Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [80]
Nika followed Chloe out to the Pinto. Her eyebrows lifted when she saw the overflowing file folders. “What is this stuff, anyway?”
“Repro requests from the interpreters. They need everything from darning eggs to plows.” Chloe grappled a box up to one hip. “And Byron thoughtfully saved six years’ worth of vendor catalogs for me.”
With Nika’s help, all of the forms and catalogs were soon down in the basement. “Leave them,” Nika said. “I’ll put them away.”
“Thanks. Offer accepted.”
“It’s the least I can do, after losing my cool.” She held Chloe’s gaze. “I apologize for that.”
“Apology accepted, too.” Chloe dusted her hands on her trousers and headed back up the stairs. “Let’s call it a day.”
They emerged into a peaceful evening. “You want a ride back to the parking lot? Oh—wait.” Chloe sighed. “I promised Byron I’d look at a jack in the wagon shop. I might as well do that while I’m here.”
“No problem. I’ll walk.”
Chloe checked on the jack at the wagon shop, and scribbled a note for Byron. She was plodding back to her car when she remembered something else. She’d planned to ask Nika for an overview of her progress with the textile project before meeting with Leila in Madison the next day. Numbers, analysis—the hands-on stats bosses like. Shit.
Well, she’d take a quick survey herself. That would have to do.
Back in the basement, Chloe took a closer look around. Cabinets were labeled: Children’s. Men’s. Ladies, pre-1900. Ladies, post-1900. Storage boxes were stacked and labeled as well: Gloves. Aprons. Mourning items. Rows of hats sat poised on shelves, protected with tissue. A stack of neatly typed forms stood on the old desk Nika had found somewhere. If I just got out of her way, Chloe thought, Nika could whip this whole site into shape.
Chloe carefully moved a stack of folded textiles aside on the desk so she could scribble a few notes for her meeting. An apron string slipped loose. “Can’t have that,” she murmured, and picked the piece up for refolding. It was a white cotton apron, limp and spotted with age, but lovely nonetheless. White embroidery stitches, almost invisible, created lacey designs and flowers. She touched the stitching with a gentle finger. Some long-ago woman had stitched the apron, perhaps for Sunday best. Or for a hope chest, a trousseau, a gift? Chloe unfolded the apron for a closer look.
And her mouth opened in surprise. Letters had been stitched carefully above the hem. Vi maa uddanne vaare dötre.
Chloe’s eyes narrowed as she squinted at the white work. Dötre … Wasn’t that “daughter” in Norwegian? Or possibly Danish. Either way, Nika had discovered a very rare ethnic piece.
Half an hour earlier, Chloe had asked about just that. Why had Nika lied?
The next morning, Chloe left the farmhouse at 6:45 A.M. Even with a stop at the Cambridge Bakery for coffee and a chocolate doughnut, she made it to the State Historical Society of Wisconsin headquarters building in Madison ten minutes early for her 8:30 meeting with Leila.
The society building was old and elegant, with mosaic tile floors, worn marble staircases, artifacts displayed in glass cases, and the obligatory portraits of dead white men on the walls. Chloe paused in the lobby, letting perceptions come: layers of quiet busy-ness, varnished with a brittle veneer of frustration. Chloe attributed both to the employees with state-mandated obligations to preserve and protect the past, but insufficient funds to do so. Nothing here to jangle her nerves. Good. Her nerves were jangled enough.
Leila was a plump woman, perhaps forty, with prematurely gray hair cut in a thick bob. Her windowless office on the fourth floor overflowed with piles of stuff, old and new: potato mashers and emergency Management Plans, hog scrapers and plastic cups full of paperclips. Chloe’s assumption of chaos disappeared as Leila repeatedly exhibited an uncanny ability to put her hands instantly on whatever she wanted.
Leila talked rapidly, outlining division procedures for everything from handling potential donations to closing up the site for the winter.