Heritage of Darkness (3 page)

night.”

Dinner for two would be nice, Chloe thought. If Roelke hadn’t

been scared speechless by Mom’s romance blitz.

He found a parking spot near Vesterheim’s main building.

Mom jumped out and hurried away.

Roelke contemplated the old three-story brick structure. “So,

this is the place.”

10

“This is the place.” Chloe took a deep breath. “Come on. Party

time.”

They followed Mom into the lobby, which was lavishly deco-

rated with woven paper hearts and evergreens. Christmas carols

drifted from stereo speakers. A long table along the back wall held an impressive smorgasbord. Two dozen or so guests were already

nibbling cookies, sipping wine, laughing and chatting. The crowd

collectively sported a world-class collection of Norwegian sweat-

ers, although a few people wore colorful
bunads
instead.

“I think I’m under-dressed,” Roelke said. He’d worn his best

jeans for the occasion, and a green chamois shirt.

“We’re fine,” Chloe assured him. “We’re just the entourage,

anyway.”

A red-haired woman spotted the new arrivals with delight.

“Marit!” she exclaimed, and swept Mom into a hug.

“That’s Sigrid Sorensen, one of my mom’s best friends,” Chloe

murmured. “She’s a sweetie.”

“You and your mom are staying at her house this week, right?”

“Right. And Sigrid is teaching my Beginning Telemark Rose-

maling class.”

“Ah,” Roelke said, which she assumed meant that he didn’t

know any more about the mysteries of Beginning Telemark Rose-

maling than she did.

Several more people joined the reunion. “Marit? Marit!
Marit!
”

The decibel level rose with every embrace and happy squeal.

“Wow. Your mom knows a lot of people.” Roelke looked

impressed. “Want me to hang up your coat?”

“Thanks.” Chloe shrugged out of her parka and handed it over.

“I’ll meet you by the food.”

11

Chloe poured herself a goblet of Riesling. When Roelke caught

up he filled a paper plate with carrot sticks, raw broccoli, little chunks of cheese, three meatballs, and two sweet
krumkakke
.

“Don’t you want anything to eat?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Chloe? Roelke?” Mom called. “Come say hello to Sigrid.”

Sigrid squeezed Chloe into a hug of her own. “Oh,
Chloe.
It’s been too long.”

“It’s wonderful to see you.” Chloe smiled. Her mother’s friend

was impeccably dressed in gray wool trousers and a navy-and-

cream snowflake cardigan. Her hair was still piled into a sixties-

style tower, although the color likely came from a bottle now.

“And this is Roelke McKenna,” Mom announced. “Chloe’s

young man.”

Chloe gave Mom points for not introducing Roelke as the

future father of her grandchildren. Truth was, Chloe didn’t know

what to call Roelke either.

“Rell-kee?” Sigrid repeated. “Is that a family name?”

“Yes ma’am. Roelke was my mother’s birth name.”

Once, months earlier, Chloe had made it clear to Roelke that

she preferred “birth name” to “maiden name.” Now here he was,

completely out of his element but doing his best to fit in. Sud-

denly, she no longer felt overwhelmed. Maybe having Roelke McK-

enna along—he of good German and Irish stock—would provide

the ballast she needed to get through the week on an even keel.

“How long have you two known each other?” Roelke asked,

looking from Marit to Sigrid.

“Over thirty years,” Mom said. “I started volunteering at Vester-

heim in the forties.”

12

“And Marit and I are members of the Sixty-Seven Club,” Sigrid

told Roelke. “The very first time Vesterheim brought in a rosemal-

ing teacher, in 1967, we both took the class.”

“That was the start of something special!” Mom’s face glowed

with nostalgia. “We’d been painting, but all we knew how to do

was copy old designs.”

“At least a couple of Sixty-Sevens will be around all week,” Sig-

rid told Mom. “Lavinia’s here, and Petra Lekstrom.” Sigrid looked

around, then shrugged. “Well, I saw Petra this afternoon. She’ll

show up sooner or later.”

Mom sniffed. “Like a bad penny.”

Chloe blinked at that bit of snarkiness. What was that all

about? Petra Lekstrom was teaching Mom’s class.

“Marit!” A gray-haired man made his way through the crowd.

Marit introduced Howard Hoff, the museum’s director.

Howard looked at Chloe with a knowing smile. “Do we have a

second-generation rosemaler here?”

Mom spread her hands in a
What can I say?
gesture. “Actually, Chloe’s never picked up a brush.”

Here we go, Chloe thought.

Howard blinked. “Surely with an expert like
Marit
—”

“I’m here to learn now,” Chloe said in her best cheery voice.

She filched a
krumkakke
from Roelke’s plate.

“This is the first time we’ve tried week-long classes in the midst of the Christmas season,” Howard said. “But we’re in the hole after our recent renovation, and event sponsorship is down. The students’ tuition fees are a big boost.”

Chloe eyed the director judiciously. Howard Hoff looked

exhausted. Dark crescents puffed beneath his eyes. His suit hung

13

on him, as if he’d recently lost weight. His hands moved con-

stantly—smoothing his hair, straightening his tie, exploring his

pockets.

“How is the new curator working out?” Mom asked.

Howard rubbed his palms against his pants. “The new curator

got pregnant and resigned. She lasted less than four months! Long

enough to start projects, not long enough to finish anything. We

got funding for a folklore project with a
tight
timeline, and—”

“You’ve got real challenges, Howard,” Sigrid interrupted

smoothly, “but it looks like the reception is going perfectly.”

“The reception. Yes.” Howard made a visible and valiant

attempt to refocus. “I need to welcome our guests.” He hurried

away.

“Poor Howard,” Sigrid said. “He’s got a tiny staff to begin with.”

“It’s hard to lose a curator,” Chloe said sympathetically. Fund-

ing was eternally tight at historic sites and museums. Any vacancy created enormous stress.

“His wife died … what, ten months ago?” Mom looked at Sig-

rid for confirmation. “Phyllis was a Sixty-Seven too,” she explained to Roelke and Chloe. “She died of cancer, poor dear. Howard grew

up in Decorah, so we’ve known him for a long time.”

An electronic squeal emanated from a podium, where Howard

was fiddling with a microphone. After a couple of false starts, he introduced himself. “We have three wonderful workshops scheduled this week. Emil Bergsbakken is teaching Beginning Chip

Carving.” He gestured toward a sixty-ish man standing against the

wall with hands in pockets.

Emil looked abashed at the attention. He was short and slight,

with just a fringe of beard running along his chin. The combina-

14

tion made Chloe think of
nisser
, the barn elves of Norwegian folklore.

“I’m bunking at his place, right?” Roelke whispered in her ear.

“Right. The local hotels are booked solid, and he and Mom go

way back.” Since the carving class had prompted Roelke to write a

check and join this expedition, Chloe hoped that Emil was a good

teacher.

Hoff continued, “Sigrid Sorensen is teaching Beginning Tele-

mark Rosemaling.” Sigrid smiled and waved. Chloe hoped that

Sigrid was a good teacher, too. And patient. Very,
very
patient.

“And our newest Gold Medalist in Rosemaling has just

returned from Norway, where she’s been studying and teaching, to

facilitate a workshop for advanced painters. Petra Lekstrom will

teach Advanced Hallingdal Rosemaling.” Hoff scanned the room.

“Is Petra here?”

Everyone looked around expectantly. A woman behind Chloe

muttered, “She’s probably off making trouble for somebody.”

My, my, Chloe thought. Roelke shot her a
What the heck?
look.

“I’m sure Petra is looking forward to meeting her students.”

Howard blotted his forehead. “I’m grateful to these accomplished

artists for sharing their talents. Vesterheim is more than a museum.

It’s also a cultural center, dedicated to preserving living traditions that reflect Norwegian heritage …”

“Any regrets yet?” Chloe murmured to Roelke.

He shook his head, clearly determined to flow with the Scandi-

navian tide.

“The week of classes will end with our Christmas celebration,”

Hoff was saying. “We will also announce the winner of Vesterhe-

im’s Christmas Card design contest. Gold Medalists were invited

15

to submit original designs. Museum staff have pared entries down

to six finalists.”

Chloe smiled encouragingly at her mother, whose design had

made the short list. Mom nodded primly.

“The top designs are on display in the gift shop,” Howard

added. “Be sure to vote for your favorite. You can also enjoy the

exhibit galleries for another hour. Thank you for coming.”

The murmur of conversation rose again. Chloe heard another

screech of pleasure: “Marit!” Mom was engulfed by more friends.

“Let’s wander,” Chloe murmured to Roelke. She finished her

wine, popped the last bite of
krumkakke
into her mouth, and wiped her hands on her jeans. No food or drinks in the exhibits.

As they left the lobby, Chloe tucked her hand through Roelke’s

arm. “Sorry I got cranky earlier. I am determined to stay positive.”

“Your mother will be busy in her own workshop all week.

You’ll hardly see her.” Roelke stopped in front of a glass case that ran the length of an entire wall, floor-to-ceiling. The display presented several regions of Norway with artifacts and life-sized manikins dressed in festive attire. “Colorful!”

“Yeah.” Chloe surveyed the exhibit. “
Bunads
have evolved into the national costume for Norwegians, with different styles from

different regions. My people go all-out for holidays.”

A youngish couple wearing matching sweaters wandered past.

The woman’s face was pinched with disapproval. “… couldn’t be

bothered to show up long enough to be introduced to her students!”

Her husband patted her arm. “Petra’s ego reached galactic pro-

portions when she earned her Gold Medal last summer.”

“Violet deserved to win a medal, not Petra,” the woman huffed.

“Everyone thought so.”

16

Chloe gazed after the couple. Violet? Violet Sorensen, Sigrid’s

daughter? That would explain Mom’s burst of pique.

The last thing Chloe wanted to do was eavesdrop on a conversa-

tion about the complexities of competition judging, a topic of endless angst for Mom and her friends. “Come see the Norwegian

House,” she said, and towed Roelke away. “The architecture is Telemark.”

His brow crinkled. “I thought Telemark had to do with paint-

ing.”

“Telemark is a region in Norway,” she explained. “My rosemal-

ing class is in the style that emerged from Telemark, and this

exhibit replicates a log home from there. It’s really cool.”

As Chloe led the way inside, she sighed with professional plea-

sure. The main room was furnished to suggest a well-to-do family

living, working, socializing. The painted and carved artifacts on

display were stunning.

“This stuff looks really old,” Roelke observed.

Chloe pointed to a long table that displayed a variety of kitchen

tools and utensils. “Remember the ale bowl that went missing

from Old World last summer? Look at that one.”

“Very cool,” Roelke agreed.

A mangle, displayed with a roller and piece of linen, reminded

Chloe of Mom’s enthusiastic foray into the nuances of Norwegian

courtship customs. Yeah, very romantic, Chloe thought, contem-

plating the early ironing tools.
Please marry me—so I don’t have to
do my own laundry.

Turning her back, she approached a large trunk painted with

cherubs and large flourishes in blue and red—faded, but still

impressive. “Can’t you imagine a family packing this as they got

17

ready to emigrate? It must have been
so
hard to decide what to take and what to leave behind.” Chloe slid her hand beneath the

hem of her sweater and reached for the trunk lid’s clasp.

Roelke frowned. “I don’t think you’re supposed to touch any-

thing.”

“I just can’t use my bare hand. I’m a curator, remember?” She

eased up the lid. “I just want to see if the inside is—Oh,
God
!”

The lid crashed down again. Chloe stumbled backwards, one

hand pressed against her mouth. Her eyes squinched shut, but

what she’d glimpsed was etched onto her lids in immutable detail:

a brown-haired woman wearing a
bunad
of embroidered red skirt, white blouse and apron, green vest, red cap. She was curled awkwardly in the trunk, unmoving.

Roelke jerked the trunk open again and pressed his fingers

against the woman’s neck, just beneath the jaw bone. “She’s alive.

Chloe, go tell someone to call an ambulance. Then stand at the front door. Don’t let anyone in or out until the first responders arrive. Got it?”

“Yes.” Chloe gulped, turned, and ran.

Back in the lobby, she spotted Howard Hoff and elbowed her

way across the room, ignoring the wake of protests and com-