Heritage of Darkness (22 page)

how relaxed. Somehow this class was turning into a very good

183

thing for Roelke. “OK,” she said. “It was just an idea. I’m glad

you’re enjoying the class.”

She felt his tension ease. “You really need to talk with Emil

about trees sometime, Chloe. You two would get on.”

“I wish I’d taken his carving class instead of the rosemaling,” she said. “I went to forestry school, not art school. The painting workshop has hurt my relationship with mom instead of helping it.”

Roelke folded his arms. “Can’t you put the whole mother-thing

aside? Maybe get excited by the class itself?”

“That’s kinda hard to do when my mother is the teacher,”

Chloe observed. “I will never, ever live up to the expectations of Marit Kallerud, sainted Sixty-Seven and Gold Medalist.”

Roelke was silent again, this time for even longer. Chloe

stamped her feet to keep blood flowing. Finally Roelke said,

“Hunh.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

She frowned.
“What?
There’s obviously something on your

mind.”

“It’s just that … I’ve never heard you whine before. I never

thought of you as a quitter.”

“I’m not a quitter!”

He shrugged. “You just said you wanted to go home. And

you’ve already decided that your painting class can only end in

failure.”

Chloe opened her mouth, closed it again. They stood for a long

moment. The intimacy she’d been savoring had vanished. So had

her pleasure at being in the woods. At last she said, “We better get going.”

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“You still want to see Emil’s carvings?”

A sudden blast of wind brought tears to her eyes. “Let’s do that

another time.”



They trudged back down the hill. Roelke was painfully aware of

the silence, the distance, that had come between them.

When they reached the road Chloe said, “I think I better go to

Sigrid’s house and—and change my clothes before heading out for

tonight’s interview.” She didn’t meet his gaze.

“I’ll walk you back—”

“No. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She lifted one hand in vague fare-

well and started striding toward town—hands in pockets, head

down.

Roelke watched until she disappeared from sight, his jaw tight.

Well, hell. He and Chloe had experienced some mighty arguments.

She’d stalked away from him in anger more than once. But this

quiet chill was a first. And it sucked.

My observation was fair, though, he thought. He couldn’t claim

to know much about maintaining a serious relationship, but being

truthful was important. Right? Honestly, he just didn’t understand Chloe’s attitude on this whole painting thing. Sure, Marit could be difficult. And he wasn’t so stupid as to assume he had an
inkling
of how complicated Marit’s relationship with Chloe was. But Marit

was basically a nice person. She was passionate about a folk art

and wanted to share that with her daughter.

These classes are special, Roelke thought. Why didn’t Chloe get

that? Expert instructors, rare antiques for inspiration … He wished 185

he could have shared something like this with one of his own par-

ents. And he really did think that Chloe should cut her mom some

slack. Just a little.

A passing truck threw some slush as it passed, startling Roelke

from his roadside reverie. Standing here all evening wouldn’t

accomplish anything. He considered his options. Then he walked

back toward town himself.

He went straight to the police station. Moyer was in. Buzzelli

was not. “I know I’m early,” Roelke told the chief. “I was free, and figured that—”

“No problem,” Moyer said. “Anything new to report?”

“Did you hear about that message tube thing?”

Chief Moyer’s expression made it clear that he had not.

“The … what?”

“I guess Investigator Buzzelli hasn’t had a chance to brief you

yet,” Roelke said blandly. He explained.

The chief folded his hands tent-like in front of him, tapping

the tips. “I wish Mr. Hoff had been forthcoming about this. I

understand that his relationship with Ms. Lekstrom—whatever it

was—is a sensitive topic. But for God’s sake, we’re investigating

her murder.”

“It makes me wonder,” Roelke agreed. “Hoff tried to hide his

true relationship with the victim. What else might he be hiding?”

“Exactly,” Moyer muttered.

Roelke tried to gauge the chief ’s mood. A very fine line existed

between what Moyer could and could not reveal to an out-of-town

cop, and Roelke knew he was walking it. “Has the ME’s report

come in yet?” he asked, as casually as humanly possible.

186

“The ME confirms that the head wound was consistent with a

blow made by that
lefse
pin.”

“Any prints on the pin? Or the trunk?”

“Nope.

“So the killer probably struck Lekstrom in a sudden rage. He or

she then panicked and tried to hide the body and weapon in the

trunk, but was still composed enough to wipe away prints. How

about the angle of the blow? Was it one-handed or two-handed?”

“One. The ME believes the attacker grabbed the pin in his or

her right hand and swung it laterally.”

“Hunh.” Roelke considered. “I’ve hefted a similar pin. It would

take some strength to swing it with one hand.”

“I’m not ruling women out, but I suspect we’re looking for a

man.”

“I understand that the investigator and the DCI agent talked

with Lavinia Carmichael again early this morning,” Roelke said.

“Anything new come of that?”

Moyer hesitated, then shook his head. “Investigator Buzzelli

briefed me just before lunch, and he didn’t mention her.”

Roelke could tell he’d heard everything he was going to hear.

He left the police station and paused on the front step, replaying what he’d learned. Moyer was being straight with him, but Buzzelli might be holding some cards close to his chest. Besides, this was a DCI case. Roelke had no access to whatever Buzzelli and the agent

had learned about Lekstrom’s acquaintances—who had alibis,

who was still a possible suspect, who had been eliminated.

I’ll just keep poking at it from this end, he thought. That’s all

he could do. Although … Chloe thought he was too involved as it

was. Roelke’s jaw tightened as he remembered her walking away

187

on this dark, cold night. He’d plowed a snow bank between them.

Now Chloe was off on her interview—
somewhere
. He had no idea when she’d get back to Sigrid’s house. If he tried calling her later he might wake one of the older women. Not that he was a big fan

of trying to work something out on the telephone. And right now,

he didn’t know what to say anyway.

Dammit all, he thought crossly. Talking to Chloe would have to

wait until tomorrow.

That pointed him back to police work. OK. He didn’t know

who the DPD liked for the murder, but
he
had two top suspects: Tom Rimestad and Howard Hoff. He’d already questioned Emil,

the only other man he’d met who’d known the victim. Perhaps he

could ask some local if there’d ever been any buzz about the carver and the painter, but right now, he wasn’t aware of any smoldering

animosity or recent conflict.

As for Hoff, Buzzelli and the DCI guy might be talking to him

right this minute—examining the antique message tube, asking

him to record what he remembered about the threatening note it

had contained, maybe scaring the director into revealing some

other juicy tidbit he’d tried to keep hidden.

That left Rimestad. He’d clearly harbored a smoldering resent-

ment toward Lekstrom. He’d also been at Vesterheim the day Lek-

strom was attacked. Motive and opportunity, right there.

The night is young, Roelke thought. He decided to grab supper

at Mabe’s. With any luck, pizza would help him figure out how he

might learn more about Tom Rimestad.

188

twenty

Edwina Ree lived on an isolated farm several miles west of Dec-

orah. The concentration needed to find it in the dark while avoid-

ing snowy ditches helped Chloe set aside her hillside conversation with Roelke. It also helped her set aside the phone conversation

she’d just had with Nika, who’d turned up an ominous footnote

about the old use of
budstikker
.

“I am having just a splendid day,” Chloe said, squinting at a

mailbox. OK. Here it was.

She cautiously crept down a long unplowed driveway, aiming

for a single set of tire tracks. The drive rounded a bend and ended beside a lovely old frame house. Chloe parked and got out. The

farm showed no commercial patina of Christmas cheer—no

strings of colored lights on the shrubbery, no plastic snowmen, no wreath on the front door. But a sheaf of grain had been tied with a red ribbon on the porch railing for avian visitors, and a porch light provided a welcome glow.

189

The front door opened and a tall, white-haired woman stepped

outside. She clutched a heavy black shawl over her shoulders, but

hadn’t troubled to pull on coat or mittens. Chloe headed toward

the porch, trying to hurry without losing her footing. She didn’t

want Ms. Ree to get chilled.

Just as Chloe opened her mouth to call a greeting Ms. Ree

tipped her head, as if listening for something. All Chloe could hear was the wind sighing with impatience, but the old woman stood

motionless for a long moment. Something about her stillness sent

a disquieting quiver along Chloe’s spine.

Then Ms. Ree turned her head and smiled, and the spookiness

disappeared. “Chloe? I’m Edwina. Please, my dear, come in from

the cold.”

Two minutes later Chloe was ensconced in a parlor that

smelled much like every other timeworn Midwestern parlor—

some indefinable blend of furniture polish and old upholstery,

spiced with the faint whiff of crumbling leather from a huge Bible.

Several stern portraits in gilt frames might have been hanging

from their decorative cords since Victorian times. A stereopticon

sat on a side table beside a stack of the oblong cards that had

brought faraway scenes into this Iowa farmhouse a century ago.

Only the presence of electric lights, a plastic radio, and lime-green knitting needles poking from a basket kept the room from

museum status.

While Edwina busied herself in the kitchen Chloe closed her

eyes for a moment, opening herself to whatever might be lingering

in this old home. She perceived only a faint swirl of emotions lingering here, nothing unusual. Just the way she liked it.

190

Edwina emerged from the kitchen without cookies, which at

this point was a relief, and served Chloe hot chocolate in a delicate teacup. “Thank you,” Chloe said gratefully, wrapping her fingers

around the warm china. She studied her hostess surreptitiously as

she sipped. Edwina’s blue dress reached mid-shin length, and she

wore heavy stockings with black shoes. She was quite thin—bony,

really—with snowy braids wrapped coronet-style around her

head. Her face was a crinkle of fine lines. Her eyes were as bright as a child’s, though—intelligent and assessing.

“As I explained on the phone,” Chloe began, “I’m helping with

Vesterheim’s Christmas folklore project.”

“The persistence of tradition is of great interest to me,” Edwina

said. She sat quite still with back straight, hands folded in her lap, legs crossed at the ankle.

Chloe found herself perching erect too. “I understand your

family has deep roots in the area?” She turned on her recorder and smiled encouragingly.

“My mother’s parents left Norway in 1867 and settled right

here, on this land,” Edwina said. “My parents died when I was a

baby, so my grandparents raised me. My grandfather kept to the

old ways, and told me many tales he’d learned as a child, even

though my grandmother scoffed at most of them.” Edwina paused

to sip her own cocoa. “As I grew older their differences fascinated me, and I developed an academic interest in folklore. I studied history at Luther College, and became an archivist in part because I

believed it essential to document the beliefs of first- and second-generation immigrants.”

191

“As I’ve heard about old Christmas traditions this week,” Chloe

said, “I’ve been intrigued by the transition of some aspects of holiday celebrations from pagan to Christian times.”

Edwina nodded. “Many a good Norwegian family today con-

siders a thorough housecleaning the first essential step of holiday preparation. Women say they do this to welcome the infant Christ.

But as children, my grandparents were taught to clean well at

Christmas because this period signaled a return of the dead.”

“A return of the dead?” Chloe took that in. “I did not know

that.”

“You were raised in a Christian church?”

“Lutheran.”

“Well, it hasn’t been all that many generations ago that church

leaders labored to Christianize people’s worldview,” Edwina said.

“Preachers urged Norwegian folk to forget stories that had been

passed down for centuries. Have you heard of
mørkemakten?
”

“Um … no.”

“It refers to the power of darkness. Our ancestors believed that

evil forces were present during these dark days.”

Chloe was starting to wish that Edwina
had
wanted to talk

about Christmas cookies. Seriously, a rosette or two would be