Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [15]
The admission of need was clearly not an easy one for Nika to make. “You’re right,” Chloe said. “Pub credits do count.”
“As you familiarize yourself with the collection, could you let me know if you happen to find any artifacts with a particularly strong ethnic story, or a story to tell about a woman, or any pieces documented to African-Americans? There might be an article in it.”
Chloe thought of Mrs. Lundquist’s ale bowl—it’s story would never be known, now—then forced herself back to the moment. “Sure, although I doubt we’ll find many artifacts from early African-Americans. Anything like that is probably held in Madison. The history presented at Old World is pretty much white bread European.”
“It is now. That needs changing.”
Chloe couldn’t hold back a tiny smile. “Fair enough. If I find any tidbits, I’ll pass them along.”
“Thanks.” Nika stood and gathered up her things. “I’ll head over to the church now and get started.”
When she was alone again, Chloe sat for a moment, collecting her thoughts, appreciating the stillness and the way the sunlight filtered through the pine trees. Nika was too driven for Chloe’s tastes, but at least she was a self-starter.
So, what now? Chloe’s previous museum jobs had all involved supervising interpreters and meeting tour groups and planning special events and the myriad of on-site tasks that kept each day humming. She wasn’t used to the change of pace. She really should start on that proposal for the new storage building.
“Later,” Chloe promised herself. She got into her car and drove back on County S. Her fingers tightened involuntarily on the steering wheel as she passed the crash site. Would she ever pass this spot without seeing the dead woman in her mind? Without feeling those fragile fingers patting her hand? Probably not.
After turning onto Highway 67, she drove slowly until she saw a large sign: “Norwegian Area—School Bus parking only.” Plus staff, surely? Chloe pulled in the open gate and parked her car as unobtrusively as possible among the trees.
Although most Wisconsin children in 1982 could celebrate more than one racial or ethnic branches on their family tree, there had been a time when “old world Wisconsin” was a mostly-apt description. Now, Old World Wisconsin celebrated a heritage that was quickly disappearing. And a big part of that heritage had come from the women and men who had once traded Norway’s fjords and soaring mountains for the upper Midwest’s unknown prairies and pineries.
Old World Wisconsin’s Norwegian area was the farthest from the site’s visitor center. A public restroom and picnic area had been placed discreetly in the trees near the highway. The historic structures were a five-minute walk away. Holding her clipboard—the universal emblem of officialdom—Chloe headed down the gravel lane toward the old buildings.
When Chloe reached a junction in the road, she checked her site map. From this spot she could see the Raspberry School, brought from the northern tip of the state; the 1845 Fossebrekke farm, a tiny log cabin nestled between trees and corn patch and pig pen; and the more substantial Kvaale farm, restored to its 1865 appearance. Two interpreters in period clothing walked down the Kvaale lane, baskets over their arms. A farmer attacked weeds in the Fossebrekke corn patch with a hoe. The air smelled faintly of wood smoke. The sound of the schoolteacher questioning a class drifted through the open windows of the school. A sandhill crane’s faint rattling call floated earthwards.
For a moment Chloe forgot Markus and Switzerland. She forgot the depression that had almost consumed her during the long, bleak North Dakota winter. She forgot that she’d pissed off a security guard and the curator of interpretation.