well, well, well, Chloe thought. Violet isn’t quite as Zen about the whole medal thing as she wants people to believe.

“Everyone knows you should have earned yours last summer.”

“It would have been nice,” Violet said. “I’ve never seen such

quality work at the Exhibition as we saw last summer, and a blue

ribbon would have meant a lot. It’s gotten a lot harder to earn a

Gold Medal, you know. Those early winners don’t know how good

they had it.”

Chloe’s jaw dropped. It was one thing to learn that Violet did

indeed resent Petra’s win, but
that
jab was unexpected.