Heritage of Darkness (18 page)

“Right. And after his wife’s death Hoff may be particularly

unsettled, emotionally speaking.” Roelke considered, bouncing his

knee beneath the table. Affairs of the heart were often behind vol-atile crimes. “Maybe he happened to run into Petra in the Norwe-

gian House. If she taunted him, he might have just snapped.”

“He was anxious during the reception,” Chloe said reluctantly.

“Although from what Violet and Sigrid have said, he’s generally

anxious these days. And with good reason, I might add. His career

is in the canner.”

“In the … what?”

“You know.” She gestured impatiently. “Hot water, simmering,

pressure building—oh, never mind. Who else—
oh,
thank you.”

She gazed reverently at the almond pastry the waitress had just

deposited.

“Are you scheduled to see Hoff again?” he asked.

“Nothing formal.”

“Well, stop by today, will you? Tell him about your interview

last night or something.”

146

“Why?”

“You never know. You might see something, hear some-

thing …” He shrugged.

Chloe’s eyes narrowed in an expression of reluctance, so he

chose to move on before she could argue. “So, who else had reason

to hate Petra?” he asked.

“It’s a long list,” Chloe mumbled around her first bite. “Accord-

ing to Tom, Petra did something cruel that made Adelle give up

rosemaling and switch to figure carving. He wouldn’t give me

details, though. Violet doesn’t know, and Sigrid wouldn’t tell me. It happened a long time ago.”

“Things can fester for years before a killer takes action.”

“I assure you, Adelle’s health is too frail to even consider her

involvement in Petra’s death,” Chloe said flatly. Then she hesitated.

“But her husband, Tom … he’s still angry.”

“His frustration and helplessness about his wife’s failing health

might lead to rage,” Roelke mused. “Only problem with that the-

ory is that he wasn’t at the reception.”

“No, but he was in the museum that afternoon. Adelle said he

dropped off some cookies.”

Roelke started a new card and jotted some notes.

“You’re putting Tom on the suspect list, aren’t you.” Chloe

gazed at him. “I gotta tell you, it’s hard to imagine him attacking anyone. He’s quite pleasant. And a bit on the pudgy side.”

“Pudgy people get angry just like anyone else.”

“I do know that.” She sighed. “He’s also a Luther College grad,

and sits on Vesterheim’s Board of Directors, for whatever those

tidbits might be worth.”

“Could be important.” He noted both facts.

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“I also learned that Lavinia quit rosemaling when Adelle did.”

“Well, hunh.” Roelke thought that through. He fished out his

Lavinia card, which had been pretty blank, and filled in what he’d just learned. “Did you ask your mother why?”

“No. I did ask Sigrid, but she wouldn’t tell me.”

“Is Sigrid deliberately trying to hide something, do you think?”

“I don’t think so.” Chloe worried her lower lip. “She looked

very … strained, but it’s probably what I said earlier—we’re trying to get sordid info from people who are way too polite and reserved for malicious gossip.” She nibbled a bite of pastry and licked her fingers. “This is a totally sucky way to start a day. Are we about done?”

“Not hardly.” Roelke played another card.

When Chloe read the name, her eyebrows rose with surprise.

“Emil? You consider him a suspect?”

“Not in particular,” Roelke admitted. “But I have to consider

every possibility, including instructors.”

“My mom has a pretty good alibi,” Chloe observed. “You and

me.” When he shot her an exasperated glance she added defen-

sively, “I’m just sayin’.”

“Marit is
obviously
not on my list,” he said. “But Emil and Sigrid are. Emil admitted to clashing with Petra once—”

“That whole chisler-turpentine sniffer feud thing?” Chloe

leaned back in her seat. “That doesn’t strike me as motive for murder, especially since Emil got the last laugh. Not quite on the level of the way Howard Hoff and Tom Rimestad might feel, for example.”

148

“I agree,” Roelke said. “I’m not aware of any recent conflict

between Petra and Emil. He’s a bit quirky, but harmless. As for Sigrid—”

“No way.”

“Chloe—”

“I’m
telling
you, no way. I’ve known her all my life. She’s one of my mother’s best friends.” She gave him an indignant look.

Which was completely spoiled by the dab of powdered sugar at

the corner of her mouth. Roelke was tempted to lean close and

kiss it away, but didn’t want to risk another unfortunate defeat-by-immovable furniture moment. His hand twitched with wanting.

Something else started to twitch —

Jesus
. He cleared his throat, studied his cards, shuffled through them a couple of times to give the impression he was considering

complex possibilities.

Chloe cupped her mug in her hands, interlacing her fingers,

which were long and lovely …

Get it
together,
he ordered himself. He was a cop. He was in charge of this conversation. He shuffled again, found Sigrid’s card, placed it deliberately on the table.

Chloe put down the mug and folded her arms.

“We knew before we even found Petra that people resented her

for winning that medal,” Roelke reminded her. “
Especially
because Sigrid’s daughter did not win a medal.”

Chloe opened her mouth, closed it again.

“Look, I am not saying that
I
think Sigrid attacked Petra,” he muttered. “But you can be sure that Buzzelli and Chief Moyer and

the DCI agents are considering that maybe Sigrid was a jealous

mama—”

149

“Seriously?” Chloe looked horrified. “They’ve labeled Sigrid a

suspect?”

Roelke scrubbed his face with his palms. “I have no idea who

they’ve labeled a suspect. That’s the point of this little exercise. I have no official role in the investigation, but at the same time I’m right in the middle of it.
We’re
right in the middle of it. I can’t just report to Moyer once a day and walk away whistling
Dixie
and forget all about it.”

“No.” She sighed. “I don’t suppose you can.”

“Do you have any idea what Sigrid was doing in the hour or so

before we arrived at the reception Sunday evening?”

“No. And don’t ask me to ask her.”

“I won’t ask you to ask her,” Roelke promised, although he’d

been planning to.

Chloe looked at his cards. “What about Violet?”

He found his Violet card. It held a single line:
Didn’t get her
medal July 1982.

“She says she’s not upset about what happened, and that she’s

upset by people who think she should be upset.”

Roelke decided not to write that down.

“But … on some level she’s
got
to be frustrated about it. And sometimes Violet is just a teensy bit too calm and sweet to be true.”

Chloe fidgeted with her napkin. “Did I say that out loud?”

“What’s up between you and Violet?”

“She keeps cozying up to my mother. I know that sounds

pathetic, but there it is. Every time I try to make some honest

headway with my mom, offering her sympathy or support or

something, I get rejected and Violet steps in instead. It’s quite

annoying.”

150

“Oh.” Roelke decided not to write that down, either.

“I did find out one fact about Violet last night. She works for

the Scandinavian Studies department at Luther College.”

“Does that matter?”

“Only in the context of Howard’s cabal theory.” She shrugged.

“Violet speaks of Howard as a close family friend. Howard thinks

there’s a secret plot afoot on campus to dismantle the museum

and return some of the earliest, most valuable artifacts to the college. Violet denies it, but is she in cahoots with this scurrilous unnamed professor?”

Roelke sensed a whiff of mockery. “Cahoots? Scurrilous? Who

are you, Dudley Do-Right?”

“I’m sorry. I know this is serious. But the truth is, Petra might

have pissed off any number of people in this town over the years.

How could we ever identify them all?”

“We can’t.” He beat a staccato rhythm on the tabletop with his

pencil. Buzzelli and the DCI agents might have a long list of sus-

pects, but they weren’t going to share that list with him. That was both wholly appropriate and completely maddening.

“I keep wondering if the attack occurring
inside
the museum has some significance,” Chloe added. “If someone planned to hurt

Petra, wouldn’t they have chosen a safer location? Safer for making a getaway?”

“I’ve thought about that too,” Roelke said. “Any visitor might

have wandered into the Norwegian House just in time to see the

attack taking place. And the trunk Petra got dumped in was right

below the window that opens to the main corridor, which doubled

the risk. That suggests that the attack was spontaneous.”

“And no sign of a struggle, right?” Chloe asked.

151

Roelke increased the tempo of his pencil. “Not that I’m
aware

of. Nothing obvious at the scene, anyway.” If forensics had turned up something else, nobody had told him.

“So … it seems likely that Petra was approached by someone

she knew, she said or did something to enrage that guy, and that

guy snatched up a handy artifact—the
lefse
pin—and struck her with it.”

“We don’t know for sure the attack came from a man,” Roelke

reminded her. “Petra was a small woman, and the pin was a very

effective weapon. It’s heavy, but the handle would make it easy for anyone to swing with a lot of force.”

Chloe pushed her plate away. “I don’t want to talk about this

anymore right now.”

“OK.” Roelke collected his cards, tapped the edges, and tucked

the stack into his shirt pocket. “Thanks, though. This was helpful.”

She slid one hand across the table until her fingers rested

lightly on his. “This week isn’t turning out at all like I expected. I got sucked into museum work, and you got sucked into this crime

stuff. Since you dragged me out at this ungodly hour, it would be

fun to at least savor a little you-and-me time.”

“You’ll get no argument from me on
that
.”

Her smile was sly, even seductive. “I was thinking that

maybe—”

Roelke desperately wanted to hear what Chloe was thinking.

Unfortunately, a sudden clamor drowned her out as half a dozen

people shoved in the café. Several were banging spoons on tin

pans. One was blowing a child’s toy horn, and another twirling

some wooden gizmo that made a ratcheting noise. All were dressed

152

in outrageous costumes, like Halloween trick-or-treaters on ste-

roids. He couldn’t even tell if he was looking at men or women.

Chatter in the café died. The intruders paraded among the

tables, extracting the highest decibel level possible from their

noisemakers.

“What the hell?” Roelke muttered. Some of the other custom-

ers looked as baffled as he felt. Others were grinning.

The parade approached the back corner. The lead marcher

wore a voluminous red bathrobe over a parka and what appeared

to be heavy overalls. A mask concealed whatever facial features

weren’t hidden by a lampshade hat and a wig made from several

string mops. Instead of a noisemaker, this person carried what on

first glance Roelke saw as a child’s toy—an animal head on a stick that boys a century ago might have galloped about on. But this

wasn’t some cheerful and fanciful rendition of a stallion. It

appeared to be a wooden goat’s head, carved with wide glaring

eyes and long flaring horns and a mouth that snapped open and

closed. The leader shook the goat head at them as the parade cir-

cled by.

“What—the—
hell?
” Roelke repeated. He glanced at Chloe, and was alarmed at her expression. “Hey, you OK?”

She licked her lips before giving him a shaky nod. “Damn
jule-

bukkers
,” she murmured. “Sorry. They startled me, that’s all.”

Roelke remembered something Chloe had said when her

mother saddled her with the folklore project.
Now I’ll be spending
my evenings talking about goats. Julebukkers. Don’t ask. I hate them.

The
julebukkers
completed their circuit and lined up near the front door. “Nels Andahl, you old goat, I know that’s you!” a

patron at the counter shouted. A man wearing a woman’s dress

153

removed his lion mask, grinning sheepishly. Within moments the

revelers had all been unmasked. The efficient waitress—with an

uncharacteristic grin on her face—came from the kitchen with a

tray of pastries and cookies for them.

“OK,” Roelke said. “I need an explanation.”

“It’s an old Norwegian tradition.” Chloe managed a shaky

smile. “In this country, it’s only persisted in a few areas of heavy Norwegian settlement. People dress up and visit their neighbors.

All in fun.”

“You’re not laughing.”

“I got creeped out when I was a kid. In the way-back days peo-

ple carried a goat’s head around, symbolizing the goats slaugh-

tered at this time of year. When I was little, some friends of my

dad’s showed up at my house with a real head on a pole. They

shoved into our house without knocking. I was terrified.”

“Any kid would be.”

“When I started screaming they whipped their costumes off so