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Dark Secrets Hidden in Norwegian Traditions For curator Chloe Ellefson, a family bonding trip to Decorah, Iowa for rosemaling classes seems like a great idea—until the drive begins. Chloe’s cop friend Roelke takes her mother’s talk of romantic customs good-naturedly, but it inflates Chloe’s emotional distress higher with each passing mile. After finally reaching Vesterheim Norwegian-American Museum, Chloe’s resolve to remain positive is squashed when she and Roelke find Petra Lekstrom’s body in one of the antique immigrant trunks. Everyone is shaken by the instructor’s murder, and when Mom volunteers to take over the beginners’ class, Chloe is put in the hot seat of motherly criticism. As she investigates, Chloe uncovers dark family secrets that could be deadly for Mom . . . and even herself.

Includes photos of featured artifacts from the real Norwegian-American museum! Praise for the Chloe Ellefson Mystery series: “Greed, passion, skill, and luck all figure into this surprise-filled outing.”—Publishers Weekly “Interesting, well-drawn characters and a complicated plot make this a very satisfying read.”—The Mystery Reader $14.99 US / $17.50 CAN ISBN 978-0-7387-3698-3

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praise for the chloe ellefson mystery series: “Chloe is an appealing character, and Ernst’s depiction of work at a living museum lends authenticity and a sense of place to the involving plot.” —St. Paul Pioneer Press “Greed, passion, skill, and luck all figure in this surprise-filled outing.” —Publishers Weekly “Interesting, well-drawn characters and a complicated plot make this a very satisfying read.” —The Mystery Reader “Entertainment and edification.”

—Mystery Scene

“A wonderfully woven tale that winds in and out of modern and historical Wisconsin with plenty of mysteries. Enchanting!” —Sandi Ault, author of the WILD mystery series and recipient of the Mary Higgins Clark Award “Clever plot twists and credible characters make this a far-fromhumdrum cozy.” —Publishers Weekly “Propulsive and superbly written, this first entry in a dynamite new series from accomplished author Kathleen Ernst seamlessly melds the 1980s and the 19th century. Character-driven, with mystery aplenty, Old World Murder is a sensational read. Think Sue Grafton meets Earlene Fowler, with a dash of Elizabeth Peters.” —Julia Spencer-Fleming, Anthony and Agatha Award-winning author of I Shall Not Want and One Was A Soldier

“Old World Murder is strongest in its charming local color and genuine love for Wisconsin’s rolling hills, pastures, and woodlands … a delightful distraction for an evening or two.” —NYJournalOfBooks.com “This series debut by an author of children’s mysteries rolls out nicely for readers who like a cozy with a dab of antique lore. Jeanne M. Dams fans will like the ethnic background.” —Library Journal “Information on how to conduct historical research, background on Norwegian culture, and details about running an outdoor museum frame the engaging story of a woman devastated by a failed romantic relationship whose sleuthing helps her heal.” —Booklist “[A] museum masterpiece.” “A real find … 5 stars.”

—RosebudBookReviews.com —OnceUponARomance.net

“Engaging characters, a fascinating (real-life) setting, a gripping and believable plot—this is the traditional mystery at its best.” —Jeanne M. Dams, Agatha Award-winning author of the Dorothy Martin and Hilda Johansson mysteries

also by kathleen ernst Nonfiction Too Afraid to Cry: Maryland Civilians in the Antietam Campaign, Stackpole Books, 1999 Fiction Old World Murder The Heirloom Murders The Light Keeperâ€™s Legacy

Midnight Ink

woodbury, minnesota

Heritage of Darkness: A Chloe Ellefson Mystery © 2013 by Kathleen Ernst. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Edition First Printing, 2013 Book design and format by Donna Burch Cover design by Kevin R. Brown Cover illustration by Charlie Griak Cover image: Holly designs: iStockphoto.com/Andrea Hill Editing by Connie Hill Midnight Ink, an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Ernst, Kathleen, 1959– Heritage of darkness : a Chloe Ellefson Mystery / Kathleen Ernst. —First Edition. pages cm. — (A Chloe Ellefson Mystery ; #4) ISBN 978-0-7387-3698-3 1. Women museum curators—Fiction. 2. Vesterheim Norwegian-American Museum—Fiction. 3. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 4. Iowa—Fiction. I. Title. PS3605.R77H47 2013 813'.6—dc23 2013021118 Midnight Ink Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. 2143 Wooddale Drive Woodbury, MN 55125-2989 www.midnightinkbooks.com Printed in the United States of America

dedication For Andrea Cascardiâ€” with thanks for twelve momentous years; and for the Vesterheim/Decorah communityâ€” with thanks for making Scott and me part of the family.

author’s note In 2010, while doing research for Old World Murder (the first Chloe Ellefson mystery), I traveled to Vesterheim Norwegian-American Museum in Northeast Iowa to photograph antique ale bowls. Since then I’ve returned again and again to study the collection, take folkart classes in painting and fiber arts, and enjoy special events. Vesterheim is the most comprehensive museum in the United States dedicated to a single immigrant group, with a collection that includes more than 24,000 artifacts and more than a dozen historic structures. It is also a cultural center dedicated to documenting and perpetuating folk art and traditions through classes, programs, and tours. Finally, Vesterheim’s presentation of the Norwegian experience provides visitors like me, who are not of Scandinavian descent, a chance to reflect upon our own ethnic and family history. I’ve done my best to present a snapshot of Vesterheim as it was in Chloe’s time, and glimpses of other milestone years as well. Because this is a work of fiction, I did take small liberties to avoid confusion or support the plot. For example, the museum lobby looked quite different in 1982, and the collections storage facility described had not yet been built. Also, since my favorite Vesterheim experiences have been rosemaling classes in July and the Norwegian Christmas Weekend in December, I melded the two into one week. Most of the places mentioned in the Decorah area are real, including the historic neighborhood near the museum, the Fifth Street bridge over the Upper Iowa River (although it looked quite different in 1982), the Oneota Co-op, Mabe’s Pizza, and the Whippy Dip Ice Cream Parlor. My descriptions of private homes are loosely

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based on real places, but I kept directions vague to respect the property ownersâ€™ privacy. You can learn more, and plan your own trip, by visiting these websites: Vesterheim Norwegian-American Museum: http://vesterheim.org/index.php Decorah: http://www.visitdecorah.com You can find photos, a tour guide, and maps of relevant places on my website, www.kathleenernst.com You can also find photographs of some of the artifacts mentioned in the story on pages 340 to 343.

cast of characters Chloe Ellefson—curator of collections, Old World Wisconsin Roelke McKenna—officer, Village of Eagle Police Department Marit Kallerud—Chloe’s mother, member of the Sixty-Seven Club of rosemalers Frank Ellefson—Chloe’s father Chief Moyer—head of Decorah Police Department Investigator Buzzelli—liaison for all agencies involved in the murder investigation Ethan Hendricks—Chloe’s college friend Nika Austin—intern, Old World Wisconsin Ralph Petty—director, Old World Wisconsin Sigrid Sorensen—Marit’s best friend, member of the Sixty-Seven Club Violet Sorensen—Sigrid’s daughter Bill Sorensen—(deceased) Sigrid’s husband Emil Bergsbakken—chip carving instructor Oscar Bergsbakken—(deceased) Emil’s brother Lavinia Carmichael—chip carving student Gwen—rosemaling student Petra Lekstrom—member of the Sixty-Seven Club Adelle Rimestad—member of the Sixty-Seven Club, expert wood carver Tom Rimestad—Adelle’s husband Howard Hoff—director, Vesterheim Norwegian-American Museum Phyllis Hoff—(deceased) member of the Sixty-Seven Club

Edwina Ree—retired archivist, expert in Norwegian Christmas traditions Bestemor Sabo—cookie baker extraordinaire Peggy Nelson—member of the Sixty-Seven Club Linda Skatrud—member of the Sixty-Seven Club Sigmund Aarseth—a beloved rosemaling instructor; the only real person depicted in the novel

Bethania Lutheran Church Water Street

Education Center

Collections Storage Building (not visible)

Vesterheim Norwegian-American Museum in decorah, Iowa

Valdres House

Main Museum Building

Illustration courtesy of Vesterheim Norwegian-American Museum, Decorah, Iowa

Mechanic Street

one

Although she tried to hide it from Mom and Roelke, Chloe Ellefson’s emotional distress inflated with each passing mile. Distress ballooned into panic by the time they left Wisconsin. She exercised driver’s prerogative and pulled into the first Iowa gas station she saw. “Pit stop,” she announced. “I need to powder my nose,” Mom said. “Roelke, would you fill the tank?” He already had the car door open. “I’d be glad to.” Chloe got out and leaned against the Buick, hunching turtle-like into her coat. The December wind whipping off the Mississippi River was wicked. Roelke set the pump and began washing the windshield. “You OK?” “I’m having second thoughts,” Chloe admitted. “This little adventure in family bonding was ill-conceived.” “This little adventure was your idea,” he reminded her.

“Do you think it’s too late to bail? Maybe Mom could take a cab the rest of the way to Decorah.” “Since we’re driving your mother’s car, that doesn’t seem quite fair.” Roelke returned the squeegee to its tank. “Stop stressing. Everything will be fine.” “Easy for you to say.” Chloe had officially been dating Roelke McKenna for three months, but he had yet to spend any real time with her mother. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten into.” “It’s going to be a fun week.” Even at her most optimistic, the notion of “fun” had not crossed Chloe’s mind. Roelke put his hands on her shoulders. His cheeks were red from the cold, which was a good look for him. He was younger than she was, and had that cop-persona going for him too: dark hair clipped short, broad shoulders, intense gaze. That gaze was now focused on Chloe. “Hey. You said you wanted to spend time with your mom on her terms. Get to know her better.” “I do, truly.” Chloe sighed. She and her mother had drifted along in a superficial Everything’s fine mode for years. Then, after a solitary visit to a largely deserted island back in September, Chloe had vowed to strengthen her family ties. While visiting her parents, she’d spotted a flyer from Vesterheim Norwegian-American Museum, announcing simultaneous Beginning Telemark and Advanced Hallingdal Rosemaling classes. “Hey, Mom,” Chloe had said. “How about we sign up for these? Beginning for me, Advanced for you.” Chloe fully expected the beginners’ workshop to end with public humiliation … but for one brief shining moment, it had seemed like a good idea.

She had also fully expected enthusiasm from Mom. Instead, Mom’s eyebrows had arched high. “You want to take a rosemaling class? You’ve never wanted anything to do with my little hobby.” Chloe already regretted her impulse. “Well, I thought it would be nice to try it now.” “I suppose we can do that,” Mom had conceded skeptically. “If you’re sure.” Now Chloe said, “It’s the Vesterheim part that’s going to bite me in the butt.” She watched an old pickup truck rattle by. “There’s no way I can live up to the expectations of Marit ‘All-Things-Norske’ Kallerud this week.” Roelke cocked his head. “Why do you say that?” “My mother has a Gold Medal in rosemaling,” Chloe reminded him. “She wanted me to paint when I was in high school. I didn’t, and she’s never forgiven me for it.” “That was a long time ago. I wish …” His voice trailed away, and he shrugged. Roelke’s parents were dead, so Chloe could easily imagine what he wished. She felt guilty for complaining. A little. Mom strolled back across the lot. “Roelke, would you drive the rest of the way to Decorah?” “Glad to,” he said again. Chloe crawled into the back seat. Once they were entombed in the car again, Roelke headed west. “I can hardly believe it,” Mom said. “But here we are, heading off to Decorah!” “Yes!” Chloe said brightly. “I’ve always wanted to share the Vesterheim experience with Chloe,” Mom told Roelke, “but she’s never shown any interest.”

“Actually, I have been to Vesterheim before,” Chloe reminded her mother. “Several times.” Mom leaned closer to Roelke and confided, “The last time Chloe came was when I earned my Gold Medal. Nineteen seventy-two. A decade ago.” Chloe looked out the window. “I spent a decade away from the Midwest, remember? Including five years in Europe? That made it a tad challenging to pop over to Iowa.” Mom ignored her. “Roelke, I’m delighted you wanted to join us. December is a perfect time to visit the museum.” Am I speaking Swiss? Chloe wondered. Perhaps she’d lapsed, and everyone was too polite to mention it. “After our week of classes,” Mom continued, “we’ll enjoy the Norwegian Christmas Weekend.” She sighed happily. “It’s a lovely special event.” “I love Christmas,” Roelke assured her. Chloe was pretty sure that Roelke, who might euphemistically be described as “tightly-wound,” hadn’t used the words “love” and “Christmas” in the same sentence since he was seven. “I’m looking forward to my carving class.” He sounded genuinely pleased. “I like to whittle, but I’m pretty much self-taught.” “This week will be an epiphany for you,” Mom promised. “The Norwegians have such a strong woodworking tradition. My favorite pieces are the wooden mangles once used to press linens. Traditionally, a man carved a special mangle for the woman he hoped to marry, and left the mangle on her doorstep. If she took it inside, it meant she accepted his proposal. Once a woman had declined a proposal gift, it couldn’t be offered to anyone else. Mothers used to tell their daughters to ‘Beware the man with many mangles.’” She 4

laughed. “My husband used to tease that he had hedged his bets by carving several at once, but I know the one he made to propose to me was his one and only.” Chloe winced. She tried sending Mom a mental message: Please nix the talk of betrothal gifts. “A man might carve a love spoon,” Mom continued, “for his special girl.” Chloe used one foot to nudge the seat in front of her. She and Roelke had been getting along pretty well, but they hadn’t yet been … intimate. She tried harder on the mental message thing: Please, please quit the matrimony talk. “And if the couple married, the groom carved two spoons linked by a chain.” Mom clasped her hands together joyfully. Chloe clenched her teeth. Perhaps she should just say Mom, Roelke and I haven’t even had sex yet, so give it up! “Will I be able to see any of those wedding spoons in the museum?” Roelke asked. “Vesterheim’s collection is incredible,” Mom promised him. “I’m sure you’ll be inspired.” “Mom!” “I’m sure I will, Ms. Kallerud,” Roelke said earnestly. “Please, Roelke dear. Call me Marit.” Chloe unclicked her seatbelt and curled up on the back seat. If Mom starts prattling about baby cradles, she thought, I will leap out the window.

two: december, 1947

Marit Kallerud’s feet slowed as she approached the train station, a beautiful old structure with swooping rooflines now graced with evergreen garlands. It was always hard to leave Decorah. She’d attended Luther College here, and she’d started volunteering at the Norwegian-American Museum as a freshman. Some of her dearest friends still lived in town. She felt at home here in a way that was hard to define. Not that Stoughton isn’t a good place, she reminded herself. Her hometown had its own Norwegian identity. She’d been raised hearing elders—people who’d never left Wisconsin—speaking English with a distinct Norwegian accent. Her family’s table grace was spoken in that language. She helped at the Lutheran Church’s annual lutefisk supper and baked sweets for the Women’s Society to sell during Syttende Mai—Norway’s Constitution Day celebration.

Still, she’d known since the first time she’d stepped from a train, right here, that Decorah would become her second home. My vesterheim, she thought. The early immigrants had referred to America’s Midwest that way: my western home. Well, she’d had a lovely visit, but it was time to go. Marit walked resolutely into the station. She waited in line at the ticket counter behind a young couple snuggled arm-in-arm. “My parents are going to love you as much as I do,” the young man murmured. His sweetheart giggled. Marit studied her shoes. One by one, almost all of her college friends had paired up, gotten married, settled down. Marit had always just assumed that someone would come along for her, too. But it hadn’t happened yet. I have had offers, she reminded herself. She could have been married, if that was her only goal. But she didn’t want to settle. When the right man came along, she’d know. Ticket in hand, she picked up her suitcase and headed outside. Well-bundled Luther students crowded the platform. The air rang with shouts: “Merry Christmas!” “Happy holidays!” “Joyful new year!” The only one who hasn’t found the holiday spirit, Marit thought wistfully, is me. She edged through the crowd, hoping to be among the first to board so she could choose her seat. When a shrill whistle split the air she leaned forward, looking toward the train as it chugged into view. The eager travelers behind her swayed in anticipation, and the sunlight sparkling on nearby snow banks was dazzling. Marit felt a moment of vertigo as someone jostled past—

Then she knew a moment of raw terror as she fell toward the train tracks. Someone grabbed her arm with a steel grip and jerked her back to safety. “Whoa, there,” a man said. “Thank you,” Marit gasped. She pressed one hand over her chest, trying to slow her pounding heart. Then she looked up, and her heart began to pound all over again. Her white knight looked a little like Cary Grant and a little like a fresh-faced farm boy who’d just stepped from his tractor. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Yes,” she said breathlessly. “Thanks to you.” The train slowed to a stop at the platform, and the crowd surged again. The man kept his hand on her arm. “I’m glad I managed to catch you,” he said. “I’m Frank Ellefson.” “Marit Kallerud.” She allowed him to take her suitcase. On the train, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to settle into a pair of adjoining seats. “What’s your final destination?” Marit asked. “Stoughton, Wisconsin,” Frank said. “My hometown.” Marit stared at him with surprise. “Mine too! How is it we haven’t met?” “My parents have a farm outside of town, and I suspect I was in and out of high school before you. Then I was in the service for a while. I’m back at my folks’ place now, although I don’t think I want to farm. I’ve been visiting a friend in Decorah. How about you?” They chatted about this and that as the train rattled through the frozen Iowa countryside. Frost glazed the window with lace,

but Marit scarcely noticed. She knew. Somehow, she just knew that Frank Ellefson was the one for her. And I found him in Decorah, she thought. That made everything perfect.

three

Darkness was falling by the time Roelke drove into Decorah. Snow too, and Eastern Iowa’s rolling hills were already blanketed with a good six inches. Chloe watched the big flakes caught in the headlights. It’s a winter wonderland, she thought, and allowed herself a sliver of hope. Maybe it really would be a good week. Mom consulted her watch. “The reception for teachers and students has already started. Let’s go straight to the museum.” She directed Roelke to Water Street in downtown Decorah. “See the old train station? That’s where I met Chloe’s father. And there’s the old Winneshiek Hotel. Perhaps you two can have dinner there one night.” Dinner for two would be nice, Chloe thought. If Roelke hadn’t been scared speechless by Mom’s romance blitz. He found a parking spot near Vesterheim’s main building. Mom jumped out and hurried away. Roelke contemplated the old three-story brick structure. “So, this is the place.” 10

“This is the place.” Chloe took a deep breath. “Come on. Party time.” They followed Mom into the lobby, which was lavishly decorated with woven paper hearts and evergreens. Christmas carols drifted from stereo speakers. A long table along the back wall held an impressive smorgasbord. Two dozen or so guests were already nibbling cookies, sipping wine, laughing, and chatting. The crowd collectively sported a world-class collection of Norwegian sweaters, although a few people wore colorful bunads instead. “I think I’m under-dressed,” Roelke said. He’d worn his best jeans for the occasion, and a green chamois shirt. “We’re fine,” Chloe assured him. “We’re just the entourage, anyway.” A red-haired woman spotted the new arrivals with delight. “Marit!” she exclaimed, and swept Mom into a hug. “That’s Sigrid Sorensen, one of my mom’s best friends,” Chloe murmured. “She’s a sweetie.” “You and your mom are staying at her house this week, right?” “Right. And Sigrid is teaching my Beginning Telemark Rosemaling class.” “Ah,” Roelke said, which she assumed meant that he didn’t know any more about the mysteries of Beginning Telemark Rosemaling than she did. Several more people joined the reunion. “Marit? Marit! Marit!” The decibel level rose with every embrace and happy squeal. “Wow. Your mom knows a lot of people.” Roelke looked impressed. “Want me to hang up your coat?” “Thanks.” Chloe shrugged out of her parka and handed it over. “I’ll meet you by the food.” 11

Chloe poured herself a goblet of Riesling. When Roelke caught up he filled a paper plate with carrot sticks, raw broccoli, little chunks of cheese, three meatballs, and two sweet krumkakke. “Don’t you want anything to eat?” “I’m not hungry.” “Chloe? Roelke?” Mom called. “Come say hello to Sigrid.” Sigrid squeezed Chloe into a hug of her own. “Oh, Chloe. It’s been too long.” “It’s wonderful to see you.” Chloe smiled. Her mother’s friend was impeccably dressed in gray wool trousers and a navy-and-cream snowflake cardigan. Her hair was still piled into a sixties-style tower, although the color likely came from a bottle now. “And this is Roelke McKenna,” Mom announced. “Chloe’s young man.” Chloe gave Mom points for not introducing Roelke as the future father of her grandchildren. Truth was, Chloe didn’t know what to call Roelke either. “Rell-kee?” Sigrid repeated. “Is that a family name?” “Yes ma’am. Roelke was my mother’s birth name.” Once, months earlier, Chloe had made it clear to Roelke that she preferred “birth name” to “maiden name.” Now here he was, completely out of his element but doing his best to fit in. Suddenly, she no longer felt overwhelmed. Maybe having Roelke McKenna along—he of good German and Irish stock—would provide the ballast she needed to get through the week on an even keel. “How long have you two known each other?” Roelke asked, looking from Marit to Sigrid. “Over thirty years,” Mom said. “I started volunteering at Vesterheim in the forties.” 12

“And Marit and I are members of the Sixty-Seven Club,” Sigrid told Roelke. “The very first time Vesterheim brought in a rosemaling teacher, in 1967, we both took the class.” “That was the start of something special!” Mom’s face glowed with nostalgia. “We’d been painting, but all we knew how to do was copy old designs.” “At least a couple of Sixty-Sevens will be around all week,” Sigrid told Mom. “Lavinia’s here, and Petra Lekstrom.” Sigrid looked around, then shrugged. “Well, I saw Petra this afternoon. She’ll show up sooner or later.” Mom sniffed. “Like a bad penny.” Chloe blinked at that bit of snarkiness. What was that all about? Petra Lekstrom was teaching Mom’s class. “Marit!” A gray-haired man made his way through the crowd. Marit introduced Howard Hoff, the museum’s director. Howard looked at Chloe with a knowing smile. “Do we have a second-generation rosemaler here?” Mom spread her hands in a rueful gesture. “Actually, Chloe’s never picked up a brush.” Here we go, Chloe thought. Howard blinked. “Surely with an expert like Marit—” “I’m here to learn now,” Chloe said in her best cheery voice. She filched a krumkakke from Roelke’s plate. “This is the first time we’ve tried week-long classes in the midst of the Christmas season,” Howard said. “But we’re in the hole after our recent renovation, and event sponsorship is down. The students’ tuition fees are a big boost.” Chloe eyed the director judiciously. Howard Hoff looked exhausted. Dark crescents puffed beneath his eyes. His suit hung on 13

him, as if he’d recently lost weight. His hands moved constantly— smoothing his hair, straightening his tie, exploring his pockets. “How is the new curator working out?” Mom asked. Howard rubbed his palms against his pants. “The new curator got pregnant and resigned. She lasted less than four months! Long enough to start projects, not long enough to finish anything. We got funding for a folklore project with a tight timeline, and—” “You’ve got real challenges, Howard,” Sigrid interrupted smoothly, “but it looks like the reception is going perfectly.” “The reception. Yes.” Howard made a visible and valiant attempt to refocus. “I need to welcome our guests.” He hurried away. “Poor Howard,” Sigrid said. “He’s got a tiny staff to begin with.” “It’s hard to lose a curator,” Chloe said sympathetically. Funding was eternally tight at historic sites and museums. Any vacancy created enormous stress. “His wife died … what, ten months ago?” Mom looked at Sigrid for confirmation. “Phyllis was a Sixty-Seven too,” she explained to Roelke and Chloe. “She died of cancer, poor dear. Howard grew up in Decorah, so we’ve known him for a long time.” An electronic squeal emanated from a podium, where Howard was fiddling with a microphone. After a couple of false starts, he introduced himself. “We have three wonderful workshops scheduled this week. Emil Bergsbakken is teaching Beginning Chip Carving.” He gestured toward a sixty-ish man standing against the wall with hands in pockets. Emil looked abashed at the attention. He was short and slight, with just a fringe of beard running along his chin. The combination made Chloe think of nisser, the barn elves of Norwegian folklore.

“I’m bunking at his place, right?” Roelke whispered in her ear. “Right. The local hotels are booked solid, and he and Mom go way back.” Since the carving class had prompted Roelke to write a check and join this expedition, Chloe hoped that Emil was a good teacher. Hoff continued, “Sigrid Sorensen is teaching Beginning Telemark Rosemaling.” Sigrid smiled and waved. Chloe hoped that Sigrid was a good teacher, too. And patient. Very, very patient. “And our newest Gold Medalist in Rosemaling has just returned from Norway, where she’s been studying and teaching, to facilitate a workshop for advanced painters. Petra Lekstrom will teach Advanced Hallingdal Rosemaling.” Hoff scanned the room. “Is Petra here?” Everyone looked around expectantly. A woman behind Chloe muttered, “She’s probably off making trouble for somebody.” My, my, Chloe thought. Roelke shot her a What the heck? look. “I’m sure Petra is looking forward to meeting her students.” Howard blotted his forehead. “I’m grateful to these accomplished artists for sharing their talents. Vesterheim is more than a museum. It’s also a cultural center, dedicated to preserving living traditions that reflect Norwegian heritage …” “Any regrets yet?” Chloe murmured to Roelke. He shook his head, clearly determined to flow with the Scandinavian tide. “The week of classes will end with our Christmas celebration,” Hoff was saying. “We will also announce the winner of Vesterheim’s Christmas Card design contest. Gold Medalists were invited to

submit original designs. Museum staff have pared entries down to six finalists.” Chloe smiled encouragingly at her mother, whose design had made the short list. Mom nodded primly. “The top designs are on display in the gift shop,” Howard added. “Be sure to vote for your favorite. You can also enjoy the exhibit galleries for another hour. Thank you for coming.” The murmur of conversation rose again. Chloe heard another screech of pleasure: “Marit!” Mom was engulfed by more friends. “Let’s wander,” Chloe murmured to Roelke. She finished her wine, popped the last bite of krumkakke into her mouth, and wiped her hands on her jeans. No food or drinks in the exhibits. As they left the lobby, Chloe tucked her hand through Roelke’s arm. “Sorry I got cranky earlier. I am determined to stay positive.” “Your mother will be busy in her own workshop all week. You’ll hardly see her.” Roelke stopped in front of a glass case that ran the length of an entire wall, floor to ceiling. The display presented several regions of Norway with artifacts, and life-sized manikins dressed in festive attire. “Colorful!” “Yeah.” Chloe surveyed the exhibit. “Bunads have evolved into the national costume for Norwegians, with different styles from different regions. My people go all-out for holidays.” A youngish couple wearing matching sweaters wandered past. The woman’s face was pinched with disapproval. “… couldn’t be bothered to show up long enough to be introduced to her students!” Her husband patted her arm. “Petra’s ego reached galactic proportions when she earned her Gold Medal last summer.”

“Violet deserved to win a Medal, not Petra,” the woman huffed. “Everyone thought so.” Chloe gazed after the couple. Violet? Violet Sorensen, Sigrid’s daughter? That would explain Mom’s burst of pique. The last thing Chloe wanted to do was eavesdrop on a conversation about the complexities of competition judging, a topic of endless angst for Mom and her friends. “Come see the Norwegian House,” she said, and towed Roelke away. “The architecture is Telemark.” His brow crinkled. “I thought Telemark had to do with painting.” “Telemark is a region in Norway,” she explained. “My rosemaling class is in the style that emerged from Telemark, and this exhibit replicates a log home from there. It’s really cool.” As Chloe led the way inside, she sighed with professional pleasure. The main room was furnished to suggest a well-to-do family living, working, socializing. The painted and carved artifacts on display were stunning. “This stuff looks really old,” Roelke observed. Chloe pointed to a long table that displayed a variety of kitchen tools and utensils. “Remember the ale bowl that went missing from Old World last summer? Look at that one.” “Very cool,” Roelke agreed. A mangle, displayed with a roller and piece of linen, reminded Chloe of Mom’s enthusiastic foray into the nuances of Norwegian courtship customs. Yeah, very romantic, Chloe thought, contemplating the early ironing tools. Please marry me—so I don’t have to do my own laundry. Turning her back, she approached a large trunk painted with cherubs and large flourishes in blue and red—faded, but still impressive.

“Can’t you imagine a family packing this as they got ready to emigrate? It must have been so hard to decide what to take and what to leave behind.” Chloe slid her hand beneath the hem of her sweater and reached for the trunk lid’s clasp. Roelke frowned. “I don’t think you’re supposed to touch anything.” “I just can’t use my bare hand. I’m a curator, remember?” She eased up the lid. “I just want to see if the inside is—Oh, God!” The lid crashed down again. Chloe stumbled backward, one hand pressed against her mouth. Her eyes squinched shut, but what she’d glimpsed was etched onto her lids in immutable detail: a brownhaired woman wearing a bunad of embroidered red skirt, white blouse and apron, green vest, red cap. She was curled awkwardly in the trunk, unmoving. Roelke jerked the trunk open again and pressed his fingers against the woman’s neck, just beneath the jaw bone. “She’s alive. Chloe, go tell someone to call an ambulance. Then stand at the front door. Don’t let anyone in or out until the first responders arrive. Got it?” “Yes.” Chloe gulped, turned, and ran. Back in the lobby, she spotted Howard Hoff and elbowed her way across the room, ignoring the wake of protests and complaints. “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, bloodshot eyes. “Go!” He hurried away. Chloe made her way to the front door and planted herself as a human barricade.

Mom and Sigrid approached, wearing identical frowns. “Chloe?” Mom asked. “What on earth is the matter?” Chloe fought a wave of dizziness by leaning over, hands on her knees. “I think I just found Petra Lekstrom.”

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 contamination of evidence. Roelke was pretty sure that Ms. Lekstrom had not reacted to the first signs of heart attack or stroke by climbing 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.

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.

“Yeah.” He was not optimistic, though. Since Lekstrom apparently 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 government—irreplaceable—I—”

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

 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 statements, 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 responders 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 evening, 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 trouble for somebody.’ About fifteen minutes later, Chloe and I left the 24

lobby and stopped here to look at this display.” He gestured. “A couple walking by was complaining about Ms. Lekstrom. Something 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 Exhibition 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. 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,” Moyer 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 chief busied Hoff with paperwork. “Will the lab people use chemicals or anything when they examine the trunk?” Chloe asked. “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 Norwegian 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. “Hidden 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. 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 into 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 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 shoulder 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 relationship. 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 followed him to the front door. “Thanks for everything.”

“Are you really 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 taillights 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.

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 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 honeytoned 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.

“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 studied 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.”

Chloe figured that was as close to an apology as 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 quietly. “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 students 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.”

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.

Heritage of Darkness, by Kathleen Ernst