Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [4]
The hand that clasped hers seemed fragile, like wrapping paper stretched over a toothpick model. Mrs. Lundquist’s carefully permed white hair framed a thin face with anxious blue eyes. “How do you do?”
“I’m well, thank you,” Chloe said, as she led the way into the office. “Please forgive the dust. It’s my first day, so I haven’t had a chance to tidy up.”
“I understand.” Mrs. Lundquist settled gingerly on one of the chairs, put her purse on the table, and folded her hands in her lap. “It was kind of you to see me so quickly.”
Chloe sat down with legal pad and poised pencil. “The phone message I got didn’t contain much information,” she began. “You’re interested in making a donation?”
“Oh, no!” The tiny woman sat up straighter. “I need to get one of my family antiques back.”
“Um … back? Back from where?”
“From here!” Mrs. Lundquist pulled a piece of paper from her handbag and presented it.
Chloe read the faded photocopy. It was an acquisition form confirming the accepted donation and legal transfer of an item described as a “Hand-painted Norwegian ale bowl with cow heads, nineteenth century” to the State Historical Society of Wisconsin. At the bottom was a neat signature—Berget Lundquist—and the date: November 10, 1962.
“Well … it seems this item was transferred to the Society twenty years ago,” Chloe said. “This is your signature?”
“Oh, yes. I made the donation. My son had died, you see. My only child. I didn’t see any point in hanging onto family heirlooms.”
“But … now you want it back.”
“Yes.”
Chloe studied the paper again. The donation had been made when Old World Wisconsin was no more than a gleam in some architectural historian’s eye. “Ma’am, I think that you need to contact one of the curators at the Historical Society headquarters in Madison.”
“I’ve already done that, weeks ago. And I was told that my ale bowl was transferred here when this site opened.”
Shit. “Mrs. Lundquist, I’m new, so I’m not familiar with Society collections policies yet—”
“I’m sure you’re doing your best, dear.” Mrs. Lundquist patted Chloe’s hand. “You seem like a sweet young woman. And with that hair … you must be Scandinavian also?”
“Norwegian. But—”
“Just like me!” Mrs. Lundquist awarded Chloe a delighted smile. “So you understand.”
No, I don’t! Chloe insisted silently. “Mrs. Lundquist, once a donation has been made, it can’t be undone. It’s a legal transfer of ownership.”
“But I must get it back! It’s very important!”
Chloe pinched her lips together. She genuinely liked old people. She liked their stories, their memories, their hard-won experience. Their mementos, their refuse, even their homes—these things comprised Chloe’s chosen profession. Mrs. Lundquist didn’t need to beg, or to cajole; Chloe truly wanted to help her.
“The best thing I can do is check with the chief curator in Madison,” Chloe said. “I can call her tomorrow, and get back to you.”
Mrs. Lundquist’s face crumpled. “But … I had hoped to take the ale bowl with me today.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“May I at least see my bowl? Make sure it’s alright?”
“The thing is …” Chloe massaged her temples with her fingertips. “Did I mention that it’s my first day? I don’t know where the ale bowl is. It could be in storage, or on exhibit in one of the Norwegian houses. Have you toured the Norwegian area on site? Do you know if it’s on display?”
“Old World Wisconsin is so big … I’ve been told that I’d have to climb in and out of a tram to even reach the Norwegian houses. I’m afraid that’s too much for me.” The elderly woman lifted one fragile hand in a helpless gesture. “But surely there are records? Can’t you look it up?”
“Mrs. Lundquist, I’m truly sorry, but I don’t even know how to look it up. I don’t know what system the former curator used. The collection here includes thousands of objects. And—” Chloe took a deep breath. “It’s my first – day.”
The other woman looked stricken. “Would you mind if … if I looked for it?” she asked, her voice quavering. “I recall the ale bowl well. I’d know it if I saw it.”
“I’m afraid that’s not