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Fiddling with Fate: A Chloe Ellefson Mystery © 2019 by Kathleen Ernst.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
First e-book edition © 2019
E-book ISBN: 9780738761091
Book format by Samantha Penn
Cover design by Kevin R. Brown
Cover illustration by Charlie Griak
Editing by Nicole Nugent
Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Ernst, Kathleen, author.
Title: Fiddling with fate: a Chloe Ellefson mystery / Kathleen Ernst.
Description: First edition. | Woodbury, Minnesota : Midnight Ink, [2019] |
Identifiers: LCCN 2019017406 (print) | LCCN 2019018353 (ebook) | ISBN
9780738761091 () | ISBN 9780738760902 (alk. paper)
Subjects: | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3605.R77 (ebook) | LCC PS3605.R77 F53 2019 (print) |
DDC 813/.6--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019017406
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Dedication
For Scott—
The best possible partner
on this grand adventure.
Author’s Note
Yankee settlers established Stoughton, Wisconsin, in 1847. However, immigrants from Norway followed in such great numbers that today the community is perhaps best known for its Norwegian heritage.
Some of those immigrants came from the Hardanger region in southwest Norway. This area is particularly known for its vibrant folk arts and culture, including the Hardanger fiddle music and textiles highlighted in the mystery.
To learn more about the featured places and groups:
Stoughton Historical Society http://www.stoughtonhistoricalsociety.org
Sons of Norway Mandt Lodge https://www.facebook.com/Sons-Of-Norway-Stoughton-WI-129998320406152/
Stoughton Norwegian Dancers https://stoughtonnorwegiandancers.com
Hardanger Folk Museum https://hardangerfolkemuseum.no
Voss Folk Museum https://vossfolkemuseum.no
Utne Hotel https://utnehotel.no/en/
Cast of Characters
Contemporary Timeline (1984)
Chloe Ellefson—curator of collections, Old World Wisconsin
Roelke McKenna—Chloe’s fiancé; officer, Village of Eagle Police Department
Frank Ellefson—Chloe’s dad
Kari—Chloe’s sister, married to Trygve
Aunt Hilda Omdahl—Chloe’s Mom’s best friend
Kent Andreasson—director, Stoughton Historical Society
Trine Moen—intern, Stoughton Historical Society Museum
Rosemary Rossebo—genealogist
Sonja Gullickson—curator, Hardanger Folk Museum
Ellinor Falk—director, Hardanger Folk Museum
Ulrikke—proprietess, Utne Hotel
Klara Evenstad—employee, Utne Hotel and Hardanger Folk Museum
Torstein Landvik—folklorist studying traditional dance
Reverend Martin Brandvold—retired minister, Utne Church
Barbara-Eden Kirkevoll—employee, Utne Hotel
Bestemor—elderly dance informant
Politi Førsteinspektør Naess—Police Inspector
Historical Timeline
Gudrun—Chloe’s great-great-great-great-great-grandmother
Lisbet—Gudrun’s granddaughter
Lars—Lisbet’s husband
Torhild—Lisbet and Lars’s daughter
Halvor—Torhild’s husband
Gjertrud—Torhild’s cousin
Edvin Brekke—musician and folklorist
*Mother Utne—proprietess, Utne Inn
Erik—Torhild and Halvor’s son
Britta—Torhild and Halvor’s daughter
Svein Sivertsson—Britta’s husband
Helene—Britta and Svein’s oldest daughter
Solveig—Britta and Svein’s middle daughter
Amalie—Britta and Svein’s youngest daughter
Jørgen Riis—Hardanger fiddle maker and player
Gustav Nyhus—fisherman
* Real person
ONE
April 1984
Chloe didn’t cry until the fiddler walked to the casket suspended over the grave, settled the instrument beneath her chin, and began to play.
Roelke McKenna, Chloe’s fiancé, took her hand. “Are you okay?” he whispered. He wore a black suit, which seemed as surreal as everything else today. But his fingers were warm and strong. She was glad he was beside her.
She swiped at her eyes and tried to swallow the salty lump in her throat. “The fiddle.” She tipped her chin toward her Aunt Hilda, who was coaxing a haunting tune from her Hardanger fiddle. Hilda’s eyes were closed as she poured everything she had into the music. “It’s just so—so Mom.”
“I expect Marit is smiling down, right now.”
Maybe so, Chloe thought. The music concluded a memorial service for her mother, Marit Kallerud, who’d cherished Norwegian heritage. She and Dad had been active members of Stoughton’s Christ Lutheran Church for years. Many of the mourners were wearing bunader, traditional Norwegian clothing.
Roelke leaned close. “It doesn’t matter what Marit did or didn’t know about her birth. This would please her. You put together a perfect tribute.”
Chloe glanced at her older sister. Kari stood with her husband, Trygve, and their two daughters. She was crying. She’d been crying pretty much nonstop since Mom had died of a heart attack in her sleep five days earlier. Dad was a shadow of himself, unwilling or unable to offer opinions. Chloe had found herself making calls, making plans, making decisions.
At least we have a nice day, she thought now. April in Wisconsin could be iffy, but they’d been blessed with sunshine. Robins hopped among the graves. Daffodils were blooming. It helped.
After the last poignant strains of Hilda’s tune faded in the quiet chur
chyard, the pastor cleared his throat. “We will close by reciting the Lord’s Prayer in Norwegian. Fader vår, du som er i himmelen, La ditt navn holdes hellig …”
Chloe’s gaze locked on the dates printed above Marit’s photograph on the bulletin. May 20, 1920—April 4, 1984. Mom had only been sixty-three. In good health, as far as anyone had known. But just like that, she was gone.
I’m sorry, Mom, Chloe thought, blinking against the sting of tears. I thought we’d have more time.
The pastor urged everyone to stay for the luncheon, and people drifted toward the church hall. The fiddler stood alone by the grave with fiddle dangling from one hand, her bow from the other.
“Come meet Aunt Hilda,” Chloe murmured to Roelke. “Hilda Omdahl. She’s not really my aunt, but she was my mom’s best friend.”
When they approached, Hilda started from her reverie. “Oh, sweetie. What are we going to do without your mother?”
“I don’t know,” Chloe admitted. She hadn’t even begun to process the reality of life without her mother. “Hilda, this is my fiancé, Roelke McKenna.”
“I’m glad to meet you, Roelke.” Hilda managed a tremulous smile. She was a plump woman of medium height, with permed gray hair. She wore a long blue wool skirt and matching vest, both gorgeously embroidered, and a white blouse adorned with a traditional silver filigree brooch. “When’s the big day?”
A tricky subject. “We haven’t actually set a wedding date yet,” Chloe said. Roelke was Catholic. She was not. They hadn’t quite figured out how to handle things.
Hilda patted Roelke’s arm. “Marit spoke highly of you.”
“My mom and Hilda went way back,” Chloe added.
“We met when we were five.” Hilda’s eyes became glassy.
“Your fiddle is beautiful,” Roelke said. “I’ve never seen anything so ornate.” Intricate black designs had been inked onto the fiddle body, the fingerboard beneath the strings was inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and the scroll featured a carved dragon’s head. A talented rosemaler had painted delicate flourishes on the sides.
Hilda regarded her fiddle with affection. “I was playing for Marit today.”
“I’m sure Mom heard you.” Chloe put her arm around the older woman’s shoulders. “It was the perfect way to close the memorial.”
“Well, I thought it best to play outside.” A tiny smile quirked the corners of Hilda’s mouth. “Just in case the good pastor is a traditionalist.”
Roelke frowned. “I’m sorry?”
“In the old days, fiddlers weren’t permitted to play in churches,” Hilda explained. “Ministers declared hardingfeles like this ‘the devil’s instrument.’ Most people today wouldn’t think twice about it, but I didn’t want to be insensitive.”
“No one could ever call you insensitive,” Chloe protested.
“Chloe …” Hilda glanced away. “Never mind.” She wiped her eyes with a tissue.
“Come inside with us,” Chloe told her gently. “I’m sure the ladies have put on quite a spread.”
The ladies, actually, had outdone themselves. “Holy toboggans,” Roelke breathed as they went into the hall. Long tables covered with white cloths were laden with platters and bowls. Servers wearing comfortable shoes bustled in and out of the kitchen with coffee pots and water pitchers. Round tables held centerpieces created with flowers, candles, and tiny Norwegian and American flags.
Chloe felt a surge of affection for these people, this community. “The church annually serves the world’s largest lutefisk supper,” she told him. “Dried whitefish soaked in lye, served with lefse, for two thousand people.” These women could handle the memorial meal for a dear friend with one hand tangled in their apron strings.
Near the door, Mom’s rosemaling friends had created a display of some of her painted pieces. It included a photograph taken after Mom won her coveted Gold Medal in the annual National Exhibition of Folk Art in the Norwegian Tradition, coordinated by Vesterheim Norwegian-American Museum. Mom looked grand in her favorite bunad of white blouse with beaded bodice insert, black skirt, and fancy white apron. She held the painted porridge container that had tipped her into the winner’s circle, and she was beaming.
“I wish I’d seen that smile more often,” Chloe murmured. Grief, she was learning, meant far more than missing a loved one. Grief also meant confronting regrets and the finality of unasked questions. It meant accepting sadness for a life not completely understood, with no more time to try.
While Hilda went to retrieve her fiddle case, more friends and neighbors greeted Chloe and Roelke. One woman expressed condolences before saying, “As you know, Marit was serving as vice president of the Mandt Lodge.”
“The Stoughton chapter of the Sons of Norway,” Chloe interpreted for Roelke. The group promoted fellowship and preserved Norwegian traditions through gatherings, workshops, travel, and other activities.
“Some of us were wondering if you might step in,” the woman continued. “We need to bring younger people into leadership positions, and as Marit’s daughter …”
“Unfortunately, my schedule would not permit that,” Chloe said. No way could she even begin to fill Marit’s shoes with the lodge, and she wasn’t foolish enough to try. “Perhaps you could ask Kari.”
A man about her own age was waiting to greet her. Although the younger woman at his elbow was a stranger, the man looked familiar. Then the years slipped away. “Kent? How nice to see you!”
Kent Andreasson was still tall and muscular. His tawny hair was still thick and wavy. His blue eyes still crinkled when he smiled—just as they had in high school. Chloe accepted his hug, then drew Roelke forward. “Roelke, I’ve told you how much I enjoyed being part of the Stoughton Norwegian Dancers in high school, right? Kent was a star. There’s a demanding dance called the Halling that ends with a man kicking down a hat held high with a stick. Nobody could leap as high as Kent. And with a few back flips tossed in, he always stole the show.”
Kent put a hand on Chloe’s arm. “Oh, it wasn’t such a big deal. Being on the gymnastics team helped.”
Chloe realized that her smile might be misconstrued at her mother’s funeral. Then she realized that she hadn’t even made proper introductions. “Kent, this is my fiancé, Roelke McKenna.”
“Good to meet you, Roelke.” The men shook hands. “And this is Trine Moen.” He drew his companion forward. “She’s an exchange student from the University of Bergen, interning at the museum this semester.”
“I’m so sad about your mother,” Trine said earnestly. “Marit was kind to me.” Trine was a pretty young woman with big eyes, a luminous complexion, and light brown hair captured in a complicated braid. Chloe could only imagine that she turned heads on either continent.
“Thank you,” she said. “Kent, what are you doing these days?”
“I’m an accountant.” He shrugged. “I’m also serving as the director of the Stoughton Historical Society. I think I was tapped because of my fundraising experience with the dancers.”
“We washed a whole lot of cars that year we went to Norway.”
“Yeah.” Kent nodded. “Anyway, Marit was one of our star volunteers at the museum. Irreplaceable, really. She was so excited about the Norway trip.”
“The Norway trip?” Chloe repeated, trying to place this in context. Mom had often traveled to Norway—usually with Dad, but not always.
“Because of the Sons of Norway grant?” Kent prompted. “Funding her research trip to one of Norway’s folk museums?”
“The grant, yes,” Chloe said sagely. She had no idea what he was talking about.
Kent leaned closer. “Since you’re a curator at Old World Wisconsin, we thought you might go in her place.”
Ah. Now Chloe understood the build-up. “Unfortunately, my schedule would not permit that. Perhaps you could ask Kari.”
Kent looked disappointed,
but didn’t argue. “Give my respects to your dad, okay? Take care.” He and Trine moved away.
“Your mother was one busy lady,” Roelke observed as they edged toward the buffet. “And I suspect we don’t know the half of it.” When it came to preserving and celebrating Norwegian heritage, Mom had possessed a bottomless well of energy.
I wish I understood what drove her, Chloe thought. She was one of the few people who knew that Marit Kallerud had been adopted. Chloe had learned that only inadvertently, and she’d spent the past five months dithering about when/how/whether she should ask Mom what she knew about the adoption. Kari had been against broaching the subject, and Chloe had reluctantly stayed silent.
Now I’ll never know what, if anything, Mom knew about her birth parents, Chloe thought. She craned her neck, hoping the desserts weren’t getting too picked over. “I need krumkake,” she said plaintively. “Maybe a piece of almond cake too.” Comfort food.
“You need something nutritious,” Roelke said firmly. He handed her a paper plate. “Do not skip straight to the treats.”
“I don’t know how I got so lucky,” she whispered. Roelke McKenna was a good-looking guy with dark hair, a strong jaw, and muscled shoulders. He was a cop, and could be a bit intense. Chloe had found herself squirming more than once when those piercing brown eyes focused on her. But he was a good man. Someone to depend on. Nothing was more important to Roelke than the well-being of people he loved. Lucky me, she thought again as she dutifully scooped up some cucumber salad.
Hilda joined the family at the head table, but not for long. “I’ve been on my feet too much today,” she confided. “I’m giving tours during the historical society open house tomorrow night and need to rest up for that. Anyway, sweetie, you know you can call me anytime, right?”
Chloe’s throat grew thick. “Thank you, Hilda.” She held the older woman close. Hilda kissed her cheek before limping away.
The food and the friends and the gathering’s Norwegian-ness helped Chloe get through the afternoon. She took solace in the knowledge that Marit Kallerud would be remembered for making an enormous difference in the community.
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