Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [17]
Once the kids had bounded from the stabbur, Chloe went inside and introduced herself. Delores Timberlake sat at a four-harness loom upon which a few inches of cream-colored wool cloth had been woven. She was perhaps a decade older than Chloe, with gray-streaked brown hair pinned neatly behind her head. She wore a russet-colored dress and a stained and patched apron.
“I’m glad to meet you!” the lead said, so fervently that Chloe felt a twinge of apprehension. “Your timing is good. That was our last school group of the day.”
“I caught the tail end of it, but decided I’d do better to wait outside,” Chloe confessed.
“The kids get squirrely this time of year,” Delores agreed cheerfully. She set a shuttle aside and emerged from behind the loom. “I need to check on Cindy, the interpreter in the house. She’s new this spring, and Ginny is still on lunch break.” Delores led Chloe back into the sunshine.
“Have you worked here for long?” Chloe asked.
“Since Old World opened.”
“In the Norwegian area all that time?”
“I’ve been the Norwegian lead for three years.” Delores stepped onto the Kvaale porch. “Before that I worked all over. Let me tell you, we have really been looking forward to having a collections curator on site! We have these reproduction request forms to let someone know what we need for daily programming. We keep turning them in to Byron.”
“I’m sure Byron’s got them all waiting for me,” Chloe said quickly, wanting to stem a potential side trip into several years’ worth of queries. “I’ll go through them as soon as I can. Actually, today I’m looking for a rosemaled ale bowl.”
“Those are the only rosemaled pieces we’ve got.” Inside the main room, Delores pointed to the shelf Chloe had already examined.
“I’m looking for an ale bowl with cow head decorations.”
Cindy, still valiantly hunched over the spinning wheel, looked up. “That’s funny,” she said. “You’re the second person looking for an ale bowl with cow heads.”
“What?”
“Some visitor asked me about ale bowls with cow heads. I think it was the first weekend we were open.” Cindy fussed with the tension knob on the spinning wheel. “Delores, are you sure you want me to keep going with this bobbin? Your yarn is so even, and mine is so lumpy. I feel like I’m just wasting wool.”
Delores laughed. “We’ve got plenty of wool.”
“What did they say?” Chloe asked.
“About the ale bowl? Just that!” Cindy shrugged. “Somebody asked me if we had one. I said we didn’t. I work Fossebrekke too, so I know.”
“A woman? A man?” Chloe’s voice sounded sharp, and she tried to tone it down. “Was the person young, old? Try to think back.”
Cindy sighed. “I really don’t remember. That was probably a thousand visitors ago.”
Chloe forced herself to swallow her frustration. “OK, thanks. If anyone else asks about a rosemaled ale bowl with cow heads, could you ask them to contact me? Or—maybe just see if they’ll give you their name and phone number.”
“Sure. Whatever.” Cindy began to work the treadle. The yarn whipped from her fingers, wrapping itself—again—among the coils already on the bobbin. “Delores!”
“I’ll let the other interpreters know,” Delores told Chloe, then turned back to the younger woman. “You just pushed too hard, that’s all. Find the end and I’ll show you …”
Chloe stepped outside. The lambs cavorted in the sunshine. Above her head, a red-tailed hawk circled on a thermal. She barely noticed. It seemed odd that someone had visited the Kvaale farm in search of a rosemaled ale bowl decorated with cow heads just two weeks before Mrs. Lundquist showed up, wanting to reclaim that very item. Too odd to be a coincidence. Mrs. Lundquist had said plainly that she had not visited the site.
So … what the hell was going on?
Roelke slowed his pickup truck and checked the fire number he’d written on the slip of paper. He was driving on a state-designated “Rustic Road.” Nothing more