He played the marching songs of Scotland and of the United States; he played the sweet old love songs and the gay dance tunes, and Laura was so happy that her throat ached.-These Happy Golden Years

In all the hard times before, Pa had made music for them all. Now no one could make music for him.-The Long Winter

Twenty-Six

Roel­ke trudged up the stairs and knocked firmly. Angelica opened the door. She looked awful—stringy hair, dark puffy shadows beneath her eyes. He thrust one foot into the room before she could slam it in his face.

“Get out of here!” she flared. “I don’t have any more babies for you to steal.”

It was hard not to flinch. “May I come in?”

“Hell no! Just leave me alone. You ruined my life.” She glared, tears seeping from her eyes.

“I just want to talk with you.”

“I have nothing to say,” she snapped. But Roel­ke didn’t move his foot. After a standoff, she let go of the door.

Roel­ke came inside. She dropped into a chair, and he perched on the sofa. “Here’s the thing, Angelica. My first responsibility was to Travis. I did what I had to do to protect him, and he’s safe. Now I want to protect you.”

“I don’t need protecting.”

“You might. From Travis’s father, maybe even from yourself.”

She shrugged, avoiding his gaze, and picked at a hole in her jeans.

“I’ve called Mrs. Enright several times to check up on Travis.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I also asked if she thought you’d be able to get him back. She said it was up to you. She told me that you’re clear on what choices you need to make. Has Travis’s father been here?”

“No.”

“Is that his choice, or yours?”

“I told him not to come around anymore.”

“If he comes back, call the cops. You have the right to feel safe. And it’s absolutely essential to stay away from him if you want to get Travis back.”

She shrugged. He waited. Someone in the tavern downstairs plugged the jukebox, and a throbbing bass reverberated through the floor. Roel­ke waited some more.

Finally Angelica nodded. “I know. I get it.”

That was enough for today. Roel­ke stood. “Look, you made a couple of bad mistakes, but I believe that you are ready to be a good mother to Travis. I’ll stop back again. If there’s something I can do to help, I will.”

He let himself out and jogged down the stairs, feeling … not good, but better. What he liked best about working in a small town was the chance to get to know people. Sometimes that came with a price, but in the end, it was one he was willing to pay.

Law enforcement officials took Wilbur Voss into custody without a struggle. Carmelina had been summoned, but the deputies’ cars were gone before visitors began drifting back from the Rock House.

The next few hours blurred by. Chloe was exhausted by the time she and Kari had given their statements at the sheriff’s office and a deputy drove them back to Rocky Ridge. The historic site gate was open again. The parking lot was full of cars. Visitors massed on the lawn—adults claiming seats for the evening’s performance, children racing back and forth.

Kari rubbed her arms as she surveyed the scene. “This is kind of surreal.”

“It is,” Chloe agreed. The line for the day’s last farmhouse tour stretched from the back porch. That porch looked no different than it had earlier. That was, Chloe decided, a blessing. Visitors did not need to know what she knew. “You were amazing, Kari. Seriously.”

“Well, that guy pissed me off.”

“Remember how wistfully Hazel spoke about her dream of owning something of Laura’s? And here her husband was dealing in Wilder artifacts.”

“I knew he was after more when he went into the house. But I’m not sure I could have stopped him if you hadn’t shown up when you did.”

“Yay us.”

“Yay us,” Kari echoed. “So … what now? It’s five forty-five. I do want to stay to hear Pa’s fiddle played, don’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Chloe said firmly. “The museum is closed, but I’m supposed to show Carmelina the quilt at six. She may not even remember our appointment after the day she’s had, but I’ll go find out. You want to come?”

“I think I’ll stake out a peaceful bench beneath a peaceful tree. We can hear the music from there.”

“Sounds good.” Chloe couldn’t think of any better cap to the day. She didn’t know if Wilbur had confessed to any murders, but the cops had him cold on attempted robbery, and probably on some charge for locking the poor docent into the storm shelter. Presumably the cops could hold him for those lesser crimes while they investigated the deaths of Kimball Dexheimer and Jayne Rifenberg. Chloe felt as if the black cloud that had followed them all from homesite to homesite had finally blown away.

She got Miss Lila’s quilt box from their car and made her way to the small office building tucked discreetly beyond the museum. A volunteer pointed her to the study room Carmelina had mentioned. It was brimming with shelves and boxes and cupboards, but tidy. Chloe put her box down on an empty table spread with clean white paper. She removed Miss Lila’s quilt and regarded it with affection. Thanks to Wilbur, she’d had no chance to compare this quilt with Mary’s childhood Nine Patch, but he was no longer an obstacle. Soon, she thought. Maybe, just maybe, some answers would emerge.

While she waited Chloe examined photographs of Laura, from sober adolescent to smiling elder, that hung on the walls. Then she plucked a scrapbook from a row of volumes lining a nearby shelf. Someone had typed a label: Clippings, 1960–1965. Chloe sat down with the treasure and leafed through, careful not to harm any of the yellowed and brittle newsprint. Most of the articles detailed progress made by the Laura Ingalls Wilder Home Association after Laura’s death in 1957. It was touching to glimpse the loving and determined efforts made by a small group to ensure that Rocky Ridge Farm and its treasures would be preserved. Touching too were letters from supporters, many of them children who spoke of sending hard-earned pennies to help.

Then Chloe turned a page and found a letter, published by the local newspaper in 1963, with a different tone. What a waste of time and money … Surely it would be better to invest in Mansfield’s public schools instead of enshrining a hack …

“Hack? You have got to be kidding me.” Chloe skimmed indignantly through the twenty-year-old column of complaints.

Then she reached the signature: Jayne Devich, Portland, Oregon.

Jayne Devich? Chloe’s jaw slowly dropped. She had never perceived an inkling of any long-term relationship between Jayne Rifenberg and Leonard Devich, but that was too bizarre for coincidence. Jayne had been married once … but no, surely not to Leonard. More likely Jayne had been born Devich, married a man named Rifenberg, and kept the surname after her divorce. Prestige-hungry Jayne had nothing in common with bumbling Leonard.

No, that wasn’t true. Jayne and Leonard had shared one trait: a dislike of all things Laura.

I should have seen that, Chloe thought. But even after Jayne’s death, Leonard had continued on the tour! That seemed bizarre, even if he and Jayne had not been close. Why would he …

Oh God.

Chloe put the scrapbook aside, jumped from her chair, and bolted from the office. Instinct protested and she darted back, snatched Miss Lila’s quilt into her arms, and ran back outside. Where was Leonard Devich?

More visitors were gathering. Chloe urgently scanned the crowd. Where was he? She hurried through the chattering guests, peering this way and that. No luck.

She finally spotted Kari beneath a walnut tree. “Have you seen Leonard?”

Kari scrambled to her feet. “What’s wrong?”

“Find Carmelina,” Chloe said. “Or find a cop. Or find somebody who can call a cop.”

“But—”

“Please! Just do it!” Still clutching her precious quilt, Chloe took off again. If she was wrong, well, so be it. But she didn’t think she was. She and Kari and the police—all of them—had declared victory too soon.

If Wilbur killed Kimball Dexheimer, he did it for money, presumably paid by Jayne. And if Wilbur killed Jayne, he did it to protect himself—and his little sideline of selling Laura artifacts and memorabilia. But Wilbur Voss never would have destroyed antiques or valuable reproductions.

Maybe Jayne had skewered the Charlotte doll in Pepin, and decapitated the china shepherdess in Burr Oak, and scrawled DIE LAURA DIE on an illustration torn from On the Banks of Plum Creek, and deliberately smashed an antique glass bread plate identical to Laura’s. But it could have been Leonard too. Besides, it was almost impossible to picture Jayne sabotaging Alta’s bus. And since Hazel was on board, Wilbur surely wouldn’t have done that.

But Leonard had not been on that bus. Leonard had stayed in Walnut Grove that afternoon, ostensibly to discuss his cockamamied theories about Charles Ingalls with curator David Rice. Leonard had rejoined the group at the pageant grounds.

And now, Chloe couldn’t find him.

A dozen girls wearing Brownie uniforms ran toward the rows of folding chairs. “Come on! It’s almost time!”

Lovely, Chloe thought. The performance must be about to begin. She really wanted to hear the musician play Pa’s fiddle—

Oh God oh God oh God. Pa’s fiddle.

Laura’s earliest memories were of falling asleep while Pa played the fiddle. The series’ lowest moment came when Pa tried to play during the Hard Winter, and couldn’t. Laura told Almanzo that her family probably would not have survived without her father’s music.

There was perhaps no artifact with more meaning for Wilder fans than Pa’s fiddle.

Chloe ran toward the stage, heart hammering against her ribs. Visitors trying to find seats clogged the center aisle, so she cut wide. She approached the stage from the right side just as applause rippled through the crowd. It was a fine evening, and Laura fans were about to hear Pa’s fiddle played right here, right now.

But the man climbing to the stage was not the local musician entrusted with this rare performance. Clutching Pa’s fiddle in one hand, Leonard Devich faced the audience for his grand finale.