Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [53]
“What was that?” he demanded.
“Um … what was what?”
“Who told you to tell the trainees how to interpret their buildings?”
“You asked me to help with summer training—”
“I asked you to talk about collections! Not interpretation!”
“The two are obviously intertwined,” Chloe said carefully. “What did you think I was going to say?”
“I expected you to talk about artifacts. I expected you to tell the interpreters what kind of cleaning and care you want them to provide. I expected you to tell them what objects they could use in daily programming, and what objects they shouldn’t touch. I expected you—”
“You expected quite a lot,” Chloe snapped. “Unfortunately, you failed to let me know about those expectations. You told me to show up in Norwegian at four o’clock and talk to the interpreters. That’s it. For God’s sake, Byron, there are fifty buildings on this site, and I’ve only been here for a week! I’m not in a position to give specific instructions to the interpreters yet!”
“Well, let me tell you something.” Byron jabbed the air with one forefinger. “You’re not in a position to provide training about educational techniques, either. That’s my job. Do me a favor and stick to collections.” He turned and stalked back down the lane.
____
“What was that all about?” Nika asked, when the interpreters had trudged back toward the main parking lot.
Chloe tugged on the lock on Kvaale’s front door, making sure it was secure. “You noticed, hunh? Did everyone?”
Nika shrugged. “I don’t think many of the interpreters caught on.”
“Many,” not “any.” Everyone on the payroll would soon know that the curator of interpretation and the curator of collections had interrupted training to have a major row.
Chloe sighed. “I seem to have stepped on Byron’s toes. He evidently expected me to talk about the importance of turning tin cups upside-down to dry, not using collections as a springboard for interpretation.”
They were walking toward the small Norwegian area parking lot. The sky was overcast, the air sticky and humid. After a moment Nika said, “That stuff about collections care is important. But the way I see it, an interpreter’s most critical job is to engage visitors in a meaningful way. If that happens, visitors will go home and tell their friends to visit the site. They’ll sign up as volunteers, and join historical societies, and take their kids to other sites. There isn’t a museum in this country that has adequate funding. This one sure doesn’t. And nothing here will improve unless we can spark visitors to provide more support themselves, and to demand better support from the state.”
God bless the young and idealistic. “Thanks, Nika.”
“I thought your use of the photographs was effective, too,” Nika added. “Where’d you come up with them?”
“My mom. They’re copies from what’s evidently a large collection at HQ in Madison.”
“I love old photographs, especially of women. So many women left no written record of their life at all.”
“You know what they say,” Chloe said. “Anonymous was a woman.”
“Amen to that.” Nika waved one elegant hand. “Listen, don’t worry about Byron. He probably didn’t get enough sleep last night. His baby’s been sick. Once he gets over his snit I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear your ideas.”
Chloe blinked. Byron had a baby? How did Nika know that? Nika had only been on site a week longer than she had, but the intern seemed to already be on friendly terms with everyone, permanent staff and seasonal.
They reached their cars. “Maybe you’re right,” Chloe said. “But I don’t think I’ll be making suggestions about interpretation to Byron any time soon.”
____
The farmhouse was stuffy when Chloe got home. She carried her bottle of rum and a warm, flat soda out to the front porch and sank gratefully into one of the old folding lawn chairs her father had left her. After a few sips she tried to focus on her latest problem: Byron. Oddly enough, she liked him. Sure, he was young and sensitive and quick to take offense. He also seemed