Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [35]
“Didn’t any of the painters immigrate?”
“Some did. But most weren’t able to support themselves with rose painting here. A few might have done some painting for family and friends, I suppose. But the real renaissance didn’t begin until the twentieth century.”
“So … a nineteenth-century piece actually painted in Wisconsin might be more valuable than a piece painted in Norway, since they’re more rare.”
Her mother considered. “I suppose so. A few men may have kept the tradition alive, but in general, the immigrants soon took pride in American styles. You’ve seen those Andreas Dahl photographs, haven’t you?”
“Um … I don’t think so.”
“Dahl was a Norwegian-American who took dozens of photographs in Dane County during the 1870s. Lots of them show immigrant families posed in front of their homes, with sewing machines and farm equipment and whatever else they were most proud of. Modern American things, factory-made. I’ve got copies of a few of Dahl’s photos somewhere. We used them in a Daughters of Norway display.”
Chloe stared at the bowls and tankards and plates on the cabinet shelves. What did the missing ale bowl look like? Was it from Telemark, Hallingdal, somewhere else? Was it one of those rare pieces made in America, or did it show the delicate brushstrokes of a sought-after Norwegian master? Without more to go on, how could she ever know?
____
I should quit this nonsense, Chloe thought that afternoon, as she drove east from Stoughton. Ethan was right; Mrs. Lundquist’s missing ale bowl is none of my business. I have plenty of things to worry about instead. I have no way of ever finding out what Mrs. Lundquist was so upset about, not with the shreds of information I have. For all I know she was a senile old bat.
Immediately, the image of the widow’s face swam accusingly into her memory. Beseeching Chloe for help in life. Still and staring in death.
“I’m sorry,” Chloe whispered. “Truly. And I’m trying hard to keep my promise.”
In Whitewater, Chloe made a last-minute decision to turn north on Highway 59 instead of continuing east to her farmhouse. She might as well go to work. She had yet to so much as visit the museum’s German, Finnish, and Danish farms. Byron had scheduled her to help provide training to the college students and teachers who’d be augmenting the interpretive ranks for the summer. Ralph Petty had scheduled a meeting to discuss a plan for permanent collections storage. And God knew she’d have to keep on her toes to stay one step ahead of Nika.
The restoration area was quiet. Chloe parked her car under a pine tree. Maybe she should spend the afternoon on site, mingling with visitors, getting to know the place. She hadn’t checked out that wallpaper problem at Tobler, either. She’d just pick up her clipboard and—
She stopped halfway up the trailer steps. The door was closed. But its heavy padlock glittered from the ground beside the steps.
Dammit! Chloe yanked the door open and plunged inside. “Hey!” she yelled. The trailer was empty. The intruder was gone. She stared helplessly at the crowded storage shelves. She didn’t have an inventory, so she had no way of knowing if something had been taken.
She picked up the phone receiver, but the site phone list she’d left beside it was gone. She put the receiver back down, and took a hard look at her workspace. Her papers had been moved. So had the black ledgers.
Who had messed with her stuff? And why?
She finally found her phone list, and dialed the security office number. A woman answered on the seventh ring. “Hello.” She sounded out of breath.
“Is this a security guard?”
“No, it’s the gift shop. Hank got called out to German. A visitor twisted her ankle and needed a ride. I can leave a message for him.”
Lovely. “Well, this is Chloe Ellefson. The new curator. I’m at the collections trailers in the restoration area. Could you tell him I think there’s been a break-in? I’ll wait here.”
“Sure.” The receiver slammed down.
Chloe retreated to the picnic table outside to wait, wishing she’d asked for more information. Hank was