“Midsummer,” she whispered, making the word a talisman. And she remembered the look in his eyes that last morning: I will always return, because you’re part of me …
He lived in the fiddle, too. Only Jørgen would poke defiant fun at those who believed that fiddlers did the devil’s work. Despite her lack of skill, the new hardingfele’s tone and depth took her breath away. In the evening, when her ears strained to catch the faint echo of his music, she pressed her cheek to the polished fiddle. At night, when she couldn’t sleep and her fingers longed to trace the knobs of his spine, she sat by the hearth and played. The music connected her to him, and was a comfort.
And she needed comfort. By mid-October, when her father finally appeared, Solveig knew she was in trouble.
Svein stalked across the meadow to meet her, contemptuous disdain burning in his eyes. Was he angry only because she’d rejected Gustav again, or did he know she’d kept company with a man? She forced herself to hold his iron gaze. Finally he turned and stalked to the barn.
He spent the rest of the day sending bundles of hay hurtling down the mountain on his new cable to the main farm. That evening he ate his flatbread and cheese in silence. He read aloud from the Old Testament before going to sleep in the barn.
That night Solveig wrapped a handkerchief around her little leather journal and settled it deep in her pocket. She couldn’t take the fiddles, but she hid them well. She’d come back to fetch Jørgen’s gift when she could.
Her brother arrived the next morning. The three of them shouldered pack baskets and herded the animals back down to Høiegård. Britta greeted her with a tight hug, but she didn’t look happy to see her daughter. “Oh, Solveig,” she whispered. “Stay out of your father’s way.” Then, with an anxious glance toward her husband, she scuttled back into the house.
Solveig had every intention of staying out of her father’s way that evening—the last she meant to spend at Høiegård. She was sitting on a milking stool, cheek pressed against the cow’s warm belly, when he grabbed her arm and jerked her to her feet. She hadn’t even heard Svein approach. But she wasn’t surprised to see the switch in his hand.
That night she lay in the straw, inhaling the familiar blend of cows and dung and hay, trying to will away the welted pain in the back of her legs. Trying to think. The plan she and Jørgen had agreed to couldn’t work now. Once her pregnancy became obvious, any employer would almost certainly turn her out. Her father would do the same.
She had never felt so lonely.
But she had another life to think about now. I shall be, Solveig vowed fiercely, a mother who will do anything for her child. That resolve helped her focus and come up with a new plan.
She rose and groped for the lantern kept on a nail by the door. Once it was lit, she carefully tore a blank page from her leather-bound book and wrote a note: I am going to America. She folded the paper and left it in the bottom of a milk pail, where her mother would find it.
She considered taking the lantern but decided against it. She considered tiptoeing into the house to fetch her winter clothes but decided against that too. The burlap sack holding the summer clothes and essentials she’d taken to the seter was in the barn, and she’d make do with that. She patted each cow goodbye, slung the sack over her shoulder, and crept from the barn.
By sunrise, she was well on her way to the seter. When she reached the summer farm she fetched the precious fiddle Jørgen had made—her betrothal gift, offered because he understood her fiddler’s heart.
Climbing down the mountain took longer, for she didn’t dare take the main trail past Høiegård. She considered going first to Utne and stopping at the inn to say goodbye to Amalie. But handing Amalie another heavy secret would burden her, Solveig thought, and be a risk for me.
She caught a ride a short way along the coast with a fisherman, then kept walking. It was cool but sunny. Her feet began to hurt, and her stomach growled, but every passing kilometer made her feel safer. She didn’t often travel to Frukthagehus—Orchard House —but she remembered the way.
Sometime in the afternoon she spotted the familiar red house with white shutters on a rise overlooking the fjord. Rows of apple trees marched down the slopes on both sides. Please, she thought as she reached the drive. Please say yes. Please.
When Solveig knocked, the front door opened quickly. Her older sister’s eyes went wide with surprise. “Solveig! What are you doing here?” She glanced at the empty drive. “Are you alone?”
“I am.” Solveig set down her fiddle case and her bag, and flexed stiff fingers. “Helene, I need your help.” Tears threatened for the first time. If her sister turned her away …
But Helene stepped back, gesturing her inside. “Of course.” Once the door was closed, she wrapped her arms around Solveig. “What’s happened?”
Thirty
“So,” Roelke said when they reached the car. “What happened?”
Chloe was grateful that he’d given her time before asking. “I’m not entirely sure.”
Roelke checked for traffic and pulled out. “Start with why you disappeared with Torstein without saying anything to me.”
Chloe shifted in her seat, vainly trying to find a comfortable position. Skidding full-tilt boogie down a scree-filled ravine was not something she’d have chosen to do the day after surviving a car crash. She also felt emotionally exhausted, and really was not up to an argument.
“I’m truly sorry I scared you,” she said at last. “Torstein and I enjoyed dancing that Springar.” She’d thought that Markus, her Swiss ex, had been a good dancer—but oh my, Torstein was in another league. Even though the local nuances were new, he’d intuited every move.
“Chloe?” Roelke’s voice was tight. “I know you had a good time dancing with Torstein. What I’m waiting to hear is why—”
“I’m trying to explain,” she protested, holding up one hand. “Dancing with Torstein was so effortless that I felt myself just kind of … disappearing. It was genetic memory, I’m sure of it. During the final series of turns, out of the corner of my eye I could see all the women’s skirts flaring out.”
“Most of the women weren’t wearing skirts.”
“That’s my point.”
He took that in, keeping his gaze on the road. “Ah.”
“I’ve been folk dancing for years, Roelke, and I’d never felt so much joy. It was wonderful, but also overwhelming. When the music stopped I felt dazed. Torstein looked happy, but all of a sudden his face crumpled. He looked horrified, and said, ‘Dear God, how can I dance after Klara …’ ”
“I’m glad he didn’t completely forget that his girlfriend was brutally murdered.”
Chloe bit her lip. Roelke was even more pissed than she’d thought. “When we left the floor, he turned away from where you were waiting. I didn’t know what to do. I was worried, and I had to make a decision, fast, or I would have lost sight of him. I did try to catch your eye, but you weren’t looking.”
A wordless sound—half grunt, half growl—rose from Roelke’s throat. His facial muscles were hard. His hands showed a strangling grip on the steering wheel.
When he didn’t speak, she kept going. “So, Torstein went into the trees and I followed him. When we came out on that outcrop, I thought for one sick moment that he was going to do something terrible.” She swallowed hard. Grief could make people do all kinds of things.
Roelke finally unclenched his jaw. “Torstein said you were standing on the ledge and zoned out. Was that another moment of genetic memory?”
“I don’t know.” She winced, trying to ward away the visceral memory. “All of a sudden this sense of fear slammed into me like a mallet.” She considered. “No, not fear. Pure terror.” It had welled within her. She’d tried to retreat but couldn’t. She remembered clawing at her blouse, trying to ease a crushing pressure.
“So it was more like what you feel some
times in old buildings.”
She shrugged helplessly. “All I know is that I walked into something very dark. Someone who once stood on that ledge was so terrified I could still feel it.”
“Someone afraid of heights?” Roelke suggested. “Maybe someone got drunk at a dance, wandered too close to the edge, and realized at the last moment what was happening.”
“Maybe.”
Roelke blew out a long breath and put one hand on her leg. “I’m sorry that happened.”
“I should be used to it by now.”
“No. I’m sorry because it was my fault.”
Chloe turned to look at him. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“It was my fault.” A pull-out appeared on the side of the road, and he swerved into it. He cut the engine before facing her. “I watched you dancing with Torstein, and … well, it bothered me. A lot. I’m ashamed, but it’s true. That’s why I wasn’t paying attention when you tried to catch my eye.”
The pain in his eyes twisted Chloe’s heart. “Oh, Roelke …” She unhooked her seatbelt so she could rest her head on his shoulder. She should have known that watching her dance with another guy might be hard on him. “I’m the one who needs to apologize. You have been amazingly supportive and patient on this trip, and I’m grateful.”
He stroked her hair. They sat in silence as cars passed on the road. Chloe thought about how much folk dancing had meant to her over the years. It had meant a lot.
But it didn’t mean as much as having Roelke in her life.
“I won’t dance anymore,” she murmured into his shirt.
“Don’t say that.” He traced her cheekbone with one finger. “When you were dancing this afternoon, you looked so happy. I would never take that away. This is my problem, not yours.”
As long as I have Roelke, Chloe thought, everything will be okay. She straightened. “Roelke, as soon as we get home, let’s just go find a justice of the peace and get married.”
His eyebrows rose. “Is that what you really want?”
“A courthouse wedding? No. That’s not what I want. But what I really don’t want is to spend more time not being married to you.”
Roelke wanted to detour to the hospital in Odda. “That will take all night,” Chloe moaned.
“You might need stitches.”
“Let’s see how it looks.” When they checked the gash, she was grateful to see the sterile gauze come away clean. “Your butterfly bandages did the trick. Please don’t take me to the ER. I’ll be very careful with it, I promise.” She dared a bad joke. “No dancing.”
He didn’t smile, but he did concede. “I’ll put a new dressing on it. If that wound starts to bleed again, though—”
“Absolutely.”
Chloe and Roelke stopped at a café in Kinsarvik before catching the ferry back to Utne. Once in their hotel room, Chloe headed for the shower. Warm water felt good. After the jolt of her fall and one initial heart-stopping tumble, she’d skidded most of the way on one hip. Her thighs were badly scraped, and her left forearm. Her favorite skirt was toast. Still, once again, things could have been a whole lot worse.
Once she’d gingerly dressed in a pair of loose chinos, they stopped at the hotel desk to check for messages. The clerk handed over a fax and one phone slip.
“My dad called.” Chloe read the short note several times before daring to smile. “Aunt Hilda is showing some signs of improvement.”
“What kinds of signs?”
“He doesn’t say. I’m going to call him.” A few minutes later she shook her head and replaced the receiver at the pay phone. “No answer.”
“You can call first thing in the morning.” Roelke put a hand on her shoulder. “For now, let’s just focus on that encouraging news.”
The fax was from Rosemary Rossebo. I found an attest from a pastor, giving character reference for one Solveig Sveinsdatter prior to her emigration. Dated 1920. Don’t know if that’s helpful or not. Still no record of Amalie.
“Hmm.” Chloe twisted her mouth, trying to remember the Bygdebok pages she’d skimmed. “Maybe Solveig was a sister or an aunt. I haven’t had a chance to comb through all the information about other occupants of Fjelland.” What with the car wreck and mountainside tumble and all.
“Not quite what you wanted,” Roelke said. “But research can wait for tomorrow.”
“Actually, I’d like to go to the museum.”
Roelke looked exasperated. “Chloe, it’s seven o’clock! The museum closed two hours ago. What could you possibly want to do there?”
“I want to talk to Sonja about the symbols in my hand cloth. Ellinor said she was working this evening. I doubt she’ll be working tomorrow, on a Sunday. She might even take Monday off.”
“What do you think Sonja can tell you?”
Chloe frowned, trying to tamp down frustration. “She said the woman who stitched my hand cloth was conveying a message, remember? Since then, I’ve realized that some of the designs on Hardanger fiddles are similar. And then we saw that heart-shaped swirly design carved into the house at Fjelland.”
“I don’t get the connection.”
“The whole topic keeps nagging at me. It’s understandable that in the old days, illiterate people used specific designs to convey certain ideas. But someone deliberately made that circle mark on Klara’s forehead. It’s got to mean something, and maybe Sonja can tell us.”
“We can’t talk about that with Sonja.” Roelke leaned close as another couple passed. “As far as I know, the cops haven’t released that detail. They’ll want to keep the killer guessing, wondering what they know.”
“Well, maybe we could simply ask if a circle has some particular significance. I doubt the cops would have thought to ask her. If I hadn’t seen how Sonja reacted to the embroidery on my hand cloth, it wouldn’t have crossed my mind either.”
She could tell that Roelke was torn. In the end he nodded. “Okay. But we’re driving. You need to stay off that leg as much as possible.”
Fifteen minutes later he pulled into a parking spot near the Hardanger Folkemuseum’s front door. Two tour buses were parked nearby. Inside, the young woman at the counter affirmed that Sonja was on duty. “But she’s upstairs, where one group is enjoying a fiddle program. If you want to wait for her, feel free to slip into the back of the auditorium and listen. The other group is touring the open-air division.”
Chloe and Roelke took the elevator upstairs and peeked into the auditorium. Sonja stood off to one side, stylish as ever in a silver sweater, black pants, and high heels. Visitors were listening with rapt attention as the fiddler with garnet hair from Tuesday’s concert discussed the hardingfele’s unique qualities.
The only empty chairs were in the front of the room. “Let’s wait in the hall,” Chloe whispered.
They settled onto a bench. “I wonder if Sonja’s had a chance to develop the pictures she took of my handaplagg,” Chloe murmured. She tried to remember the specific stitched motifs, and not the grief that someone had stolen it. The woman who created this handaplagg was expressing herself, yes? Sonja had said. But there hadn’t been any plain circles on the hand cloth.
“I feel like the killer was speaking a language we don’t know,” Chloe said. “Probably most Norwegians today don’t know it either. But in the old days, people stitched symbols into linen hand cloths. They inked them onto wooden fiddles. They carved them on log beams in their homes. They even—” She stopped abruptly as she remembered something new. “Kroting. Roelke, remember what Klara said about kroting?”
He sighed. “Just save time and remind me.”
“When we were sitting in Høiegård the day we took the tour—the day Klara died in that very house—she pointed out the chalk decorations on the walls. A row of geometric shapes. I don’t remember exactly what they looked like.” Chloe heard Klara’s voice in memory: Some d
esigns may have been decorative, but others were intended to protect the home.
“Um … okay.” Roelke clearly wasn’t sure why this was exciting her.
“The site’s still open, right? Let’s go up and—” Chloe stood and abruptly dropped back down. Shit. In her excitement she’d forgotten to favor her injured leg.
“You are not walking up that hill to the open-air division.” Roelke’s voice was resolute.
“I know.” She looked at him, nibbling her lower lip. “But you could.”
“I’m sticking with you.”
Chloe was momentarily distracted as jaunty fiddle music burst from the auditorium. Evidently the lecture portion of the program had ended. “Please, Roelke? There’s a tour group up there, so the house will be open.”
“What purpose would that serve?”
“I still haven’t figured out why that mark on the house at Fjelland seemed familiar. Maybe it’s just because some of my ancestors lived there, but … I think there’s more to it. I’m almost certain it wasn’t on my handaplagg, and it wasn’t on the fiddles on display. Maybe the design appears in that kroting up in Høiegård.”
He pressed one knuckle against his forehead for a moment. “Sweetie, I think you’re starting to grasp at straws.”
“Maybe so. But if you could just make a quick sketch of the designs, we’d have them to work from.”
“I’m staying with you.”
“Roelke, I love you for that, but nothing is going to happen to me in the Hardanger Folkemuseum with thirty people in the next room. Please?”
After a bit more debate, Roelke held up his hands in grudging surrender. “Alright. You will not move from this bench until I get back.”
“I will not move from this bench until you get back,” Chloe repeated. He fixed her with a look. “I promise.”
After he left, Chloe leaned against the wall. The fiddler started a new piece, this one slower and poignant. It seemed familiar, but at this point, Chloe couldn’t tell if she’d heard the tune before, if she was tapping into ancestral memory, or if she was losing what little remained of her rational mind.
Fiddling with Fate Page 27
