Heritage of Darkness (30 page)

herself. How could I have missed it?

She darted to the door and peeked into the hallway. No one

was in sight. She closed the door, sat back down on the bed, and

dialed the phone. Two minutes later she listened to an operator

asking her friend Ethan if he would accept a collect call from

Chloe Ellefson. “I will,” he said promptly.

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Chloe wished she could reach through the line and hug him.

“Sorry ’bout the collect call,” she said. “I’m at a friend’s house.”

“No problem. What’s up?”

“Tell me about spalted wood.”

He was silent for a moment. “Well … it’s beautiful.”

“It is. But the designs are caused by a fungus, right?” She was

trying to remember a long-ago lecture from their forestry school

days.

“Right. Spalting in hardwoods shows up as zone lines or white

rot, or sometimes as other kinds of pigmentation.”

Chloe closed her eyes. “And carvers love spalted wood.”

“They do,” he said happily. “Coniferous trees usually show

signs of brown rot, which degrades the wood too quickly for use.

But I’ve seen some stunning pieces of spalted hardwood. I think

I’ve got some spalted beech in the garage. Should I use it for that cookbook shelf you want me to make?”

Chloe imagined her best friend smiling with pleasure. “That

would be great. But you have to be really careful when you work

with spalted wood, don’t you?”

Ethan’s tone sobered. “Absolutely. When you sand or saw dis-

eased wood in a closed area, you run the risk of inhaling tainted

wood dust. That could be bad, but don’t worry. I always wear a

mask when I run the sander.”

“Shit,” Chloe whispered.

Silence echoed from the line. Then Ethan asked, “What’s going

on?”

“I’m horribly afraid that a friend of mine—” She broke off as

the door opened. A man stopped abruptly, obviously startled to

see her. Chloe motioned toward the coats with a
Be my guest
ges-253

ture, then turned back to the phone. “I gotta go. I’ll fill you in later, OK? And Ethan …”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks,” she said, even though she wasn’t feeling thankful at

all.

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twenty-seven

It was still dark when Roelke came down to the kitchen the

next morning, but he found a pot of coffee on the stove and a dirty cereal bowl in the sink. Emil was already out doing chores. Roelke, who was facing a long cold walk to meet Chloe, and then another

back to the café, decided he had time for a splash of java himself.

Thus fortified, he went back through the main room. He’d left

his boots by the front entry. As he stomped into them, he leaned

against the door—and jerked away as something poked painfully

into his arm.

What the hell? He flicked on a light and examined the door.

Something tiny and sharp extended from the wood.

Roelke jerked the front door open and saw the
budstikke
at once. This ornately-carved marvel was rectangular, with a dragon

head extending from each end. This time the person who’d left it

hadn’t contented himself with leaving it on the porch. The sharp

iron point extending from one dragon’s mouth had been driven

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into Emil’s front door with enough force to splinter through the

wood.



Chloe waited for Roelke at Sigrid’s house until her patience ran

out—about ten minutes past their appointed meeting time—and

then struck out for the café. She was too antsy to wait politely for her escort. She’d spent half the night fretting about Adelle Rimestad, and the other half wondering just how angry Violet Sorensen

had been at Petra.

She spotted Roelke striding toward her as she turned onto

Water Street. “Hey,” she began, stopping under a lamppost. “I—”

“Why didn’t you wait for me at Sigrid’s place?” he demanded,

breath steaming in annoyed puffs. “I told you to—”

“I didn’t feel like waiting. And since you were late, I—”

“I’m late because I found another one of those damned mes-

sage things this morning.”

That stopped her. “You did? Where?”

“Stabbed into Emil’s front door. With enough force to drive the

point clear through the wood.”

Through
Emil’s
front door? Chloe turned that over without

finding any logic. “Where is it now?”

“The cops have it. I called them and waited until the guy on

duty got there. It may be nothing, but I wanted someone official to photograph the damn thing. That’s why I’m late. I thought about

trying to call you at Sigrid’s, but I was afraid I’d wake the whole house, and—
dammit!
I hate this. I feel like we’re living in dormi-tories.”

256

“Yeah.” Chloe kicked one boot against the other, trying to bring

feeling back to numb toes. “Complete with chaperones.”

“Come on.” Roelke put an arm over her shoulder. “We can talk

inside.”

Once they were ensconced in their back corner booth at the

café, Chloe regarded him. “So, tell me about the
budstikke
. Was there a message inside? A carved goat?”

“Yes to both.” Roelke ran both hands through his hair. “The

container was very different. More of a box than a tube, and cov-

ered with decorative carvings. Even I could see that this was very old, very valuable. Who would use something like that to send a

threat?”

In spite of everything, Chloe was touched by his indignation

on behalf of an artifact so ill used.

“Otherwise, it was the same routine as last time,” Roelke was

saying. “‘These are the days of Thor. Beware the power of dark-

ness.’”

“Scorch mark? Twine?”

“Yep.”

“Emil didn’t have any idea who might have left it?”

“Nope.”

“What the hell is going on?” Chloe demanded in a fierce whis-

per. This didn’t make sense. Nothing was making sense. “Some-

body is using priceless antiques to randomly threaten

Norwegian-Americans?”

“Stabbing this one right through Emil’s door goes beyond

friendly,” Roelke said. “But we don’t know if they have anything to do with Petra Lekstrom’s murder.”

“There must be some connection,” Chloe insisted.

257

Roelke leaned forward on his elbows. “What? What is the con-

nection? Lekstrom was most likely attacked in a sudden burst of

rage. Someone planned ahead to set a fire in your painting class-

room. Your mom got shut into the vault, although we don’t know

if that was malicious or a prank. Howard Hoff and Emil got vague

threats in these
budstikke
things. Another one was left at Sigrid’s house, which might have been aimed at her, or your mother, or

Violet. Or you, for that matter. If you can make any sense of all

that please tell me, because I can’t.”

Chloe couldn’t either. “The only link I can see is that everyone

involved is somehow connected to Vesterheim.”

“But we have no idea if other people have been threatened.

Local people we don’t know. People with no connection to Vester-

heim.”

“Wouldn’t the cops tell you?”

“Not necessarily.” Roelke glared at the wall. Then he pulled a

stack of index cards from the pocket of his flannel shirt.

Chloe watched as he shuffled through them, frowning, shaking

his head from time to time. She could feel him straining to make

sense of things; to make order. She could feel his frustration. She was frustrated too. At least we can share this with each other, she thought.

The waitress delivered their breakfast and retreated. Roelke

placed one card on the table. Even upside down, Chloe could read

the name printed on top: Howard Hoff—Director at Vesterheim.

“Remember I told you yesterday that Hoff said he’d taken a

class or two?” Roelke asked. “Well, Emil told me that Hoff took

several figure carving classes from Emil’s brother.”

“So … Howard really could have carved the goats himself.”

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“Right.” Roelke put the Hoff card back into his stack.

“You got a card for Violet in there?”

Roelke rifled through like a poker dealer, extracted a card,

slapped on the table. Then he looked at her, a question in his eyes.

“Violet Sorensen is not the sweet little ‘nothing bothers me’

Pollyanna she wants people to think she is.” Chloe told him about

the comments that she’d overheard at the Rimestads’ party the

night before. “Violet and her friend were drinking, and they got

quite bitchy about the whole thing. Violet puts on a good show

most of the time. However, she is
clearly
angry that she missed her Gold Medal by one point while Petra earned hers.”

“Interesting.” Roelke beat a thoughtful rhythm on the table.

“Angry enough to kill?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“I’m not either. Just speculating.” The drumbeat increased in

tempo.

Could Violet be capable of such a spontaneous fit of rage? Who

knew? “I suppose it’s possible,” Chloe whispered. “Damn, I wish

Mom and I weren’t staying at Sigrid and Violet’s house!”

“We’d have to use dynamite to get your mother out, though,”

Roelke agreed soberly, “especially since there aren’t any hotel

rooms available.”

“Even without getting paranoid about Violet’s emotional sta-

bility, I wish she hadn’t felt compelled to demean my mother, and

her own mother too. You should have seen Mom’s face.” Remem-

bering made Chloe furious all over again. “I’m glad this week is

almost over. Last night Violet didn’t come in until the rest of us had gone to bed. But the tension in that house is going to be thick as
rømmegrøt
.”

259

“Thick as …?”

“It’s this porridge that …” Chloe waved a hand. “Never mind.

Roelke scribbled something on his Violet card. Then he shuf-

fled through his stack and placed another on the table.

“You made a card for Edwina Ree?” Chloe protested. “Roelke, I

told you, the lady is in her nineties.”

“Bad people can grow old.”

“I
know
that. But Edwina? Kill Petra? No.” Edwina might know things Chloe didn’t know—things I don’t even want to know, she

thought—but some strong human had driven the latest
budstikke

through Emil’s door.

“I don’t really see her as a suspect,” Roelke admitted. “But Emil

suggested that I talk with her.”

“Why on earth does Emil think you should talk to Edwina?”

Roelke slipped his cards away, picked up his spoon, and dug

into his oatmeal. “He said she knows more about what happens in

Decorah than anyone.”

“Well, that may be true,” Chloe allowed. Then she slumped in

her seat. “Listen, may I change the subject?”

“Sure.”

Chloe told him about the gift Adelle Rimestad had given her,

and her subsequent conversation with Ethan. “I’m terribly afraid

that Adelle’s health disease—at least some of it—came from work-

ing with the diseased wood.”

“Jesus.” Roelke shook his head.

“It makes my heart ache. Wouldn’t it be horrible if the very

thing that’s brought her so much joy has contributed to her lung

problems? I spent half the night trying to decide if I should say

something to Tom. What if the Rimestads didn’t know about the

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dangers, and didn’t take precautions? Part of me wants to spare

them any knowledge of this. But what if knowing might make a

difference in her care?”

Roelke scrubbed his face with palms. Finally he said, “How

about this? Talk to Lavinia. She’s a good friend of Adelle’s. And

she’s known the Rimestads a lot longer than we have.”

Chloe felt the weight of solitary knowledge ease. “That’s a really good idea. I’ll try to catch her after classes end this afternoon.”

“Maybe at lunchtime I can take you out to see Emil’s carvings,”

Roelke said. “He’s working on a set of wedding spoons that … no,

wait.” He shook his head. “I really should run by the police station again instead. What you overheard from Violet sheds new light on

her state of mind regarding Petra Lekstrom.”

“Sounds good.” Chloe felt a sense of reprieve. Wedding spoons—

symbolic of romance, love, procreation? Awkward. “Remember,

classes end early so students can attend opening festivities for the Norwegian Christmas event. They’re in the Open Air Division.”

He looked blank. “The Open Air Division …?”

“Remember passing a few old buildings when you came down

to the collections storage building?”

“Yes.” He nodded emphatically, but Chloe could tell that his

mind was still on criminal activities. Life with a cop, she told herself. Bail now, or get used to it.

Well, she didn’t want to bail. “I’ll look for you there this afternoon,” she said. “Come on. Howard’s meeting all of the students in the lounge this morning.”

A sleety rain pelted them as they walked to the Education Cen-

ter. They joined their classmates shucking off coats, stamping

261

slush from boots, pulling off mittens. The lounge smelled of wet

wool and coffee.

Howard clapped for attention. “We’ve reached the last day of

classes,” he said with hearty good cheer that didn’t match his hag-gard expression. “I commend all the good work you’ve done.”

Well, Chloe thought,
most
of us did good work. God knows I haven’t.

“It’s been a difficult week for the museum.” Howard shoved

both hands into his pockets and began playing with their contents.