Old World Murder (2010) (22 page)

Roelke tapped his thumb against the steering wheel. He didn’t know how to figure this out. He didn’t know how to protect Chloe. He felt powerless. There were few things he hated more.

“I’m just an Eagle cop,” he said finally. “You need to talk with the detective handling Mr. Solberg’s murder—”

“And tell him what?” Chloe demanded. “That I’m missing an apron now, too?”

“Then talk to your site director,” Roelke insisted. “It’s time to go on the record with all of this.”

“I can’t talk to the director.” Chloe looked out the window.

“Why not?”

“Long story. Believe me when I say I wouldn’t get a thoughtful audience right now.”

“Chloe—”

“I think the director’s going to fire me, alright? And if I get fired, I’ll never be able to figure this out. And I
need
to do this—”

“
Why
?” Roelke demanded. “Why the hell do you need to be the one to—”

“Because Mrs. Lundquist—”

“Mrs. Lundquist is dead!”

She shifted on the seat to face him. In the dim light he could just make out the hard set to her jaw. “Yes, she is. The least I can do is help find out why. And if the son of a bitch responsible for all this is the same person who tried to break into my house while I was asleep, I want to help catch him.”

“That son of a bitch may well be a murderer—”

“That’s right! And if someone who works at Old World Wisconsin is a thief and a murderer, this could just be the beginning! What if he gets away with it?”

“Chloe—”

“And you know what? I haven’t done much in my short time at Old World, but maybe I don’t want this going down on my watch. Maybe I want to prove Ralph Petty wrong. Maybe I want to accomplish something worthwhile. Maybe I want to feel good about myself again.”

Roelke had no idea what to say to that.

“Look,” she said, her voice quieter. “I don’t have any reason to think that the detective in Madison will take me seriously, or my own site director either. But I want to find out who thinks they can scare me out of my home. I want to get whoever scared Mrs. Lundquist, and killed Mr. Solberg.”

Roelke wished he knew how to make her back down. “Aren’t you afraid?” he asked finally.

She regarded him. “I wasn’t afraid when I saw that person climbing into my house through the window,” she said slowly. “Tonight, when that window crashed—that did scare me. For a minute.”

Roelke rubbed his eyes. It wasn’t enough.

“I still think someone was only trying to scare me tonight. I just don’t know why.”

“Somebody knows you’re asking questions. Somebody thinks you’re getting too close.”

“I wish it were true. I don’t feel close to anything at all.”

Roelke realized he could see smudges of exhaustion beneath Chloe’s eyes. He looked at the luminous dial on his watch. Five-thirty. Dawn was creeping over the horizon. Gene Holsworth and his sons were probably already milking their cows, while “the wife” measured coffee and sliced bacon.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked.

She blinked. “You mean, now? Home, I guess.”

Not the farmhouse. Anywhere but that damned sterile farmhouse, home to nothing but piles of still-sealed moving boxes, and too easy a target. “That’s a bad idea.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, it’s getting light out. Don’t be a Neanderthal. I’ll be fine. I can walk from here if you—”

“How about I take you to Libby’s place?”

She sat up straight. “With the kids? No way.”

“Your parents’ place, then.”

“No! I’m not taking this to them, either. Besides, it’s too far. By the time I got there, I’d have to turn around and drive back to work.”

He regarded her. “You’re not going to work today.”

“Of course I am!”

“Call in sick.”

“I don’t want to call in sick. I need to go to work and go through the accession books, page by page. I might be able to find the accession record for that apron. If it was removed, I can figure out the missing number and see if the registrar in Madison has a copy. They may not, if the donation came originally to Old World, instead of transferring—”

“That can wait.”

She turned on him. “No it can’t! If I can find the provenance for that apron, it might tell us something important. Something crucial.”

“But you’re exhausted!”

“So are you! Are you planning to call in sick?”

He wasn’t. For a long moment they scowled at each other. Birds were limbering their vocal muscles now, preparing to chorus the sun up. I’m trying to protect you! Roelke wanted to shout, but he was wise enough—at least he hoped it was wise—to keep his mouth shut on that one.

Chloe suddenly popped a hand to her mouth in an oddly child-like gesture. “Oh, geez! And I have to talk to Margueritte about Tobler!”

“Talk to who about what?”

“Sorry. Work stuff. It’s got nothing to do with this Norwegian mess.”

Roelke reached for the ignition key, and started the motor. “You make me nuts sometimes,” he muttered. “You really, really do.” After checking for oncoming traffic, he pulled onto the highway.

“Where are we going?” she demanded suspiciously.

“We are going to get breakfast,” he said. Then something else occurred to him, something he’d almost forgotten in the events of the past few hours. “And after I’ve had some coffee,” he added, “I am going to tell you about Stanley Colontuono.”

Back at the farmhouse,
Chloe quickly changed into khaki trousers and a clean red shirt. As she stood in front of the bathroom mirror, brushing her hair, she saw dark blotches beneath her eyes. The shirt needed ironing, too. At least red was a power color.

Fifteen minutes later she and Roelke settled into a corner booth at the Cloverleaf Diner. “I can recommend the apple fritters,” Chloe said.

“You need protein.”

“Geez Louise, Roelke, would you please lighten up?”

“Would you please start taking things seriously?”

A waitress interrupted their standoff by silently splashing coffee into white ceramic mugs. Roelke ordered a Farmer’s Breakfast: two eggs, two pancakes, two sausages. Chloe ordered an apple fritter but, to make nice, added an order of scrambled eggs. “Made with cheese, if possible,” she added, then turned back to Roelke. “So, what’s this about Stanley?”

Voice low, Roelke told her about the flow of traffic recently observed at his house. “I am trusting you to keep this to yourself,” he added sternly.

Chloe put one placating palm in the air. “It won’t go any further. But … what does it mean? You think Stanley is involved in some gambling ring?”

“I don’t know. If he’s the bookie, it would have no connection to your ale bowl. But if he’s a gambler, it could mean he suddenly has a need for cash.”

Chloe pondered that while the waitress slammed their plates onto the table and disappeared again. “But Stanley has access to everything on the site. Why would he home in on one ale bowl? And if Stan
did
steal the bowl, and sell it so he could pay off gambling debts, how did Mrs. Lundquist get involved?”

Roelke dribbled syrup onto his pancakes. “I have no idea.”

Chloe frowned. Stan could have been looking for anyone the night Roelke saw him burst into the Eagle’s Nest. “I’m going to take a look around his office.”

Roelke pinned her with a stare sharp enough to carve diamonds. “No, you most certainly are not.”

“But maybe I could just—”

“
No
. Am I being clear? Stay away from Stanley Colontuono. If he
is
mixed up with a gambling operation, it could be bad business. You
will
stay away from him, and from his office. You are not leaving this table until you promise me that.”

Chloe could tell he wasn’t going to budge on this one. “I promise.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you lying?”

“No,” she lied. “I still think the one to watch is Nika, anyway. Maybe I’ll see what kind of mood she’s in today.”

Roelke’s frown deepened. “You said she’s got a temper. Don’t go pressuring her with a lot of questions.”

“I won’t.” Chloe avoided his gaze by focusing on her eggs, which were oozing mozzarella and fragrant with basil. “These are amazingly good.”

He picked up his coffee cup and leaned back against the cracked red vinyl. “Any chance a hot meal has convinced you that going to work today is a bad idea?”

“None. I’ve got too much to do.” Chloe dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin.

“Well, keep in touch with me. My shift starts at noon today. You can call me at home until then, and reach me through the station after that.”

“
OK
.”

When they were finished Chloe wrote a check for their meal, hoping fervently that it wouldn’t bounce. The least she could do was treat Roelke to breakfast. The need to ask her parents for a loan was becoming inevitable. Humiliating thought.

“Thanks a lot,” she said, when they were back out in the parking lot. “For bringing me here, and—and everything else.” She noticed that he looked as tired as she felt. “Go get some sleep,” she added. “I’ll talk to you later.”

____

Stifling the urge to tail Chloe, Roelke drove home instead. He didn’t like the idea of her blithely going back to work, perhaps with the person who had hurled a rock through her bedroom window the night before; perhaps even with the person who had caused Mr. Solberg’s death. And he didn’t trust her not to do something stupid. But there didn’t seem to be a damn thing he could do about it.

Once in his apartment, he dropped into his chair, reached for the phone, dialed a number. After the fourth ring he heard a muttered greeting.

“Hey, Rick? It’s Roelke.”

“Jesus, Roelke—”

“Sorry to wake you.” Roelke stared out the window at a school bus rumbling down the road. “But I need a favor.”

____

Chloe drove to Old World Wisconsin, feeling more jangled than she wanted to admit, buzzing on caffeine and a growing sense of urgency. Someone had tried to frighten her last night. Why?
Why
? What was that person afraid of? She had to figure that out before Ralph Petty fired her, taking her keys and effectively barring her from the site.

It occurred to her that Ralph might be waiting at the trailers, so she swerved away from the restoration area drive and headed to the education building instead. She needed to talk with Margueritte before Ralph fired her, too.

It was just after seven-thirty A.M. and Chloe found both Byron and Margueritte inside, already at work. Byron was on the phone, but he gave Chloe a wide-awake wave. I am a complete slacker, Chloe thought. She considered getting to work by eight a major triumph.

Margueritte beckoned Chloe into her office, which was cramped and lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The curator of research looked imperturbable and academic in a dark suit with white blouse, pantyhose, and low-heeled pumps. Chloe felt more rumpled than ever.

As if that mattered. Chloe pulled the unwieldy sheaf of photocopies from her briefcase. “These are all from Aldrick Tobler’s local newspaper. I need to show you one in particular.” She planted a piece of paper on Margueritte’s desk. The older woman raised her eyebrows, looking mildly put out, but Chloe tapped a business notice with her finger. “Read this one. It’s short.”

She watched as the older woman read the notice, frowned, and read it again. Margueritte sat up straighter, planted her palms on the desk, and read the notice for a third time. Then, wide-eyed, she slowly looked up at Chloe.

“I know,” Chloe said. “You’ll probably want to look into that.”

Margueritte grinned. “I
love
my job! What a treasure hunt!”

“Yeah.”

Margueritte looked back at the photocopy. “This … this might not be what it seems, though. This could be an error.”

“It could be,” Chloe said agreeably. “I’ll leave it in your hands.”

As she headed back up to her car, though, Chloe smiled. She was sure the notice was
not
a mistake. Maybe, in her short tenure at Old World Wisconsin, she’d actually managed to accomplish something good.

____

Chloe was relieved to see that no big motorcycle was waiting at the trailers. Should she try to hide her car? No. She was being neurotic. Still, for once she did pull the trailer door closed behind her.

After throwing her bag on the counter she grabbed the first heavy black binder, labeled “1974.” That was the year her predecessor had begun creating an Old World Wisconsin collection in anticipation of the site’s grand opening in 1976. Chloe dropped onto the wobbly chair and began quickly paging through the accession forms. Earthenware jug … coverlet … butter churn … froe …

She was halfway through the first binder, her eyes already glazing over, when her phone rang. She glanced at the clock: two minutes after eight. Maybe Ralph had come to work with firing her first on his agenda.

The phone rang again.

Maybe she could ignore it.

The phone rang again.

Maybe it wasn’t even Ralph.

The phone rang again.

“Shit,” she muttered, and snatched the receiver. “This is Chloe Ellefson.”

It
was
Ralph. “Ms. Ellefson.”

Ms. Ellefson
. That couldn’t be good.

“I’m calling for your report about your discussion with Leila.”

“My discussion with Leila?”

“About the collections storage facility,” he said impatiently.

“Oh. Yes.”

His tone was icy. “Did you go to Madison yesterday?”

She closed her eyes. Yesterday seemed like a year ago, but this was starting to make sense. “Yes, I did, but—”

“And did you meet with Leila?”

“I did, but—”

“And did you discuss the need for prompt action on the permanent collections storage building?”

“I brought it up, but …”

“But?”

“But we didn’t get too far,” Chloe admitted. “She had another meeting scheduled.” And I had better things to do.

After a long, uncomfortable silence, Ralph finally said, “Thank you, Ms. Ellefson. I think you’ve told me exactly what I needed to know.”

Chloe heard a click and a dial tone. Well. That had gone badly.

Still, he hadn’t fired her flat-out. She replaced the receiver and turned back to the binder. She was going to hunt for a record of that blasted apron until someone physically dragged her from the trailer.

It took her almost an hour. By that time, she was overwhelmed with scanning notes of the multitude of
stuff
transferred or donated to Old World Wisconsin. She was two pages past before the word “apron” registered. She frantically paged backward. There it was:
White cotton apron. Condition: excellent. Embroidered in white thread, floral designs, lacey embellishments, with “Vi maa uddanne vaare dötre” stitched near the hem.

Bingo.

But the form did not list a donor. Instead, it noted only the apron’s official transfer from the State Historical Society of Wisconsin to Old World Wisconsin on April 11, 1978.

Chloe scrabbled for her list of staff numbers, grabbed the phone, dialed, and held her breath until the phone was answered. “Hello, Ann? It’s Chloe Ellefson. We met yesterday—”

“I remember.”

“Good. Listen, I need another favor. I’m looking at another transfer form, and I need to know who donated the piece originally to—”

“Accession number?”

Chloe supplied it. Within seconds, Ann was reading information from the record. “‘White cotton apron. Condition: excellent—’”

“Who donated it?”

“I was getting to that.” Ann drew an audible breath and started again. “‘White cotton apron. Condition: excellent. Embroidered in white thread, floral designs, lacey embellishments, with
Vi maa uddanne vaare dötre
stitched near the hem. Donated to the Society in 1972.’”

Chloe wanted to leap through the phone line. “By
who
? Who donated it?”

Another aggrieved pause. “The accession form was signed by … it looks like … Marit Kallerud.”

Chloe dropped the phone. It fell with a noisy clunk to the counter. As she picked it up she could hear Ann’s irritated voice: “Are you there? Are you there?”

“I’m here,” Chloe said. “Could you spell that name?” The registrar did. Chloe rubbed her forehead. “I don’t frickin’ believe this,” she muttered.

“Look, is there some problem? Who is Marit Kallerud?”

Chloe stared out the window, feeling dazed. “Marit Kallerud is my mother.”

____

Chloe listened to her parents’ phone ring … and ring … and ring. “Answer the damn phone!” she yelled, before slamming the receiver back to its cradle.

OK. She needed to calm down. Breathe in, breathe out. She would catch up with Mom later. Right now, she could go talk to Nika.

As Chloe reached for her keys a car pulled up outside. By the time she got the door open, Byron was climbing from the state sedan.

“Hey, Byron,” she called. “What brings you here?”

He stopped at the steps. “I was just at the admin building. I, um, noticed you had these in your mailbox.” Without meeting her gaze, he handed Chloe two of the yellow WHILE YOU WERE OUT slips the receptionist used.

“Thanks.”

“And I wanted to get back to you about the Norwegian interpreters. Two people who worked there in the 1970s are still on staff. They’re both here today.” He gave her a piece of paper with the relevant information.