Heritage of Darkness (5 page)

touch.” Moyer pulled out his wallet, extracted a business card, and handed it over.

As Roelke tucked it into his billfold, he glanced over his shoul-

der again. Chloe was sitting on the floor now, knees pulled up.

Dammit all, he thought. He’d come on this trip with the vague but

glorious intent of helping Chloe and Marit improve their relation-

ship. Now Chloe was upset. Marit was upset. And he’d just been

asked to help out with what seemed destined to become a murder

investigation.



The home Sigrid shared with her daughter was a beautiful Queen

Anne structure just blocks from Vesterheim. Chloe let Roelke carry her suitcase inside, and she couldn’t focus on the impressive architecture or the antiques furnishing the parlor.

Yikes, she thought. I
am
upset.

Roelke took Mom’s and Chloe’s luggage upstairs, and Sigrid

ushered Mom into the kitchen. After Roelke returned Chloe fol-

lowed him to the front door. “Thanks for everything.”

28

“Are you OK?” He smoothed a strand of hair away from her

face.

“Not entirely,” she admitted. She reached for his hand, twining

her fingers through his. It still felt strange, sometimes, this business of being with Roelke McKenna. They had almost nothing in

common. His cop demeanor had sorta freaked her out when they

first met. During today’s car trip, when he charmed her mother,

she’d seen a completely new personality—which made her wonder

just what else she did not know about him. But tonight … well, she was very glad he’d been present when she opened that trunk.

“I need to go.” He put his free hand behind her head and kissed

her. “Emil’s waiting out front.”

Emil. Right. Emil Bergsbakken, Roelke’s host. “Of course,”

Chloe said. “I’ll see you in the morning.” She stayed by the front window until Roelke had gotten into Emil’s old pickup and driven

away. Something about those disappearing tail lights made her feel lonely.

She turned away. Get a grip, she ordered herself. She might be

dating a cop, but she was not willing to pin her entire sense of

security on his presence. Next time she’d carry her own suitcase,

too.

Before following the low murmur of conversation into the

kitchen she paused in the dim foyer, taking a moment to consider

the house, opening herself. Sigrid’s home was, she guessed, about a century old. Chloe was sometimes receptive to lingering emotions

in historic structures, great joys or piercing sorrows too strong to contain in a human soul. Most often, she perceived only a faint

jumble that she was able to tune out. That was the case here in Sigrid’s home.

29

Which was good, since she’d be staying here all week. If some

dark emotion had sent her running, she would have had a hard

time explaining it to Sigrid and Mom. Or Roelke. Roelke was many

things, but “fanciful” didn’t make the list. She had no idea how to tell Roelke about her little gift of heightened perception.

Well, Chloe thought, that will have to wait for another day.

Preferably one that doesn’t include finding an injured woman

stuffed into a trunk.

She joined the others. Unlike the immaculate living room, the

kitchen was clearly a busy, lived-in place. Cookbooks lined up on a shelf, with extras poked sideways on top. Dishes were drying in the drainer. A fruit bowl contained one lonely tangerine.

Mom, Sigrid, and Sigrid’s daughter Violet were sitting at the

table drinking tea. During Chloe’s high school years the Sorensens had sometimes visited her family in Wisconsin. Violet was closer

in age to Chloe’s sister Kari, but they’d all gotten along fine. Chloe hadn’t seen Violet in years. She was still slim, but her long honey-toned hair was now styled in feathered layers.

“Chloe!” Violet got to her feet. “It’s been a long time.”

“Too long,” Chloe agreed, returning the other woman’s hug

before dropping into the empty chair.

“Tea?” Violet asked. “It’s chamomile.”

“Have some, sweetie,” Sigrid urged. “We all need to settle our

nerves.” Violet pulled a mug from the cupboard.

“I just don’t
believe
it,” Mom murmured. “I saw Petra on that stretcher, but …”

Good thing you didn’t see her before she made it to the

stretcher, Chloe thought, suppressing a shudder.

30

“I know.” Sigrid’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Someone attacked

Petra. In the
museum
.”

Chloe felt a fierce stab of anger toward whatever SOB was

responsible. Committing such a crime inside the museum that

symbolized something precious to so many people added an extra

degree of offense.

Violet murmured, “I can’t take it in.”

“Just who is Petra Lekstrom, anyway?” Chloe asked. “I mean, I

know she’s an instructor, but it seems as if she wasn’t on real good terms with people—”

“Chloe!” Mom snapped. “This is hardly the time to speak of

such things.”

An awkward silence settled over the room. Chloe opened her

mouth to defend herself, then closed it again.

Violet filled the mug and pushed it across the table toward

Chloe. Then she approached Mom and put an arm around her

shoulders. “Everyone’s upset, Aunt Marit,” she said with soothing

sympathy. Mom patted Violet’s hand.

So much for mother-daughter bonding. Chloe felt too weary

to decide if she was grateful or annoyed by Violet’s intervention.

Maybe Mom felt guilty about calling Petra “a bad penny.”

“Petra may recover,” Violet reminded them. “We really have no

idea how badly she was injured.”

Mom stared into her mug. Sigrid stared at the wall. Chloe stud-

ied her tea. The refrigerator hummed, and a clock above the sink

ticked.

“I can’t say I was close to Petra,” Mom said finally. “But I would never wish her harm.”

31

Chloe figured that was as close to an apology she was going to

get for Mom’s rebuke. “Of course not,” she said.

“Petra is a member of the Sixty-Seven Club,” Mom added qui-

etly. “And our numbers are dwindling.”

Sigrid leaned toward Chloe. “Marit was the baby in the class,”

she said in an undertone.

“It hasn’t been that long since Phyllis Hoff died,” Mom said.

She looked at Sigrid. “How is Adelle Rimestad doing?”

Sigrid shook her head. “Not well. Be sure to visit her while

you’re here.”

“Adelle has lung problems,” Violet whispered to Chloe.

Somewhere in the dusty crannies of Chloe’s brain, a light bulb

flickered on. No wonder Mom was ever eager to visit Decorah and

see her friends. They were all older than she was. It must be hard for Mom to hear the latest litany of sad news … and ghastly to have the evening ruined by the discovery that one of the diminishing

band had been attacked and left to die inside an immigrant trunk.

They all jumped when the phone rang. Violet waved her

mother off and answered it. “Hello? Oh, hey, Howard. Is there any

news of … no, we haven’t heard any more either.” She listened. “Of course I’ll tell them … What?” Her shoulders slumped. “Sure, I can do that.” She replaced the receiver.

“Well?” Sigrid asked. “Any news on Petra?”

“No. Howard’s decided to have a breakfast for teachers and stu-

dents at eight-thirty tomorrow morning. He’ll share whatever

news he has then.” Violet gave a little shrug. “I agreed to bake muffins.”

Chloe glanced at the clock. It was very late. “I can help, if you

want.”

32

Violet shook her head. “Thanks, but I’ll do it. Howard’s like

family.” She retrieved a large mixing bowl from a cupboard. “I’m

supposed to be at work by eight, but fortunately I have a five-minute commute.” Violet, Chloe knew, worked as a secretary in the

music department at Luther College.

Mom pushed to her feet. “I need to go to bed.”

“Me too.” Sigrid rose as well, and carried their mugs to the sink.

“I won’t be able to teach a duck to swim tomorrow if I don’t get

some sleep.”

And the unteachable duck will likely be me, Chloe thought, as

the older women left the room.

“Maybe Petra will be all right,” Violet said. She opened the

refrigerator and pulled out a carton of eggs. “If not, I’m afraid the police are going to end up with a pretty long list of suspects.”

“Petra is …” Chloe hesitated, “disliked?”

Violet cracked an egg into the mixing bowl. “It’s no secret.” She

gave Chloe a
What can I say?
shrug.

“Hmm,” Chloe said. It seemed wise to leave things at that.

Violet sighed. “I can’t think of anything more horrible to spoil

the beginning of Vesterheim’s big week of classes and Christmas

festivities.”

I can, Chloe thought morosely. If Petra Lekstrom didn’t survive

her attack, the mood at Vesterheim would only get worse.

33

five

Chloe, Sigrid, and Mom arrived at Vesterheim’s Education Cen-

ter, down the block from the museum, just after eight the next

morning. All of them were loaded with totes and tubs stuffed with

the copious amount of stuff rosemaling evidently required. Chloe,

who’d vaguely imagined needing to purchase a brush and a few

tubes of paint, had been shocked by a “Needed Supplies” list that

included Q-tips, tracing paper, masking tape, a stylus, multiple

sable and foam brushes, a palette knife, and an expensive pad of

something called Painter’s Palette.

“We have new classrooms,” Sigrid said, as she led the way

inside. “Beautifully lit, away from public view … we even have our own lounge and kitchen.”

“Remember how cramped we were back in sixty-seven?” Mom

said. “And none of us cared.”

Mom’s words were right, but her tone was subdued. Chloe felt

true remorse for resenting her mother’s enthusiasms. That Marit

Kallerud was subdued here, at Vesterheim, was just plain wrong.

34

Chloe managed to make it to the third floor without dropping

either her supplies or Violet’s pumpkin spice muffins. In the

lounge, several women were setting out trays of coffeecake and

bowls of fruit. Chloe spotted Roelke leaning against the wall in a far corner. Something tight beneath her ribs eased a bit.

“Sigrid! Marit!” Howard Hoff hurried across the room, looking

an inch away from total meltdown. “We need to talk.” The museum

director hustled the older women away.

Chloe surrendered the muffins and joined Roelke. He gave her

a quick kiss and an appraising look. “I’m all right,” she told him firmly. “Is there any news?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Petra Lekstrom died last night.”

Dammit
. Chloe hung her head for a moment. Petra … Vester-

heim … Mom … this was bad, bad, bad. “Do the cops have any sus-

pects?”

“I don’t know.”

Chloe asked the question she’d avoided last night. “What did

the police chief want to talk to you about before we left?”

“Since I’m going to be on the inside this week, he asked me to

keep my eyes open, and—”

“What?” Chloe eyed him with dismay. It hadn’t occurred to her

that Roelke might get sucked into this tragedy. “‘On the inside?’ I thought cops hated working with cops from other places.”

“I give the chief credit for being open to all sources of informa-

tion. He’s new here. He doesn’t know the community, or the

museum, or anything about Norwegian stuff. I guess Investigator

Buzzelli doesn’t know much about Norwegian stuff either.”

35

Chloe didn’t want to believe that “Norwegian stuff ” had any-

thing to do with Petra’s murder. She also didn’t want Roelke to

spend the week in cop mode—tense, terse, focused like a laser.

He was already at it, in fact—not-so-casually scrutinizing the

students straggling into the lounge. “What did you hear about

Petra Lekstrom after I left last night?” he asked. “Did your mom

and Sigrid talk about her?”

“They didn’t want to.”

Roelke was still eyeing the growing group as if Jack the Ripper

might appear in a painter’s smock. “Your mom might tell you stuff

about Lekstrom that she wouldn’t share with the police …” He

frowned when Chloe began massaging her forehead. “What?”

“I asked about Petra last night,” she told him. “Mom just about

bit my head off.”

“Can you try again? This is important.”

“I
know
it’s important, but—”

“May I have your attention?” Howard had emerged from his

huddle with Sigrid and Mom. Twenty or so students were now

nibbling muffins and sipping juice from paper cups.

“I am sorry to begin with more bad news,” Howard said. “Petra

Lekstrom passed away at the hospital last night.”

That announcement brought a dismayed buzz. Chloe shifted

her weight slightly, so her shoulder rested against Roelke’s.

“This is tragic,” Howard continued. “But the Vesterheim com-

munity is a family, and at times like these, families pull together.”

Nods, a few murmurs.

“Petra’s death obviously impacts on our workshop schedule.

Some of you traveled across the country to attend her class. Rest

assured, your workshop is still a go.”

36

More murmurs, some questioning looks.

“Sigrid Sorensen, one of our most popular instructors, is step-

ping in to teach the advanced class,” Howard said.

“Sigrid is moving up to teach the advanced class?” Chloe said

blankly. “Then who …”

“Fortunately,” Howard said, “one of the students enrolled in