The boy shrugged. “Only man going to Bergen I’ve seen lately went out yesterday morning. A fancy city man with a scar on his cheek.”
Gjertrud went very still. She stared at the boy, then looked blindly over the water. The cry of a gull soaring overhead sounded mournful.
Torhild opened her mouth, couldn’t find words, and closed it again.
Finally Gjertrud said, “I won’t be traveling today after all.” The boy scowled in disgust.
Torhild reached for her. “Oh, Gjertrud—”
“Don’t.” She flinched away.
“Come back to the inn,” Torhild said helplessly. Mother Utne would know what to do.
“How can I?” Gjertrud’s voice was high and thin. She turned and walked away, leaving her bundle on the stony beach. Her pace was slow, unsteady, as if afraid she might lose her balance.
Torhild followed. When Gjertrud turned and passed the inn steps, Torhild grabbed her arm again. “Gjertrud! Where are you going?”
Gjertrud lifted her palms in a helpless gesture. “I’ve made a fool of myself.”
“You didn’t—”
“I gave notice. I said my goodbyes.” She looked dazed. “My mother was already angry with me for spending time with Edvin. And other people are angry at me for helping him.”
“It’s not your fault!”
“He said he loved me.” Gjertrud’s gaze begged her cousin to believe it. “He said he wanted to marry me. And I … I lay with him.”
She might be with child, Torhild thought. Something knotted in her chest. The bleak look on Gjertrud’s face frightened her. “He is a liar, and not good enough for you. Please come back to the inn with me.”
Gjertrud frowned as if confused to find herself in the middle of the lane. Finally she nodded. “Yes. All right.” She let Torhild take her arm and lead her back to the inn.
Torhild didn’t want Cook to be the first person they encountered, so she dared go in the front door. In the parlor she gently pushed her cousin onto a chair. “Sit here. I’ll be right back.”
It took Torhild several minutes to find the proprietress, who was working on accounts, and several more to stumble through the tale. Mother Utne shook her head and put her pencil aside. “That poor girl. She’s not the first to be taken in by a glib tongue. Knowing that won’t make her feel better, though. Time is what she needs. I had better see to her.”
She hurried from the office with Torhild on her heels. But when they reached the front parlor, Gjertrud was gone. The sick knot in Torhild’s chest jerked tight.
Mother Utne looked about, perplexed. “Where could she have—”
From the corner of her eye Torhild saw something—someone—falling past the front window.
The older woman ran to the glass, cringed, turned away. Torhild managed one step, but Mother Utne put up a hand. “Don’t,” she said, her voice like gravel. “You don’t want to see.”
Twelve
Shortly after seven, Roelke woke and discovered that he was alone. Not good. Chloe never got up first.
He found her downstairs, staring at a portrait of an elderly woman in traditional Norwegian dress. “Hey,” he said. “Nice painting.”
“It’s Mother Utne. She was a legendary innkeeper here.” Chloe lifted her mug, noticed it was empty, set it aside.
“I hope you’re having more than coffee.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Eat something anyway. And not just a pastry. You need protein.”
In the dining room, they passed through the buffet line and settled back by the window. Chloe picked at some scrambled eggs before pushing her plate away. Roelke was about to protest when a young red-haired woman with coffeepot in hand stopped by the table.
“Roelke, meet Barbara-Eden Kirkevoll,” Chloe said. “Barbara-Eden, this is my fiancé, Roelke McKenna.”
“Good to meet you,” she said, then looked at Chloe anxiously. “Is something wrong with the eggs?”
“Oh—no. They’re fine.” She pulled the plate back and took a determined bite.
Apparently, Roelke thought, upsetting the waitstaff is worse than upsetting me.
The redhead leaned closer. “Did you sleep all right? Sometimes people in Room 15 don’t.”
“Why is that?” Chloe’s forehead crinkled.
“Well, it’s just a story.”
Chloe glanced at Roelke, clearly perplexed. “We haven’t heard it.”
Barbara-Eden glanced over both shoulders. “They say a girl, someone who worked here, threw herself out of the window in Room 15 after her lover abandoned her.”
Roelke leaned back, taking that in. Normally he would dismiss such a wild tale. But having seen how Chloe reacted to touching that window …
“Do you know her name?” Chloe asked. “Or when it took place?”
Barbara-Eden shook her head. “It happened a hundred years ago. Maybe even more.”
“Thanks for letting us know,” Chloe told her. “I hope the poor girl is resting in peace.”
When they were alone again, she shook her head. “Well, now I know what happened at the window.”
Roelke rubbed his chin. “You think?”
“I do. The heartbroken girl probably went straight to the window, then perhaps hesitated. That explains the overwhelming despair I felt—but only there. She didn’t linger in the room, so the emotional residue was left at the window.”
“Well, hunh.”
“I talked with that young woman earlier,” she told him, cocking her head toward Barbara-Eden as she disappeared back into the kitchen.
“Barbara-Eden? That’s really her name?”
Chloe shrugged. “Her mother loved I Dream of Jeannie. Anyway, she was Klara’s best friend. I asked if Klara had seemed upset about anything lately, and she said no.”
“Well, hunh.” Roelke spread some smoked mackerel on a cracker. Could Klara’s death truly have been a random strike by some lunatic who just happened to be passing through the outdoor museum yesterday afternoon? It seemed unlikely. “We saw Klara in the gift shop at … what, about four in the afternoon? After the tour?”
“Sounds about right.” Chloe stabbed a slice of strawberry with her fork. “Maybe Klara went back to get something she forgot. Or maybe she noticed that the padlock was open and went inside to see why.”
“And encountered a crazed killer who just happened to be waiting? That’s a stretch. Perhaps she’d agreed to meet someone in that old house.”
“Maybe.”
“There’s something I didn’t have a chance to tell you.” Roelke hesitated. “When I got close to check for a pulse, I noticed a smear of ashes on Klara’s forehead.”
Chloe stared at him blankly. “Ashes?”
“Yes. A circle, to be exact. No way did she hit that raised fireplace on the way down. And since it wasn’t Ash Wednesday, all I can figure is that whoever killed Klara took a moment to put it there before leaving.”
“That’s … weird.” Chloe rubbed her arms as if suddenly chilled. “And creepy.”
“Yeah. I thought so too.” Roelke tried again to make sense of the ashes. He could not, so he moved on. “There’s something else. Remember I told you that Klara passed me yesterday morning when I was hiking up the mountain? Shortly after she disappeared there was a rockslide—”
“A rockslide?” Chloe looked horrified.
“Hardly an avalanche,” he assured her, “but one of the stones that came bouncing down the trail could have done some damage if I hadn’t jumped aside in time.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that?”
“It wasn’t my finest hour,” he said briefly. “And I’m not accusing Klara of causing it. Even if she did, it was probably inadvertently. But since we’re considering what little we know about her, I thought I’d mention it.”
“Why would
she do something like that?”
“I don’t know.” He pulled an index card from his pocket and wrote Klara Evenstad on the top line.
Chloe sighed. “Do we have to start this? Can’t we just leave things to the police?”
“It’s what I do. I can’t help it.” In Roelke’s experience, trying to sort through such things provided more comfort than simply stewing. “What do we know about Klara?”
“Not much.” Chloe considered. “She was born and raised in Utne. She loved history. Barbara-Eden and Klara were best friends since they were young kids. Last summer Klara worked at the Hardanger Folkemuseum, but this summer her main job is at the Utne Hotel, and she only helps out at the museum.”
Roelke held up one finger, halting the flow as he caught up, then rolled his hand: Go ahead.
“Klara was romantically involved with Torstein Landvik.”
He noted that, and added what Chloe had not mentioned:
was hiking up trail before rockslide
found dead with ashes on her forehead
He turned the card so Chloe could see it. “Anything else?”
She studied the card with distaste and shook her head. “No.” They finished their meal in brooding silence.
As they left the dining room Chloe said, “I was supposed to go on a field visit with Torstein today, but I can’t imagine that’s still a go.” She sighed. “Maybe we should go check in with Ellinor.”
They walked to the museum. “Ellinor’s in her office,” the subdued woman at the ticket counter said.
Ellinor looked up from her desk when Chloe knocked. “Come in,” the director said, rubbing her temples. She seemed to have aged overnight—the fine lines by her mouth deeper, the energy in her eyes muted. She wore a somber dark gray suit.
“Is there any news?” Chloe asked.
“Reporters keep calling, and the staff is upset, and I expect the police will be back. Høiegård is still cordoned off, so I’m keeping the whole open-air division closed for now.” Ellinor picked up a file folder, stared at it for a moment, then put it down. “Sonja’s off on her interview with the headdress maker. I haven’t heard from Torstein.”
“I wouldn’t expect him to carry on as usual,” Chloe said.
“Why don’t you check back this afternoon?” Ellinor blew out a long breath. “I’m sorry to leave you with nothing to do.”
Chloe considered. “Maybe I’ll see if Reverend Brandvold might be available to talk.”
Ellinor brightened. “I’ll call him.” She reached for the phone, and after a brief conversation in Norwegian, replaced the receiver again. “He was just on his way to the church. You’re welcome to meet him there.”
Chloe thought the Utne Church was quite lovely. It was a white, wooden structure with a red door. Slate tiles covered the roof and the commanding steeple. A sweeping lawn sloped toward the fjord below the church, and green and gray mountains rose above.
The front door was unlocked, the vestibule empty. Chloe paused inside, opening herself to the old building. The faint sense of faith and refuge she perceived was comforting.
The sanctuary honored Norwegian folk art with decoratively carved pews, doors, and pulpit; a model ship hanging from the ceiling paid tribute to the region’s fishing heritage. I could happily worship here, Chloe thought. “Something about this place makes me feel at home.”
Before Roelke could respond, a man wearing a black suit walked down the aisle to meet them. “You must be the American visitors! I’m Martin Brandvold.” His voice was ponderous, as if he’d become accustomed to addressing a full sanctuary and hadn’t adjusted to retirement. His gait was ponderous too, for he was a heavyset man. But beneath a still-thick thatch of white hair, the blue eyes in his weathered face were warm with welcome.
Chloe made the introductions. “It’s kind of you to see us.”
He waved that away. “I’m an old man who used to talk to people every day. I’m happy to talk with you. And to share this lovely church.” He contemplated the sanctuary with obvious fondness. “It dates to 1895—very new compared to the Kinsarvik Church across the fjord. And it’s hardly renowned, compared to Norway’s famous stave churches, or even Ulvik’s rosemaled sanctuary. But this one is beautiful too.”
“How long were you minister here?” Roelke asked.
“Twenty-seven years. I do try to keep out of the new man’s way, but it’s a second home of sorts. I come here most days, just to rest and reflect. And today, after hearing the news …” He sobered. “Let’s sit.” He gestured to one of the pews.
Chloe sidled after the pastor and sat sideways to face him. “You’re speaking of Klara Evenstad’s death?”
“Yes.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “I understand you found her? How dreadful.”
Roelke leaned forward to catch the older man’s eye. “Did you know Klara?”
He looked surprised at the question. “Of course! I baptized her. I celebrated her confirmation. I had hoped to … what is the word? Officiate? Officiate at her wedding.”
Of course, Chloe echoed silently. Utne was a small village. Probably most residents attended this church. Reverend Brandvold had watched them grow, officiated at their baptisms and confirmations, conducted weddings and funerals. “I’m sorry for your loss, sir.”
“Klara was born and raised here. Her father died long ago, so it’s been just Klara, her younger brother, and her mother.” He rested his palms on his knees and studied the hymnal rack. “I’ll visit the poor woman, of course. She and Klara were close.”
“We’ve met Torstein too,” Roelke said. “Were he and Klara engaged?” His voice held a casual note that was most unlike him.
“Not officially,” Reverend Brandvold said. “But sometimes he attended services here with her. That couple turned heads. Klara looked so happy when they were together! I think some of the other young women were envious. Her best friend … well.”
Chloe hesitated, not wanting to pry. “Are you referring to Barbara-
Eden? I spoke with her this morning. She’s very upset.”
“I think Barbara-Eden’s friendship with Klara was a … a saving?” His hand moved as if groping for the right English word. “A lifeline, yes? Her home situation is not good. I’ll see if she would like to talk, too.” The pastor’s shoulders hitched slightly, as if acknowledging the weight of his ongoing obligations. Chloe respected him for staying involved, and for caring, even after retirement.
Pastor Brandvold made a visible effort to rouse himself. “But you didn’t come here to talk about Klara. Ellinor said you want to learn about traditional music and dance?”
“Well, that’s the professional reason I’m in Norway,” Chloe acknowledged.
“When I was called to this church, village people still used an old dance site up on the mountain. There was a wooden platform to dance on. They had bonfires too, especially on Midsummer.” He smiled. “Some of my colleagues objected to such festivities, but I never did. It was all in fun.”
“I wish I could have seen that,” Chloe said wistfully. Her experience with folk dance had always been organized and performance-oriented—first with the Stoughton Norwegian Dancers, later with various folk dance groups. “Is it possible to visit the site?”
“I assume so, although I doubt there’s much left to see. Keep going on the main road”—he pointed—“and look for a path that heads uphill just past the apple orchard.” Reverend Brandvold rested one arm on the back of the pew. “But Ellinor also said there was another reason for your trip. Tell me, how can I help you?”
“I have reason to believe that my mother was either born somewhere in the Hardanger region or descended from people here,” Chloe said.
“If your ancestors lived in the area, in the old days they probably worshipped in Kinsarvik. That was the main church in Hardanger for many years.”
“All
I know right now is that in 1920, my mother was surrendered to an orphanage in Stoughton, Wisconsin, by a woman named Amalie Sveinsdatter.”
“Amalie Sveinsdatter?” His brow furrowed.
Chloe exchanged a quick glance with Roelke. “Is that name familiar?”
The older man rubbed his chin for a long moment, then shook his head. “It’s a pretty name, but—no. I can’t place it.”
It couldn’t have been that easy, Chloe thought. “Anyway, Amalie didn’t speak English, so she was most likely an immigrant.”
“Amalie’s use of the surname Sveinsdatter also suggests that she might have been newly arrived in America,” Reverend Brandvold mused. “She probably became known as Emily Swenson, or something like it.”
“And even if I knew that she Americanized her name, I can only access Wisconsin census records through 1905,” Chloe told him glumly. “And by law, the National Archives doesn’t release federal records until seventy-two years after a census.” That meant she had to wait eight more years to see if Amalie was listed in 1920 records, and eighteen years to search the 1930 information. The government officials who’d decreed it so no doubt had their reasons, but it seemed horribly unfair.
“And if Amalie was an unwed mother …” The pastor spread his hands, indicating the enormity of Chloe’s challenge. “She might have moved on. Started over in a new community. Even a new state. Between 1825, when the first organized group of Norwegians sailed to America, and 1920, over nine hundred thousand immigrants left Norway and settled in your country.”
“Holy toboggans,” Roelke said soberly. “That’s a whole lot of Norwegians.”
“Overpopulation here became a huge problem.” Reverend Brandvold settled back in the pew. “The discovery of a smallpox vaccine, and the introduction of potatoes in the early 1800s, saved thousands from dying of disease or starvation. But in a family with ten or twelve children, most had to leave for America.”
Chloe nibbled her lower lip. “We don’t know exactly when Amalie departed, of course, but a friend of mine is searching ships’ passenger lists, working backwards from 1920, in hopes of finding her name.”
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