Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [1]
Chloe had visited the outdoor museum during open-hours only once, the day before her interview almost a month earlier. As she’d wandered the sprawling grounds that day, her spirits had unexpectedly begun to rise. Over fifty historic structures had been restored among the Kettle Moraine State Forest’s woods, prairies, and kettle ponds. Interpreters in period clothing brought the farmsteads, homes, and service buildings to life by telling tales and churning butter and making shoes and weeding gardens, and giving visitors as many participatory and sensory experiences as possible. Old World Wisconsin, the state’s newest historic site, was spectacular.
Now, she was hoping to recapture some of that good vibe. It was a late Monday afternoon. The last group of shrieking school children had tramped from the site, quickly followed by the interpreters’ stampede toward the parking lot. Chloe’s first day on the job, a blur of paperwork, staff meetings, and behind-the-scenes orientation, was winding to a close. This was the best time of day to visit any historic site. And having after-hours access was one of the true perks of becoming an employee.
Chloe knew it would take a long time to become truly familiar with Old World Wisconsin. She planned to visit a building or two after-hours each day. Starting with … she consulted her map … St. Peter’s Church.
She mounted the steps and, feeling important, used her new master key on the lock. Once inside she paused, letting impressions of the place come. St. Peter’s Church offered nothing too striking. Good.
Next, she took a quick curatorial survey: plain wooden pews, a pump organ, painted stations of the cross hanging on the walls. Most of the window panes were thick and distorted—original, amazingly enough. The altar cloth needed cleaning, and she scrawled a note on her pad.
Outside, tires screeched on gravel. A moment later heavy steps thumped up the stairs and a stocky, white-haired, red-faced man burst into the sanctuary. “Who are you?” he demanded.
Chloe blinked. “Who are you?”
He scowled. “Look here, lady, the museum closed at four o’clock. You can’t be in here!”
Belatedly Chloe noticed the vague uniform: dark brown trousers, tan shirt, patch of some kind duly sewn on his sleeve. His official attire contrasted sharply with the non-uniform she’d mustered for the day: tan chinos and a royal blue cotton shirt, long blonde hair captured in a single braid and coiled behind her head.
OK, Chloe told herself, time to get one more working relationship off to a good start. “My apologies. I should have introduced myself. My name is Chloe. I’m the new curator of collections.”
The security guard rubbed his chin. “Marv left something in the log about a new curator starting … but that’s not the right name. It was something Scandihoovian. Inger? Ingrid! Yeah, that was it. Ingrid—”
“I go by Chloe. But I am the new curator.”
“Well …” He still looked suspicious. “You can’t come out on the site after hours without letting us know.”
Chloe mustered her brightest smile. “I’m really glad to know that site security is so tight. But I’ll need after-hours access on a regular basis. Can we consider some other solution, um … what did you say your name was?”
The guard hesitated. “Hank,” he said finally. “Well, just be sure to check the alarm before you go barging into buildings. The Village buildings have been switched over to the new security system. Did Marv give you the access codes?”
Had Marv given her access codes? She couldn’t remember. She couldn’t even picture Marv. The day had been full of too many names and too much information. “I’m not sure, to be honest. I’ll have to look through my notes.”