Fourteen
As they left the Utne Church, Roelke could tell that Chloe had hoped for more encouragement about tracing Marit’s people. “Are you okay?”
She twisted her mouth in a halfhearted smile. “Just wondering about my ancestors. Some of them might have attended church here, Roelke. Walked these roads. Listened to Hardanger fiddle tunes. Gone to dances. I just don’t know.”
“You’re only getting started,” he reminded her.
“I suppose. I just thought …” She heaved a sigh. “I was sure that coming to Norway and searching for ancestors was absolutely the right thing to do. Now … I don’t know.”
Roelke reached for her hand, trying to anchor her. Chloe wasn’t a particularly practical person. She could be impulsive. She tended to plunge ahead when pursuing her passions without considering consequences. That was true when doing any historical research. Her mission here was intensely personal.
Worse, he sensed that her quest was motivated by more than finding ancestral records. Chloe’s relationship with her mom had been strained. He suspected Chloe believed that learning about Marit’s birth might atone for that. But although finding some basic record of the mysterious Amalie might be possible, finding actual relatives during their short time in Norway seemed like a tall order.
When Chloe tipped her head against his shoulder, his heart hitched. He was still amazed that she’d fallen in love with him. And in all honesty, he had to admit that Chloe’s impetuousness—and her vulnerability—were two things that had attracted him from the beginning.
Those things also sometimes kept him awake at night.
“Let’s head back to the hotel,” Chloe said. “I want to see how my dad’s doing and find out if Aunt Hilda has shown any improvement.”
Back at the Utne Hotel, Chloe went in search of a phone. Roelke settled at a table on the front porch and stared over the fjord. The ferries coming and going didn’t detract from the village’s peaceful charm. Shadows shifted on the mountains, fragmenting the forested slopes and stone faces into geometric shapes. The water rippled restlessly at this junction between the Sørfjord and the Hardangerfjord.
Roelke felt restless too. He’d never been to Norway before and dammit, he wanted to be a tourist. He wanted Chloe’s dreams to come true so she could relax and enjoy their visit. But neither of those things were going to happen before some problems got resolved. And frankly, to his mind, there were too many problems stacking up.
He reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved the stack of index cards. On top was the one he’d labeled Klara Evenstad. The problems, though, hadn’t started with her death. He plucked a blank card from the pile and began to write.
Trouble:
Roelke tried to find some link between the incidents. If there was one, he couldn’t see it. The attempted daypack snatch had happened what, eighty miles away? Something like that. And they’d only just met Klara Evenstad—
“Whatcha doin’?”
He jumped, startled to find Chloe standing beside him. “Just collecting my thoughts. Did you reach your dad?”
“Yes, and he sounded glad to hear from me, but there’s been no change in Aunt Hilda’s condition. I had a fax waiting from Rosemary Rossebo, the genealogist who’s helping me, but so far she hasn’t found Amalie Sveinsdatter on a ship’s passenger list.”
Roelke could tell that his beloved was more discouraged than ever. “Has Rosemary given up?”
Chloe managed the ghost of a smile. “Heck, no. She’s tenacious.”
“So maybe you’ll get better news next time.”
“Maybe.” She shrugged before leaning closer to peer at the index card. Her eyebrows went up. “Do you honestly think there’s some connection between those incidents?”
“It seems unlikely. But …”
“But what?” She slid into the chair across from him.
He rested on his elbows. “Chloe, why would someone try to grab your pack at the airport? It would have been much easier to target some elderly woman with a dangling pocketbook.”
She sucked in her lower lip as she thought that over. “Because my daypack was bigger? Possibly holding more stuff of value?”
“I can’t help wondering if someone was after more than a tourist’s wallet. What if somebody wanted to steal that embroidered thing you found in Marit’s closet?”
Chloe had set her yellow daypack on the ground by her chair. Now she pulled it protectively into her lap. “But who?”
“I have no idea. But you did pull it out in the middle of a crowded café at the airport. Sonja Gullickson did talk in detail about how rare it was. I remember her saying that your piece with the black
embroidery—what did she call it?”
“It’s a handaplagg. A hand cloth.”
“Right. She said it was probably made in the seventeen hundreds, and very valuable.” Roelke had been hanging around with Chloe for long enough to know that some people went nuts over antiques like that.
Chloe’s gaze went distant. Finally she said, “It’s hard to imagine that by chance, someone eavesdropping from the next table in an airport café was the kind of person who’d try to make a grab for it.”
“Unless Sonja Gullickson had set something up with an accomplice.”
“Roelke!”
“Sonja did come back from Stockholm early, too. She could have been back in Utne by the time Klara was attacked.”
Chloe looked stricken. “Surely Sonja had nothing to do with Klara’s murder. Or with whoever tried to grab my daypack.”
“I’m not accusing her.” He held up both hands. “But you have to admit, it’s possible.” He wrote Sonja Gullickson on a clean index card. “And when we talked to her before the concert, she never took off her sunglasses. Sometimes people do that if they have something to hide.”
“Or if they like looking stylish. Which Sonja does.”
Okay, further debate wouldn’t accomplish anything. “You’re probably right,” Roelke admitted. “What happened at the airport probably had nothing to do with Klara’s death. Even so, I suggest we ask the innkeeper if there’s a safe where you can leave your heirlooms.”
“But … they’re talismans.” Chloe patted her daypack. “I like having them with me.”
He waited, giving her time. Telling Chloe what to do usually prompted her to do the exact opposite.
“Oh, all right,” she conceded, sounding aggrieved. “The most important thing is to keep the doily and handaplagg safe.” But she still hesitated, nibbling her lower lip.
“What?”
“I was thinking about the conversation about Klara we had this morning. One thing strikes me as unusual. Why did she go from working full-time at the museum to working full-time as a maid and waitress at the hotel? There’s nothing wrong with hotel work, but based on the tour Klara gave us, she was a fantastic guide.”
“Maybe she wanted to work with her friend.”
“Maybe.” Chloe sounded doubtful.
“Or maybe Klara wasn’t invited to return full-time this year.”
Chloe’s brow furrowed. “Why wouldn’t she be?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Some conflict with Ellinor, maybe?”
“But if that were the case, why would Ellinor bring her in at all?”
“Because the museum ended up short-staffed?”
“I think we’re drifting into pretty wild speculation.”
Wild speculation can lead to unexpected answers, Roelke thought. But he sensed Chloe had done all the brainstorming she was going to do, just now. He wrapped a rubber band around his index cards and tucked them away. “How about we get some lunch,” he suggested, and was rewarded with a smile.
After a meal of open-faced Norwegian sandwiches—Jarlsburg cheese for Chloe, roast pork for Roelke—they stopped at the hotel desk. Barbara-Eden answered the bell and, when Chloe explained what she wanted, summoned proprietress Ulrikke Moe.
“I’d be glad to secure your things in our safe.” Ulrikke accepted the tissue-wrapped textiles from Chloe. “Barbara-Eden, I believe your help is needed in the kitchen.” When the younger woman had disappeared, Ulrikke turned back to her guests. “Is everything all right? Has Barbara-Eden said something inappropriate?”
Where did that come from? Roelke wondered.
“Everyone is upset about Klara, of course,” Ulrikke was saying, “but Barbara-Eden can be … impressionable.”
“She hasn’t said anything inappropriate,” Chloe assured her. “And all of you must be in shock. I’m so sorry.”
Ulrikke nodded and disappeared into the office behind the counter. Roelke felt better when Chloe’s heirlooms were locked in the hotel safe.
Then he and Chloe walked back to the museum. Ellinor was talking on the phone in her office, leaning on one elbow as if to keep herself upright. “Yes … of course … yes. I will.” She hung up and waved her visitors inside. When the phone rang again, she rolled her eyes. “I’ll let the gift shop take that one.”
“I just wondered if you’d heard anything from Torstein,” Chloe said.
“Torstein. Yes. He stopped by.” Ellinor ran her hands through her hair. “He’s devastated, as you can imagine. Said he didn’t have the heart to think about fieldwork just now.”
“Of course.”
The man’s feelings were perfectly understandable, but Roelke couldn’t help wondering what Torstein’s absence might mean for Chloe’s obligation to the Stoughton Historical Society. He also couldn’t help wondering what Torstein had told the Norwegian cops when interviewed.
“He said that you were welcome to go without him. You can borrow our tape recorder, and …” Ellinor picked up a manila envelope and held it out. “He left contact info for you.”
That idea obviously appealed to Chloe. She tore open the envelope. “Yep—name, phone and address, some background.” She glanced at Roelke. “Up for a drive?”
Roelke opted against speculating about just what kind of roads they’d encounter on this particular jaunt. “Sure.”
“I wish I could come with you, instead of being chained to this office.” Ellinor pressed fingertips to her temples. “Sorry. I’ve never been in this kind of situation before. And I hope I never am again.”
Chloe called the informant’s granddaughter from the hotel. “You work with Torstein?” the woman asked.
“Yes. Unfortunately he’s not able to visit this afternoon, but he suggested that I come anyway. If that still suits.”
“I’d much rather do that than postpone, actually. My grandfather doesn’t speak English well, so I missed work to interpret for him.”
Chloe was doubly glad Torstein had suggested that she keep the appointment. “I look forward to meeting you both. I’ll have to look at a map. I’m not sure how long it will take to drive to your home.”
“We’re in Kinsarvik, so from Utne, there’s no need for a car. Just hop on the next ferry.”
Twenty minutes later Chloe and Roelke were on their way. The puffy cumulous clouds dappling a brilliant blue sky above were reflected in the water below. Along the shore, flowering apple and plum trees misted orchards pink and creamy white. But standing beside Roelke at the upper deck’s rail, Chloe felt an ache inside. Klara would never again hear birds call as they flew over the water. She would never again inhale the damp air, or watch the light change over the mountains.
“What’s wrong?” Roelke asked.
“I’m just feeling a little …” She tried to find the right word. “Emotional. Overwhelmed.”
Roelke tucked a wind-whipped strand of hair behind her ear. “Try to focus on your meeting this afternoon.”
Chloe exhaled slowly. “I’ll try.”
The ferry entered a small bay and chugged toward the dock. Kinsarvik hunched on the shore, embraced by mountains. The most prominent village feature was a white church near the water, enclosed by a stone fence. That looks familiar, Chloe thought, gripping the railing. Had Amalie Sveinsdatter known this view? Had she been eager to emigrate, or had her heart broken as she watched the landscape of home fade into the distance behind her?
Roelke cocked his head toward the stairs. “Let’s go down.”
After they disembarked Chloe suddenly felt so confused that she abruptly stopped walking. “A lot has changed.” She gestured toward the cars parked in a line, waiting to take their places on the ferry. “That’s where the church boats used to beach.”
Roelke pulled her out of the traffic flow. “Um … what church boats?” His voice sounded oddly hollow, as if they were speaking by telephone with a bad connection.
“The tioerings.” She squinted, trying to stabilize a wavering landscape: cobbled shore and empty boats. She heard the faint strains of a distant hardingfele.
“Chloe!” Roelke barked.
The fuzziness faded. She stared at the concrete seawall, the asphalt car lanes, the powerboats moored in a nearby marina, the neatly manicured picnic area beside the church grounds.
Roelke gripped her arm. “What’s going on? You sorta zoned out there for a minute. What’s a tioering?”
“A boat with ten oars,” she explained, although she didn’t know why she knew that. “People used them to travel from their village or farm area to church on Sundays. And for weddings.” That would explain the fiddle.
Roelke’s piercing gaze didn’t waver.
She took a deep breath. “Roelke, I know this place. I could swear I’ve been in Kinsarvik before.”
“Like you felt in Utne?”
“This is different. Much stronger.”
“You must have come through here on one of your earlier trips.”
“No.” Chloe shook her head. “I have never been here. But … remember what Reverend Brandvold said? If my ancestors lived in this area, they probably attended church here in Kinsarvik for centuries before later churches, like the one in Utne, were built.”
Roelke glanced at the church, then over his shoulder toward the ferry. “Maybe this field visit isn’t a good idea after all. Maybe we should go back to Utne—”
“I don’t want to go back!” Chloe felt an unexpected smile tug at her lips. “I think I just had a flash of genetic memory.” Something she’d read about, thought about, but never experienced.
Roelke eyed her for so long that Chloe almost regretted her words. Although he’d been remarkably accepting, maybe this was too personal. Too much.
Finally he nodded slowly. “Cool.”
Tension eased from her shoulders. “Thank you,” she whispered, and gave him a quick kiss.
“What does it feel like? Is it like what happened at that old cabin at the museum?”
She considered. “That was overwhelming. This sense of familiarity, here and in Utne, is sort of comforting.” She kicked a stone from the walkway, trying to find the right words. “It feels like … like I might remember things I never actually experienced. It feels like important memories are hovering right outside what I know.” She rubbed her temples. “It makes me think that if I just reach out quickly enough, I might capture something. Something specific. But … I don’t know how.”
“Holy toboggans.” Roelke looked away, briefly diverted by two boys racing around the picnic area before catching her gaze again. “I think you should keep trying. Don’t get frustrated. I can’t imagine that would help.”
Chloe snapped some pictures but was eager to learn if the sanctuary felt familiar too. “Let’s see if we can go inside the church!”
“Um … isn’t someone expecting us?”
“Oh, geez.” Chloe felt chagrined. How could she have forgotten her plans to meet an octogenarian rumored to have learned local dances from his grandparents? She dug the address and directions she’d been given from her daypack. “Okey-dokey. Let’s go.”
Roelke kept a surreptitious eye on Chloe, but she didn’t zone out again as they navigated Kinsarvik. They soon reached a frame home painted bright red with green trim. A yellow picket fence enclosed the small yard. Somebody cheerful lives here, Roelke thought.
They were warmly welcomed inside by the gentleman and his granddaughter, a plump woman in her forties. “Call me Bestefar,” the old man told them.
“I’m honored!” Chloe said, then murmured to Roelke, “That means ‘Grandfather.’”
Bestefar seemed mentally sharp and was obviously delighted that Chloe had traveled from America to learn about regional dances. He walked as if his knees hurt, but when he unexpectedly grabbed Chloe’s hand and twirled her around, his wrinkled face glowed and years slipped away. Roelke enjoyed seeing Chloe energized and enthused, chatting with an elder about a pastime they both loved.
Still, as an hour passed, the lengthy discussion of dialectical forms and vendingsdels, promenades and gameldansers, made him antsy. He didn’t realize his right knee was bouncing until Chloe put her hand out, gently stilling it.
“Why don’t you take a walk?” she suggested. “I’ll meet you down by the ferry dock when we’re through.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m fine, Roelke. See you later.”
“Well … okay.” Roelke thanked their hosts and let himself out the front door feeling guilty but liberated.
He wandered, taking his time, until he came to a gracious old white building near the harbor. A big sign said Kinsarvik Brygge. He didn’t know what that meant, but it appeared to be a tourism office. He went inside and picked up some information about nearby waterfalls and the Hardangervidda National Park. It seemed unlikely that Chloe would be able to spend a day hiking, but hey, he could dream. And be prepared with maps and trail descriptions.
As he emerged, the first cars puttered from a just-docked ferry. A stream of pedestrians emerged too, most dressed in casual hiking or sightseeing clothes. Then he saw a woman walking quickly, head down, angling away from the others. It looked like Ellinor, which didn’t make sense since Ellinor had said that she’d be “chained” to her office all day. But it definitely was the museum director. He recognized the silver hair, the gray suit.
What was Ellinor doing in Kinsarvik? Had she come to surreptitiously check up on Chloe’s interview? Roelke frowned. No, that made no sense either. Ellinor was dealing with a murder investigation. Besides, the envelope Torstein left for Chloe had been sealed. Ellinor hadn’t seemed to know the details, which meant she had no idea that Chloe was even in Kinsarvik.
Ellinor paused, glanced over both shoulders, then turned onto a side street and disappeared from sight. Roelke followed, careful to keep his distance. She strode along the walk at a brisk pace, head still down.
When she made another turn, Roelke stopped at the corner. Just ahead, Ellinor dropped onto a bench in front of a shop advertising Hardanger’s Best Selection of Souvenirs in half a dozen languages. A man was already seated on the bench—maybe thirty years old, maybe thirty-five, with thick brown hair swept back from his forehead and black-framed glasses resting on his nose. He wore jeans and a black jacket over a tan shirt. Roelke had no idea who the guy was. Ellinor apparently did, for although she didn’t turn to face him, she began to speak.
The man didn’t look at her, either. But after a moment he extracted something from his vest pocket and placed it on the bench between them. Roelke cussed silently, wishing he could see what it was. He edged closer, taking cover behind a food cart where a man was selling sausages. Two women who’d emerged from the souvenir shop looked at him warily as they passed. He unfolded his new map and studied it. Nothing to see here, ladies, he said silently. Just another lost tourist. The women walked on.
Roelke considered his options. He could give Ellinor the benefit of the doubt, acknowledge that her errand was none of his business. But he discarded that choice at once. One woman was dead, and too many odd things had happened since he and Chloe had arrived in Norway. Ellinor was acting furtively. He wanted to know why.
So that left only two courses of action. He could stay here and, if she moved on, keep following her. Or, he could ever-so-casually wander by, express great surprise upon seeing her, and try to get a glimpse of—
Too late. Ellinor shook her head vigorously and pushed whatever the man had shared back at him. Her rigid posture suggested irritation, maybe anger. Then she was on her feet, marching toward Roelke.
He held the map higher. She passed by. He waited a few moments before following.
Ellinor strode straight back to the ferry landing. The boat she’d arrived on had already departed, so she stood with her back to the village, arms folded, to wait for the next. He stepped inside the tourism office’s small portico, where he could watch Ellinor without being easily seen. But she didn’t move.
Half an hour later the next ferry rumbled to the dock. Ellinor didn’t even wait for the current load of cars and walkers to disembark before boarding. She never looked back.
Well, hunh, Roelke thought as he stepped back to the sidewalk. Ellinor’s behavior was curious. And … unsettling. Something about the stealthy exchange he’d just witnessed made him uneasy. He wished—
“Hey, sailor!”
He whirled and saw Chloe sauntering toward him with a saucy grin on her face. She blew him a kiss, and all Roelke wanted to do was protect her from all ills and evils.