Heritage of Darkness (11 page)

was quiet. Sigrid settled on the window seat in the tower room off the main parlor. She loved this space—small, peaceful. She often

retreated here because she hated rattling around this big house by herself.

Of course she wouldn’t
be
alone if Bill had made different choices.

Sergeant Bill Sorensen, U.S. Army, had served his country dur-

ing the war. She’d lived with the agony shared by millions of

newly-wed women until he came home after VE day, safe and

whole. Except … he hadn’t been whole. The man who survived

combat wasn’t the man she’d married. The new Bill was moody,

restless, remote. Six months later he’d decided to return to military service without discussing it with her. Hurt, shocked, angry, she’d argued bitterly with him about their future—especially their living arrangements. “You can come to the base,” he’d said, clearly astonished that she would consider anything else.

“I live in Decorah,” she’d said. And she meant it.

So Bill left, and Sigrid stayed. She’d seen him last about two

months earlier when he’d come home on leave. His visit had been

rocky, and he’d spent the first several evenings away from home. “I need to be with other vets,” he’d said, avoiding her eye.

In fairness, by the second week, he’d tried to be a good hus-

band. He took her to see
The Heiress
because Sigrid liked Olivia de Haviland, and they strolled through Dunnings Spring Park,

and … well. The point was, she felt sad and happy whenever he

came home, and sad and happy whenever he left.

83

Sigrid sighed and picked up her current needlework project, a

baby bib she was embroidering with a sweet little
nisse
. “A December baby, a Christmas design,” Marit had said when she saw it,

beaming.

Sigrid made several stitches before putting the bib back down.

She was tired. She seemed to be tired all the time these days. A little nauseated too. And worried.

Maybe she should try to meet up with Marit and Frank later,

and ask Marit if maybe they could steal a little girl-time. Marit was one of her dearest friends. She could talk with Marit about anything.

Then Sigrid shook her head. She could talk with Marit about

almost
anything. Some secrets were just too big to share.

84

ten

In the tower room, Chloe stretched. It had been fun to read

about the huge party Decorahans had thrown to celebrate the

town’s Centennial. Still, something about the yellowed photos and

brittle articles made her feel sad. Or maybe, Chloe thought, I just can’t shake the shadows of these past couple of days.

Looking over her shoulder, she realized that the lights had gone

out in the kitchen—Violet must have gone up to bed. Chloe tried

to shed her melancholy. This room should be a haven. Sigrid had

done a lovely job arranging what might have been an awkward

space. The toys might have been Violet’s, like the baby doll with a head of molded vinyl and blue go-to-sleep eyes. Before tucking the doll in to the rocker, Sigrid had added a handmade bib with an

embroidered
nisse
. Chloe touched it, trying to absorb the joy of whatever happy child had last played with the doll. But she

couldn’t find joy, and her sadness remained.

Chloe realized that she’d had all she could take for one evening.

Ten minutes later she was settled into a four-poster bed in her

85

guest room, listening to the wind and wondering if Roelke was

lying awake, too. Think about something else, she instructed her-

self. Their current state of détente was of her own making. Besides, she wasn’t afraid to be alone.

But tonight, with a killer wandering Decorah and a December

wind rattling the windows, she really,
really
wished she could fall asleep in his arms.



It was still dark when Roelke’s alarm buzzed. The day before he’d

asked Chloe to meet him at a café for breakfast before classes

started. “How ‘bout six-thirty?”

Her expression suggested that he’d asked her to donate a kid-

ney. “Six-thirty? Are you kidding?”

“No. We’ve hardly had a moment together.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that.” She’d sighed. “OK, but you’re

buyin’. I’m not really a morning person, especially when it’s cold and dark outside.” Since Roelke was a morning person, that

seemed fair.

Now, once he dressed, Roelke went outside just as Emil was

coming in with a bucket of steaming milk. “See you in class,”

Roelke said cheerfully, and headed up the twisting driveway. He

passed an outbuilding perched on foot-tall posts and noticed a

cross neatly painted near the peak of the roof. Roelke wasn’t much of a churchgoer these days, but he found the Christian symbol

reassuring. Maybe Emil is active in his church, Roelke thought,

turning onto Skyline Road. Or maybe Emil belonged to one of

86

those Norwegian men’s groups, like Chloe’s dad. That would be

good.

Roelke saw few headlights as he trudged to town in the blue-

gray quiet of pre-dawn. At the café he snagged a table by the front window so he could watch for Chloe. Fifteen minutes later he

spotted her striding down the sidewalk. Her hands were in her

pockets, and she wore a heavy scarf and matching wool hat. Her

parka, however, was unzipped—as if her Scandinavian genes

scoffed at the cold.

She waved through the glass and something zipped through his

insides like electricity. This complicated, difficult, amazing woman is waving at me, he thought. Nobody else. Just
me
.

When she came inside he stood, ready to help her shed the

bulky layers. Her cheeks were so red that he found himself cra-

dling them instead, and settling in for a proper good-morning

kiss.

When they finally pulled apart she said, “Well, that’s the best

part of my day so far.”

“Too bad I know your day’s only what … thirty minutes old?

Forty?”

“Forty-five, at least.” She shrugged out of her coat and draped

it over an empty chair. “OK. I need caffeine and sugar.”

A few minutes later she was settled with coffee and a piece of

almond pastry, and a bowl of granola that Roelke had ordered for

her. “You look tired,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”

“Not really,” she admitted. She poured a generous dollop of

cream from a little silver pitcher into the steaming mug and

stirred. “Too much stuff circling around my brain. Did you get any 87

good news when you went to the police station last night? Does

that investigator guy—what’s his name?”

“Buzzelli.”

“Does he have any leads? Knowing that Petra Lekstrom’s killer

was in jail would help my mood.”

Roelke wished he could reassure her. “It’s early yet,” he hedged.

“And the DPD and the DCI can’t share any specific information

about the investigation with me.”

She gave him an
I’m waiting
look.

Roelke sighed. “I didn’t get the impression that they’ve made a

lot of headway. Did you ask your mom what Petra did to make

Lavinia stop painting?”

“Last night was not a good time to pump my mom for infor-

mation,” Chloe said flatly. “Maybe I can find out from Sigrid. I

tried asking Violet, but she didn’t know. Oh—Violet wants you

and Emil to come to dinner tonight.”

“I’ll tell him. Speaking of Emil … I heard a story about Petra

that said a lot about the type of person she was.” He told her the tale.

“Good for Emil and Oscar,” Chloe said. “Chisler, hunh? Can I

call you that?”

“Absolutely not.”

She let that one go with obvious reluctance. “The investiga-

tor—Buzzelli? He pulled a couple of people out of class yesterday

to question them. People who’d already left the reception by the

time we found … you know.”

“He’ll be talking to everyone.” Roelke glanced up when the

waitress paused at his elbow with a pot of coffee and an inquiring expression. He held up his cup for a refill. Once she was out of ear-88

shot, he continued. “You and I have the clear impression that Petra wasn’t well-liked, but Buzzelli said he hasn’t gotten much corrobo-ration on that.”

Chloe shrugged. “He’s interviewing a bunch of people who are

mostly Norwegian-Americans. Many are related by birth or mar-

riage. They’re all way too polite say anything unkind.”

“That’s pretty much what I thought.” What Moyer thought too,

he suspected, which is why the chief had made such a point of ask-

ing Roelke to listen and learn.

“I’m not real keen on passing gossip along either,” Chloe said,

“but I did pick up some intel last night.” By the time she got to

what she’d learned about Howard Hoff and Petra’s romance, she

was leaning close and whispering. “Violet said her mother saw

them in a passionate embrace,” she concluded. “Sigrid wouldn’t

make up something like that.”

“I saw Hoff looking at his wife’s photo,” Roelke muttered, “and

there was something in his face … something beyond grief.” Not a

bad observation, he added silently, rather pleased with himself.

“Maybe that’s why he didn’t want his daughter to visit Deco-

rah.”

“Could be,” he agreed. “Maybe he was afraid that she’d hear

gossip about him and Petra.”

Chloe looked pensively at her coffee.

Well, that was enough about that. “How is your mom doing?”

he asked. “I know you two got off to a rocky start, but I thought

maybe—”

“She’s not talking to me.”

“She—what? Why isn’t she speaking to you?”

89

Chloe circled her fingers in a dismissive gesture. “She’s speak-

ing to me. She just isn’t
talking
to me, you know?”

Not really, he thought warily.

She poked a banana slice with her fork and evidently found it

unworthy. “There have been times in the past few years when I

really could have used some support from her, and she never

wanted to listen to what was really going on in my life. That was

hard.” She pushed an apple slice around the bowl. “But things have been going better for me lately …” She lifted her head and gave

him a tremulous smile.

Is it really possible that
I
brought that smile to her face? Roelke thought. The very possibility was intoxicating. “I’m glad.”

“Me too. So I thought, OK, I can be the one to make things

better. I came to Decorah for her, and I’m ready to be a good lis-

tener. But she just won’t
let
me.”

Roelke ransacked his brain. There had to be some way he could

help
fix
this situation. There had to be something he could say, something he could do. But he came up with exactly … nothing.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, which was lame. And inadequate.

“Thanks.” She squeezed his hand.

“How did your interview go last night?” he asked.

“I visited a nice lady who is the epitome of everything good. It

reminded me of when I was a little kid, helping my grandma make

cookies.” She shrugged, looking a little self-conscious, then tipped her head. “What are your favorite Christmas memories?”

He had to think about that. “Christmas was pretty normal

when I was a kid. Stockings, a few presents under the tree. And my mother always put everyone’s shoes out for St. Nicholas Day.”

90

“That was a nice way to honor the German part of your heri-

tage.”

“Mostly I just liked getting presents on a day when a lot of my

friends didn’t,” Roelke admitted. “And my grandmother made

really good marzipan pigs so we’d have good luck in the new year.”

Chloe laughed. “When we get back to Wisconsin, I’ll make you

a marzipan pig,” she promised. “Listen, this will probably sound

stupid, but I need to ask you something. How do you want me to

introduce you to people? What should I call you?”

“How about your boyfriend? That works for me.” It worked

quite well, actually.

“That would make me feel like we’re in junior high.”

He considered. “Is there some historical term you’d like?”

“Beau? Suitor? Gentleman caller?”

OK, that idea wasn’t as clever as he’d hoped. “Those would

make me feel like we’re living in some PBS show.” And if one of his friends ever heard Chloe refer to him as her “gentleman caller,”

he’d never live it down.

“Yeah, you’re right.” She gave him a smile that was both sheep-

ish and endearing. “We better go.”

They walked to Vesterheim, every breath puffing white. The

pale sun was up now, glinting on jagged rows of icicles hanging

from the eaves. They entered the door closest to the stairwell that led up to the rosemaling classrooms. “Can we meet for lunch

again?” he asked.

“I sure hope so—”

“
There
you are!”

91

Roelke turned and saw Marit emerging from the elevator.

“Good morning,” he said, in his best
I am suitable for your daughter
voice.

“I’m glad I caught you,” Marit said. “Chloe, Howard was hop-

ing you’d have a moment to stop by his office before class begins.”

“Sure, I can do that.”

“I think he wants an update about the folklore project.” Marit

beamed. “And he’s got an amazing wedding rug up there you’ll

want to see. It just arrived from someone who is considering

donating it to Vesterheim. It was used by the same family for three hundred years! Think how many weddings—”

“Mom,” Chloe said in a strangled voice, “for the love of God,