Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [16]
Then one of the open-sided trams used to haul visitors around the huge site roared from the trees. With a screech of brakes the tram driver pulled into the tram stop and used a microphone to give directions to the visitors spilling from the vehicle. Half of the tourists headed toward the rest area, and most of the others trooped toward the school. Chloe hurried down the long driveway toward the Kvaale farm.
The hewn-timber farmhouse was small, furnished with both Norwegian artifacts—rosemaled pieces, several tapestries, one chip-carved box—and obviously American-made furniture. The curator who’d furnished the building had clearly intended to convey a well-settled Norwegian family, blending old world and new. Chloe paused in the doorway, allowing impressions of the layers of life in the old building to present themselves. Nothing too strong here in Kvaale, just the common jumble … good. She stepped inside.
In the sitting room, a young woman sat behind a spinning wheel. She wore a faded blue dress, a stained apron, and a brown headscarf tied European-style over her hair. She was frowning at the spool, picking at the strands of newly spun yarn. Chloe guessed she was learning to spin wool, had treadled too hard, and had lost the end of her yarn when it whipped around the spool.
“Welcome to the Kvaale farm,” the interpreter said, still poking at her yarn.
Chloe quickly introduced herself. “Don’t mind me. I’m just getting oriented.” She homed in on a high shelf near the kitchen door, where several rosemaled pieces were displayed at a safe distance from children’s grasping hands. One lovely tankard was painted orange with blue, green, yellow, and black floral designs. One carved but unpainted ale bowl featured two squarish heads—horses, or possibly dragons, but definitely not cows. No painted bowl with cow heads.
“Do you want to go talk to Delores?” the interpreter asked.
“Um …” Chloe spread her hands. “Who is Delores?”
“Delores is the Norwegian area lead. Lead interpreter. She’s with a group in the stabbur. Out back.”
Outside, Chloe wandered on toward the back of the farmyard … and stopped, rock-like, when two tiny Cotswold lambs cavorted across the pasture toward the fence to meet her. Living and working with Markus, whose great driving passion had been the preservation of historic livestock breeds, ensured that Chloe recognized many of those breeds herself.
She quickly turned away from the lambs. Markus had nothing to do with her life, now. It was time—long past time—to move on.
The stabbur, a small two-story building of weathered-gray logs, was so crammed with school children that Chloe got no further than the steps outside. “… So, can anyone guess why the Norwegians built their stabburs up on posts?” an unseen interpreter was asking—Delores, no doubt.
No one could.
“Do you remember what I said the farmers used this building for?” Delores asked. Finally a boy retrieved the answer: food or grain storage. “Exactly!” Delores said. “Do you think the farmer wanted to store his grain in a place where mice and other critters could get at it easily?”
“Come on, come on, come on!” Chloe muttered. She walked past the stabbur to explore a two-bay barn nearby. Two squealing hogs raced across their pen behind the barn. Chloe stopped at the back of the barn’s breezeway, contemplating them.
This time she forced herself to stand still. She had to get used to being around livestock—even these damn Ossabaw hogs, with their familiar rough coats and long snouts. They were likely half-feral. Chloe took care to stand well back from the fence as they rubbed against it, grunting. And when she felt ready she walked back to the stabbur, congratulating herself on her composure.
Delores