Heritage of Darkness (8 page)

“Right. Violet painted a butter churn, and it was stunning.”

Gwen gave Chloe a
What can you do
? look. “There were a lot of mutters about Petra somehow influencing one of the judges. But

there are three judges, so it wouldn’t be easy to do.”

“I know that winning a Gold Medal is huge,” Chloe mused.

“Beyond the honor, it leads to all kinds of opportunities.

Well—you know that, of course, since your mother is a Medalist.”

Yes, Chloe thought, I do know a bit about that. “What did Petra

enter in the competition?”

“An antique trunk.”

Petra had painted an immigrant trunk? Chloe winced.

“I know,” Gwen muttered, as if reading Chloe’s thoughts. She

handed over several clean brushes. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” Chloe carefully settled the brushes, wooden ends

down, in her jar of rice. She tried not to linger on the fact that Gwen had cleaned three brushes in less time than it was taking her to do one. “I really appreciate it.”

“No problem.” Gwen pushed her chair back. “See you tomor-

row.”

Chloe got back to work. She didn’t notice Mom passing by

until she spoke: “Gently, Chloe. We must protect our brushes.”

Yeah, yeah, Chloe thought. For once, she didn’t take the criti-

cism to heart. Her mind was too focused on the painful image of

Petra selecting a trunk, spending hundreds of hours planning and

54

preparing and painting, with no way of knowing that six months

later …

Chloe wiped her brush one last time, decided to ignore the

remaining wisp of red, and set it aside. Everyone seemed to agree

that Petra Lekstrom had not been well-liked. But had someone

hated her enough to plan such a brutally ironic attack?

55

seven

Time to am-scray, Chloe thought. Brushes clean and paint pro-

tected, she jogged down the stairs to meet Roelke. He met her with a smile and a kiss, and the combination smoothed out the afternoon’s rough edges.

“Here’s the stuff from Hoff.” Roelke held out some files and a

microcassette recorder.

She slipped them into her totebag. “Thanks.”

“Did you plan to eat dinner at Sigrid’s house?”

“No.” Chloe shrugged into her parka. “I’ve already had eight

hours of my mother’s company today, and very little of yours. Is

Emil expecting you?”

“No,” Roelke echoed. “I was hoping I’d have a date tonight. I

hear there’s a good pizza place nearby.”

“Mabe’s,” Chloe confirmed. “Let’s go.”

When settled into a booth at the restaurant, with BBQ pizza

for Roelke and veggie pizza for her on the way, Chloe felt her tense muscles begin to relax. “How was your afternoon?”

56

“Great!” Roelke said again, with the same surprised-but-

pleased smile he’d displayed at lunchtime. “Emil’s a good instruc-

tor.”

“Did you start on a project?”

He shook his head. “We’re working on practice boards.”

“I wish we could have practiced more,” Chloe said wistfully.

“Mom made us start on a wooden tray.”

“Well, here’s something to take your mind off painting. I over-

heard Hoff telling his daughter, who evidently wanted to fly out

from California after she heard about Petra’s murder, to stay

home.”

“Really? I would have thought he’d be thrilled to have his

daughter come visit.”

“Me too.”

“I heard something interesting about Petra this afternoon …”

She frowned as Roelke pulled out a stack of index cards so he

could make notes. “Do you have to do that? It makes it all so—so

official.”

“Since a woman was killed yesterday, yeah, I do. You were say-

ing?”

Chloe told Roelke that Petra had won her medal for painting

an antique immigrant trunk. “Isn’t that creepy?”

“It is,” he admitted. “I’ll—oh, thanks.” Before continuing he

made room for the pizza a young waiter delivered. “I’ll make sure

the chief knows that.”

Chloe leaned forward on her elbows so she could whisper. “Do

you think somebody might have … you know, actually
planned
to attack Petra and stuff her body into an immigrant trunk? Was

someone trying to make a statement?”

57

“A statement about what?”

“About the Gold Medal she earned last summer.” Chloe took

her first bite of pizza and was momentarily distracted. “Oh my

God, this is good. They must use Wisconsin cheese.”

“I imagine that a few people in Iowa make good cheese, too.”

“It’s possible, I suppose,” she mumbled around another bite.

She wiped her mouth before getting back to the point. “Petra Lek-

strom and Violet Sorensen were both close to winning a medal.

Evidently a lot of people were unhappy when Petra earned one,

but not Violet.”

“That hardly seems like motive for murder. Are you suggesting

that Violet Sorensen—”

“No!”
The word burst out loud enough to turn heads. Chloe tried again. “No, of course not. I’ve known Violet for years. I’m

just saying that in broad terms … some people might take the

whole competition thing a bit too seriously.”

Roelke sipped his water. “My grandmother and her friends

took the Jefferson County Fair pie competition too seriously, but

no one ever came to blows about it. Even though nobody ever beat

my grandma’s strawberry-rhubarb pie.” He sounded a bit smug

about that.

Chloe made a mental note to trot out her own strawberry-rhu-

barb-
maple
pie recipe come spring. “No disrespect to your

grandma and the Jefferson County Fair, but this is a national com-

petition. Gold Medalists are put up on a pedestal. Collectors and

museums buy their work. They write books and teach classes.

Petra had just taught a class in Norway, for crying out loud.”

58

“OK, OK.” Roelke made a few more notes on a new index card.

“Anything’s possible, and jealousy can simmer for a long time

before erupting. I’ve seen people fly into a rage for less.”

Chloe eyed her last sliver of pizza with regret, too full to join

the clean plate club. “Let’s talk about something else. If I can line up an interview for this evening, do you want to come along?”

“Sorry, but I can’t. This afternoon I got a note to call Chief

Moyer. He asked if I could come by the station tonight at seven.”

Chloe used her straw to swirl the ice cubes in her glass. Just as

she’d anticipated: cop stuff trumped gentleman-caller stuff.

“That’s OK,” she said. “It was just an idea.”



Roelke arrived at the police station at 6:55 PM. Buzzelli was run-

ning something through a photocopy machine. Chief Moyer

stepped from his office as Roelke stamped snow from his boots.

“Thanks for coming by,” Moyer said.

“No problem.”

Moyer gestured both men into his office, which looked a lot

like every other chief ’s office Roelke had ever seen: tidy desk (sloppiness did not send a good message to the visiting public), a few

framed citations on the wall (certifications attesting to profes-

sional prowess, and plaques of appreciation from the Kiwanis,

Rotary, and Lions Club attesting to community involvement) and

pictures of young children (because a family man understood

problems on a personal level). Roelke and Buzzelli dropped into

the chairs facing the desk.

59

“Twenty-four hours have passed since Ms. Lekstrom was

found,” Moyer said. “Officer McKenna, I have explained to the

investigator here, and also to the DCI agent in charge, that I’ve

asked you to participate informally in this investigation.”

Roelke nodded. Buzzelli did not. Definite friction here, Roelke

thought. Thankfully, not his problem.

“I have spoken with Chief Naborski in Eagle,” Moyer contin-

ued. “He assured me that you can hold your own counsel.”

That made Roelke feel good.

“It would of course be inappropriate to share any confidential

information we learn during the investigation,” Moyer added.

“Of course,” Roelke agreed.

“But discussing basic details might be helpful as you get to

know people this week. Investigator?”

Buzzelli opened a file folder, extracted a color photograph, and

slapped it down on Moyer’s desk. “Petra Lekstrom, age fifty-four,

of Preston, Minnesota.”

Roelke picked up the head-and-shoulders shot. Petra looked to

be wearing the same getup she’d died in—red wool cap, white

blouse, green vest. She was what his grandmother would have

called ‘a handsome woman’—hair a soft brown, face largely clear

of wrinkles, dark eyes, full mouth curved in a smile that contained a hint of seduction.

“The victim was five-foot-three and slight of build,” Buzzelli

continued. “That big rolling pin found in the trunk was the proba-

ble weapon—”

Roelke cleared his throat. “It’s a
lefse
pin.”

Buzzelli looked at him.

60

“For making
lefse.
” Roelke added helpfully. He liked being helpful. He really did need to find out what
lefse
was, though.

“Let’s move on,” Moyer said. “Family, Buzz?”

“Lekstrom never married, had no known children,” Buzzelli

continued. “She attended Luther College here in Decorah. Next of

kin, a sister in Seattle, has been notified. The sister hadn’t seen the victim in eighteen months.”

“How did Ms. Lekstrom support herself?” Roelke asked.

“Largely through an inheritance from her maternal grandfa-

ther.”

Roelke considered. “Was it enough to kill for?

“We’re not talking millions here.” Buzzelli waggled one hand.

“But Lekstrom’s house in Preston is paid for, and she doesn’t have any known debt. She got interest payments every six months. Otherwise she had a business doing genealogy for people. Sometimes

she taught art classes, and she sold some of her painted stuff.”

Roelke made some notes.

“One of the DCI agents is talking to acquaintances in Preston,”

Buzzelli added, “but he’s not getting a whole lot. Lekstrom’s neighbors are elderly. Very polite, but not very talkative.”

Moyer leaned forward, forearms on his desk. “Yesterday the

museum was closed from four o’clock until five-thirty, when the

reception began. If Miss Lekstrom was assaulted before the

museum closed, the assailant was likely either an employee or

someone who purchased a ticket.”

“Or,” Roelke countered, “she might have been attacked by a

volunteer who helped with the reception, or one of the students or instructors who attended.”

61

Moyer picked up several stapled pieces of paper and handed

them to Roelke. “This is a list of everyone known to be inside the museum yesterday between noon and the time the victim was

found. It is incomplete. Obviously any museum visitor who paid

for their ticket with cash, and did not sign the guest book, left no identification behind.”

Roelke scanned the sheet, typed on a machine that produced a

solid circle for every O. Each name was followed by a designation: visitor, volunteer, museum staff, class instructor, student. It was a long list.

“I wanted you to have a copy,” Moyer added, “because you may

hear something about one of the people on this list.”

The older man shifted in his chair again. “I don’t think—” he

began, then closed his mouth. Either Buzzelli had second thoughts

about what he was going to say, or he truly did not think.

Roelke filled the silence before it could become awkward.

“Petra Lekstrom won a medal in that big-time rosemaling exhibi-

tion last summer. You probably know this already, but the object

Ms. Lekstrom painted for the competition was an immigrant

trunk.”

More silence suggested that the other men had not known that.

Moyer’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Buzzelli grudgingly pulled a

small notebook from his pocket and scribbled a note. Nobody

thought to ask, Roelke thought. But hell, he hadn’t either. That tidbit might have sailed by if Chloe hadn’t picked up on it.

After a moment Moyer asked, “Anything else?”

Roelke tapped his thigh with his thumb. “A woman in my carv-

ing class knew Ms. Lekstrom for many years, and clearly disliked

her.”

62

“Who?” Buzz asked.

“Lavinia Carmichael.” Roelke kept his tone mild. “If you can

give me another day, I might be able to learn what caused the dis-

cord. She might respond better to casual conversation than formal

questioning.”

“Investigator?” Moyer asked.

Buzzelli looked bored. “Sure.”

“Another else, Office McKenna?”

“No.”

Buzzelli stood. “I have work to do.” Moyer nodded, and the

older man left the office.

A moment later Roelke heard the front door open and close.

He looked at the chief.

“I serve as Decorah’s police chief at the pleasure of the mayor,”

Moyer said. “In the four months since I arrived, I have come to

suspect that the good investigator had hoped to serve Decorah in

that particular capacity.”

Roelke nodded. That would do it. Buzzelli was old-school, a

tough cop who’d likely seen plenty of hard action and worked

himself up the ladder rung by rung. Chief Moyer represented a

new generation: college-educated, overdressed, perhaps—in the

eyes of a veteran cop—more worried about a suspect’s legal rights

than getting some asshole off the street.