Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [21]
“Great!” Byron awarded her a look of approval for the first time. “I’d love to see a couple more ethnic pieces put on display. There’s a great tankard in the pink trailer that would work. Acculturation is a big theme in the Norwegian area, and—”
“No, wait. Please. I’m looking for one particular ale bowl. It’s not on exhibit, and it doesn’t seem to be in storage. Is there a place interpreters bring items that are damaged, or need attention? Anything like that?”
“Come inside,” Byron said.
He was inside the building, rummaging in the top drawer of an ancient metal filing cabinet, before Chloe caught up. He began extracting bulging file folders and piling them on his desk. “First, I’ve saved all the collections-related catalogs that have come in. Some are for archival supplies, some for repros.”
“OK,” Chloe said dubiously, eyeing the towering stack.
Byron continued to pull folders from the cabinet. “And these are reproduction request forms. Six years’ worth. There you go.”
Chloe glanced inside the top folder, riffled through the pages, and saw a bewildering assortment of handwriting, pencil and pen, some with a few printed words and some with lines and lines of cramped cursive.
“I’m glad to get all this stuff out of here,” Byron said. “I need the filing space.”
So do I, Chloe thought, picturing the tiny galley/office/mouse hole of a workspace in her trailer.
“As for damaged items, the interpreters bring them to me. I put them upstairs. Come on. I’ll show you.”
Most of the second story of Ed house was a single, long room running under the eaves. Low metal shelves lined two of the walls, and someone had covered half of the floor space with sheets. These were covered with dozens and dozens of objects in need of attention: cracked china cups, rusted iron ware, books with loose bindings, rag rugs starting to fray … Chloe stared with dismay at the graveyard. She shouldn’t have been annoyed to learn she had an intern. She needed an army of interns.
Byron gave her a satisfied look. “It’s all yours.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Most of these things are repros, if that makes you feel any better,” he added.
“Not much.”
Byron smiled. “I’d appreciate it if you could get these things moved out of here as soon as possible.”
“Well, don’t get too excited. I have to make a lot of progress in the trailers before I can start moving anything else in there.”
“I’m sure you’ll do your best.” Byron glanced at his watch. “I gotta head over to the visitors’ center and meet some Swedish dancers. Planning session for Midsummer. One of our big special events.”
“Mind if I stay and look these things over?”
“Suit yourself. Just lock up when you leave.”
Chloe listened to Byron bolt down the stairs, then slam the exterior door. A moment later she heard the sedan start and roar away. Only then did she draw a deep breath. Byron was acting like a royal jerk, dumping all of this on her so smugly. Chloe replayed their conversation in her mind, feeling self-righteously indignant—then suddenly hit pause.
Byron had mentioned a tankard in the pink trailer. Evidently Nika hadn’t been the only person in the trailers recently.
Chloe searched carefully, but the rosemaled bowl was not among the casualties. One more dead end.
She gathered the files Byron had given her, made the short drive back to the restoration area, and settled down at the picnic table to take a closer look. She flipped through the reproduction requests quickly, reading a few random samples:
June 12, 1977. We need another tin washbasin in Schulz.
September 14, 1979. The hoe handle at Pedersen cracked. Next time you order hoes, get stronger ones.
May 3, 1981. Any chance we can get a reproduction cookstove at Benson? The stove we have heats really uneven.
Chloe glanced up, grateful for any diversion, as a blue Mustang pulled in and parked on the far side of the lot. Stanley Colontuono burst from the maintenance building. “You’re late!” he bellowed at the young man who emerged from the Mustang.
“Geez Louise,” Chloe muttered, watching the teen slouch toward his boss. The two met halfway across