Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [33]
“Protect and serve,” Roelke muttered, and headed north.
After waking up the next morning Chloe lay in bed for some time, hands on her flat belly, feeling empty and alone. Markus had been an early riser, and often woke her with cups of steaming hot chocolate. Other days he’d plop down on the bed, full of ideas for the day. “We’re out of flour—we need to go to the market,” or, “Let’s take the steam cog up the Rothorn!” Chloe loved the Appalachian mountains, but the Alps … oh, the Swiss Alps, with their steep paths hiked to the music of cow bells and songbirds, were like no place else on earth…
“Dammit.” She abruptly scrambled out of bed. Enough of this. If she didn’t get moving, she’d likely crawl back under the covers. Not good.
After padding into the kitchen, she opened her refrigerator. The shopping fairies had not magically filled it for her. In fact … she sniffed, then stuck a hand deep inside. Lovely. Her brand-new used refrigerator had died. She wouldn’t get her first paycheck for weeks. Fridge repairs were not in the budget. Chloe shut the door again.
It was Saturday, and her mother was expecting her at the old homeplace in Stoughton. Chloe had mixed feelings about going home. Still … she could eat there, and do a load of laundry too.
The drive to Stoughton took less than an hour, winding through small towns and rolling farmland. Her parents still lived in the two-story colonial on South Prairie street where Chloe had grown up. When she pulled up in front of her parents’ house that morning, she cut the engine and sat staring at the sign hanging by the front door: Velkommen til vårt hjem. Petunias and sweet potato vines spilled from rosemaled window boxes. A flagpole in the front yard hosted both American and Norwegian flags. Mom and Dad avoided Norwegian cute—no little ceramic elves peeking around garden plants, no stumps carved like trolls. Still, in a town that had turned its Norwegian heritage into a bankable tourism phenomenon, Chloe’s parents were part of a dwindling minority: the real deal, both born of families that had not married outside the Norwegian community.
Mom met her at the door. “Oh, come in, dear! My, you look wonderful.”
“Not really,” Chloe said.
Her mother blinked, and for a moment Chloe thought she might actually respond. Then Mrs. Ellefson turned away, heading toward the kitchen. “I still have the coffeepot on. Want some?”
“Sure. And granola or something too, if you’ve got some.”
“I’ll scramble you some eggs.”
As her mother bustled about the kitchen, Chloe settled into her old chair. Blue curtains, a blue teapot on the stove, and blue dish towels livened up the white walls and appliances. A wall calendar featuring Norway’s scenic fjords hung above the sink, and a krumkakke iron hung above the stove. A high shelf circling the room displayed a variety of rosemaled bowls and boxes and trays. Her mother’s work, all of it. Chloe remembered her irritable outburst in the police office—“You think we all sit around eating lefse and painting woodenware?”—and felt her cheeks warm all over again. The truth was, when Officer McKenna had prodded her about finding an expert on rosemaled antiques, she’d known she wouldn’t have to look far.
“Are you getting all settled in?” Chloe’s parents had helped her move into the farmhouse the week before.
“Sure.” Chloe took a sip of coffee. “Where’s Dad?”
“He’s bowling.” Mom slid the eggs onto a plate already graced with a sticky bun. “Here.”
“Thanks.” Chloe had skipped supper the night before, and she dug in.
Mom sipped coffee from her own mug. She was a tall woman who had recently bobbed her hair after decades of wearing yellow braids in a coil behind her head. Silver had overpowered the blonde, but her eyes still shone Scandinavian blue. “So,