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Authors: Kathleen Ernst

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ing?”

“About what I expected. I did not succeed in satisfying my

mother.”

“Sorry.” Roelke kissed her forehead. “What do you want to do

about lunch? I was hoping we’d have time to visit the museum’s

carving exhibit.”

“I packed lunch for us,” Chloe told him. “That’ll be quick, and

then we can go.”

They ate cheese and tomato sandwiches, chatting with the

other students, before excusing themselves and heading for the

formal museum. “This is quite the building,” Roelke remarked.

Chloe looked up at the brick building trimmed with ornate

window arches and carved balconies, recently and lovingly

restored in an effort that had strained Vesterheim’s budget. “It

began as a luxury hotel. And the Education Center once housed a

foundry shop where plows and wagon parts were made. It’s great

that Vesterheim repurposed historic structures. And you haven’t

even seen the Open Air Division yet.”

Inside the museum, volunteers were adding more holiday dec-

orations to the lobby. Life goes on, Chloe thought. Wrapping the

entire museum in real or metaphorical black crepe wouldn’t

accomplish anything.

Roelke eyed a plywood figure. “What’s with all the gnomes?”

“
Nisser.
They’re mischievous barn elves,” Chloe explained.

“They always make an appearance at Christmastime.”

She carefully avoided the Norwegian House exhibit by taking a

back stairwell. When they reached the permanent exhibit titled

Wood And Its Decoration,
Roelke’s jaw actually dropped.

Chloe smiled. The collection of folk art never failed to astonish

her, either. The artifacts ranged from tiny bowls to massive furniture. She trailed behind as Roelke admired the antiques.

He pointed to a shelf carved with flowing lines. “Acanthus style.

Vines and stuff. And—Holy
toboggans
.” He’d spotted the case of artifacts decorated with chip carving. “Look at that workmanship.”

The display included several mangles—those betrothal gifts

Mom had described with such glee. Chloe touched his arm. “It’s

gorgeous. We need to keep an eye on the time, though.”

As they retraced their steps, he paused in front of a flat piece of wood—roughly thirty-five inches by four inches, and carved with

a variety of symbols. “What is that?”

“It’s a
primstav
—a calendar stick.” Chloe regarded the piece with professional appreciation and personal distaste. “Centuries

ago, people used them to keep track of time.”

“So … those tiny notches are for days?”

“Right. Each stick has a winter side and a summer side.” She

indicated a carved mitten. “This marked the beginning of winter.

The symbols represent seasonal activities. Some of the traditions

came from pagan times, like …” Her voice trailed away. The first

story that popped to mind had to do with women who wished to

marry running around a cuckoo tree three times. Good God, she

thought. Shades of my mother’s encyclopedic knowledge of mar-

riage folklore.

Roelke squinted at the stick. “Do you know what all these sym-

bols stand for?”

“Not off the top of my head. I think there’s a flail for threshing grain in there somewhere. And … See that bonfire? That probably

stands for the winter solstice. Right next to it is a drinking horn.

Merry Christmas, have some beer.”

“Well, hunh,” Roelke said.

“But lots of those symbols represent saints’ days. There was a

time when the church punished people if they didn’t honor the

saints. These
primstavs
helped peasants keep track.” Chloe frowned at the calendar stick. “When I was about eight, I sat through a slide show at my dad’s Sons of Norway lodge where the speaker

described all the martyrs’ deaths in great, gory detail. I was trau-matized.”

Roelke put an arm around her shoulders. “No fun.”

Chloe let her head rest against him for a moment. Maybe they

could play hooky that afternoon …

“Chloe?” Roelke asked. “I need you to do me a favor.”

That didn’t sound good. Her sense of refuge disappeared.

“What is it?” she asked, way too savvy to agree up front.

He told her about the conversation he’d had with Lavinia that

morning. “So there’s some kind of old conflict between her and

Petra, and …”

“And you want me to find out what happened.”

“Right. I mean,
I
could question your mom—”

Chloe had seen Roelke in full cop mode. It was not fun to be

on the receiving end. Right now Mom really liked Roelke, and

Chloe didn’t want anything to jeopardize that. She sighed, deeply

and dramatically. “No, I’ll talk to her.”

“Thanks.”

The reference to Mom reminded her of something else. “You

go on ahead. I should stop by Howard’s office and pick up the

folklore project notes.”

Roelke made a big show of glancing at his watch.

“It won’t hurt if I’m a
little
late for the afternoon session,”

Chloe said. “Besides, since my mother volunteered me for this lit-

tle gig, she can hardly complain.” She hoped.

Roelke started to frown. Then his expression changed in a way

Chloe couldn’t quite identify. “It’s just a file or two, right?” he said.

“I’ll get them for you.”

Chloe’s eyes narrowed. She couldn’t tell if he was intervening

for personal or professional reasons. Did the cop want a moment

along with Howard Hoff, or did her companion want to facilitate

peace between her and mom?

She decided that the question was not worth deep analysis. “Be

my guest,” she said. “I’ll meet you after the afternoon session.”



It didn’t take long for Roelke to find Hoff ’s office. The door

stood half-open, and the director’s voice drifted into the hall.

“… no, I don’t think you should come.” Pause. “It’s a sweet offer, Judy, but I’m really fine.”

The man was obviously in the middle of a personal call. Roelke

stepped away and leaned against the wall.

Hoff raised his voice. “No, I insist. Judy, I—no, honey, just lis-

ten for a moment. You’re the best daughter in the world, but you’ve got a fiancé in California. There’s no good reason for you to spend money on an airplane ticket.”

Now, that was a surprise. Roelke would have figured Hoff that

would leap at the offer of moral support from his daughter.

“I’m sure the police will find whoever did this terrible thing to

Petra,” Hoff was saying. “… Yes, I promise. I’ll call you soon.”

Roelke gave the director a moment before stepping to the door.

Hoff stood holding a photograph in a silver frame. Roelke raised

his hand to knock, but something about the director’s profile

made him pause. Howard stared at the photograph with an

expression of grief and loneliness … and something else too.

This errand was already proving interesting.

Roelke stepped backward and coughed discreetly before pre-

senting himself. Hoff swiveled, blinking in surprise. “Excuse me,”

Roelke said. “I told Chloe I’d pick up some files. Something about that folklore project?”

“Oh! Yes, of course.” Hoff glanced down and seemed surprised

that he was still holding the photograph. He put it back on a cre-

denza, positioning it just so. Roelke could now see a black-and-

white image of a woman, head and shoulders held in an awkward

studio pose. She had a heart-shaped face, an elaborate upswept

hair-do, and a genuine smile. The only other thing on the gleam-

ing expanse of polished wood was a rosemaled bowl, which she’d

probably painted.

Hoff ’s desk was covered with files, binders, sloppy stacks of

phone message slips. The director rummaged through a teetering

stack of folders. When he reached the bottom without success he

began excavating in a drawer. “Oh,” he murmured, looking per-

plexed, “
there’s
the accreditation file.” He put it on top of the manila Matterhorn and dug further. Finally he extricated several

fat files.

“Here you go.” He held them out to Roelke. “And …” After

another few minutes’ search Hoff unearthed a small recorder and

some blank tapes. “She’ll need these, too. I’m so glad Chloe was

willing to pick up the final interviews.”

“She’s delighted with the opportunity,” Roelke assured him.

Then he left the director to his work and his memories.

I need to learn more about Director Howard Hoff, Roelke

thought as he hurried away. He’d studied a lot of faces, gotten

pretty good at reading people. And he was pretty sure that the

emotion clouding Hoff ’s grief was guilt.



“Be sure to clean your brushes thoroughly before leaving,” Mom

reminded her students.

Chloe took that as permission to quit for the day. Thank the

good Lord, she thought fervently.

The afternoon had been even more stressful than the morning.

A clerk in Vesterheim’s folk-art supplies shop had helped the

beginning students trade the platters Petra had listed on her sup-

ply sheet for oval trays that fit one of Mom’s designs. Chloe had

sanded her tray and slapped on a base coat of dark acrylic. She

also managed to transfer Mom’s pattern to the tray without calam-

ity.

But all too soon, Mom moved on to actual rosemaling. “Since

Telemark motifs are asymmetrical,” she explained, “this style is

ideal for beginners.” She walked her students through the first few steps, calling them forward so she could demonstrate each bit of

the pattern before sending them back to try it themselves. Chloe

never finished one assigned motif before Mom moved on to the

next, and she was ending the day behind.

Now she shot a surreptitious glance at Gwen’s work. Her table-

mate’s work was even further along than Chloe had expected. That

means I’m even more behind than I realized, Chloe thought.

Gwen sealed her palette into a spiffy plastic container that

looked much more professional than Chloe’s Saran-wrap sand-

wich. “Want some help cleaning up?” she asked Chloe.

“Thanks, I’d love some help,” Chloe replied gratefully. “I’m the

slowest person in the room.”

Gwen reached for one of Chloe’s brushes and began pulling

the bristles through a scrap of newsprint to remove pigment.

“You’ll get the hang of it.”

“I sure hope so.” Chloe went to work on another brush. “Gwen,

please tell me that you’re not really a beginner.”

Gwen laughed. “No, I’ve been painting for years.”

“Then … why this class?”

“I’ve taken beginner classes many times. I—”

The lights went off. In the sudden silence, the sound of adoles-

cent laughter and pounding footsteps.

“I think some
nisser
are playing pranks,” Mom said. She made her way to the wall and flicked the switches again. “Some of the

volunteers preparing the museum for Christmas obviously

brought their children and grandchildren along.”

“My sister and I used to do the same thing,” Chloe admitted to

Gwen. “It seemed so hilarious when I was eight.”

Gwen chuckled. “Perhaps I should think twice about leaving

my paints here overnight. I don’t want some disgruntled elf to mix my colors.” She reached for a baby food jar of muddy-looking turpentine. “As I was saying, I keep taking classes because I always

learn something new. And there aren’t any other painters where I

live.”

Chloe had grown up in Stoughton, Wisconsin, where it was

impossible to walk down the street without seeing rosemaled

embellishments on shutters, business signs, park benches. “Well,

your work is beautiful,” she said, nodding toward Gwen’s tray. “Do you compete in the annual Exhibition?”

“No
way
.” Gwen lowered her voice. “I give people like your mom a whole lot of credit. I do this for fun, and that whole competition aspect …” She shook her head. “I think the point of entering is to inspire other artists, and to celebrate one’s

accomplishment. That’s probably the case for most people, I guess, but I’ve heard some pretty nasty remarks over the years.” She set

the first brush aside and reached for another. “Sour grapes from

people who didn’t win a ribbon, most likely.”

Chloe remembered the complaint she and Roelke had over-

heard the evening before about last summer’s exhibition. “I sup-

pose judging is somewhat subjective, too.”

“To a point,” Gwen conceded. “The process has to be transpar-

ent. The judges provide critiques, and the good ones are clear and constructive. But every once in a while …”

Chloe swished her brush in some paint thinner, wiped it on

her palm, and frowned at the traces of red paint left behind. “Like last year, maybe? I heard someone complaining about—about the

Gold Medal.” At the last moment she backed away from saying

Petra’s name aloud.