Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [63]
“I’m concerned for your welfare.”
“Well, don’t be. And don’t patronize me. I came to you for help about the ale bowl, and you blew me off, remember? And now you think you can decide what to share with me about my own job?”
“I—”
“Don’t ever do that to me again.” For the second time in five minutes, she slammed down the phone.
Her hands were shaking, and she pressed them against her thighs. The little wooden box shifted in its tub of water and one lone bubble bobbed to the surface. That might as well be my contribution to Old World Wisconsin so far, she thought. One lone bubble. Pop.
Chloe stared at the artifact sitting in a green plastic tub of water in a matchbox-sized kitchenette in an ancient pink trailer, and tried to laugh. No laughter came. She dropped into a chair, folded her arms on the tiny table, and rested her head.
She did deserve to know if a security guard summoned a police officer to one of the historic structures. She shouldn’t have blasted Hank about it, though. There were effective ways to accomplish change in a professional setting. Shrieking ultimatums into the phone didn’t make the list.
And … she did feel justified in her anger toward Roelke. She’d gone to him for help, maybe even started thinking of him as a friend. And in return, he’d turned into a pompous ass. Well. He’d never tell her anything, now.
A moth fluttered against the window. The restoration area was silent. Everyone else had long since gone home to their families, their fiancés, their lives.
Chloe stared at the bobbing little box and longed mightily to rest like that, to fill up and sink under and slip away.
The moth beat frantically at the pane. Chloe blinked. In an explosion of action she grabbed her briefcase, banged out of the trailer, and—after locking all locks—headed for home.
____
The first thing Chloe did when she got home was call her mother. Screw you, Officer McKenna, she thought, as she used a pencil to dial. She, Chloe, had her own über-resource.
“Chloe?” Her mother’s voice sounded warm in her ear. “I’m glad you caught us, dear. Your father and I are off to Decorah first thing in the morning. I’m giving a workshop at Vesterheim.” Vesterheim, a museum in Decorah, Iowa, was a Mecca for all Midwestern Norwegian-Americans.
Chloe had assumed she could visit her parents that weekend, eat some real food, use their washing machine, and find out what her mother had learned about Berget Lundquist. “Mom,” she said, trying not to sound pitiful, “I was hoping you’d had time to do that genealogical work I asked you about.”
“Haugen.”
“… Beg pardon?”
“H-a-u-g-e-n. Your Berget’s original surname. Before she married Mr. Lundquist.”
Chloe scrabbled for the pencil, which had disappeared behind the chair cushion. “Wait—I need you to spell it again. You’re sure?”
“Of course, Chloe. It means ‘the hill.’ I’d guess that the first Haugen immigrant came from a farm on a hill.”
A farm on a hill. That narrowed things right down.
“Berget Haugen married Jack Lundquist in 1934, when she was twenty-two. It was a small, private ceremony, I gather. But of course the Depression was on then, and—”
“Mom!” Chloe rubbed her forehead. “Why didn’t you let me know? It’s kind of urgent that I learn as much as I can about Berget Haugen Lundquist. Is there anything else?”
“Not yet,” her mother said, with a hint of reproach in her voice. “It’s only been a week, Chloe. I had three lessons to give, and the scholarship lunch at the high school to help organize, and—”
“OK, OK. Sorry, Mom.” Chloe frowned at a bruise on her shin, legacy of an unplanned meeting with a corner of the artifact shelving. “I do appreciate your help. Truly, I do.”
“We’ll talk again soon, all right?”
“Sure, Mom,” Chloe said, and just in time remembered to add, “and have a good weekend.”
So. What now? She sat in the gloom, thinking. Finally she dialed information, asked for a number, and waited while the operator put the call through.
The phone was answered on the fifth ring. “Hello?”
“Mr. Solberg?” she said. “This is Chloe Ellefson. We met at Mrs. Lundquist