Old World Murder (2010) (2 page)

“Right,” she said. “I’m waiting here at the trailer.”

“I’ll send her along.”

“Thanks …”—she went for broke—“… Brian.”

Small silence. “It’s
Byron
.”

“Byron. Right. Sorry.”

“I’ll send Mrs. Lundquist over.”

“Thanks,” Chloe began, but a dial tone already rang in her ear. Evidently Byron was a tad touchy about his name.

Day One. She’d annoyed a security guard and irritated the curator of interpretation.

A few minutes later car tires crunched slowly over gravel, and Chloe went outside. The big Buick dwarfed the elderly woman who emerged. She wore Easter Sunday-best—a pale yellow linen dress, white pumps, matching handbag. Chloe winced, picturing what the trailer’s dust would do to
that
outfit.

“Mrs. Lundquist?” she asked. “I’m Chloe Ellefson. I’m so glad to meet you.”

The hand that clasped hers seemed fragile, like wrapping paper stretched over a toothpick model. Mrs. Lundquist’s carefully permed white hair framed a thin face with anxious blue eyes. “How do you do?”

“I’m well, thank you,” Chloe said, as she led the way into the office. “Please forgive the dust. It’s my first day, so I haven’t had a chance to tidy up.”

“I understand.” Mrs. Lundquist settled gingerly on one of the chairs, put her purse on the table, and folded her hands in her lap. “It was kind of you to see me so quickly.”

Chloe sat down with legal pad and poised pencil. “The phone message I got didn’t contain much information,” she began. “You’re interested in making a donation?”

“Oh, no!” The tiny woman sat up straighter. “I need to get one of my family antiques back.”

“Um … back? Back from where?”

“From here!” Mrs. Lundquist pulled a piece of paper from her handbag and presented it.

Chloe read the faded photocopy. It was an acquisition form confirming the accepted donation and legal transfer of an item described as a “Hand-painted Norwegian ale bowl with cow heads, nineteenth century” to the State Historical Society of Wisconsin. At the bottom was a neat signature—Berget Lundquist—and the date: November 10, 1962.

“Well … it seems this item was transferred to the Society twenty years ago,” Chloe said. “This is your signature?”

“Oh, yes. I made the donation. My son had died, you see. My only child. I didn’t see any point in hanging onto family heirlooms.”

“But … now you want it back.”

“Yes.”

Chloe studied the paper again. The donation had been made when Old World Wisconsin was no more than a gleam in some architectural historian’s eye. “Ma’am, I think that you need to contact one of the curators at the Historical Society headquarters in Madison.”

“I’ve already done that, weeks ago. And I was told that my ale bowl was transferred here when this site opened.”

Shit. “Mrs. Lundquist, I’m new, so I’m not familiar with Society collections policies yet—”

“I’m sure you’re doing your best, dear.” Mrs. Lundquist patted Chloe’s hand. “You seem like a sweet young woman. And with that hair … you must be Scandinavian also?”

“Norwegian. But—”

“Just like me!” Mrs. Lundquist awarded Chloe a delighted smile. “So you understand.”

No, I don’t
! Chloe insisted silently. “Mrs. Lundquist, once a donation has been made, it can’t be undone. It’s a legal transfer of ownership.”

“But I must get it back! It’s very important!”

Chloe pinched her lips together. She genuinely liked old people. She liked their stories, their memories, their hard-won experience. Their mementos, their refuse, even their homes—these things comprised Chloe’s chosen profession. Mrs. Lundquist didn’t need to beg, or to cajole; Chloe truly wanted to help her.

“The best thing I can do is check with the chief curator in Madison,” Chloe said. “I can call her tomorrow, and get back to you.”

Mrs. Lundquist’s face crumpled. “But … I had hoped to take the ale bowl with me today.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

“May I at least see my bowl? Make sure it’s alright?”

“The thing is …” Chloe massaged her temples with her fingertips. “Did I mention that it’s my first day? I don’t know where the ale bowl is. It could be in storage, or on exhibit in one of the Norwegian houses. Have you toured the Norwegian area on site? Do you know if it’s on display?”

“Old World Wisconsin is so big … I’ve been told that I’d have to climb in and out of a tram to even reach the Norwegian houses. I’m afraid that’s too much for me.” The elderly woman lifted one fragile hand in a helpless gesture. “But surely there are records? Can’t you look it up?”

“Mrs. Lundquist, I’m truly sorry, but I don’t even know
how
to look it up. I don’t know what system the former curator used. The collection here includes thousands of objects. And—” Chloe took a deep breath. “It’s my
first
–
day
.”

The other woman looked stricken. “Would you mind if … if I looked for it?” she asked, her voice quavering. “I recall the ale bowl well. I’d know it if I saw it.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Chloe said again, as gently as she could. “May I keep this acquisition form? Good. I will talk with the chief curator in Madison about your … situation. And—”

“Miss Ellefson,
please!
”

“—I will get back in touch with you as soon as I can.”

Mrs. Lundquist looked down at the table, but not before a telltale sheen of tears appeared in her eyes. “I see.”

Chloe felt wretched. “I promise you, I
will
find the ale bowl.”

The elderly woman gently patted Chloe’s hand again—a feeble, papery gesture that made Chloe want to cry herself. Then Mrs. Lund-quist got to her feet, wiping her eyes. “Thank you for your time.”

Chloe made sure she had current contact information, then helped Mrs. Lundquist down the trailer steps. Mrs. Lundquist walked slowly, her thin shoulders bowed. The Buick’s door seemed too heavy for her. Once seated, it looked as if she could barely see over the top of the steering wheel.

Didn’t I switch from interpretation to collections to avoid people problems? Chloe wondered, as the Buick crept from the parking lot. What on earth had prompted Mrs. Lundquist’s sudden change of heart so many years after the original donation was made?

Day One: she’d annoyed a security guard, irritated the curator of interpretation, and disappointed a sweet old woman. Not the promising start she’d wanted.

“Time to am-scray,” she muttered. She’d confront this donation imbroglio tomorrow. Right now she had a mountain of moving cartons waiting at her newly rented farmhouse.

She locked up the trailer, threw her bag on the Pinto’s backseat, and headed for home. She tried to forget Mrs. Lundquist, but as she turned onto County S, the irritating drone crept back into her brain:
Must make this
work. Must make this work
—

The incantation died abruptly as Chloe crested a rise. Below her, at the foot of the hill, was the big Buick which Mrs. Lundquist had driven from the restoration area parking lot five minutes earlier: in a ditch, upside down, and partially wrapped around a tree.

Patrolman Roelke McKenna handed
the man in the red Volvo his ticket. “Here you are, sir.”

“I know Chief Naborski personally.” The driver’s tone was peevish. “I think I’ll make a phone call about this.”

Roelke smiled pleasantly. “Be sure to mention that I clocked you doing fifty-seven in a school zone, sir.”

The man tossed the ticket on the empty passenger seat. Roelke had no more than stepped away from the car before the man furiously cranked up the window and pulled away.

“And have a real nice day,” Roelke added, before walking back to the squad car. Was the guy a long-time local? Roelke didn’t know. His old buddies from the Milwaukee Police Department, who often skewered Roelke for “fleeing to cow country,” assumed he was on a first-name basis with everyone. But although he’d been an Eagle cop for almost a year, he didn’t recognize everyone in the village.

Roelke noted the stop on his daily activity report while the radio chattered. Almost all of Waukesha County’s calls were routed through a centralized communications center, which kept the frequency busy. He was putting his clipboard aside when the dispatcher called his ID. “George 220. Respond to S & 67 for possible 10–50.”

An accident. Roelke snatched up the radio. “I’m three minutes from S. On my way.” He turned on siren and flashers and headed west, cutting through the swath of the state forest that bordered Eagle. As he turned left on County Highway S he took several deep breaths, steeling himself for … whatever.

When the cruiser crested the final hill on County S, Roelke saw a white Buick, flipped and crumpled against a massive oak. A thin blonde woman was on her knees by the broken passenger-side window. Roelke parked behind an old Pinto on the shoulder, slid from his car, and scrambled down the embankment. “What happened?”

“I think she’s dead.” The blonde sounded dazed. “I think I killed her.”

“
What?
”

“I didn’t try to move her. I’m just holding her hand. But I really think she’s dead.”

“Let me see,” Roelke commanded. “And you—don’t go anywhere. Get in my car and wait for me there.” The woman scrambled out of the way as he knelt beside the Buick.

The elderly woman’s seatbelt tethered her to the seat. Roelke snaked his hand past the jagged splinters of glass and crumpled metal, feeling for the driver’s pulse. A Hardees cup had spilled, leaving brown stains on the victim’s dress and the champagne-colored upholstery. The woman’s small purse—white leather, expensive—rested on the ceiling. One white shoe had fallen beside it.

Roelke turned away, and frowned. The dazed blonde woman sat on the ground at the edge of the road, leaning against the Pinto. She didn’t look like a flight risk, but Roelke took note of her plate number before radioing dispatch for assistance. “George 220. This is a probable J3.” Roelke knew the old woman was dead, but the medical people didn’t like patrol cops calling it.

He needed an ambulance, an accident reconstructionist, a coroner, and a wrecker. While he finished with dispatch, the growing wail of another siren sliced the soft spring evening. A county car braked to a shuddering halt, sending a little spray of gravel across the road. Waukesha County Sheriff’s Deputy Marge Bandacek emerged.

Roelke stifled an inward groan. Sheriff’s deputies provided him backup in Eagle, and he provided them backup outside the village limits. All in all everyone got along, helped each other out. But Marge was a pain in the ass.

He went to meet her. “Hey.”

“What we got?” Marge was a big-boned woman, with gray hair cut in a straight line just below her ears.

Roelke gestured. “Just the driver.”

“Fatal?” Deputy Bandacek said, too loudly. Roelke saw the blonde woman wince.

“Yeah. No skid marks, no sign of other trauma.”

More keening wails scarred the stillness as the emergency squad approached. Marge jerked her head toward the blonde woman. “That a witness?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Marge hitched up her pants. “I’ll talk to her.”

Highway S was just barely out of the Village of Eagle limits, which put Marge in charge. “I already got started with her,” Roelke told Marge, keeping his tone friendly. “She’s pretty upset. I’ll finish up there.”

He turned away before Marge could object, leaving her to deal with the EMTs. An old VW bus zoomed over the hill and pulled to a stop—a good Samaritan or gawker—followed closely by a Department of Natural Resources patrol car. Good. Marge could give orders to the DNR guy, and they’d both be busy with crowd control.

Roelke approached the blonde woman. She still sat on the ground, knees up, staring at the wreck. She was probably somewhere in her early thirties. Her pallor evidently came from genetics as much as shock, for she had the look of a classic Wisconsin Scandinavian. The eyes that finally looked up at him were chicory blue.

“I need to ask you some questions.” Roelke pulled a pad and pen from his shirt pocket, and crouched beside her. “What’s your name?”

“Chloe Ellefson. Um, Ingrid Ellefson.” A rosy flush stained her cheeks. “Ingrid Chloe Ellefson.”

“How did you know the victim?”

“I didn’t know her. I mean, I
did
know her.” Ms. Ellefson stared at her hands, which were trembling. “I’d just met her. Her name is—was—Mrs. Lundquist. Berget Lundquist.”

Roelke kept his tone even. “How did you kill Mrs. Lundquist?”

She jerked. “
What
?”

“You said, ‘I think I killed her,’” Roelke reminded her.

“I did?”

“You did.”

“Oh, God.” Ingrid Chloe Ellefson swiped at her eyes. The wrecker arrived. Roelke waited. It was a pleasant day, which didn’t feel right, but there it was. The state owned the land on either side of County S, and bits of prairie remnants and oak openings still buffered the rigid rows of pines planted three decades earlier in much of the land southwest of Eagle. In between the sporadic metallic moans emanating from the wrecked Buick as the rescue team bullied the car into releasing Mrs. Lundquist’s body, a meadowlark sang. The spring air smelled damp and fresh.

“She needed help,” Ms. Ellefson began finally. “And I wasn’t able to help her.”

By the time she’d haltingly reconstructed her meeting at the Restoration trailer, Roelke was satisfied that she hadn’t committed murder. “Did Mrs. Lundquist appear to be ill?” he asked. “Did she seem breathless? Flushed?”

While the blonde woman struggled with those questions, the coroner arrived. He’d examine the body and decide if an autopsy was indicated, or if the local funeral home should be called to collect the body. The tow truck driver was getting to work with winch and chain. Two more passersby had stopped to rubberneck. The DNR officer kept them in check while Marge Bandacek oversaw operations by the wrecked car.

“No,” Ms. Ellefson said finally. “I mean, I don’t think so. She was just upset about her family heirloom.”

“Thank you,” Roelke said. “I’ve got all the information I need for now.”

She nodded, wrapping her arms around her knees.

“Is there someone we can call to drive you home?”

“No.” She lay one cheek on her knees. “But I’m fine.”

She didn’t look fine. Roelke turned away. “Hey, Denise,” he called.

Denise, a short, plump mother of two, had been an EMT for years. She looked his way as Roelke walked toward the truck. “What’s up?”

“Give her a quick once-over, OK?” Roelke jerked his head toward Chloe Ellefson. “Make sure she’s fit to drive herself home.”

“Sure.”

Roelke checked in with Marge. She would wait for the accident reconstructionist, finalize things with the coroner.

“Looks clear-cut to me,” the young DNR officer said. “The old lady’s time was up.”

“Yeah,” Roelke said. After six years in the huge Milwaukee Police Department, he was still getting used to the assortment of backup that often responded to calls in and around Eagle. Sometimes it was overkill. Mostly it was reassuring.

He got back in his squad and started his report, waiting as Denise cleared Ms. Ellefson to drive home. He watched her slide slowly into the Pinto and drive away. He didn’t know which image was more sad: Berget Lundquist, undignified in death, or Chloe Ellefson, stunned in life.

____

By the time Chloe turned into the gravel drive circling her farmhouse in La Grange, bats were swooping over the alfalfa field across the road. She let herself into the kitchen through the back door.

Ignoring the cartons stacked on the counters and floors, she headed straight to the bathroom. She rummaged in her little bag of toiletries. The prescription bottle was on the bottom—orange plastic, directions printed neatly on the label, with Dr. Eberhardt’s name and phone number in one corner. It was almost full of little white pills, round and innocuous. For a long moment the afternoon dissolved into that plastic container.

“
Damn
it.” Chloe jerked open the medicine cabinet over the sink, put the container on one of the empty shelves, and slammed the mirrored door.

Back in the kitchen, she rinsed out the lone cup in the sink. The second-hand refrigerator installed the day before, which was now rattling ominously, offered a liter of diet soda and a half-eaten package of string cheese. She reached for the soda, poured some in the glass, added a few ice cubes and a liberal splash of rum.

She paced through the first floor, glass in hand. The faint hum of a tractor drifted through her living room window. Her landlords lived within hollering distance, but they were little more than strangers. Her parents? She could call them, or drive to their house, but … no. No solace there, either.

After several more minutes of agitated circling, Chloe dropped into a faded armchair rescued from her parents’ attic. She reached for the phone and dialed a familiar number.

She heard the reassuring signal of distant ringing. Then a familiar voice, warm and low: “Hello?”

“Ethan?”

“Chloe? Good God, girl, is that you? Where are you?”

“La Grange, Wisconsin.” Chloe clenched the phone receiver and closed her eyes. “I rented an old farmhouse about twenty minutes from the museum. The garage door is broken, and the living room carpet is mustard-colored shag, and the whole place needs paint. But you’d love it. You really would. The property backs up against a state forest.”

“Yeah?”

“I just moved in over the weekend. I’ve got a bit of settling-in to do. You know, unpacking. Stuff like that. But I think I’m really going to like it here.”

Ethan blew out a long, audible breath. Then, “What happened.” Ethan was so sure of his trans-wire assessment that the statement was flat, with no hint of questioning inflection. Damn the man for knowing her so well. Bless the man for knowing her so well.

“Well …” Chloe took a sip from the glass. “It was my first day on the job today, you know? And the thing is … I think I was … sort of responsible for an old lady getting killed.”

That stopped him. Chloe took another sip. Soda pop and rum: inelegant, but effective.

“You what?” Ethan asked after a moment.

Chloe told him what had happened. “So there really wasn’t anything I could do for her.”

“Then why are you taking responsibility for the crash?”

“Because—because she was a sweet old lady. For some reason, getting this ale bowl back had become incredibly important to her. People kept putting her off, saying she had to wait until I got hired. But no one ever told her you can’t just undo a legal donation. So she comes today, thinking
I’ll
help her, and all she gets is
more
runaround. She was really upset when she left.”

“And you think that’s why she wrapped her car around a tree?”

“Well …”

“Maybe she got stung by a bee. Maybe her brakes failed.”

Chloe pulled her heels up to the edge of the seat. “Maybe. But I can’t help feeling responsible.”

“I hope you didn’t phrase it quite that way to the cops.”

“I might have.” Chloe slid sideways in the chair. “This cop from Eagle questioned me. He can’t be more than late twenties, but he had this boss-man air about him. And he wore mirrored sunglasses like some motorcycle cop in a bad movie. He kinda freaked me out.”