Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [96]
Dammit. “No thank you,” he told her. “I’ll try again later.”
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It didn’t take long for Chloe’s mother to call back. “I just had a lovely talk about your apron with Elaine Bakken,” she told her daughter. “Elaine said the apron was donated to the Norwegian Women’s Club by Berget Lundquist! Isn’t that an amazing coincidence? Evidently Elaine’s cousin attended her church.”
Yes! “Thanks, Mom. I really appreciate your help.”
After hanging up, Chloe stared blindly out the window, trying to add this new bit of information to the puzzle. In the mid-seventies, after her son died, Berget Lundquist had donated an embroidered apron and three rosemaled pieces to historical organizations. The unusual sentiment incorporated into the pieces—We must educate our daughters—implied that all had been made by the same artist. Chloe believed that artist was Gro Skavlem, who had emigrated from Norway with her husband in 1845. Gro Skavlem, female rosemaler. Gro Skavlem, way-early feminist.
And if I’m right, Chloe thought, the missing ale bowl would be of enormous interest to any scholar of Norwegian-American material culture. And very, very valuable.
She glanced at her watch. She still had time to run out to the site, check in with the two interpreters Byron had mentioned, and make a token appearance at the interpreters’ picnic.
Five minutes later, Chloe felt a flush of relief when she spotted Nika’s white Chevette parked in the visitor center lot. Site business first, though, Chloe decided. Then she would stop by the basement of St. Peter’s Church and try to get some answers from her intern.
Chloe’s trip around the site, however, was fruitless. “I did work in Norwegian for the first couple of years,” an elderly woman now working the Hafford House said apologetically. “But only in the schoolhouse.” From there Chloe jogged cross-country to the Danish farm, arriving breathless—only to learn that her second potential informant had gone home early. “She wasn’t feeling well,” the lead interpreter, equally apologetic, told Chloe. “I’m covering the building.”
Chloe held in a frustrated shriek. Well, she’d tried.
She arrived at the inn just as the interpreter in St. Peter’s tolled the bell four times to announce the site’s closing. “Hey, you came!” Byron called. “I’m really glad.”
Chloe wasn’t. She felt wired and jumpy and completely unsure of her ability to smile and chat.
The picnic tables weren’t even set up yet, so she veered off toward a nearby exhibit. She might as well take a moment and check in with Roelke. The white-haired interpreter in the tidy Victorian-era home looked dismayed to see her. “Um, I was about to lock up,” she said.
“You can go ahead,” Chloe told her. “I just need to make a call.”
The interpreter pointed her toward the hidden phone. “Be sure to stay off the carpet,” she added. “You can only walk on the runner.”
Since I’m the curator, I do know where to walk! Chloe almost said, but didn’t. She wouldn’t be the curator for much longer. Instead she dialed the police station and asked for Officer McKenna.
“Chloe?” His voice was hushed. “Why haven’t you called me? I’ve been trying to—”
“I’m sorry,” Chloe said. “But listen, I’ve got some new information.” She quickly shared what she’d learned from her mother about the apron, and the translation. “So I really think—”
“Have you talked to Nika?”
“I’m about to. I’m in the Crossroads Village now.”
“Do not talk to Nika until—” His voice broke abruptly. Chloe heard an inaudible voice in the background. When Roelke came back, his voice was even quieter. “I gotta go. But I can take a break at five. I’ll swing into the main parking lot. Meet me there. I’ve got some new info on Nika.” The line went dead.
What was that about? No telling. Chloe checked her watch again. She had some time to kill, now. After dutifully locking up the building, she headed toward the plywood-on-sawhorses tables the lead interpreters had set up in the inn’s side yard, with white sheets for tablecloths and a canning jar of flowers as a centerpiece. The interpreters had brought