“Amalie would have been fifteen years old when Marit was born. A young unwed mother?”
“Perhaps.”
“That last name is new,” Roelke mused. “Fjelland, I mean.” He still got confused about the whole Norwegian naming thing.
“The third name was the farm name. ‘Fjelland’ means ‘mountainous.’”
Which in this vertical landscape narrowed things down not a bit, Roelke thought. “So … Amalie wasn’t from right here in the village, then?”
The older man shook his head. “Not likely.”
As nice as it would have been to have the pastor link Chloe’s ancestors to a local, well-known Utne family, Roelke reminded himself that this was still profoundly good news. Amalie was real, he thought. And she attended church in Utne.
While traveling back to Utne, Chloe didn’t make good on her vow to ask why Ellinor had written Amalie Sveinsdatter’s name in her notes about fiddler Jørgen Riis. Ellinor said little on the drive, and she drove more sedately, as if reluctant to return to the museum where one of her favorite employees had been killed.
Chloe was okay with the silence. She was having a hard time shaking the vestiges of what she’d experienced in the barn. The anger and happiness had both been so strong, so tangible, that she’d almost lost herself. Only the tour guide’s voice, first distant, then growing louder—“Miss Ellefson? Miss Ellefson!”—had pulled Chloe from her fog. Yes, she’d assured the young woman, she was just fine. “I’m fighting off a migraine,” Chloe had lied.
But she couldn’t ignore what she’d perceived in the old barn at Mølstertunet. At the Hardanger Folkemuseum’s Høiegård house, she’d felt a powerful jumble of emotions. This barn’s double whammy was new. What did it mean that she’d felt both hot fury and, simultaneously, that ebullient joy? Her “gift” was stronger here in Norway. She didn’t know if that was a good thing.
This could seriously get in the way, Chloe thought, remembering just in time that propping her toes on Ellinor’s dashboard was not something a responsible professional would do. And that was the problem: professionalism. She’d chosen to work in the museum field. She had no other particular skills. She’d always managed to keep these unexpected jolts from causing colleagues notice, much less alarm.
Until today.
Lovely, Chloe thought. Ralph Petty, her micromanaging boss, already disliked her. Hopefully the Atlantic Ocean would keep rumours of her odd behavior from spreading on the museum grapevine. She was developing a for-real headache by the time she and Ellinor got back to the Hardanger Folkemuseum.
“I’ve got a few things to do inside,” Ellinor said as she parked. “You can check in with me tomorrow, if you want.”
If you want, Chloe thought. Was Ellinor just tired? Or was she tired of trying to keep the American curator busy? Who knew. “Thanks for including me on the trip to Voss,” Chloe said, avoiding the question. “It was an interesting day.” In more ways than one.
Ellinor disappeared inside the museum. Chloe hesitated, weighing her options. After Klara’s death, she’d never had a chance to revisit the ancient restored home in the folk museum’s open-air division. The hilltop collection of restored buildings would be deserted at this hour. Maybe she should make a brief detour now, see what happened. But after glancing toward the path, Chloe shook her head. Not today. Someone had killed Klara Evenstad in that house. Further exploration would wait until Roelke could accompany her. I’m becoming a weenie, she thought, but even that sad assessment didn’t change her mind.
She shoved her hands into her pockets and started down the drive. She and Roelke had made a late dinner reservation at the hotel, so she had plenty of time. Soft evening light slanted through the small apple orchard between the museum and the village, and lit the mountainsides beyond. The landscape felt peaceful again. I need peaceful right now, Chloe thought, and decided to take a longer-than-necessary route back to the hotel.
Her stroll took her past tidy homes with well-tended gardens, a smiling elderly couple walking hand-in-hand, the Utne Church. She paused there, remembering what she’d said to Roelke when they’d gone inside: Something about this place makes me feel at home. She decided to linger on the bench outside—then noticed that a young woman with red hair was already there, hunched over with elbows on knees and face in her hands. She wore the Utne Hotel’s costume/uniform of ethnic-inspired dress and comfortable black shoes. Barbara-Eden.
Keep walking, Chloe told herself sternly. As Roelke had emphasized, the girl’s possible role in criminal acts was a matter for the Norwegian police.
But Barbara-Eden’s shoulders were shaking. Chloe sucked in her lower lip, debating. Compassion won, and she hesitantly approached the bench. “Are you all right?”
Barbara-Eden jerked erect, snuffling hard. Her pink-rimmed eyes widened. “What? What do you want from me? I told you last night, I haven’t done anything wrong!”
“I didn’t accuse you of doing anything wrong,” Chloe said, as mildly as humanly possible. “I just wanted to make sure you’re all right.” She held up both hands in placating gesture. “I’ll go if you want. But if there’s anything I can do to help …”
Two girls sped past the church on bikes. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked twice, then subsided. Finally Barbara-Eden scrubbed at her eyes and blew out a long, shuddery breath. “I think I dropped something here last night. Something important. But I can’t find it.”
Oh my, Chloe thought, processing that admission. First, Barbara-Eden was the one who’d dropped Klara’s silver necklace. And second, Inspector Naess had not told her that he had the necklace. The police were probably trying to see what Barbara-Eden might reveal, or do, on her own; maybe trap the girl in a lie.
This is why Roelke didn’t want me talking to her, Chloe thought. But it was too late to walk away now.
Barbara-Eden filled the awkward silence. “I got questioned by the police today!” She started to cry again. “They came and got me at work. It was humiliating. I think they think I killed Klara. Probably everyone at the hotel does too, now. But I didn’t!”
Chloe tentatively stepped closer, eased down on the bench, and put her arm around the girl’s shoulders. “I’m so sorry. Sorry that your friend died. Sorry that you can’t find … whatever it was that you lost.”
“It w-was an antique s-silver necklace,” Barbara-Eden wept. “One that b-belonged to Klara.”
“I see.” Chloe was still striving to map a safe path through this conversational minefield. She almost asked if Barbara-Eden had borrowed the necklace from her friend, because she really wanted that to be the case. Don’t lead the conversation! Roelke barked in her head, so she bit her tongue. “Um … how did you come to have Klara’s necklace?”
“I didn’t steal it.” Barbara-Eden crossed her arms defensively. “I found it.”
“Where did you find it?”
“There’s a room at the hotel where employees can change. We each have a small locker. I got a run in my stocking, and I thought Klara might have a spare pair, so I looked in her locker. We know each other’s combinations. Knew.” She shuddered convulsively. Chloe unzipped her daypack, found a packet of tissues, and handed it over. Barbara-Eden blew her nose before continuing. “I noticed this little black velvet bag on the floor of her locker. I knew what it was, and figured Klara must have dropped it by mistake.”
“Why by mistake?”
“Because she would never have tossed the necklace on the floor! She cherished it.”
Remembering Klara’s shy but obvious pride as she fingered the delicate silver, Chloe agreed with the assessment. Still … something wasn’t adding up here. If Barbara-Eden had thought the necklace ended up on the locker floor by mistake, why hadn’t she simply locked the door and let her friend know what she’d seen? Chloe knew what Roelke would probably say. It’s an antique, right? Valuable? Barbara-Eden probably decided to sell it.
>
But that didn’t feel right either. “Did you tell the police that you’d picked up Klara’s necklace?”
The girl shook her head. “No.”
“Oh, Barbara-Eden,” Chloe said with a groan. She just couldn’t help it. Lying to the cops, or even being evasive, would only make a bad situation worse.
“That has nothing to do with anything. After hearing that Klara was dead, I wanted to give the necklace to her mother.” Barbara-Eden pulled another tissue from the packet and began shredding it. “But now I’ve lost it.”
Chloe stared blindly at the church, trying to remember anything helpful about Barbara-Eden. Ulrikke Moe had referred to her employee as “impressionable,” and seemed concerned that she might have said something innappropriate. Earlier, Barbara-Eden had given Chloe the fax from genealogist Rosemary Rossebo, and the messages from Reverend Brandvold and Torstein Landvik. You have a couple of phone messages, too. One from Reverend Brandvold, and … one from Torstein Landvik. You know Torstein? Barbara-Eden had seemed surprised that Torstein had called for Chloe.
Torstein, who was vibrant and virile and in love with Barbara-Eden’s best friend.
Tortstein, who had prompted a caustic observation from the urbane Sonja Gullickson: Oh, I doubt Torstein will be lonely for too long … Torstein Landvik is a man who turns heads.
At the time, Chloe had wondered if Torstein had turned Sonja’s head at some point. But … what if he had, knowingly or not, turned Barbara-Eden’s head? Hadn’t Reverend Brandvold speculated that some of Utne’s young women were envious of Klara?
Frost formed in Chloe’s marrow as she realized that if Torstein and Barbara-Eden had shared some kind of clandestine relationship—or even if Barbara-Eden had simply experienced a fierce but unrequited attraction—the girl had a motive for murder.
Chloe had to moisten her lips before daring the question. “Are you in love with Torstein Landvik?” She half expected Roelke to burst from the shrubbery to terminate this conversation by any means necessary. But she’s opening up, Chloe argued silently. As she did not do when being interrogated by the police.
Barbara-Eden had sucked in a harsh breath. After a long moment she sagged, as if all fight was gone. “I … I guess so.”
“Was he attracted to you?”
Barbara-Eden winced. “I thought he might be. He flirted with me sometimes.”
“Does the fact that Torstein flirted with you have anything to do with why you took the necklace from Klara’s locker?”
“Well … maybe.” The girl shrugged, still avoiding eye contact. “I guess I wanted to pretend that he’d given it to me. Just for a little while! I really was going to give it back to Klara.” She swiped at a tear. “But I never got the chance.”
What a colossal mess, Chloe thought. She silently thanked the universe for bringing her and Roelke together, effectively removing them both from this type of romantic wretchedness.
She took a deep breath. “Barbara-Eden, if you had anything to do with Klara’s death, you have to say so. The police will find out anyway, and it will go much better for you if—”
“But I didn’t!” Barbara-Eden pinned Chloe with a wild-eyed stare. “I swear to God. You’ve got to believe me!”
Chloe held her gaze for a long, anguished moment. Then she nodded. “I do believe you.”
The girl’s shoulders slumped with relief.
“But, you withheld information from the police. You have to set that straight. You must tell them everything you know, including how you came to have the necklace, and that you lost it.” It was hard not to squirm with the discomfort of not blurting out that the necklace was safely in police custody.
Barbara-Eden’s sigh held the weight of mountains. But she nodded. “I will.”
“Right now,” Chloe added, in case she hadn’t been clear. Leaning over, she began picking up the tissue scraps Barbara-Eden had dropped. “In fact, I’ll come with you.”
Roelke forked up a morsel of salmon. It was lightly herbed and grilled to perfection.
He wasn’t used to having dinner at eight p.m., so his stomach had been growling by the time Chloe returned to the hotel. She’d looked tired but also distinctly guilty about something, which always blipped his radar. When she’d confessed to initiating a conversation with Barbara-Eden, he’d gotten a little cranky.
Now, twenty minutes later, the fine meal was improving his mood. Chloe’s vegetarian dish, something white covered with a bright green sauce, was also provoking sighs of contentment. “I don’t know what this is, but it’s fantastic,” she marveled. “Anyway, I swear I didn’t do anything that will rouse the ire of the Norwegian police.”
“You really think Barbara-Eden was telling the truth?”
“I do. She was indulging in a romantic fantasy, not trying to fence valuable antiques. And I stayed with her until she’d called the police.”
At least Chloe didn’t reveal anything that she shouldn’t have, Roelke thought. Instead, she’d gotten Barbara-Eden to reveal and report new information. Inspector Naess couldn’t complain too loudly about that. He hoped.
“Here’s what I don’t get.” Chloe pointed her butter knife at him. “Knowing how Klara treasured that necklace, it seems unlikely that she wouldn’t notice dropping it on the floor of her locker. Why did she even take it off?”
He gave her a pointed look. “I’m quite sure that Naess will pursue that question himself.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She smiled at the young waiter who’d appeared to refill her goblet with sparkling apple juice. “From here on in, I’m staying out of police business.”
I can only hope, Roelke thought. “Listen, I haven’t even had a chance to tell you about my afternoon.”
Chloe leaned back in her chair, considering him as she sipped. “Did something come up?”
“You could say that,” Roelke acknowledged, and grinned. “Something about Amalie.”
Twenty-Three
Solveig—June 1912
“Amalie!” Britta called. “Don’t chase the chickens! Did you finish hoeing the garden?”
Solveig saw her mother Britta standing in the cabin doorway, knitting basket in hand. Solveig’s younger sister, Amalie, stopped racing about. “Almost.” Clucking indignantly, the brown and yellow Jærhøns scurried away from the seven-year-old.
“Please get back to it.”
Solveig shook her head indulgently. It was the first warm day of summer. Bluebells blossomed in the woods and tender fiddleheads uncurled from the damp soil. Spruce trees were tipped with bright new green. The lambs and calves were safely born, already cavorting in their fenced pasture. She could hardly blame her sister for playing—especially since their father was not at home to beat such a “willful indulgence” from Amalie with a switch. But today Svein had taken his son fishing. His absence felt like a field of purple heather had burst into bloom.
Solveig bent over her laundry tub, closing her eyes as she often did to better listen, better hear. A gentle breeze sighed through the apple trees, suggesting the faintest of melodies. Solveig knew she could capture it, shape it—
“Solveig!” It was Britta, standing right beside her. “I’ve been calling you. Sometimes you’re no better than Amalie.”
“I wasn’t daydreaming,” Solveig protested mildly. She’d learned long ago that no one else experienced the world in music, as she did. “Do you need something?”
Britta’s exasperation faded, and she smiled. “Come sit with me.”
Mother must feel peaceful too, Solveig thought. She draped the last wet shirt over the line and followed Britta through the front meadow to the cliff edge. They settled on a stone ledge where yellow saxifrage bloomed, thread-thin roots clenching tight in any crevice. Sunlight glinted on the snow still streaking the ravines.
Britta pulled a small leather-bound book from beneath her wool and held it out.
<
br /> Puzzled, Solveig accepted it. “What is this?”
“It’s a book to capture stories.”
“Stories?”
“I grew up hearing stories from my mother, Torhild, who’d collected them from her mother, Lisbet. Lisbet learned them from her grandmother Gudrun, and some are even older. Some of them reflect the old ways.” Britta paused before adding, “The old religion.”
Solveig’s eyes widened. This was dangerous territory. Father would take a switch to Mother if he heard her speak of such things.
Britta gazed at the distant waterfalls, swollen with snowmelt, cascading down the mountainsides. “I want the stories to be written down. They musn’t get lost. And you’re the best one to do it.”
The charge made Solveig feel a little breathless. “But where did …” She gestured at the blank book.
Although Britta’s cheeks flushed, she held her head high. “Last time I sold wool in Utne I held a few skeins back and traded them for the book. I got it from a peddler who doesn’t know us.”
So he can’t carry tales to Father, Solvieg thought. She was amazed at her mother’s daring. To her knowledge, and growing annoyance, Mother had never crossed her husband. Never argued.
“You’re seventeen,” Britta continued. “Surely you’ll marry and leave the family farm before too long.”
Solveig’s flicker of admiration faded. “Oh, Mother. I have no such plans.”
“You need a man, Solveig. A woman does.”
“I don’t.”
“Your older sister was married and gone by your age.”
“And she’s already a widow.” Solveig’s brother-in-law had drowned just a year after the marriage.
Britta fixed her with another exasperated look.
I do not need a man! Solveig thought. Trading life in her father’s house for life with a husband she didn’t truly love held no appeal. Besides, she was too quiet for the local young men. Too different.
Fiddling with Fate Page 20
