Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [20]
“I’m glad to be here,” Chloe said, with her warmest smile. “I’m eager to help ensure that the material culture in each exhibit provides helpful tools in your interpretation.” She looked at the ring of faces, suddenly wondering if any of them had worked in the Norwegian area in the 1970s. If so, they might know if Berget Lundquist’s ale bowl had ever been displayed in the Kvaale house.
Then she saw Byron glance pointedly at his watch. “Thanks,” she concluded. The interpreters stampeded toward the steps.
Chloe was heading toward the state sedan when someone called her name. She turned to see the village lead, a stout, gray-haired woman in a blue bustle dress.
“Got a minute?” the woman asked.
Chloe nodded. “Sure.” Byron hadn’t emerged from the basement yet.
“I know you’ll be coming to our weekly leads’ meetings—”
She would? Had Byron told her that?
“—but we have a lot of questions about the artifacts in Tobler—”
Tobler? Shit.
“—and all we’ve gotten is a list of facts about the furnishings. We usually get an interpretive plan that helps us understand main themes for each exhibit—”
Of all the personal requests she could have gotten, why did the first one—the very first blinkin’ one—involve the Swiss carpenter’s cottage?
“—and on top of that, the wallpaper is already curling at the seams,” the woman concluded. “You need to look at the paste job.”
Byron bounded up the steps. “We’ve got to get the car out of here,” he barked at Chloe. “There’s an early tour.”
Chloe gave the village lead a rueful gesture: I’d love to do it now, but I can’t. Darn. “I’ll check it out next time I’m in the village.”
“Let’s go!” Byron started the car. Chloe managed to jump in and slam her door before Byron took off.
Byron drove the way he talked—impatiently. He whipped down the village hill, slowed briefly to skirt the German area, and left a wake of dust as he flew along the gravel road toward the gate at Highway S. “You know you can’t drive on the site during open hours, right? But we’re OK until nine o’clock.”
“Got it.” Chloe eased a hand to the seat and hung on.
“And never drive into the farmyards, even after-hours. We don’t tolerate modern intrusions like tire tracks.”
“No tire tracks. Got it. Listen, Byron, I was wondering if any of the original interpreters still work here.”
“Me.”
“You?”
Byron swerved wildly to avoid a maintenance truck that appeared around a corner. “Yeah, me. I started here as an interpreter.”
“Oh. Did you ever work Norwegian?”
“No. Just the village shops. And that reminds me, we’ve got this great new guy who wants to make a wagon. I think he can do it, but he needs tools. Can you stop by the wagon shop and take a quick look at our jack? It’s an original, but I think it’s sturdy enough for use.”
“Sure, I’ll look at it.”
“You and I need to talk about record collection items—those are reproductions, or artifacts that you designate, that the interpreters can actually use in the foodways and gardening and craft programs.”
“OK—”
“I can’t today, I’m booked solid. You’ve got the dates for the summer interpreters’ training down, right? It’s too bad you weren’t here for spring training, but I’ll encourage the veterans to attend your presentations. And …”
Chloe hadn’t managed to steer the conversation back to her ale bowl by the time they got back to Ed House. “Byron!” she said finally, before he could bolt from the car. “I’ve got another question for you. I’m trying to find a Norwegian ale bowl