Heritage of Darkness (12 page)

would you
please
stop with the wedding chatter?”

The smile slipped from Marit’s face. Snippets of conversation

came from the supply shop down the hall: “… any more filbert

brushes, size 4?” Two students burst through the door with a blast of cold air and punched the elevator button. They chattered about

an
ambar
, whatever that was, seemingly oblivious to the tense scene they’d interrupted. After a short eternity the elevator arrived, they stepped inside, and the doors glided closed.

Only then did Marit speak. “The rug dates to 1675, Chloe. If the

donation is finalized, it will become the earliest dated textile in the museum collection. I know you don’t particularly care for rosemaled artifacts, but since you
do
like textiles, I thought that might be of interest to you.” Two pink circles had appeared on Marit’s cheeks.

“I apologize for my mistake.” With that, she turned and shoved open the door to the stairwell, letting it slam behind her.

Chloe leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. “Well, shit,”

she muttered. “That was my fault.”

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“Pretty much,” he agreed. She opened her eyes and frowned at

him. He decided to keep additional observations to himself. At

least for now.

“I think my hopes of having a better day in rosemaling class

today are gone with the winter wind.” Chloe sighed. Then she

touched his cheek. “I’m glad we can meet for lunch. And after din-

ner with Violet and the moms, maybe we can spend the evening

together? I’ve got to make another visit for the folklore project, but you might enjoy it.”

“Sorry.” He shook his head. “I don’t know yet if I’ll be free.

Chief Moyer said he’d like to meet again—”

“What for?” She pushed herself erect. “I know you’ve got stuff

to report, but do you really think it will take all evening?”

“I don’t know.”

She leaned closer and spoke in a low tone. “Look, the chief

asked you to keep your eyes and ears open. I get that. But I didn’t realize this would turn into actual police work on your part.”

“I’m not saying that every evening will be spoken for,” he

began. “And—”

“Save it,” she said. “I’ve gotta go. I’ll see you later.” She punched the stairwell door even harder than Marit had, and began stamping up the steps.

Roelke watched the heavy door slam in his face for the second

time in three minutes. Great, he thought. Ju-u-ust great. What was he supposed to do? Was he supposed to refuse the police chief ’s

request for assistance? Of course not. Chloe was being unreasonable.

A little bit, anyway.

Roelke raked his fingers through his hair. The truth was, he

could
have said he’d make time for Chloe that evening. He could 93

have said he’d tell Moyer that any meeting had to be short and

sweet—which was, after all, the only kind he’d had with the Deco-

rah cops. So why hadn’t he?

Because being a cop was the only thing he was really good at.

The situation between Chloe and Marit was a mess. He didn’t

know how to help them. But helping Moyer? That he could do.

Roelke blew out a long, slow breath. Well, for the moment, the

heck with it. Class was about to start. And Emil Bergsbakken, chip carver extraordinaire, had said that he, Roelke McKenna, had done

good work the day before.



Lovely, Chloe thought. As if bickering with her mom wasn’t bad

enough, now she was bickering with her—her—her
what?
She

shook her head. If she was going to date Roelke McKenna, she re-

ally needed to figure out how to refer to the man. Anyway, the sa-

lient point was this: The mom-daughter bonding experience in

Decorah had turned into a royal flustercluck.

When Chloe reached the second floor landing she paused, try-

ing to compose herself. Staff offices were on this floor, and she

didn’t want to emerge muttering like a harpie. Breathe in, breathe out. It took a few moments, but she was able to saunter from the

stairwell with, she hoped, an attitude of pleasant calm.

That calm took a sucker punch to the solar plexus when she

approached Howard’s office and saw the wedding rug. It was

spread flat on a cushion of acid-free tissue now, but—Holy cow,

over three
centuries
of bridal couples had entered matrimony cushioned on its fibers. It was amazing … but it made her cheeks

94

hot, too. What
was
Roelke thinking about all of Mom’s subtle-as-a-sledgehammer comments about Love, Norwegian-style?

OK, enough of that. Chloe knocked on the doorframe.

Howard Hoff, who’d been sitting hunched like Bob Cratchit

over several sheets of paper with columns of numbers on them,

looked up with an expression that was half pleading, half nervous.

She almost expected the man to ask for a half-day off, if you please Mr. Scrooge, just a half-day off in honor of Christmas.

“Pardon me for interrupting,” Chloe began, “but—”

“It’s no interruption, believe me.” Hoff stacked up the budget

sheets and set them aside.

“Mom said you wanted a progress report?” Chloe perched in

an empty chair facing his desk. “I interviewed Bestemor Sabo last

night.”

“Good.” Howard swiveled in his chair and touched a framed

photo. “She and Phyllis were friends.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Chloe said. Roelke was right, she

thought. Howard Hoff ’s grief was terribly shadowed by guilt. If

Howard had been unfaithful, he’d done a stupid and horrible

thing. But there was no doubt that he had loved his late wife

dearly. And still did.

Howard turned away from the photo. “Anyway, Chloe, I thank

you. It’s kind of you to lend us your time and talents.”

Chloe felt her last bit of resentment slip away. “No problem,”

she said sincerely. “I’m glad to help out. I won’t have time to tran-scribe the tapes, though.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “One of our volunteers is a whiz

at transcribing.”

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“OK, then. I’ll keep you posted. Now, I better get to class.”

Chloe stood.

“Did your mother mention that I have another favor to ask?”

Chloe sat back down. “No-o.”

Howard’s hands moved nervously over his desk—adjusting a

cup full of pens, thumbing the top file on towering stack, fiddling with a paperclip. “She suggested it, actually. She didn’t tell you?”

“No-o-o,” Chloe repeated. “She did not.” Resentment made a

U-turn, took up residence in her chest, and hammered to make

itself known in word or deed.

“I was wondering if you would accompany Emil’s class into the

collections storage area tomorrow during the afternoon break.

The chance to study artifacts is a unique privilege for our students, but I have another commitment that day, and I need someone

with curatorial experience to be along, and it’s not that I don’t

trust Emil, since he’s been teaching here for many years, but—”

“Sure,” Chloe said, as much to stem the tide as anything else.

“I’ll do it.” She tried to stifle a resigned sigh, but didn’t quite pull it off.

“It’s this damn accreditation thing!” Howard exploded. “Not to

mention the Luther cabal.”

“I beg your pardon?” Maybe “cabal” meant something different

in Norwegian.

“Sorry.”
He rubbed his eyes. “Forgive my outburst.”

Chloe hesitated. She was already late for class, no doubt falling

even more hopelessly behind. Besides, she thought, I really don’t

want to sink any deeper in Howard’s pond of woe.

Yes you do
, said Roelke’s voice in her brain.
For God’s sake, listen
to what the man has to say!

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eleven

Chloe waited until Howard looked up. “What accreditation

thing?” she asked. “And … did you just mention a cabal?”

Howard leaned back in his chair. “Vesterheim was accredited

by the American Association of Museums in 1973.”

“Really? You must have been one of the very first museums to

earn accreditation. That’s impressive.”

“Yes, yes. But accreditation has to be reconfirmed every decade.

We’re due.”

A dusty, low-watt bulb flickered on in Chloe brain. “Oh.”

“Everyone is thrilled with the museum renovation. But the

costs far exceeded initial estimates, financial donations have

dropped off because of the recession, we lost revenue when the

museum shop was closed during construction, and my last grant

request was not funded. We projected that we’d end the year

$200,000 in debt. It looks now as if the final tally will be closer to $500,000.”

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“Yikes.” Chloe’s eyes went wide. This was why she had no aspi-

rations to climb the museum ladder. She had enough trouble

managing her measly curatorial budget.

“My curator resigned.” Howard’s voice was rising again.

“And—lest we forget—one of our folk-art instructors was just

attacked inside the museum.
And
, not only was she left to die, she was left to die inside an accessioned trunk.”

The man made a good case for despair, she had to admit. “So

this is not really a good time for an inside-out inspection by a jury of your peers,” Chloe said sympathetically. “And … the cabal?”

“Oh.” Hoff pushed to his feet and walked to the window, as if

he might see clear to the Luther College campus a mile or so away.

“As I’m sure you know, our museum was founded in 1877 as part

of Luther. It didn’t become a separate entity for ninety years, when the Norwegian-American Museum incorporated. All of those

original artifacts still belong to Luther. Legally, they’re here on long-term loan.”

That was not unheard of in the museum world. “And?”

“And I’ve been hearing rumors that a few professors would like

to see the objects that originally came from Luther, and possibly

management of Vesterheim itself, returned to the auspices of the

college.” Howard shoved his hands in his pockets.

“But … why?”

“As of
course
you know, Vesterheim is the oldest, most comprehensive American museum devoted to a single immigrant ethnic

group.”

“Ah, yes,” Chloe murmured sagely, although she actually hadn’t

known that.

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“Our collection numbers over 24,000 artifacts. Some of our

buildings are listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

We’ve created something very special.”

“Absolutely.”

Howard turned from the window and faced her. “And while of

course we are indebted to what Luther College started … it’s taken incredible resources to bring the museum closer to its full potential. And now, a few people at Luther evidently think it would help the college to—and I quote—‘bring the museum home.’”

“Hmm.” Chloe was skeptical. Assuming control of the museum

would be the collegiate sugarplum in theory only. It was one thing to grab ownership; quite another to commit funds to ongoing

staffing, programming, and upkeep. Any bigwig donors or grant-

ing agencies that might initially fling open their pocketbooks

would quickly grow leery if collections care or the visitor experience went downhill.

“Well,” she said, “the fact that Vesterheim earned accreditation

after
it became a separate entity is in your favor, right?”

“But losing accreditation would be worse than never having it,”

Hoard said glumly. “I’ve poured my heart and soul into this

museum! Lots of good people have done the same. And now I feel

as if Vesterheim is teetering on the brink of collapse. One more

calamity …” His voice trailed away.

“I’m truly sorry, Howard.”

“Please … forgive me. I know I shouldn’t have burdened you

with all of this. It’s just that since Phyllis died, I—I don’t have anyone to talk to. Anyone who understands. I can’t burden the staff

and volunteers here. It would be inappropriate, and terrible for

morale.”

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Chloe was briefly distracted as she tried to imagine having a

director at Old World Wisconsin who actually worried about staff

and volunteer morale. OK, focus. “Things can only get better,” she said, hoping that was true. “And—of course, I’m happy to accompany the carving class to the storage area.”

That seemed to shake Howard from his mental abyss. “What?

Oh—yes.”

“I’ll work out the details with Emil.”

“Thank you. Just make sure that no one moves an artifact, or

picks one up improperly. Emil’s done this a hundred times, and I

trust him implicitly, but with reaccreditation hanging in the bal-

ance, it’s just that—”

“Of course,” Chloe murmured soothingly. She really did need

to get back to class at some point today. Her tablemate Gwen had

probably painted three bowls, two platters, and a four-post bed

while the museum director had been unburdening his soul.

Howard pulled open a desk drawer and spent a good minute

scrabbling through its contents. At last he extracted a key and held it out. “Here’s a master key. Why don’t you just keep it for the rest of the week?” He arranged his mouth in a wan smile. “It’s good to

have a curator around, even if only for a short while.”

Chloe pocketed the key, said “I’m happy to help” one more

time, and made her escape.

Once in the hall, she resisted the urge to bang her head against

the wall. She truly did know how it felt to fight the good fight

against outside critics, a crushing workload, and inadequate

resources. Howard had a lot of weight on his shoulders, and no