Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [2]
Hank showed her the security touchpad hidden behind a door, and gave her an access code. “That’ll work for every building in the Village,” he told her. “There are different codes for the German and Finn-Dane areas. The Norwegian buildings are still on the old microphone system, so you’ll have to call. You’ll be outta here within the hour?”
“Less,” she promised. “I’ve got a five o’clock meeting in the restoration area. I’ll probably just visit one more building here before heading out for the night.”
Hank made a big show of seeing her out of the church. Lovely, Chloe thought, as she watched him get back into his car and drive slowly away. Day One, and she’d already annoyed a security guard.
“Just keep trying,” she ordered herself softly. She had a new position—and a permanent one, which was hard to come by in the mostly seasonal world of outdoor museums, complete with benefits and a salary that actually covered rent with enough left over for a bit of food each week. “I will,” she announced, “stay positive.”
That resolve fled as soon as she oriented herself on the visitor guide and map. The next building was a small cobblestone cottage across the road from the church. She’d skipped the Tobler House on her earlier visit, but the new curator of collections couldn’t ignore one of the exhibits just because its first occupant had happened to come from Switzerland.
Chloe knew that her Swiss connection had helped land the job. “I see you spent five years at Ballenberg,” Ralph Petty, the site’s director, had said during her interview. He’d tilted his head to peer at Chloe over the half-glasses that perched on his nose. “The Europeans have so many excellent outdoor museums. Did you enjoy living in Switzerland?”
“Oh, yes,” Chloe assured him blithely, as her fingernails dug angry red trenches into her palms. “I adored Switzerland.”
“We’re currently restoring the home of a Swiss immigrant in the Crossroads Village,” Petty said. “Aldrick Tobler emigrated from Switzerland to Green County, Wisconsin, in 1872. We were able to get our hands on the small structure that served as both his carpentry shop and living quarters.”
“Will—will I be expected to furnish the Tobler building?” Chloe stammered. If so, they might as well end this interview right now. No way was she up to that.
“Unfortunately … no. We want to open the building to the public later this year, and we couldn’t wait for your position to be filled. I hired a freelancer last winter to develop a furnishings plan.” And Director Petty had rattled on enthusiastically about the project for at least another ten minutes. Chloe had tried to nod in appropriate places.
She could skip the Tobler house today. Just mosey on down the path to the Hafford House. Mary Hafford had been an Irish laundress, and Chloe was eager to visit her home.
But … no. Just check the place out and be done with it, Chloe told herself. She let herself inside and quickly punched in the access code on the security box hidden behind the door.
As she turned, Chloe paused to get a feel of the century-old building. She got a brief glimpse of half-papered walls; a worktable covered with tools. Then the impression came. It was not the distant jumble she’d felt in St. Peter’s Church. Instead, a sense of palpable unhappiness crackled in the air.
Chloe clenched the doorknob. The sensations grew stronger, although she couldn’t quite define the root emotion: Frustration? Discontent? When her skin began to tingle, she bolted from the building.
On the front step she wiped her forehead with suddenly trembling fingers. What the hell was that? After a lifetime of absorbing impressions of old buildings, she’d learned to take the occasional flash in stride. But that sensory barrage had been unexpectedly strong. Chloe pulled the door tightly shut and snapped the lock.
It probably wasn’t even the house, she thought, as she hurried away. Poor old Mr. Tobler had probably lived a hum-drum life and died without leaving any bad ju-ju behind. Surely her own bad ju-ju had caused her reaction. It had been a mistake to enter the Swiss