Fiddling with Fate

by Kathleen Ernst

  Dammit, he thought. He added a few notes to his index cards. Then he slid into bed and put an arm over Chloe’s shoulders, hoping the presence would ease her.

  Some time later a warning screech jolted him from sleep. Smoke alarm. He leapt to his feet, grabbed his flashlight, and checked the clock—not quite one a.m.

  Chloe hadn’t moved. He grabbed her arm and shook it. “Chloe! Get up!”

  She stirred, blinking groggily. “What’s the matter?” she mumbled.

  “There may be a fire. And we’re on the top floor.” He hauled her to her feet.

  “Ow!” she complained, but she was awake now. She jerked on jeans, stamped into shoes, grabbed her daypack. He did the same. At the last minute he grabbed the little bag holding Klara’s necklace too.

  As they left the room and hurried down the stairs he heard other voices, other footsteps as guests joined the exodus. Lights were on in the hallways. The siren was still blaring. No smell of smoke yet, though. That was good.

  On the ground floor, proprietress Ulrikke Moe, wearing an ankle-length bathrobe over her nightgown, directed the evacuation in English and Norwegian. “Please leave quickly and calmly. Wait across the street … No, we don’t know yet what’s happening.”

  Roelke felt better as soon as they were outside. An interesting assemblage of perhaps two dozen guests gathered near the ferry dock. Some were barefoot, clad in pajamas, shivering in the cool night air. Others had dressed and appeared with suitcases clutched in their hands.

  Chloe stared at the hotel. “My heirlooms are in there,” she moaned. “I don’t see any flames. Maybe I could just—”

  “You are absolutely not going back inside until we get the all-clear.” She nodded reluctantly.

  Over an hour passed before hotel staff herded the guests back inside. “It was a false alarm,” Ulrikke announced. “We will be serving tea and toast for anyone who would like some.”

  Roelke and Chloe decided against the snack. “I just want to go back to sleep,” Chloe said as they plodded up the last flight of narrow stairs. “But thank goodness there wasn’t actually a fire—”

  “Stop,” Roelke hissed, halting so abruptly that she bumped into him. The door to their room was ajar. “I left the door closed.”

  “They probably sent someone around to check all the rooms.”

  “Maybe. Wait here.” He stepped to one side of the door and eased it open. When nothing happened he leaned forward to look—and felt something inside go hard.

  “What the hell?” Chloe was right behind him.

  He pushed her away from the door before stepping inside. The small room and bathroom were empty. No one was hiding beneath the beds. “All clear.”

  But that wasn’t quite true. Both suitcases were open, their contents flung on the floor. The drawers on both bedside tables were open too. Their room had been tossed.

  “Oh my God.” Chloe gazed at the mess, eyes wide. “Who would do this?”

  “I don’t know.” He had to unclench his teeth to force out the words. He didn’t know why, either. Had someone, during the chaotic evacuation, decided to take a chance and loot for valuables? Or … had the person come looking for something specific in his and Chloe’s room? If so, what? That idea might have seemed far-fetched if someone hadn’t tried to snatch Chloe’s daypack at the airport.

  Well, the first thing to do was report what happened. He reached for Chloe’s hand. “Come on. We need to contact the police.”

  The hotel was already quiet. Downstairs, the reception desk was deserted. Roelke checked the dining room, where half a dozen people were enjoying the promised tea and toast. The proprietress was talking to one of them, a reassuring hand on the gentleman’s shoulder. Roelke caught her eye and beckoned her to join them in the adjacent parlor. Once they were out of earshot, he told Ulrikke what they’d found upon returning to their room.

  Her eyes flared with shock. “I will call the police at once.”

  They followed the older woman back to the desk, where she placed the call. After hanging up she said, “An officer is on the way, but it will take a while. I’m so sorry this happened. Do you know if anything was taken from your room?”

  “We didn’t do a thorough check,” Roelke said, “but there wasn’t anything of value in the room.” Both he and Chloe kept their wallets in their daypacks, which they’d taken with them. Thank God he’d grabbed the silver necklace they’d found in the churchyard, too.

  Then another thought struck. “Ma’am, would you be so kind as to check the hotel safe, and make sure the valuables we put in there are secure?”

  Her patrician brows furrowed. “I can’t imagine … but of course. I’m happy to put your mind at ease. One moment.” She disappeared into the office behind the desk.

  Chloe uneasily hugged her arms across her chest. Roelke tapped his thumb against his thigh as worry ratcheted tight inside. It seemed to take Ulrikke longer to return than it should.

  When she did rejoin them, the reassuring smile he’d hoped for was absent. Instead she looked stricken. “I don’t know how this happened,” she said hoarsely. “But the safe is empty.”

  Roelke clenched his teeth to keep from swearing.

  “My heirlooms are … gone?” Chloe asked Ulrikke blankly. “Someone stole them?”

  Ulrikke nodded miserably. “It seems so.”

  Chloe turned to face Roelke, and the anguished look on her face sent a dagger beneath his ribs. “My Hardangersaum doily! And … oh my God, Roelke, the handaplagg!”

  Nineteen

  Britta—March 1887

  Britta put her hand on the corner cupboard, took a deep breath, and opened the door. And there it was: the handaplagg.

  It was the first time she’d opened the cupboard since her mother Torhild had died four months earlier. Erik had raided their father’s cupboard right after the funeral, finding little beyond some tobacco and spare socks and Halvor’s knife. Britta had been loath to invade Torhild’s private cupboard, as if opening the door would finalize the loss.

  But today, she needed to see the hand cloth that had been passed down, mother to daughter, for generations. She lifted it gently from the shelf, carried it to the table, sat down. In the soft glow of a cod-liver oil lamp she contemplated the black designs embroidered on the linen cloth. Trees of life connected earth and sky. Female figures honored the disir who guarded women. Sun symbols summoned all that was good and warm and holy. Square fields, dotted with seed stitches, represented the hope of a bride’s fertility. Sharp angles whorling in opposite directions were intended to confuse evil spirits. Torhild had explained the meanings inherent in the symbols. She’d also explained that Britta might sometimes understand things, feel things, without explanation.

  Britta hadn’t grasped everything her mother had tried to teach her. Now she grieved her inability to ask questions. Sometimes she did sense something unknown. But lately, since her mother died, she’d been floundering. “I am in need of guidance,” she whispered, trying to tap into whatever wisdom had been stitched into the cloth, whatever knowledge had seeped into the threads from her ancestors’ hands.

  There was no sound in the old cabin beyond the crackle of low flames in the hearth, and the wind’s incessant howl. After a long, dark winter, Erik had taken advantage of the first thaw to take his fiddle and hike down the mountain in search of friends and a chance to play his tunes. Britta had no idea when he’d return. Or even if, she thought, for winter had roared back to the isolated farm, packing snow around the cabin and hurling sleet against the window. Erik wasn’t a hard drinker, as their father had been. But if the storm had surprised him …

  Britta sighed. She wasn’t ready to give up on her brother. She understood that Erik needed to get away from time to time. She’d spent many cold winter evenings cleaning fleeces, carding wool, spinning yarn, and listening to him play his fiddle. He’d progressed fr
om sounding out familiar tunes to composing his own. When a piece pleased him, he closed his eyes, looking truly happy. She wouldn’t deny him that.

  But she also wasn’t ready to give up on Høiegård. Her grandparents, Lisbet and Lars, had managed to keep the farm going despite Lars’s injury. Her mother, Torhild, had managed to keep the farm going despite Halvor’s neglect. It was a poor piece of land, but it was theirs.

  Britta touched the handaplagg, tracing shapes ancestors she’d never met had stitched and additions made by her own mother and grandmother. Once, women in her family had used it to cover their hands when attending weekly church services. That practice had faded, but it was still traditional for women to carry handaplaggs on their wedding day.

  And will I? Britta wondered. She liked the idea of using the cloth that her mother and grandmother and more had used. And if she married a strong man without a farm of his own, and bore lots of sons, Høiegård could improve.

  But the idea of getting married did not appeal, even though she’d recently received her first proposal.

  It had come as a surprise. During the warm spell that had sent Erik wandering, Britta had left the lonely cabin and gone to church for the first time in months. It had been good to leave the high farm, to worship, to chat with friends after the service. When she realized she might be lingering in the churchyard overlong, keeping her boatmates waiting, she quickly said goodbye to the Kinsarvik ladies and turned away.

  Svein Sivertsson had been waiting for her by the gate. “God dag,” he’d said, and launched into what appeared to be a well-rehearsed speech. “As you know, my good wife died last year. I am looking to marry a pious woman. You are in need of a husband. I have no property, but you do. I believe God intends us to wed.”

  Astounded, Britta had groped for words. Finally she managed, “Thank you, but I am not ready to wed. Please excuse me. I mustn’t keep the others waiting.” And she’d fled toward the beach.

  I’m only seventeen, Britta thought now. Plenty of girls her age were wed or promised by now, of course, but she still had time. Slowly she draped the cloth over her hands, trying to imagine Torhild and Lisbet and Gudrun on their wedding days.

  And as she stared at the delicate black embroidery, she sensed an affirmation: No. Not yet.

  Perhaps it had come from one of those women. Or perhaps it came from her own heart. It didn’t matter. I must make Erik mind his responsibilities here, Britta thought. She carefully folded the handaplagg and tucked it back away.

  Twenty

  The instant Chloe opened her eyes the next morning, one thought filled her consciousness: her blackwork handaplagg and the Hardangersaum doily were gone. She felt empty. Exhausted.

  Well, no wonder. It had been a difficult night. Politi Førsteinspektør Naess, the policeman who’d interviewed them after Klara’s death, had finally arrived. He and a colleague had taken notes, photographed their room, dusted the safe, promised to do everything possible to return her precious heirlooms. But honestly, Chloe didn’t hold out much hope. It seemed that someone knew exactly what they were looking for, which explained both the frantic search of Room 15 and the theft. Chloe couldn’t imagine who that person was. The aghast proprietress couldn’t explain who, other than a few trusted staffers, knew the safe’s combination.

  I should never have brought the pieces with me, Chloe thought now. She had somehow believed that they might help her find Mom’s ancestors. She’d been a fanciful idiot. Traveling with the treasures had been worse than foolish. She remembered the frisson of something intangible she’d felt every single time she’d touched the hand cloth. The textiles held stories she hadn’t yet discovered. Now they were gone.

  The double loss weighted Chloe’s chest, making it hard to breathe. She lay still for a few minutes, curled into a fetal ball, blinking back tears. Finally she eased back the covers and slipped from bed.

  “Did you get any sleep?” Roelke asked quietly.

  She paused in the bathroom doorway, hand on the frame. “A little.”

  “Chloe, I am more sorry than I can say.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  He sat up and scrubbed his face with his palms. “What do you want to do today? No one would mind if you took some time off, you know. Maybe we should try to get away from—from all of this.”

  The idea of driving away from Utne was appealing. Maybe she and Roelke could go for a long hike in the mountains. But … no. Even the mountains wouldn’t make her forget this.

  “I need to go to the museum. I want to type up my interview notes before meeting Torstein at twelve thirty. I don’t know if Ellinor still wants to go to the Voss Folkemuseum this afternoon or not.”

  In the dining room, a young woman they hadn’t met was stocking the buffet table. Was this Barbara-Eden’s day off? Or had a police interview interfered with her work schedule? Chloe had no idea. Barbara-Eden had become an enigma. She’d most likely been the one who’d dropped the bag holding Klara’s silver necklace in the churchyard. She’d also been the one who summoned her boss when Chloe had asked to lock her antique textiles in the hotel safe. It was certainly possible that Barbara-Eden had come across the combination somehow, or observed Ulrikke working the lock. Had the young woman been dazzled by the opportunity to sell antique jewelry and textiles?

  “I was hoping Barbara-Eden would be here this morning,” Chloe muttered. “I want to talk to her.”

  “Not a good idea,” Roelke said. “Leave it to the police.”

  Chloe didn’t want to leave it to the police. She wanted to see what might be hidden in the younger woman’s eyes. But Barbara-Eden did not appear.

  Roelke wanted some quiet time, so after picking at her breakfast, Chloe kissed him goodbye and set out for the museum. The morning felt different. The village felt different. The delight she’d felt earlier, the sense of familiarity and comfort, were gone. She quickened her pace, feeling absurdly uneasy.

  She found Sonja and Ellinor in quiet conversation in the director’s office. Both women looked up, clearly startled, when she knocked on the door. Sonja was stylish as ever in a silk shirt of vivid teal worn with black trousers and high heels. Ellinor, by contrast, had dark circles under her eyes and wore a rumpled skirt that suggested she’d either been too busy to iron or too overwhelmed to care.

  “Am I intruding?” Chloe asked.

  Ellinor beckoned. “No, come in. I fear we are neglecting you. I haven’t heard from Torstein today.”

  “I’m meeting him later,” Chloe explained. “Perhaps he’ll have another suggestion for some fieldwork I can do on my own.” She certainly hoped so. She needed something to occupy herself.

  “I imagine all he can think about is Klara.” Ellinor rolled a pencil between her fingers.

  “Oh, I doubt Torstein will be lonely for too long,” Sonja murmured.

  Chloe’s eyebrows shot skyward. “Sonja!” Ellinor hissed.

  “I’m just being honest. Torstein Landvik is a man who turns heads.”

  Ellinor frowned at her colleague. “Honestly, Sonja. Show some sympathy.”

  “Sorry.” Sonja held up both palms in surrender. “I meant no disrespect.”

  Sonja may not have meant to be disrespectful, Chloe thought, but she also does not look repentant. There had been an edge in her voice that argued against casual observation.

  An unexpected possibility wormed into Chloe’s brain. Could it be? Had Torstein once turned Sonja’s head …?

  An awkward silence filled the room. Then Chloe remembered why she was there. “Ellinor, I’m guessing our afternoon trip to Voss is off?”

  “No,” Ellinor said firmly. “The police said there’s no reason I had to cancel. I’ll meet you here at one.”

  “Excellent.” Chloe was pleasantly surprised—and she’d have just enough time to see Torstein at twelve thirty before meeting Ellinor. “And I do have a favor to ask. I
s there a transcription machine I might use?”

  In short order the machine was produced. “You can use my desk,” Ellinor said. “We still need a few more guides for the summer season, and I’ve got several interviews scheduled this morning.” She sighed. “Assuming they weren’t scared away by the news of Klara’s death on the site. Anyway, I’ll find a quiet spot upstairs for those.”

  Sonja stood. “And I’ve got to pack a few pieces of Hardangersaum we’re loaning to the Norsk Folkemuseum in Oslo for a temporary exhibit. Chloe, have a good day.”

  Alone in the office, Chloe sat thinking about her stolen treasures. Then she straightened her shoulders, pulled out the mini-cassettes, put on the transcribing machine’s headphones, and positioned the foot pedal so she could start and stop. At first she paused every few seconds to type what she’d heard, but in time she found a rhythm and was able to make better progress.

  She finished with twenty minutes to spare before she was due to meet Torstein at the ferry dock. She made a photocopy of the transcription for herself. Then she tucked the cassettes and recorder back into her daypack, ready for another interview.

  She was about to take her leave when a fat file folder on the corner of Ellinor’s desk caught her eye. A name was inked on the label: Jørgen Riis. Ellinor’s research nemesis, Chloe recalled. Jørgen Riis had been a master fiddler and fiddle maker who’d left behind his reputation, a few superbly crafted fiddles, and whispers of an unsolved murder.

  Chloe opened the file, which was stuffed with pages of notes and photocopies of journal articles. All were in Norwegian, of course. She did find a couple of photographs of fiddles presumably made by Jørgen Riis. She knew nothing about fiddle construction, but they were gorgeous.

  She looked for additional photos but found only more scribbled notes. She was about to move on when two words leapt from a page: Amalie Sveinsdatter.

  A jolt of electricity struck Chloe’s core. What on earth did Amalie Sveinsdatter have to do with Jørgen Riis? What had Ellinor discovered? And … for the love of God, why hadn’t she said anything about it? Chloe stared open-mouthed, trying to will the words on either side of the name to magically transpose themselves into English.