Thirty

“So,” Roelke said when they reached the car. “What happened?”

Chloe was grateful that he’d given her time before asking. “I’m not entirely sure.”

Roelke checked for traffic and pulled out. “Start with why you disappeared with Torstein without saying anything to me.”

Chloe shifted in her seat, vainly trying to find a comfortable position. Skidding full-tilt boogie down a scree-filled ravine was not something she’d have chosen to do the day after surviving a car crash. She also felt emotionally exhausted, and really was not up to an argument.

“I’m truly sorry I scared you,” she said at last. “Torstein and I enjoyed dancing that Springar.” She’d thought that Markus, her Swiss ex, had been a good dancer—but oh my, Torstein was in another league. Even though the local nuances were new, he’d intuited every move.

“Chloe?” Roelke’s voice was tight. “I know you had a good time dancing with Torstein. What I’m waiting to hear is why—”

“I’m trying to explain,” she protested, holding up one hand. “Dancing with Torstein was so effortless that I felt myself just kind of … disappearing. It was genetic memory, I’m sure of it. During the final series of turns, out of the corner of my eye I could see all the women’s skirts flaring out.”

“Most of the women weren’t wearing skirts.”

“That’s my point.”

He took that in, keeping his gaze on the road. “Ah.”

“I’ve been folk dancing for years, Roelke, and I’d never felt so much joy. It was wonderful, but also overwhelming. When the music stopped I felt dazed. Torstein looked happy, but all of a sudden his face crumpled. He looked horrified, and said, ‘Dear God, how can I dance after Klara …’ ”

“I’m glad he didn’t completely forget that his girlfriend was brutally murdered.”

Chloe bit her lip. Roelke was even more pissed than she’d thought. “When we left the floor, he turned away from where you were waiting. I didn’t know what to do. I was worried, and I had to make a decision, fast, or I would have lost sight of him. I did try to catch your eye, but you weren’t looking.”

A wordless sound—half grunt, half growl—rose from Roelke’s throat. His facial muscles were hard. His hands showed a strangling grip on the steering wheel.

When he didn’t speak, she kept going. “So, Torstein went into the trees and I followed him. When we came out on that outcrop, I thought for one sick moment that he was going to do something terrible.” She swallowed hard. Grief could make people do all kinds of things.

Roelke finally unclenched his jaw. “Torstein said you were standing on the ledge and zoned out. Was that another moment of genetic memory?”

“I don’t know.” She winced, trying to ward away the visceral memory. “All of a sudden this sense of fear slammed into me like a mallet.” She considered. “No, not fear. Pure terror.” It had welled within her. She’d tried to retreat but couldn’t. She remembered clawing at her blouse, trying to ease a crushing pressure.

“So it was more like what you feel sometimes in old buildings.”

She shrugged helplessly. “All I know is that I walked into something very dark. Someone who once stood on that ledge was so terrified I could still feel it.”

“Someone afraid of heights?” Roelke suggested. “Maybe someone got drunk at a dance, wandered too close to the edge, and realized at the last moment what was happening.”

“Maybe.”

Roelke blew out a long breath and put one hand on her leg. “I’m sorry that happened.”

“I should be used to it by now.”

“No. I’m sorry because it was my fault.”

Chloe turned to look at him. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“It was my fault.” A pull-out appeared on the side of the road, and he swerved into it. He cut the engine before facing her. “I watched you dancing with Torstein, and … well, it bothered me. A lot. I’m ashamed, but it’s true. That’s why I wasn’t paying attention when you tried to catch my eye.”

The pain in his eyes twisted Chloe’s heart. “Oh, Roelke …” She unhooked her seatbelt so she could rest her head on his shoulder. She should have known that watching her dance with another guy might be hard on him. “I’m the one who needs to apologize. You have been amazingly supportive and patient on this trip, and I’m grateful.”

He stroked her hair. They sat in silence as cars passed on the road. Chloe thought about how much folk dancing had meant to her over the years. It had meant a lot.

But it didn’t mean as much as having Roelke in her life.

“I won’t dance anymore,” she murmured into his shirt.

“Don’t say that.” He traced her cheekbone with one finger. “When you were dancing this afternoon, you looked so happy. I would never take that away. This is my problem, not yours.”

As long as I have Roelke, Chloe thought, everything will be okay. She straightened. “Roelke, as soon as we get home, let’s just go find a justice of the peace and get married.”

His eyebrows rose. “Is that what you really want?”

“A courthouse wedding? No. That’s not what I want. But what I really don’t want is to spend more time not being married to you.”

Roelke wanted to detour to the hospital in Odda. “That will take all night,” Chloe moaned.

“You might need stitches.”

“Let’s see how it looks.” When they checked the gash, she was grateful to see the sterile gauze come away clean. “Your butterfly bandages did the trick. Please don’t take me to the ER. I’ll be very careful with it, I promise.” She dared a bad joke. “No dancing.”

He didn’t smile, but he did concede. “I’ll put a new dressing on it. If that wound starts to bleed again, though—”

“Absolutely.”

Chloe and Roelke stopped at a café in Kinsarvik before catching the ferry back to Utne. Once in their hotel room, Chloe headed for the shower. Warm water felt good. After the jolt of her fall and one initial heart-stopping tumble, she’d skidded most of the way on one hip. Her thighs were badly scraped, and her left forearm. Her favorite skirt was toast. Still, once again, things could have been a whole lot worse.

Once she’d gingerly dressed in a pair of loose chinos, they stopped at the hotel desk to check for messages. The clerk handed over a fax and one phone slip.

“My dad called.” Chloe read the short note several times before daring to smile. “Aunt Hilda is showing some signs of improvement.”

“What kinds of signs?”

“He doesn’t say. I’m going to call him.” A few minutes later she shook her head and replaced the receiver at the pay phone. “No answer.”

“You can call first thing in the morning.” Roelke put a hand on her shoulder. “For now, let’s just focus on that encouraging news.”

The fax was from Rosemary Rossebo. I found an attest from a pastor, giving character reference for one Solveig Sveinsdatter prior to her emigration. Dated 1920. Don’t know if that’s helpful or not. Still no record of Amalie.

“Hmm.” Chloe twisted her mouth, trying to remember the Bygdebok pages she’d skimmed. “Maybe Solveig was a sister or an aunt. I haven’t had a chance to comb through all the information about other occupants of Fjelland.” What with the car wreck and mountainside tumble and all.

“Not quite what you wanted,” Roelke said. “But research can wait for tomorrow.”

“Actually, I’d like to go to the museum.”

Roelke looked exasperated. “Chloe, it’s seven o’clock! The museum closed two hours ago. What could you possibly want to do there?”

“I want to talk to Sonja about the symbols in my hand cloth. Ellinor said she was working this evening. I doubt she’ll be working tomorrow, on a Sunday. She might even take Monday off.”

“What do you think Sonja can tell you?”

Chloe frowned, trying to tamp down frustration. “She said the woman who stitched my hand cloth was conveying a message, remember? Since then, I’ve realized that some of the designs on Hardanger fiddles are similar. And then we saw that heart-shaped swirly design carved into the house at Fjelland.”

“I don’t get the connection.”

“The whole topic keeps nagging at me. It’s understandable that in the old days, illiterate people used specific designs to convey certain ideas. But someone deliberately made that circle mark on Klara’s forehead. It’s got to mean something, and maybe Sonja can tell us.”

“We can’t talk about that with Sonja.” Roelke leaned close as another couple passed. “As far as I know, the cops haven’t released that detail. They’ll want to keep the killer guessing, wondering what they know.”

“Well, maybe we could simply ask if a circle has some particular significance. I doubt the cops would have thought to ask her. If I hadn’t seen how Sonja reacted to the embroidery on my hand cloth, it wouldn’t have crossed my mind either.”

She could tell that Roelke was torn. In the end he nodded. “Okay. But we’re driving. You need to stay off that leg as much as possible.”

Fifteen minutes later he pulled into a parking spot near the Hardanger Folkemuseum’s front door. Two tour buses were parked nearby. Inside, the young woman at the counter affirmed that Sonja was on duty. “But she’s upstairs, where one group is enjoying a fiddle program. If you want to wait for her, feel free to slip into the back of the auditorium and listen. The other group is touring the open-air division.”

Chloe and Roelke took the elevator upstairs and peeked into the auditorium. Sonja stood off to one side, stylish as ever in a silver sweater, black pants, and high heels. Visitors were listening with rapt attention as the fiddler with garnet hair from Tuesday’s concert discussed the hardingfele’s unique qualities.

The only empty chairs were in the front of the room. “Let’s wait in the hall,” Chloe whispered.

They settled onto a bench. “I wonder if Sonja’s had a chance to develop the pictures she took of my handaplagg,” Chloe murmured. She tried to remember the specific stitched motifs, and not the grief that someone had stolen it. The woman who created this handaplagg was expressing herself, yes? Sonja had said. But there hadn’t been any plain circles on the hand cloth.

“I feel like the killer was speaking a language we don’t know,” Chloe said. “Probably most Norwegians today don’t know it either. But in the old days, people stitched symbols into linen hand cloths. They inked them onto wooden fiddles. They carved them on log beams in their homes. They even—” She stopped abruptly as she remembered something new. “Kroting. Roelke, remember what Klara said about kroting?”

He sighed. “Just save time and remind me.”

“When we were sitting in Høiegård the day we took the tour—the day Klara died in that very house—she pointed out the chalk decorations on the walls. A row of geometric shapes. I don’t remember exactly what they looked like.” Chloe heard Klara’s voice in memory: Some designs may have been decorative, but others were intended to protect the home.

“Um … okay.” Roelke clearly wasn’t sure why this was exciting her.

“The site’s still open, right? Let’s go up and—” Chloe stood and abruptly dropped back down. Shit. In her excitement she’d forgotten to favor her injured leg.

“You are not walking up that hill to the open-air division.” Roelke’s voice was resolute.

“I know.” She looked at him, nibbling her lower lip. “But you could.”

“I’m sticking with you.”

Chloe was momentarily distracted as jaunty fiddle music burst from the auditorium. Evidently the lecture portion of the program had ended. “Please, Roelke? There’s a tour group up there, so the house will be open.”

“What purpose would that serve?”

“I still haven’t figured out why that mark on the house at Fjelland seemed familiar. Maybe it’s just because some of my ancestors lived there, but … I think there’s more to it. I’m almost certain it wasn’t on my handaplagg, and it wasn’t on the fiddles on display. Maybe the design appears in that kroting up in Høiegård.”

He pressed one knuckle against his forehead for a moment. “Sweetie, I think you’re starting to grasp at straws.”

“Maybe so. But if you could just make a quick sketch of the designs, we’d have them to work from.”

“I’m staying with you.”

“Roelke, I love you for that, but nothing is going to happen to me in the Hardanger Folkemuseum with thirty people in the next room. Please?”

After a bit more debate, Roelke held up his hands in grudging surrender. “Alright. You will not move from this bench until I get back.”

“I will not move from this bench until you get back,” Chloe repeated. He fixed her with a look. “I promise.”

After he left, Chloe leaned against the wall. The fiddler started a new piece, this one slower and poignant. It seemed familiar, but at this point, Chloe couldn’t tell if she’d heard the tune before, if she was tapping into ancestral memory, or if she was losing what little remained of her rational mind.

To distract herself, Chloe pulled from her daypack the Høiegård file she’d borrowed from Ellinor’s office. She’d barely had time to peek at the contents, and she might as well put this interlude to use. She was reading a description of the årestove, the ancient smoke-house style with a raised central hearth, when the stairwell door nearby opened.

For half a second Chloe pictured Roelke’s faceless bad guy emerging with weapon brandished. The woman who stepped into the corridor was tall, thin, erect—and she had taken the stairs, which was more than Chloe could say. But she was quite elderly, and instead of bludgeon or blade, carried only a cane and leather pocketbook. Surely this woman wearing a white-collared blue dress with sensible black shoes hadn’t come with evil intent.

“Pardon me.” The woman spoke English with slow care. “Are you Chloe Ellefson?”

Chloe sat up straight. The woman’s thin white braids were pinned to her head coronet-style. Her eyes were a faded blue, her skin wrinkled. Chloe would swear that they’d never met before. And yet … something about the newcomer felt so familiar that a lump rose in her throat. Maybe I really am losing it, Chloe thought. “Yes, I am.”

“Oh, thank God I found you.” The woman’s thin shoulders melted with obvious relief. “I’m Helene Valebrokk.”

Roelke reached the open-air division just as a guide was pleasantly shooing visitors back to their bus. “Is it all right if I stop in there?” he asked the guide, pointing toward Høiegård.

“Sure,” the young man said. “Sonja will be up soon to lock up for the night.”

Roelke wasn’t used to walking into eight-hundred-year-old buildings. It wasn’t surprising that Chloe got overwhelmed here, he thought. In the empty space, devoid of tourists, even he sensed something indefinable.

A table sat against the far wall, right below the chalked designs. He pulled out his notebook and started sketching. None of the designs resembled the swirly heart thing, but maybe Chloe would make something of another symbol.

He was almost finished when he heard someone step into the entryway. “Sonja?” he called. He had no wish to be locked inside.

Torstein Landvik bent low and entered the main room. He still wore his old-timey clothes and looked right at home. But something made Roelke’s nerves prickle.

He kept his tone conversational. “Hey, Torstein. I figured Sonja had come to kick me out. What are you doing here?”

Torstein stared at the small room as if he’d never seen it before. “I needed to come to the place where Klara died. What are you doing here?”

Roelke gestured to the notebook. “Just making some sketches for Chloe.”

Torstein stepped closer and studied the drawings. His face was expressionless.

As a cop, Roelke had gotten pretty good at reading people. His read of Torstein said it was time to get the hell out of there. He stepped, ever so casually, closer to the door.

Torstein side-stepped too, keeping his body between Roelke and the only exit. He met Roelke’s gaze full-on. This was not the grinning, exuberant Torstein, or the grieving Torstein. In the gloom his eyes seemed dull.

Then his hand settled on the hilt of his ceremonial knife.

“You’re Helene Valebrokk?” Chloe repeated. Tiny fireworks exploded in every cell. “Do you mean … H. R. Valebrokk?” This was the person who currently owned Fjelland, the farm where Amalie Sveinsdatter had been living when she was baptized in 1905.

“You came to see me yesterday?” Helene prompted. “I found your note.”

Chloe slid over and patted the bench invitingly. “But how did you find me? Here, I mean?”

Helene sat. “The girl at the hotel said she’d heard you say you were on your way here.” She gripped Chloe’s hand with surprising strength. “When I came home this afternoon and found your note, I was …” She searched for the word. “Excited, yes? You see, I never heard from Amalie after she left for America!”

“So you’re related to Amalie …?”

“She was my sister.”

I am staring at a relative, Chloe thought, pressing one hand over her mouth. Helene Valebrokk was her great-aunt.

“Do you know Amalie? Is she still alive?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry.” Chloe could tell Helene had hoped for more. “The only thing I can tell you is that Amalie Sveinsdatter surrendered my mother for adoption in 1920 at an orphange in Stoughton, Wisconsin.” Excitement bubbled inside. “It’s just wonderful to meet you! I have so many questions.”

“But I can’t stay.” Helene made a helpless gesture. “The friend who drove me is waiting in the car.”

Chloe barely managed to swallow a dismayed wail. “Please, what can you tell me about the farm? Has it changed hands since 1920?”

“It has been in the family since 1838.”

“Oh.” This was better than Chloe had dared hope.

“You’ve been to see the house up the hill?”

“Um …” Chloe was confused. “Your house? Fjelland?”

“No, no.” Helene waved that suggestion away. “Here, at the museum. Up the hill. They use the old name, Høiegård. But the building came from Fjelland.”

“What?” Chloe struggled to keep up. “Are you telling me that Høiegård and Fjelland are two names for the same farm?”

“Yes!” Helene nodded. “Høiegård means ‘high farm.’ Fjelland means ‘mountainous.’ A farm in the mountains.”

“Oh, my, God,” Chloe breathed. Amalie Sveinsdatter, and the building restored at the Hardanger Folkemuseum, had come from the same farm. That explained a lot.

But there was still much to sort through. “Are you also related to Solveig Sveinsdatter? Her name came up in the search for my mother’s family.”

“Solveig was my other sister. I was the oldest, and left home to work when I was fourteen. There is so much I want to tell you! About the family.” Helene put both hands on the knob of her cane and pushed to her feet. “But not tonight. You will come back to the high farm? Tomorrow afternoon?”

“Of course.” Chloe would get to Fjelland tomorrow if it meant crawling through the damn tunnel on her hands and knees.

“Good.” Helene paused in front of a color photograph on the wall—part of the “Folk Art in Focus” exhibit Chloe had admired earlier. “Torstein’s fiddle,” she murmured.

“Torstein Landvik? You know Torstein?”

“I do.”

Helene used the clipped tone of polite elderly people who didn’t want to speak ill of someone. Had Torstein interviewed Helene for his folk dance project and let his enthusiasm override polite behavior?

“I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.” Helene disappeared into the stairwell.

Chloe got up to study the photograph that had given Helene pause. The close-up camera angle showed the musician’s left hand on the fingerboard, including the unusual forged ring on his fourth finger. Definitely Torstein, Chloe thought. But the real star of the shot was the fiddle itself, glimmering inlay and flowing inked scrolls.

… Wait a minute.

The design included two snail shell whorls presented as mirror images, creating a stylized heart. It was the same symbol she’d seen carved into a log at Fjelland. The one she was sure she’d seen elsewhere. The image here didn’t quite match her memory, but this had to be it.

Chloe wished she’d noticed the photo before Roelke had headed up to the old house to check for the same double-whorl in the kroting. Well, he’d be back any minute, and they could compare notes. And if Sonja was ever free …

The visitors in the auditorium burst into applause. The fiddler began yet another tune. Chloe stifled a frustrated squawk. She wanted to get Sonja’s take on the double-spiral heart.

Tipping her head, Chloe considered the design in the photograph. Something basic didn’t make sense. The symbols adorning textiles, fiddles, woodenware, and walls in Western Norway were rooted in antiquity. It was hard to imagine Vikings decorating their possessions with hearts, at least not in the modern romantic sense. It was hard to imagine Vikings honoring snails, either. What else could the design depict? A ram’s horns, maybe?

… Wait a minute.

Fragments of knowledge twirled through Chloe’s mind as if someone was frantically turning a kaleidoscope, trying to find the correct picture among a million possibilities. An ashy circle. Two carved spirals. Two inked spirals. Could interpreting that design as a ram’s horns provide the key to everything?

Chloe quivered with agitation as a possible answer emerged. She wanted to run her theory by Roelke, but he wasn’t back yet.

He should have been.

A sudden flash of panic overruled pain. She jumped to her feet and headed toward the nearest exit. A stand near the door offered loaner umbrellas for guests in need. Chloe grabbed the tallest one and banged out the door. Leaning on the makeshift cane, she hop-walked up the hill as fast as she could.

The open-air division looked deserted. There was no sign of Roelke. Chloe opened her mouth to holler his name, but a sudden inner voice urged caution. Silence was best. Stealth was too.

She faced the back of Høiegård, where a wooden hatch had once been used for removing the dead. Some later generation had replaced it with two nine-paned windows—the only ones in the house. Chloe didn’t want to be seen, so she circled wide and approached the house from the side.

At the back corner she pressed herself against the log wall. Was she being ridiculous? Was Roelke going to emerge any minute, grumbling that it had taken forever to sketch the chalked designs, and what on earth was she doing up here anyway?

But the inner voice was insistent. Chloe simply knew that Roelke was in trouble.

She slid along the back wall toward the window. Before daring a peek she heard Roelke speaking deliberately: “… telling you, this is a big mistake.” Pause. “No, it isn’t too late.”

Chloe’s heart plummeted.

“Let me talk to the cops with you,” Roelke urged. Then his voice rose to a sudden bellow: “Drop the knife!”

Chloe looked through the glass. Torstein, a knife clenched in his right hand, gathered himself for a mighty vertical spring. Once airborne, his left leg shot out and caught Roelke in the shoulder.

Roelke went down. Torstein leapt on him. All the air disappeared from Chloe’s lungs.

When Torstein scrambled away, his knife was bloody. Roelke was on the floor, leaning against the raised hearth, both hands pressed against his right side. His chest was heaving. Blood leaked through his fingers, staining his shirt.

Rage seared away Chloe’s fear. Torstein Landvik had just stabbed Roelke. She believed that Torstein had killed Klara in this same room. Torstein had to be stopped.

But how? She couldn’t take him down with an umbrella. She cast frantically about, and—there. The replacement slate shingles Klara had mentioned during their tour were still stacked nearby.

Chloe needed both hands to heft one of the heavy stones. As she hurried to the cabin door, something crashed inside. She hoped that meant Roelke was still fighting.

She stepped silently into the narrow entryway, heart slamming against her ribs. If she waited here with slate held high until Torstein bent over to leave the main room, she could brain him. But Torstein wouldn’t leave unless Roelke was dead.

Grunts and thumps and a wooden clatter suggested that Torstein hadn’t won yet. Chloe scrambled through the low door. The two men were grappling on the floor, rolling back and forth. Torstein saw her over Roelke’s shoulder. For an instant he froze.

That let Roelke stagger to his feet. One shirt sleeve was stained with blood too, now.

“Move!” Chloe shrieked. He was between her and Torstein.

Roelke stepped back and Torstein bounded to his feet. Roelke kicked at Torstein’s right hand. Torstein twisted away from the blow. Roelke wrapped his arms around the fiddler and made a half-turn before letting go.

Now. Chloe heaved the slate sideways, Frisbee-style, with all her strength. It slammed Torstein in the back. He howled and staggered to one knee. The knife clattered to the floor and skidded out of reach beneath the table.

Chloe stood panting. She had no idea what to do next.

“Get out of here now, Chloe!” Roelke gasped.

She didn’t want to, but she did back away. Roelke threw himself at Torstein. They fell against the hearth, wrestling, punching, making furious animal sounds.

Chloe bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. Roelke was bigger than Torstein, but he’d suffered at least two knife wounds, maybe more. And Torstein had a dancer’s agility. She didn’t think Roelke could last much longer.

Frantic, she snatched a pewter candlestick and raised it high. But with the men writhing violently back and forth, she’d be just as likely to hit Roelke.

Help me! she begged silently of whomever might be listening.

The kettle. A heavy iron kettle hung from the ceiling over the hearth. She ran to the far side, grabbed the kettle’s rim with both hands, and pulled it to her chest. “Hold him, Roelke!”

Slowly, painfully, Roelke managed to pin Torstein against the hearth, head and shoulders above the stones. Chloe shoved the kettle forward. It hit the back of Torstein’s skull with a sickening thud. He crumpled like a stringless marionette.

Roelke’s knees buckled. He sat down hard on the edge of the hearth, his breathing loud and ragged. Clamping a hand over the side wound, he bent double. There was so much blood now—on his shirt, dripping through his fingers.

Chloe whimpered, but just once. Roelke needed her.

His daypack was on the floor. She scrabbled inside for his first-aid kit, then crouched beside him. “Let me see.” Blood flowed from the slash wound. She ripped open paper packages, layered bandages over the hole, and applied pressure with both hands.

But should she stay with Roelke, or go for help? The wrong choice could cost his life.

Then footsteps sounded in the entryway. Sonja bent low and stepped into the main room. She surveyed the scene with shocked horror.

“Call an ambulance!” Chloe implored.

Sonja gave a sharp nod, whirled, and disappeared.

“You’re going to be okay,” Chloe told Roelke. He managed a short chin jerk—trying, Chloe knew, to pretend that he believed her. She sent up a prayer to God, and to all the women who’d once lived in this house, that he wouldn’t bleed to death before help arrived.