Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [10]
The archaic rotary telephone jangled. Chloe snatched the receiver. “Hello? Um, Collections area. This is Chloe.”
“Chloe? It’s Byron.”
Byron … Shit. “Right. You’re probably waiting for me.”
“You said you’d meet me here by eight-fifteen so I could take you to the interpreters’ morning briefing.” The accusation in his tone slid through the wire.
“Right. I’m sorry. I …” She glanced at the police officer. “I got detained. I’ll be right over.” She glanced at Officer McKenna again. “Well, in a couple of minutes—”
“I have to leave right now. We’ve got seven hundred school kids coming today. You can meet the interpreters tomorrow.”
“That’ll be fine,” Chloe tried, but she was—once again—speaking to a dial tone. She replaced the earpiece and looked back at the officer. “Is there anything else you need?”
“May I see the accession form you mentioned?”
“Sure.” The form still lay on the counter where she’d left it the evening before. She handed it to him.
He squinted at the blurry printing, then handed it back. “That address is the same one we have on file from her driver’s license. The sheriff’s department hasn’t identified any family members yet.”
“All she mentioned to me was a son. She said he died years ago.”
“One of her neighbors told the sheriff that he didn’t think Mrs. Lundquist had any relatives.”
Chloe’s shoulders slumped. The whole thing was horribly sad. Everything was so sad …
Officer McKenna cleared his throat. Chloe snapped back to the morning, and for a moment they stared at each other. He was frowning slightly. Chloe felt stupid. “Is that all? I’ve got to get to work.”
He nodded. “That’s all I need. But if a relative should happen to contact you about that artifact, please give me a call. Here’s my card.”
She took the card. Village of Eagle Police Department, Roelke McKenna, Police Officer. “Rell-kee?” she asked, checking the pronunciation. “Is that German?”
“Roelke was my mother’s maiden name.”
“Birth name.”
He frowned again. “I beg your pardon?”
She gave herself a mental shake; this was not the time for a feminist lecture. “I’ll call you if I hear from anyone about the ale bowl.”
“Thank you.” He nodded.
Chloe watched him descend the steps, then suddenly bolted after him. “Wait! I was wondering—do you know anything about a funeral?”
He paused, hand on his car door. “No.”
“Well, please let me know if you hear anything.”
“OK.” He nodded again, got into his car, and drove away.
After he was gone, Chloe picked up the old accession form again. All she needed to do was file the form away—when she figured out the filing system—and forget the whole episode.
Still, she stood for a long moment, staring at the mimeographed page. Like many decades-old records she’d seen at various museums and historical sites, this one was frustratingly short on details. Hand-painted Norwegian ale bowl with cow heads, nineteenth century. SHSW 1962.37.3. Hand-painted, Norwegian, nineteenth century—that meant rosemaled. Rosemaling—or rose painting, as it was sometimes called—was a highly decorative style of embellishing that had become synonymous with Norwegian folk culture. The cow head reference seemed odd … but then, she was hardly an expert.
Shouts from two of the teenage boys on the summer maintenance crew drifted through the open door. A truck door slammed. An engine roared to life. A fly buzzed at one of the dirty windows.
Finally Chloe slipped the accession sheet under the metal edge of her clipboard. She needed to find the ale bowl, as she had promised. There were only two places it could be: on display in one of the restored Norwegian farms, or in storage. If the bowl wasn’t already on display, she’d put it out for visitors to enjoy. It will be a silent memorial for Mrs. Lundquist, Chloe thought, and