Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [92]
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Chloe was relieved to see that no big motorcycle was waiting at the trailers. Should she try to hide her car? No. She was being neurotic. Still, for once she did pull the trailer door closed behind her.
After throwing her bag on the counter she grabbed the first heavy black binder, labeled “1974.” That was the year her predecessor had begun creating an Old World Wisconsin collection in anticipation of the site’s grand opening in 1976. Chloe dropped onto the wobbly chair and began quickly paging through the accession forms. Earthenware jug … coverlet … butter churn … froe …
She was halfway through the first binder, her eyes already glazing over, when her phone rang. She glanced at the clock: two minutes after eight. Maybe Ralph had come to work with firing her first on his agenda.
The phone rang again.
Maybe she could ignore it.
The phone rang again.
Maybe it wasn’t even Ralph.
The phone rang again.
“Shit,” she muttered, and snatched the receiver. “This is Chloe Ellefson.”
It was Ralph. “Ms. Ellefson.”
Ms. Ellefson. That couldn’t be good.
“I’m calling for your report about your discussion with Leila.”
“My discussion with Leila?”
“About the collections storage facility,” he said impatiently.
“Oh. Yes.”
His tone was icy. “Did you go to Madison yesterday?”
She closed her eyes. Yesterday seemed like a year ago, but this was starting to make sense. “Yes, I did, but—”
“And did you meet with Leila?”
“I did, but—”
“And did you discuss the need for prompt action on the permanent collections storage building?”
“I brought it up, but …”
“But?”
“But we didn’t get too far,” Chloe admitted. “She had another meeting scheduled.” And I had better things to do.
After a long, uncomfortable silence, Ralph finally said, “Thank you, Ms. Ellefson. I think you’ve told me exactly what I needed to know.”
Chloe heard a click and a dial tone. Well. That had gone badly.
Still, he hadn’t fired her flat-out. She replaced the receiver and turned back to the binder. She was going to hunt for a record of that blasted apron until someone physically dragged her from the trailer.
It took her almost an hour. By that time, she was overwhelmed with scanning notes of the multitude of stuff transferred or donated to Old World Wisconsin. She was two pages past before the word “apron” registered. She frantically paged backward. There it was: White cotton apron. Condition: excellent. Embroidered in white thread, floral designs, lacey embellishments, with “Vi maa uddanne vaare dötre” stitched near the hem.
Bingo.
But the form did not list a donor. Instead, it noted only the apron’s official transfer from the State Historical Society of Wisconsin to Old World Wisconsin on April 11, 1978.
Chloe scrabbled for her list of staff numbers, grabbed the phone, dialed, and held her breath until the phone was answered. “Hello, Ann? It’s Chloe Ellefson. We met yesterday—”
“I remember.”
“Good. Listen, I need another favor. I’m looking at another transfer form, and I need to know who donated the piece originally to—”
“Accession number?”
Chloe supplied it. Within seconds, Ann was reading information from the record. “‘White cotton apron. Condition: excellent—’”
“Who donated it?”
“I was getting to that.” Ann drew an audible breath and started again. “‘White cotton apron. Condition: excellent. Embroidered in white thread, floral designs, lacey embellishments, with Vi maa uddanne vaare dötre stitched near the hem. Donated to the Society in 1972.’”
Chloe wanted to leap through the phone line. “By who? Who donated it?”
Another aggrieved pause. “The accession form was signed by … it looks like … Marit Kallerud.”
Chloe dropped the phone. It fell with a noisy clunk to the counter. As she picked it up she could hear Ann’s irritated voice: “Are you there? Are you there?”
“I’m here,” Chloe said. “Could you spell that name?” The registrar did. Chloe rubbed her forehead. “I don’t frickin’ believe this,” she muttered.
“Look, is there some problem? Who is Marit Kallerud?”
Chloe stared out