Heritage of Darkness (17 page)

“I see.” Chloe turned that over in her mind. It had never

occurred to her to wonder about the timing of Petra’s crowning

achievement. And … how long had Violet been entering her work

in the Exhibition? Just how badly did
she
want a Medal?

Then Chloe shook her head, disgusted with herself. If she

wasn’t careful, she’d end up standing in corners with folded arms

and narrowed eyes and jiggling knee, suspicious of
everyone
.

“Well,” she said, remembering the whimsical
nisser
she’d seen,

“it was nice of Emil to help Adelle get started in a new direction.”

“Emil’s kind of shy unless he’s got a carving knife in his hand.”

Violet reached for another brush. “I guess that’s what happens

when you grow up with just a dad and older brother.” She smiled.

“He’s a nice guy, though. Did you see that Noah’s Ark in the tower room? One Christmas when I was a kid, and my dad was away,

Emil carved it for me. He’s made gifts for other kids too, and for people in nursing homes.”

“I know Roelke’s enjoying his class,” Chloe said absently. She

wasn’t quite ready to move on from Petra. “And now that they’ve

opened the Exhibition to carvers, Emil could start competing. If

he even wants to. I never realized how frenzied the whole medal

thing can get.”

“It’s not like that for everyone,” Violet said. “Most of the people going for medals keep their perspective. But for a few …” She

shrugged. “It can get intense. Your mom gets the
Rosemaling News-letter
, right? A while back the editor invited subscribers to submit 137

original designs for the masthead, and a couple of people got com-

pletely crazed about it. Did your mom go for it?”

“I don’t know,” Chloe admitted. “She’s a finalist in the Christ-

mas card design contest, though.”

“I guarantee that no matter how spectacular all of the final

card designs, someone is bound to get her nose out of joint if she doesn’t win.”

“So much for peace on earth, good will to all rosemalers.”

Chloe hesitated, watching Violet return paint tubes to a plastic

tub. “Violet? Tell me if I’m out of line here, but I can’t help wondering how you feel about competing.” Her cheeks grew warm,

and she tried to camouflage her discomfort by pulling off her

sweater. A pox on whoever killed Petra Lekstrom, she thought, and

a pox on chief what’s-his-name for dragging Roelke—and there-

fore me—into the investigation.

Violet snapped off the lamp at her workstation. “Everyone

thinks I should be outraged that Petra won a Gold Medal last sum-

mer and I didn’t. But you know what? I’m fine with it. Petra

painted an antique trunk with traditional Telemark designs and a

traditional Telemark palette. Judges tend to like that approach. I went with Trøndelag style. It’s not as well known, but sometimes I like to go graphic instead of organic, don’t you?”

Chloe had absolutely no idea what Violet was talking about. “I

sure do.”

“And I pushed the boundaries with my colors. The painters I

admire most blend tradition with fresh ideas. That’s what I tried to do on my butter churn. I knew it was a gamble.”

“Oh,” Chloe said. She felt slimy for bringing it up.

138

“Besides,” Violet added, “I did get a red ribbon. That’s pretty

darn good. I really resent the people who want me to feel bad

about that.”

“You have no reason to feel bad,” Chloe agreed. She felt even

slimier.

Violet snapped the lid on her storage tub. “I’m only one point

away from a medal. Maybe I’ll get it one day. Maybe I won’t. So be it.”

O-kay, Chloe thought. Time to change the subject. “May I ask

you about something else? I had a long talk with Howard this

morning, and he referred to a ‘Luther cabal.’” Chloe flicked her

fingers to indicate quote marks. “Since you work at the college—”

“Oh, please,” Violet scoffed. “Howard’s a dear man, and God

knows he has plenty to worry about, but he’s jumping at shadows

on that one. Someone at some meeting lamented the transfer of

such an incredible collection, but Howard is the only one who

took it seriously. How could Luther possibly take on management

of the museum? What good would splitting the collection do? It’s

ridiculous.”

What’s ridiculous, Chloe thought, is that I’m trying to squeeze

information from this woman. “I thought it sounded absurd too,”

she confessed. “Did you hear about it from Howard? Or did the

rumor reach the music department?”

“I don’t work in the music department anymore. Didn’t you

know? I transferred to Scandinavian studies.”

“Oh! No, I didn’t know that.” Chloe wasn’t sure why that felt so

surprising, but it did.

“The secretary gig in the music department was supposed to

be temporary. I was saving money for grad school, but then Dad

139

died. Mom went through a bad spell, so I moved back into the

house. I got more serious about painting, and decided I wasn’t

ready to go for my masters. Luther’s music program is superb, but

I decided that if I’m going to spend my days taking notes and typ-

ing letters, I’d rather work in a department that interests me.”

“I imagine so,” Chloe said. “Well, thanks for setting me straight

on the rumors. I know Vesterheim is in debt, so it’s understandable that Howard’s feeling pressured.”

“The money will be raised,” Violet said firmly. “But I know that

a few people have given him a hard time about the big renovation.

There have been some grumbles because Decorah residents have

been asked to raise ten percent of the deficit.”

Chloe chewed that tidbit over. “That’s a lot of money.”

“Not when you consider that Vesterheim annually contributes

almost six times that amount to the local economy! It’s only been

a decade since Vesterheim renovated the main museum building,

and some people think that Howard reached too high with this

latest project. But now there’s space for artifact conservation, and for the folk-art program. Both of those are
essential
to the museum’s mission. He couldn’t let precious artifacts deteriorate, could he? Or let master artists pass away without sharing their knowledge with students?”

“No,” Chloe agreed. She couldn’t fault or dispute a single thing

Violet had said. And yet … something about Violet’s demeanor

was making her uneasy.

The sound of a slammed door echoed to the back of the house.

“We’re ho-ome,” Sigrid called in a high sing-song. She and Mom

walked into the studio. “One of my students gave us a lift.”

140

“Since it’s going on eleven, I’m glad to hear that,” Violet

exclaimed. She greeted her mother with a kiss on the cheek. Chloe

stayed where she was.

“Oh, you know how painters get when they have studio time,”

Sigrid said.

“I thought you might stop by, Chloe,” Mom said. “Since you’re

so behind.”

Chloe felt her blood temperature rise by a whole lot of degrees.

“I had to conduct an interview—”

“After the interview, I meant.”

“—with Adelle and Tom Rimestad,” Chloe finished, and her

voice level rose too. “I hardly wanted to rush off.”

Mom had the grace to look nonplussed. “Oh,” she said, with an

honest catch in her voice. “How is Adelle?”

Violet, still standing between the two older women, reached

out and squeezed Mom’s hand.

Chloe bit her tongue on purpose while she struggled to set

aside the stab of—of what, resentment? Envy?—prompted by Vio-

let’s gesture. After regaining control she said, “Adelle’s spirits seem good. She’s looking forward to seeing you.”

“I’ll visit her tomorrow,” Mom said. “Good-night, all.” She

turned and left the room.

“I’m heading up too,” Violet said.

Chloe closed her eyes. Her tongue hurt. Her heart hurt. And

this week was only half over. Suggesting this excursion was the

dumbest thing she’d ever done—which was, she reflected irritably,

actually saying quite a lot. Right now all she wanted to do was go home. Roelke could come along, but Mom could jolly well stay in

Decorah and live with Sigrid and Violet.

141

“Sweetie.”

Chloe’s eyes flew open. She hadn’t realized Sigrid was still in

the room.

“Marit knows you told Howard that she got locked in the vault

this morning.” Sigrid cocked her head. “You did tell him, right?”

“He needed to know,” Chloe said defensively. “Mom could have

gotten into serious trouble in there, Aunt Sigrid!”

“I know,” Sigrid said. The joy she’d carried home from the

classroom was gone.

“Aunt Sigrid, I’m sorry this friction between Mom and me is

adding extra stress to a difficult week.” Chloe was troubled by the strain evident on Sigrid’s face. “Are you doing OK? You look

exhausted.”

“Petra’s attack was such a shock.” Sigrid stared blindly at the

carpet. “And this is always a difficult month for me. My husband

died in December, very close to Violet’s birthday.”

“I’m sorry,” Chloe said. “It’s hard to have sad anniversaries

close to holidays.”

Sigrid blinked and straightened her shoulders. “It was years

ago, now. I’m fine.” She stepped close and squeezed Chloe’s shoul-

der. “Listen, sweetie, you did the right thing to talk to Howard. But try to understand, your mother was embarrassed. There’s nothing

she hates more than that. She’s not truly angry at you.”

Yeah, she is, Chloe thought. But there was no point in debating.

Instead, she took advantage of the rare quiet moment alone with

her mother’s friend. “Aunt Sigrid? I enjoyed meeting Adelle Rime-

stad tonight. She’s such a talented carver that it’s hard to believe she didn’t choose to study woodwork first. Do you know why she

stopped rosemaling? Her and Lavinia? From the stories I’ve heard,

142

you Sixty-Sevens were a pretty tight bunch.” All except Petra Lek-

strom, of course.

“Oh, Chloe. I don’t want to think about that nastiness. It was

over and done a decade ago, and Adelle found her true calling.”

Sigrid look so troubled, so tired, so—so
fragile
, that Chloe couldn’t bring herself to ask anything more.

143

fifteen

Roelke was waiting on the sidewalk at 6 AM Wednesday morn-

ing when the café proprietress flipped the
Closed
sign and unlocked the front door. This time he opted for a booth in the back

corner. He ordered oatmeal from the same efficient waitress and

turned his big mug over:
Fill ’er up, and it keep comin’
. She poured steaming coffee with practiced speed, tipping the pot back at just the right moment, before disappearing again.

The café smelled of spices and floury things. This is good,

Roelke thought. He loved early mornings. He especially liked beat-

ing the sun up during these longest, darkest days of winter, know-

ing he wouldn’t miss a moment of light. He wished Chloe could

appreciate these pre-dawn moments too.

Then he wished he hadn’t wished that. The thought evoked

Emil’s summation from the night before:
You got trouble there
.

Yeah, well, I’m not taking relationship advice from a lifelong

bachelor, Roelke thought, as the waitress returned with his oat-

144

meal. He added just a bit of brown sugar, pulled a stack of index

cards from his pocket, and settled down to think.

His bowl was empty and his cards arranged on the table by the

time he became aware of someone standing by the table: Chloe.

“Oh—hey!” he exclaimed, chagrined that he hadn’t noticed her

coming in. He tried to rise, banged both knees on the table, sat

back down abruptly. Smooth move, McKenna, he thought. Very

smooth.

“For a minute I thought I’d actually gotten here first.” She slid

into the booth across the table from him. “You’re almost invisible.”

“I wanted privacy.” He gestured to the cards he’d been arrang-

ing, considering, rearranging. Some contained people’s names.

Some contained the few facts he knew about Petra Lekstrom.

Some contained possible motives for her attack.

Chloe surveyed the cards with resignation. “You’re working on

the murder.”

“Yeah. I was noodling on this last night, but I’d really like your take on things.”

The waitress appeared and filled Chloe’s mug. “What’ll it be?”

Chloe held up one hand in Roelke’s direction, palm out to

forestall any nutritional observations. “I’d like a piece of almond pastry. From the middle of the pan, if you don’t mind, not one of

the corners. And some lingonberry jam. Thanks.”

Roelke watched Chloe stir cream into her coffee. She picked up

her mug, inhaled deeply, sipped, closed her eyes in obvious hom-

age to the caffeine gods. Something pulsed in his chest as it often did when she was around, something good and achy at the same

time.

145

Oblivious, she remained in her happy place through several

more appreciative sips. Finally she put the mug down and looked

at him. “OK. Tell me what you’ve got.”

Right. Back to business. “Let’s start with the possible suspects

I’ve—”

“I hate this, you know.”

“I know.” He picked up his People stack and put the top card

down by her napkin.

“Howard Hoff.” Chloe sighed. “Well, he did have good reason

to be angry at Petra. Whether they had a fling or a flirtation, it seems clear that she went after him.”