Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [13]
Chloe blinked. Had she ever been so focused? She doubted it. She certainly couldn’t remember it.
“I plan to get my Ph.D. in women’s studies,” Nika added coolly. “And I may do some extra course work in museum administration.”
Chloe wondered if she would find herself working for Nika one day. There seemed to be a challenge in the younger woman’s eyes: You better prove yourself, because I’m right on your tail.
The arrival of their lunch eased the moment. Chloe took a bite of her sandwich—American cheese. Tolerable at best.
“How about you?” Nika asked. “Mr. Petty hadn’t even done interviews for your position yet when he hired me.”
“I have a Bachelor of Science from the School of Forestry at West Virginia University. My particular interest is the historical interaction between people and their environment.”
“How … intriguing.”
“I did seasonal work as an interpreter for a couple of years, then did graduate work at Cooperstown,” Chloe added.
“Oh!” This met with more approval. The two-year New York program, the oldest in the country, led to an MA in History Museum Studies. “And somebody told me you worked in Europe?”
Chloe should have been expecting the question. She wasn’t. “I, um … yes. I worked in the education department at Freilichtmuseum Ballenberg for five years. That’s in Switzerland.”
“Oh, I know! What was it like?”
“It’s similar to Old World,” Chloe said, hoping the conversation wouldn’t digress into a long Q&A about Switzerland. “They’ve got about a hundred historic buildings, all dismantled, moved to the site, and restored. The biggest difference is that there, buildings are grouped together based on the area of origin, instead of by ethnic group like we’ve got.”
“Five years at an open-air museum in Europe.” Nika looked wistful. “I’d kill for a chance like that.”
It damn near killed me, Chloe thought, but she pasted on her artificial smile. “I learned a lot. Then I moved back to the States. Took a curator of interpretation position at a small site in North Dakota last September.”
“Why’d you come here? I mean, most people don’t switch from education to collections mid-career.” Nika nibbled a French fry.
Chloe shrugged. “I suppose not. But I’ve had basic training in collections care. When I interviewed here, Ralph probably thought my experience at Ballenberg was a big advantage. And I’m a Wisconsin native.” Chloe hitched her chair closer to the table as three men in paint-stained coveralls squeezed past. “How about you?”
“Oh, me too.” Nika took a bite of her cheeseburger and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “Wisconsin born and bred.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“Milwaukee.”
“Where in Milwaukee?”
Nika picked up another French fry. “Near the lake.”
Well, Chloe thought, that narrows it right down. The entire city of Milwaukee, it could be argued, squatted near Lake Michigan.
“Where are you from?” Nika asked, before Chloe could ask for more details.
“Stoughton.”
“Settled by Norwegians, right? Between my coursework at Marquette and the prep I did for this internship, I have a pretty good handle on Wisconsin’s nineteenth-century settlement patterns.”
“Yep. I’m fourth generation, but pure Norwegian.” At least in the States, Chloe thought. Her European friends were baffled by American tourists’ proud insistence on referring to themselves as Norwegian or German or French.
“So this job brought you home.”
“I suppose, although that’s not why I applied for the job.” Chloe chewed the last bit of her sandwich. The conversation felt strained, with unspoken undercurrents running beneath.
She tried for a brighter tone. “I was ready for a change. Supervising interpreters is exhausting. Classic middle-management, getting complaints from two directions. I guess I thought objects would be easier to handle.” She made a derisive noise. “Little did I know …”
Nika stiffened, almost imperceptively alert. “What?”
The waitress slapped a check on the table.