Old World Murder (2010) (6 page)

“That’s all right. I did want to check in, though. I’m compiling quite a list of supplies I need. Also, my intern is creating artifact storage in the basement of St. Peter’s church. It’ll be a stop-gap, I know, but a good start until we get a permanent collections storage facility.”

“Mail me your list,” Leila said promptly. “I’ve been holding a pot of money aside for you, and I have some basic supplies earmarked too.”

Chloe raised her eyebrows, pleasantly surprised. “Will do. Can I fax the info?”

“From the site?” Leila hooted with laughter. “Oh, that’s rich. We just got our first fax machines here at HQ. They have to become obsolete before any drift out to the sites.”

Well, no surprise there. “OK. Second, what can you tell me about Old World Wisconsin’s collection records?”

“There should be a stack of big black ledgers somewhere in those trailers,” Leila said. “The former curator bound the collections records in those. One book for each year, and one page for each item donated to Old World or transferred to the site from the main collection here.”

Chloe tapped her pen against the kitchen counter. “One more question. Who should I talk to about a specific artifact transferred here from the main collection there in Madison?”

“The registrar here will have duplicate records. Need her number?”

Chloe took down the name and number. Before hanging up, she and Leila agreed on a date for Chloe to come to Madison for orientation.

Then Chloe dusted off one of the heavy black ledgers piled on the counter and opened it gingerly. Sure enough, the site’s accession records were arranged in chronological order. She hauled the notebooks back outside and planted herself at the picnic table.

It took over two hours to page through them. She justified the time by telling herself that she was acquainting herself with the collection. She
did,
after all, see a lot of information about artifacts donated and transferred to the site. What she did
not
see was any mention of a rosemaled ale bowl with cow heads transferred from the main state collection to Old World Wisconsin.

She headed back inside to call the registrar. The woman who answered sounded brisk and efficient, welcome traits common in a profession that depended upon extreme order. “You’re looking for one record in particular?”

“That’s right.” Chloe looked at the accession form Mrs. Lundquist had given her. “I’m trying to find out the date of transfer—”

“Give me the accession number.”

“SHSW 1962.37.3.”

“OK … hold on … got it. Norwegian ale bowl.”

Chloe’s fingers tightened on the black plastic. “That’s it.”

“That was transferred to Old World on July 17, 1977. You should have a record of it.”

“I’m sure I do,” Chloe said. “But it’s my first week—I haven’t had time to get straight on everything yet.” She was already mourning the fast-approaching time when she couldn’t fall back on that “I’m-just-the-new-girl” excuse.

“Call me if you need a copy of the transfer form.”

“Will do,” Chloe said. “Thanks.”

She grabbed the 1977 ledger and sat on the trailer steps. Perhaps she’d flipped past the transfer form on her first pass through. She thumbed through the July entries. No record of a Norwegian ale bowl.

Frowning, she looked again. The accession numbers jumped from 1977.13 to 1977.15. In between those two pages, she spotted something she’d missed. A tiny triangle of paper with ragged edges protruded from the binding. Someone had torn a page from the book—the transfer form for Mrs. Lundquist’s ale bowl.

Chloe hugged the book to her chest. First an unknown visitor had asked about the bowl. Now this. Strange. And disturbing.

So, what should she do with that information? Talk to Leila in Madison again? Leila didn’t even have time to call a new staff member and welcome her on board. Ralph Petty, the site director? She chewed that over.

Then she went back inside, called the director, and gave him a brief summary of events: Mrs. Lundquist’s visit and accident, the visitor looking for an ale bowl, the missing accession form. “So I was wondering if—”

“This woman is dead?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said cautiously.

“So why are you wasting time looking for her donation? You didn’t think you could return it, did you?”

Chloe rolled her eyes. “Of course not. It’s just that—”

“Stop worrying about things that don’t matter. Are you making progress with the collections storage building plan?”

OK, calling Ralph had been a mistake. “I’m working on it,” Chloe said. “Thanks, Ralph. I’ll let you go.”

She hung up and stood for a long moment, debating. Then she dug through her bag, found a creased business card, and dialed another number.

“Eagle Police Department.” A woman’s voice, cool and competent. She’d make an excellent registrar

“I’d like to speak with Officer McKenna, please.”

“Is this an emergency?”

“Um … no.”

“Officer McKenna won’t be in the office until noon. May I take a message?”

“No, thank you,” Chloe said. She hung up and stared at the phone. She was probably being silly.

Then she remembered Mrs. Lundquist, very dead.

Chloe locked up the trailer at 11:50, and drove to Eagle. She realized belatedly that she should have asked directions, but she had no trouble finding the police station, which shared a roof with the village hall.

Once in the entryway Chloe opened the appropriate door and stopped. She’d vaguely imagined a reception area guarding private office space. Instead she’d stepped into a cramped, narrow workroom. The counters were topped with manuals and stacks of papers and cubbyholes holding an array of forms. Shelves crowded with more manuals and cardboard cartons covered one wall.

A middle-aged woman who’d been clattering away at a typewriter looked up enquiringly, as did a very young officer sitting at the counter. Roelke McKenna stood at a line of lockers in the opposite wall, buttoning his uniform shirt. A framed photo of a pretty young woman perched on the shelf in his locker. She had long red hair, a fair complexion—probably of Irish descent—

“May I help you?” the woman asked.

Chloe flushed. “Um … I was hoping to see …” She looked at Officer McKenna.

He closed his locker. “Is there something I can do for you, Miss Ellefson?”

“You said I should contact you if—if anything came up about Mrs. Lundquist.” Chloe tried to sound matter-of-fact. She was acutely aware of the clerk and other officer.

The patrolman seemed to catch on. “The chief is out. Why don’t we use his office.” He opened a door in the back wall and led her into a private office. Two chairs faced the desk; he took one and gestured to the other. “Please, sit down.”

“Thank you.” Chloe looked away from his penetrating stare and made a mental note to break no laws in the Village of Eagle.

“Did a relative contact you?” Officer McKenna asked.

“No. I just—well, I’ve been looking for this ale bowl, you know, and I haven’t been able to find it. But a couple of odd things have happened.” She told him about the visitor who’d asked about a rosemaled ale bowl with cow heads, and the transfer page torn from the ledger.

He listened in silence. “Do you think someone stole this antique from Old World Wisconsin?”

Chloe spread her hands. “I don’t know.”

“Would this be a valuable piece?”

“I suppose so. Lots of collectors want nineteenth-century ethnic pieces in good condition.”

“Nothing about this piece in particular, though?”

Chloe shifted her weight. She was getting annoyed—whether at him or herself, she wasn’t sure. “I don’t know that either. I’m not an expert.”

“You must know an expert though, eh? Someone you could contact who knows Norwegian antiques?”

“Why, because I’m of Norwegian descent? Do you think we all sit around eating
lefse
and painting woodenware?”

“No,” he said carefully. “Because you work for a museum.”

Chloe ordered herself to get a grip. “Yes, of course. I do. I will. My original point, though, is that any rosemaled piece is valuable, and there are dozens of them at the site, both on display and in storage.”

A phone rang in the outer office, and the clerk’s voice cut through Officer McKenna’s thoughtful silence. Then he asked, “Do you happen to have that piece of paper you showed me the other day? The one Mrs. Lundquist gave you?”

She pulled it from her bag and handed it to him.

He stared at it for a moment, then leaned forward and turned the paper sideways. “What does this number mean?” He pointed to the accession number, 1962.37.3.

“Well … the ‘1-9-6-2’ means the ale bowl was originally donated in 1962. Mrs. Lundquist was the thirty-seventh person to donate something to the historical society that year. And the ‘3’ indicates that she donated at least three objects, and that the ale bowl was the third piece the registrar numbered and marked.”

“What about the other two objects?”

Chloe blinked. “What?”

“What about the other objects she donated?” he repeated. “Were those first two transferred to Old World along with the ale bowl? Are they missing too?”

Chloe felt herself flush again. A pox on her Scandinavian features. A pox on Officer Roelke McKenna for making her feel like an idiot. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I didn’t think to check on that. The registrar in Madison will be able to tell me.”

“Perhaps that should be your next step.”

“Yes.” Chloe took the accession form back and stood up. “I apologize for taking your time.”

“Just a moment.”

Chloe sat back down and waited. The cop’s mouth formed a tight line. He stared blindly at the wall, one thumb tapping a staccato beat on the arm of his chair. His tension was palpable. He was a young cop in a sleepy village. What had wound him up so tight?

He looked back at her. “You don’t have any evidence that a crime has been committed.”

“No,” she said curtly. “I don’t.”

“Old World Wisconsin is a state property. If you do decide that a crime has been committed, your director needs to file a report. It’ll go to the Capitol police first, and probably on to the county. In any case, law enforcement can’t get involved until you make a report.”

“No, I didn’t expect … that is …” Shit. Just what had she expected? She didn’t know. “I just wanted to tell you what I’d found. That’s all.”

She stood again. This time he didn’t stop her.

____

“What was that about?” Marie asked, rolling a piece of paper from her typewriter.

Roelke finished his quick check of his duty belt: everything in order. “Just a follow-up from that fatal accident on Highway S.”

“What about that fatal?” Chief Naborski walked into the room through the side door, from the village municipal offices, just in time to hear Roelke’s remark. “Some problem there?”

“Not really.”

Chief Naborski was a solid man of medium height with a craggy face, tired eyes, and gray hair buzzed in a flat-top that may have been a holdover from his service during the Korean War. He looked at Roelke a moment longer than casual courtesy required, then cocked his head toward his office. “Come in for a minute.”

Roelke followed and dropped into the seat he’d recently vacated. The chief was a plain-spoken and fair man—except during deer season. Chief Naborski’s annual calendar revolved around his week at deer camp, much to the annoyance of some of the younger cops who wanted to take vacation at the same time. Roelke didn’t ask for vacation time during deer season. He and the chief got along fine.

“Anything I need to know?” Naborski asked.

“I don’t think so. An employee from Old World Wisconsin stopped in a few minutes ago. She’d met with the victim just before the accident, and was first on the scene. She’s been trying to find an antique the victim donated, years ago. It hasn’t turned up.”

“If they think something’s been stolen, they need to file a report.”

“That’s what I told her.”

“I’ve got something else for you.” Chief Naborski tipped back in his chair. He had a habit of leaning back so far that Roelke, during his first weeks on the job, had lived with the distracting fear that he was about to watch his boss fall on his ass. It hadn’t happened yet.

“Yes, sir?”

“Ginger Herschorn stopped by my house last night. Ginger Herschorn is very unhappy.”

The image of a pinched, disapproving face nudged Chloe Ellefson’s lovely troubled one from Roelke’s mind. Ginger Herschorn, a long time village trustee, routinely campaigned to eliminate the village police force. It would be “free,” she argued, to simply rely on the county for all calls. No one had been able to convince Ginger that one way or another, her taxes paid for law enforcement. Roelke was pretty sure that the first time she faced a real emergency, she’d be glad to have a local cop two minutes away.

“Ginger says her nephew lost seven hundred dollars on a Brewers game last week,” the chief was saying.

Seven hundred dollars far exceeded the scope of a friendly wager. “Where did that happen?”