Heritage of Darkness (32 page)

about sixteen seconds she’d added delicate outlines and decorative flourishes to one scroll and flower. Chloe watched with amazement as the motif popped to life.

“See?” Mom said.

“That looks good,” Chloe admitted. “But I ruined it, here.” She

pointed. “I dropped my brush the night of the fire.”

270

Mom studied the tray. Then—a few more strokes in different

colors, a bit more with the liner—and the area looked … if not

perfect, much improved.

“That’s a lot better,” Chloe said. “Um … thanks.”

“You could have asked for my help, you know.”

She just isn’t going to make this easy, Chloe thought. “Yes,

Mom. You’re right. I should have asked for help.”

“You were hedging your bets, Chloe. I think it was a lot easier

to
not
ask for help. Then you could declare yourself a rosemaling disaster, with complete permission to never try again.”

Chloe didn’t have it in her to agree again. She tried to make do

with a sigh, open for interpretation.

“Do you know what I have loved most about rosemaling?”

Mom asked.

“Winning your Gold Medal.”

“No.” Mom stared at Chloe’s tray, but her gaze had turned

inward. “Every time I pick up a brush, I feel connected to the old days when skilled painters traveled through Norway’s remote val-leys. Rosemaling was done in the winter, so the artists probably

traveled by sleigh, or perhaps just on skis. I picture isolated families welcoming the rosemaler into their dark little cabins—back in the days when most people lived in windowless houses with just

an open hearth to provide warmth and light. Can you imagine

what a joy it would be to have the painter at work while snow fell and wind howled? Can you imagine how people felt while watching the painter bring such vivid life and color to their world during winter’s bleakest, darkest days?”

“Well … I can now,” Chloe allowed.

271

Mom looked startled, as if she hadn’t expected an answer. “No

one today can truly realize how precious rosemaling was to people

who had so little,” she said briskly. “I know my tiny efforts will never have that kind of impact. Still, I like to think I’m honoring an important tradition.”

“You are, Mom,” Chloe said quietly. “You truly are.” And for a

moment she thought Mom might accept the compliment; might

squeeze her hand and express appreciation; might even invite

more confidences.

Mom picked up Chloe’s second class project—the bowl that

she’d barely begun. “I don’t think you’re going to finish this today.”

So much for confidences. “No. I am definitely not going to fin-

ish that today.”

Mom swiveled in her chair and pointed at the Christmas orna-

ments Gwen had painted. “I have a new assignment for you, Chloe.

Go down to the shop, buy an ornament, and paint it. Use whatever

colors appeal to you. Do anything you want. Just have fun with it.”

For two seconds that promise of rosemaling freedom seemed

miraculous. Then that promise of freedom turned overwhelming.

Do
anything?
Chloe thought. She had no idea how to “do anything.” Not even a clue. “But—”

“Is it OK if we come back in now?” one of the students asked as

she hurried into the room. It was the serious young woman with

long bangs, surely one of the painters who dreamed of competing

one day.

“Of course!” Mom smiled serenely. “Chloe has an errand to

run, but I’m ready to teach.”

272

twenty-nine

By four o’clock, when Chloe wandered out to the Open Air Di-

vision, the sleet had given way to an honest snowfall. That should please Howard, she thought. If it was hard to attract visitors to a museum where a murder had recently taken place, it was surely

even harder to get those visitors outside and feeling festive while ice flew into their faces like birdshot.

Although one of the Decorah PD’s finest was patrolling among

the old buildings, and the cloudy sky lent a gray chill to the afternoon, Vesterheim’s staff and volunteers had done their best. Old-

fashioned lanterns hung from posts along the pathways, and more

lamps glowed in cabin windows. Docents were ready to greet

guests. Children pelted each other with snowballs. A group of car-

olers strolled among the buildings singing Norwegian favorites.

Chloe was studying a program of events when strong arms

reached around her middle from behind. “Hey, you,” Roelke whis-

pered. She closed her eyes, nestling her cheek against his chin. He released her all too soon.

273

She turned to face him. His cheeks were ruddy from cold.

Snowflakes dusted his dark hair. God, he looked good …

“Hey,” she said belatedly. The single syllable sounded husky.

The corner of his mouth quirked up, but all he said was,

“What’s going on?”

She waved the program. “A bunch of stuff. Volunteers in the

drying shed are showing how good Norwegians sprouted barley to

make Christmas beer. My mother is in the Valdres House—” she

pointed to a red structure—“baking waffles. The Luren Singers are

giving a concert in the Bethania Lutheran Church across the street at eight, and I thought maybe we could go to that …?” She studied

his face for any sign of Norwegian burnout. “You know, something

normal? It could even be like a date.”

“A date sounds pretty good,” he agreed.

Chloe felt a ripple of something good inside. “But first, Edwina

Ree is scheduled for a storytelling session in the church in …” She checked her watch. “Well, soon. If you still want to meet her, I’ll introduce you before she gets started.”

As they walked across the lawn, Roelke told her what had hap-

pened with Lavinia that morning. “She swallowed a chip of wood

that had landed in the open can of ginger ale. She didn’t choke,

but it lodged in her larynx and she couldn’t speak.”

“How horrid! She’s OK?”

“Emil said they decided to keep her in the hospital overnight to

make sure there’s no bleeding. Since she lives alone, I’m glad about that. But you’ll have to wait a day to talk with her about Adelle and that wood fungus thing.”

They’d reached the steps of Bethania church. Roelke put a

hand on Chloe’s arm to keep her from joining the guests flowing

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inside. “But there’s something else. Her trip to the ER gave me a

chance to look into the notebook she’s kept ever since she started taking classes here way back when. One section is sort of like a

journal.”

“Learn anything helpful?” Chloe asked. She hated all this pry-

ing and poking, but not as much as she hated having a killer wan-

dering around Decorah.

“I found out why Lavinia hated Petra. Adelle dreamed of enter-

ing the rosemaling competition, but it took her a while to scrape

up the courage. Evidently Petra gave her a Norwegian saying to use on her piece. Does that make sense?”

Chloe nodded. “Lots of painted bowls and platters include

pithy folk sayings.”

“Well, evidently the phrase that Petra translated for Adelle was

ever-so-slightly off. Enough to change the meaning from some-

thing pithy to something lewd. Adelle was mortified and swore

she’d never paint again. Lavinia quit in solidarity.”

Petra, Chloe thought, you really were quite the bitch.

Inside the church, Chloe was able to catch Edwina’s eye and

make introductions. “Quick question,” Roelke said. “I’m unoffi-

cially consulting with the local cops about Petra Lekstrom’s mur-

der, and Emil Bergsbakken suggested that I talk with you.”

“Me?” Edwina looked taken aback.

“He said you know more about what happens in Decorah than

anyone.”

“If I had even a
glimmer
of anything helpful, I’d have spoken with the police already.” Edwina shook her head. “Poor Emil. I’m

sure he was just trying to be helpful when he suggested you speak

with me. Since his brother died, I’m probably the closest friend he 275

has left.” She sighed. “But while I’m flattered by his respect, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“Miss Ree?” a volunteer called. “It’s time to begin.”

Roelke and Chloe lingered at the back of the church for a few

moments, but Chloe grew antsy as Edwina began sharing tales of

ancient Norway. “… so the period we know as the Twelve Days of

Christmas was once known as the Wild Hunt. During these long

dark nights a band of the undead raced through the skies, looking

for opportunities to harm the peasants cowering below. A foolish

soul who ventured out alone might be killed outright. Even the

most cautious might find the roof torn from their huts, their wells fouled with urine, or their chimneys clogged with straw.”

Chloe caught Roelke’s eye and jerked her head toward the door.

Once outside, she tugged her wool hat over her ears and led the

way down the steps. “I don’t want to hear one more word about

evil spirits. Let’s go say hi to Mom.”

“I’ll catch up with you, OK?”

She eyed him with sudden suspicion. The man who’d greeted

her with an embrace now look distinctly distracted. “Where are

you going?”

“I just want to check something. I’ll meet you back at the

church before the concert.”

Chloe watched him walk away. What was that all about?

Clank! Clunk! Clang!
A discordant clatter made her forget her errant suitor. She winced as three
julebukkers
emerged from behind a nearby cabin wearing ridiculous costumes over their

woollies. One banged a tin pan with a spoon. Visitors crowded

around the trio, merrily snapping pictures.

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Time to am-scray, Chloe thought. The
julebukkers
might be

doing the righteous work of driving away evil spirits, but she was in no mood to watch, thanks all the same. She turned her back and

headed for the Valdres House. Maybe Mom would give her a waf-

fle or two.

The Valdres House was a slate-shingled building painted a fes-

tive red and green. It perched on a stone foundation atop the hill created when the Iowa River was diverted. Chloe found her

mother sitting beside a hearth in the main room, carefully pouring batter onto an old hand-held waffle iron. She’d changed into traditional dress—not her formal
bunad
, but the striped skirt, blouse, colorful vest, and jacket that her peasant ancestors might have

worn. In the dim light Chloe felt a touch woozy for a moment, as

if she’d stumbled back through the centuries.

“Hey Mom,” she said a little too loudly, and tried again. “This is a great house.”

“That’s right, you haven’t seen it before.” Mom smiled. “It came

all the way from Norway. It’s a typical Norwegian landowner’s

house dating back to 1795, although the covered front entry was

built decades later.” Balancing the iron’s long handles on her knee, she extended the baking surface over the fire.

Roelke’s abrupt departure and the
julebukkers’
arrival had jan-gled Chloe’s nerves, but now she felt tight muscles slowly ease. She usually felt at home in old buildings. The furnishings here were

simple but appealing. A table that folded down from the wall sug-

gested ingenuity. A flax hackle—a bed of sharp nails used to sepa-

rate plant fibers before spinning—suggested the comfort of

domestic routines. Two decorated wall cupboards, one each for

husband and wife to tuck treasures out of reach of childish hands, 277

suggested tradition. The home had a good feel. And Mom did

indeed offer warm, sweet waffles. Chloe munched two.

“Chloe, do you and your young man have plans for the eve-

ning?” Mom asked. “Sigrid, Howard, and I are going to the concert

at the church.”

“Roelke and I are going too,” Chloe said, and was pleased when

a real smile brightened Mom’s features.

Then Mom said, “Did you remember to return that artifact

bowl to storage?”

Chloe had
meant
to return the bowl after the monumental task of packing up her painting supplies and stowing them in Mom’s

Buick. Her cheeks warmed as she realized that the errand had

slipped her mind in anticipation of meeting up with Roelke. “I was just about to,” she lied.

“Please do. We’re responsible for the piece until it’s back where

it belongs.” Mom turned as two visitors wandered inside. “Wel-

come to Christmas at the Valdres House! People from the Valdres

region knew this season as ‘the strong and powerful days …’ ”

Chloe slipped outside, berating herself for forgetting the bowl.

And just, she thought, when things with Mom were getting a

teensy bit better —

“Oh!”
As Chloe stepped from the entryway, a
julebukker
leapt from a shadowed corner and grabbed Chloe’s left wrist. “Let go!”

Chloe squawked. She tried to slow her suddenly-racing heart and

pull her hand free at the same time.

The reveler yanked her away from the door. Through a hazy

twilight curtain of snowflakes Chloe saw an enormous polka-dot-

ted housedress and—beneath a wig of black yarn and a towering

278

fur hat that looked like something from
Dr. Zhivago
—a rubbery Satan mask, the kind that covered the wearer’s whole head.

“I’m not going with you!” Chloe snapped.

The
julebukker
whipped something from behind his back and

shoved it toward her. Chloe glimpsed glowing animal eyes, wicked

animal teeth, wildly streaming animal hair—all evoking the child-

hood memory of the threatening strangers brandishing a bloody