Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [83]
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So what? Chloe asked herself, as she headed down the stairwell. So what if Nika came here on Saturday? She’s a hard worker, self-motivated, interested in ethnic objects.
But Chloe had asked Nika if she had plans for the weekend, and Nika had said “Nothing special.” Not a lie, exactly, but why hadn’t she mentioned an excursion to the historical society? Even if the trip had been spontaneous, it seemed a little odd that Nika hadn’t mentioned it yesterday.
Chloe had also asked Nika if she’d found any interesting ethnic pieces among the textiles she was cataloging. Nika had lied about that.
When Chloe spotted a recycling bin on one of the landings, she stopped long enough to discard the photocopies she’d made for her intern.
Ten minutes later she was dialing a phone in the lobby. She had one more stop to make that afternoon, and the society’s collections processing and storage facilities were locked away from public access.
The registrar who came to let Chloe into the nether regions didn’t look much older than the student worker upstairs. She was short and petite, with brown hair that hung in a glossy curtain to her butt. “I’m Ann,” she said, offering a quick handshake.
“Thanks for this,” Chloe said, following her through a maze of narrow corridors. “I’m sure you’re busy.”
“Always,” Ann said.
OK, message received. Chloe didn’t mind. She wasn’t in the mood for chitchat either.
Ann’s tiny office was everything Leila’s was not, precisely ordered and sterile. “I never did find the site copy of the transfer form for that artifact I spoke with you about a couple of weeks ago,” Chloe began. “It’s a Norwegian piece, and—”
“Accession number?”
“SHSW 1962.37.3.”
Nine seconds later Ann handed Chloe a file. “Here you go.”
Chloe flipped it open. The original donation form Mrs. Lundquist had signed in 1962 lay on top, identical to the photocopy the elderly woman had given Chloe. Beneath it lay a neatly-typed transfer form, officially reassigning the ale bowl to the OWW collection. The ale bowl’s new designation was OWW1977.14.1—which fit the numbering sequence in the Old World accession ledger where the page had been removed.
But stapled to that form was a page of hand-scribbled notes, evidently written in 1962 by the curator who had initially accepted the donations: All three pieces came from Mrs. Jack Lundquist’s maternal great-grandmother, Gro Skavlem.
Chloe shoved aside her instinctive flare of feminist indignation—Mrs. Jack Lundquist, indeed—and stared at the words. Gro Skavlem. She had a name!
“There’s a note here,” she told Ann, stabbing her finger at the form. “Why didn’t you read me this information when I first called you?”
Ann folded her arms. “I recall our conversation quite clearly. You asked me about the date of transfer. I provided it.”
Chloe tried to count to ten before responding, and only made it to three. “First, I’d like photocopies of this transfer form and notes. Please.”
Ann silently took the folder, disappeared, and returned with the photocopies.
“Thank you. Second, I’d really like to see the other two pieces in the original donation.”
“You’ll have to talk to Greg about that.” Ann sat down at her desk.
“OK, here’s the thing. I’m new, I’ve never met Greg, and I don’t know my way around.” Chloe scrounged up a smile that she hoped might qualify as congenial. “Could you direct me to his office, please?”
Greg was a plump middle-aged man, completely bald, wearing a Hawaiian shirt printed in vivid reds and blues. “Sure, no problem,” he said affably, after Chloe explained her quest.
Chloe refrained from hugging him. Within minutes, Greg gently placed a large wooden plate on a worktable. “Here’s the first one.”
The plate—what her mother would call a smorgåsbord—was painted with swirls of brown and orange and green. Chloe leaned close. “It’s stunning!”
“It is,” Greg agreed.