Heritage of Darkness (4 page)

plaints. “Howard!” she gasped. “Call an ambulance. There’s a

woman in—in the Norwegian House. She’s badly hurt.”

He stared at her with wide, blood-shot eyes.

“Go!”

He hurried away. Chloe made her way to the front door and

planted herself as human barricade.

Mom and Sigrid approached, wearing identical frowns.

“Chloe?” Mom asked. “What on earth is the matter?”

18

Chloe fought a wave of dizziness by leaning over, hands on her

knees. “I think I just found Petra Lekstrom.”

19

four

When Howard Hoff burst into the Norwegian House, Roelke

rose from his crouch to full command presence. “Get out.”

The museum director took two more steps and froze, staring

white-faced into the trunk. “That’s Petra! What
happened
?”

“Sir, you
must
wait in the hall.” Roelke stared at Hoff until the older man reluctantly backtracked. It was critical to minimize con-tamination of evidence. Roelke was pretty sure that Ms. Lekstrom

had not reacted to the first signs of heart attack or stroke by climb-ing into an antique trunk. Someone had attacked and then

dumped her in there.

Less than eight minutes later two cops arrived. “You’ve got a

crime scene,” Roelke advised. He pulled his badge from his wallet

and flashed it their way:
I speak your language.
“Want me on door duty?” It needed to be done, it was something the locals might

entrust to a visiting cop, and he wanted to make sure Chloe was

OK.

“That’d be great,” one of the cops said.

20

The EMTs arrived as Roelke slid through the crowded lobby.

He found Chloe with one arm braced across the door, speaking

politely but firmly to an elderly couple. “… afraid not,” she was

saying. Her face was pale, but she was composed.

“But
why?
” the gentleman demanded. “If someone’s hurt, we’re only in the way.”

Roelke blocked the exit. “Sir, the police have asked all of us to

stay.”

When the couple had backed off, Sigrid clutched his arm.

“Roelke, what happened to Petra?” she exclaimed. “Howard

said—”

“I can’t speculate,” Roelke said. “
None
of us may speculate.” He saw Chloe bite her lip, nod. She got it.

Everyone fell silent as the EMTs emerged from the exhibit area

with Petra on a gurney. Roelke held the door open and watched

them transfer their patient out to the ambulance. More cops

arrived—several in uniform, a couple of men in plain clothes.

One of them conferred with the others before clapping his

hands loudly. “Attention, please. I’m Chief Moyer, Decorah PD. My

officers need to speak with each of you. Your cooperation is both

vital and appreciated.”

Roelke sized up Moyer. He wore a plaid sports jacket, yellow

shirt, dark trousers, and loafers with tassels. His hair—sandy

curls—was worn longer than most cops would tolerate, and was

accompanied by a Magnum, P.I. mustache. All that would have

given Roelke pause if Moyer hadn’t accessorized the trendy attire

with an unmistakable air of authority.

Chloe leaned close to Roelke. “Was Petra still alive when the

EMTs got here?” she whispered.

21

“Yeah.” He was not optimistic, though. Since Lekstrom appar-

ently had been unconscious for some time, he suspected blunt

trauma had been involved, probably to the head. “You OK?”

“I’ve been better,” she admitted. “But I’m OK.”

Roelke blew out a slow breath. “That’s good,” he said, “because

it’s going to be a long night.”

His prediction was spot-on. It took time for the local cops to

wrangle the reception guests, escorting them in small groups to

the nearby police station to give statements; more time for DPD’s

Investigator Buzzelli, a stocky gray-haired man with flinty eyes

and the demeanor of an ex-marine, to interview the two of them

about discovering the victim.

Through it all, Roelke kept an eye on Chloe. She’s tougher than

she looks, he reminded himself. She was thin and fair, but her delicate features hid an inner strength. Although clearly strained,

Chloe was holding it together.

Howard Hoff was not. Roelke heard growing agitation in the

director’s voice as he talked with the authorities. After a few minutes Investigator Buzzelli stepped into view and beckoned. “Miss

Ellefson?”

She shot Roelke a perplexed look before obeying the summons.

He followed her into the corridor outside the Norwegian House.

The director’s shoulders sagged with apparent relief as they

approached. “Chloe, I was trying to explain to Investigator Buzzelli that while of
course
we will cooperate in every possible way, it is also vitally important that officers respect the exhibit, the artifacts—most of them were gifts from the Norwegian govern-

ment—irreplaceable—I—”

“Um … I’m not sure what you want me to do.”

22

Buzzelli sighed. “Director Hoff suggested that we consult with

you about any aspect of the crime scene investigation that affects the antiques.”

Chloe took a step backwards, landing on Roelke’s toes in the

process. He wasn’t sure if that was accidental or if she was looking for literal support. “Why me?” she asked. “I don’t work here. I just
got
here.”

“But you’re a professional,” Hoff said. “Since our curator

resigned recently …”

“All we’ve done so far is take photographs,” Buzzelli said. “But

IDCI agents from the field office in Cedar Falls are due any time

now.”

Roelke parsed that through: Iowa Division of Criminal Investi-

gation. Made sense. Most towns the size of Decorah did not have

the resources to take full responsibility for what likely would

become a murder investigation.

“And an evidence team is en route from Des Moines,” Buzzelli

continued. He looked at Chloe. “They will need to examine the

antiques in this exhibit. Director Hoff has asked that you be present.”

Hoff nodded earnestly. “I want to assure our Board, and our

donors, that Vesterheim did everything possible to preserve and

protect the objects entrusted to our care.”

It seemed to Roelke that Hoff was just as interested in preserv-

ing and protecting his own butt, but he didn’t blame the man for

that. Sometimes CYA was a sound policy.

Chloe hesitated only briefly. “Sure, Howard. I’ll stick around.”



23

Eleven o’clock found Roelke waiting by the cheerfully-dressed

manikins. Floorboards creaked above his head—cops, no doubt,

crawling through every inch of the museum. It would be foolish to

assume that evidence was confined to the Norwegian House. Hoff

was nearby, slumped in a folding chair.

Chloe stood beside Roelke, arms crossed tightly against her

chest. He wanted to get her out of there, but the evidence team was still at work inside the Norwegian House. Through a handy window Roelke caught glimpses of forensics guys doing their thing.

Chief Moyer emerged from the Norwegian House, a pair of

protective booties spoiling his otherwise natty appearance. Hoff

jumped to his feet, but the chief waved him back into his chair.

“Give us a moment, Director Hoff.” He extended his hand to

Roelke and Chloe in turn. “Officer McKenna? And Miss Ellefson?

Thanks for sticking around. I know you’ve already given state-

ments, but since you two found the victim, I’d like to hear the

story from you as well.”

Roelke obliged the request. “So,” he concluded, “I made sure

the scene was secure until the first responder arrived.”

“Several people identified the victim as Miss Petra Lekstrom.

Neither of you knew her?”

“No,” Chloe said. “Her name came up several times this eve-

ning, though.”

Roelke had made some notes, and now he pulled an index card

from his pocket. “People looked for Ms. Lekstrom at the reception.

I heard a woman in the crowd say ‘She’s probably off making trou-

ble for somebody.’ About fifteen minutes later, Chloe and I left the lobby and stopped here to look at this display.” He gestured. “A

24

couple walking by was complaining about Ms. Lekstrom. Some-

thing about winning a medal?” He looked at Chloe.

Chloe nodded. “Evidently Petra won her Gold Medal at the

National Exhibition last July.”

“I moved to Decorah in August,” Chief Moyer said. “Can you

fill me in on that?”

“Decorah celebrates Nordic Fest every July,” Chloe said. “You

know, a big festival.”

Moyer nodded.

“Vesterheim organizes a rosemaling competition and exhibi-

tion at the same time. Ribbon winners get points. Painters who

earn enough points over the years earn a Gold Medal. It’s a really,
really
big deal.”

“I see.”

“The couple who walked past me and Roelke earlier seemed

miffed that Petra hadn’t shown up to meet her students at the

reception.” Chloe rubbed her arms briskly. “The man said Petra

had a big ego, and the lady seemed to think that Petra hadn’t

deserved to win a Gold Medal in the first place.”

“Hmm.” The chief ’s eyes narrowed. I don’t think he misses

much, Roelke thought.

Two men carried the trunk from the Norwegian House, fol-

lowed by Investigator Buzelli. Chloe looked horrified. “Don’t

carry that by the handles!”

The techs exchanged a wary glance. “And…how exactly are we

supposed to carry it?” one asked.

“Please, support it from the bottom,” Chloe begged. “And—oh

geez, did you use tape?” She pointed at an identification tag on the trunk.

25

Howard shot to his feet and hurried over.

“The trunk is going into evidence,” Buzzelli said. “It has to be

marked in a manner which permits identification in court, and we

have to be able to prove that continuity of possession has been

maintained. Right now, it’s heading to the Ames lab for analysis.

Mr. Hoff, I have a receipt here for you to sign.” The investigator busied Hoff with paperwork.

“Will the lab people use chemicals or anything when they

examine the trunk?” Chloe asked the chief.

“That might be necessary,” Moyer conceded. “But in the long

run, their work might not be any more damaging than leaving

blood or other body fluids on the antique would be.”

Chloe swallowed visibly. Another tech emerged from the Nor-

wegian House. He held what appeared to be one whopping rolling

pin with carved ridges, sealed into a plastic bag. “Is that …? Did whoever …?”

“It was in the trunk with the victim,” Chief Moyer said. “Hid-

den beneath her long skirt.”

“Hunh.” Roelke eyed the pin. Swung by one hand, or crashed

down with two hands, it would have packed one hell of a wallop.

“That’s the biggest rolling pin I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s a
lefse
pin,” Chloe said.

Roelke looked at her. Buzzelli and Moyer did too.

“You know.” Her voice was getting higher, tighter. “For making

lefse
.”

Whatever
lefse
was. Roelke decided to ask questions later. Right now, he really wanted to get Chloe out of here. Turning to the

chief he said, “If that’s all you need …?”

“Just one more thing. Ms. Ellefson, could you excuse us?”

26

The chief drew Roelke away. Roelke found himself in front of a

mural that depicted a group of immigrants walking to a dock,

about to embark on the voyage to America. Petra Lekstrom’s

ancestors had made that journey. Roelke remembered what Chloe

had said about how hard it must have been for immigrants to pack

everything needed for the new world in a wooden trunk. It seemed

particularly offensive that Petra Lekstrom, dressed in Norwegian

finery, had been dumped in such a trunk.

“Officer McKenna?”

OK, concentrate. “What can I do for you?”

“I understand that tonight’s reception was held to welcome

teachers and students to the museum. And that you and Miss

Ellefson are scheduled to participate in classes this week.”

Roelke glanced back at Chloe. God, she was beautiful. With her

long blonde hair coiled behind her head, and her chicory-blue

eyes, she could easily have stepped from the mural.

The chief cleared his throat.

“Right,” Roelke confirmed.

“Mr. Hoff told me he’s determined to keep the classes going.”

Roelke chewed that over. “Makes sense. Hoff exhibited signs of

anxiety earlier, evidently due at least in part to the museum’s

financial stability.”

Moyer spoke with a hint of suppressed anger. “Someone put

Miss Lekstrom into that trunk.”

“Yeah.” Roelke drummed one thumb against his thigh.

“This crime does not feel random. DCI will take the lead in

this investigation, but my department will conduct a parallel and

joint investigation. Although Investigator Buzzelli is the official liaison with the DCI team, I will remain involved.”

27

Roelke nodded. Chief Moyer was new—to the job, to Decorah.

If this crime went unsolved, his career would end up chipped on

toast.

“I don’t know the local people,” the chief said. “And I’m not

Norwegian. Nor is Investigator Buzzelli.”

“Neither am I.”

“But you’re a police officer. And you’ll be in the center of activity this week. Keep your eyes and ears open, and please stay in