Fiddling with Fate

by Kathleen Ernst

  Marit waved two tiny fists as if to say, You won’t be alone. I’ll be there.

  Those baby fingers seemed to squeeze Amalie’s heart. If Solveig is strong enough to give up her baby, she thought, I must be strong enough to take her.

  That night, as Amalie lay staring at the shadows, she heard Solveig and Mother murmuring in the next bed. “Mother, I wish you could go to America as well.” That was Solveig.

  “There is not enough money.”

  “Perhaps go to Bergen, then? Surely you won’t go back to Father.”

  A long silence passed before Britta answered. “I will go back to Høiegård. I have to protect the farm.”

  “Oh, Mother …”

  “Someday,” Britta said, “one of you girls might need it.”

  Amalie didn’t think Solveig was going to answer. Finally she said, “I have judged you unfairly, Mother. I’m sorry.”

  At dawn the four women gathered in the kitchen. Amalie wanted more time to prepare, to get used to the idea, but the others had insisted she leave at once.

  One of Helene’s neighbors agreed to bring his wagon and take Amalie to Bergen, where a shipping agent would arrange her passage. Solveig gave her the travel documents and wrote down the name of Jørgen’s American friend. “He’ll help you get settled.”

  “Amalie, I have something for you.” Britta’s eyes were glassy, but her voice didn’t waver. She pressed a square of white linen into Amalie’s hands. “For your embroidery. Whenever you get homesick on the ship or in America, work on this.”

  Just holding the clean new cloth was a comfort. Amalie did love creating Hardangersaum. The precision required would help occupy her hands—and her mind.

  “I have a gift for you as well.” Helene held up the embroidered handaplagg she’d used to cover her hands on her wedding day. “Your great-great-great-grandmother received this when she got married in 1765. It’s been passed down ever since. It will help protect you.”

  The gifts went into the painted tine, tucked safe in Amalie’s bag. Helene filled her own small bridal trunk with sheets and a blanket, sacks of peas and beans, three loaves of crusty bread. Solveig added the linens and clothes she’d made for Marit. “You’ll need to find another new mother on the ship. Save some coins to pay for milk.”

  The neighbor knocked on the door. “All set?”

  Amalie clung to her mother and Helene. Then she squared her shoulders and reached for Marit.

  Solveig started to surrender the baby but stopped. She’s changed her mind, Amalie thought.

  Then her sister began to sing a beautiful lullaby that Hardanger women had sung to their babies for hundreds of years. A salty lump filled Amalie’s throat. When the song ended, Solveig kissed Marit and gently settled the baby in her younger sister’s arms.

  I must not fail, Amalie thought. Her mother and sisters had taken risks, made sacrifices, so that she would be safe. That same strength was inside her. She just needed to find it.

  “I love you all.” Amalie raised her chin. “And Solveig, I promise to always do whatever I think is best for Marit.”

  Thirty-Four

  Helene’s tale left Chloe teary-eyed and sniffling. Roelke passed her a tissue.

  “Not all family stories are happy ones, I’m afraid,” Helene said.

  Chloe blew her nose. “I hate knowing that my grandma lost the man she loved and her baby.”

  “Solveig was half dead herself by the time she made her way back to Orchard House that Midsummer.” Helene pinched her lips into a thin line as she remembered. “In shock. Bleeding. She hadn’t recovered well from childbirth.”

  “But why didn’t she report what happened to the authorities?”

  “No one else witnessed the incident. After Jørgen went over the ledge, Father and Gustav and their helper ran off. Solveig managed to scramble down to Jørgen, but he’d hit his head on a rock. He was already dead.”

  Chloe put her hand on Roelke’s knee, just needing to know he was there.

  “I told her, ‘Solveig, go to America,’” Helene said. “‘Rest here, gather your strength. Then take your baby to America.’ But she didn’t have the heart for the journey anymore. Not without Jørgen. She died a month after Amalie left.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She did go back home. I saw her only a few more times before she died.” Helene spread her hands, palms up. “Somehow she managed to live with my father, and to keep this place. She loved it so.” She nodded, clearly remembering days long gone. “I did my best to keep the orchard I inherited from my husband going, but it was too much. I don’t know what I would have done if my mother hadn’t clung to this mountain.”

  Chloe stared over the lawn, trying to imagine them all. “You never met Jørgen, right?”

  Helene shook her head. “No. He must have been special.”

  “What happened to the fiddle he made for Solveig? The director at the Hardanger Folkemuseum has been trying to track that down for decades.”

  “It was the only thing Solveig had left of him, and I think she desperately wanted to cling to it. But as Amalie settled in the wagon that day, Solveig called for the driver to wait. She fetched the fiddle and gave it to Amalie.” Perplexed, Helene looked at Chloe. “Didn’t your mother end up with it?”

  “No. I found the Hardanger doily, the blackwork handaplagg, and a little Hardanger bride doll tucked in a painted tine.”

  “A doll?” Helene repeated thoughtfully. “Amalie must have purchased that for the baby in Bergen. I never saw a doll.”

  “Well, I never saw a—”

  “Chloe.” Roelke gave her a meaningful look.

  It took a moment, but she caught on. “Oh, my, God. Hilda’s fiddle.”

  “I’m thinkin’,” Roelke agreed.

  Chloe pressed one palm against her forehead. That’s where she’d seen the ram’s horns symbol. On Hilda’s fiddle.

  Then she explained to Helene, “I think Mom gave Solveig’s fiddle to her best friend.”

  “It has devils on the sides?”

  Chloe frowned. “No, the sides are rosemaled. But …” She thought that over and winced. “Mom was a skilled painter. She could have created a design over the devils.” To Chloe’s curator heart it seemed a sad desecration, but perhaps Mom hadn’t approved of the devils. Or maybe Mom had simply wanted to put something of herself into the gift to her dearest friend.

  “Solveig believed the devils were Jørgen’s way of …” Helene paused, searching for the right words. “Of standing up against men like our father.”

  Thumbing his nose at the zealots, Chloe thought. “My mother’s adoptive parents were wonderful people. My mom had a good life. Still, I so wish she could have known Jørgen and Solveig.”

  “Solveig adored her daughter.” Helene’s voice trembled. “What was left of her heart broke when Amalie and Marit left.”

  Chloe nibbled her lower lip before asking, “And you don’t know what happened to Amalie?”

  “She said she’d write when she reached Wisconsin. I never heard from her again.”

  Tragedy piled on tragedy. “I’m so sorry,” Chloe said. “We’ll probably never know why she decided to go to the orphanage that day, or what happened to her after that.”

  “Perhaps.” Reverend Brandvold broke his long silence. “Don’t forget, I believe I had a letter from Amalie in my possession. Perhaps her letters went astray because she addressed them to Solveig, who was first in hiding and later, deceased. Anyway, if Trine Moen found the letter I had, and passed it on to Torstein, it’s possible that the police will recover it.”

  “That would feel like a miracle. I will wait and see.” Helene smoothed her skirt and looked at Barbara-Eden. “Young lady, would you come with me? I have a pitcher of lemonade in the refrigerator.”

  After they disappeared inside, Roelke reached for C
hloe’s hand. “You must feel overwhelmed.”

  “Kinda,” she admitted. It would take time to process everything she’d learned.

  Barbara-Eden returned with a tray holding the lemonade, glasses, and a plate of cookies. Helene followed and handed a small leather-bound book to Chloe. “This is my dearest treasure. Solveig wrote down family stories she learned from our mother.”

  Chloe’s eyes went wide. Easing the book open, she found lines of fading script covering brittle pages. Everything was, of course, written in Norwegian. Still. No way am I getting on an airplane without a copy of this, she thought.

  But … no. It was impossible. The book was far too fragile to photocopy.

  “I could transcribe it for you,” Barbara-Eden offered, as if reading Chloe’s mind. “Mrs. Valebrokk, might I come back to work on that?”

  Helene looked delighted. “That’s a lovely idea.”

  “I’ll do as much as I can before you leave,” Barbara-Eden promised. “If I don’t finish, I’ll mail you the final pages.”

  “That would be perfect,” Chloe said. “Thank you.”

  “Now.” Helene smiled. “I want to hear about you. You’re getting married?” She looked from Chloe to Roelke. “When?”

  “We haven’t quite worked that out,” Chloe admitted. “But soon.”

  “Why don’t you get married here?”

  Chloe sighed. “Actually, Aunt Helene, Roelke and I did think about getting married while we’re in Norway. But there’s not enough time to make the arrangements.”

  “I’m afraid that’s true,” Reverend Brandvold added sadly.

  “Then perhaps you can come back,” Helene suggested.

  When police officers and museum curators earn a whole lot more money than we do now, Chloe thought. “Perhaps.”

  Roelke reached for her hand. “Helene, do you mind if we take a walk?”

  Helene did not. Roelke led Chloe across the lawn to the high overlook. Having fallen from one cliff already, she almost balked. But he spotted a flat stone back from the edge, perfect for sitting.

  “I’m sorry the conversation took that turn,” he said. “Helene didn’t know it’s a sore subject.”

  Chloe gazed ahead. Beyond the sun-dazzled fjord far below, white-frosted mountain peaks scraped the sky. Veils of water plunged down stony clefts. “This place is beyond beautiful.”

  “It is.”

  She turned over a new thought, examining it from different directions, and felt a tiny bubble of excitement rise inside. “Roelke, let’s get married here. Right here in Helene’s front yard.”

  He frowned. “Chloe, you know we can’t—”

  “I’ve got an idea.” She took a deep breath. “Neither one of us wants to get married at the courthouse. So let’s make our commitment to each other here. It won’t be legal, but I simply can’t believe that God would take offense.”

  “But …”

  “Have you ever seen a more holy place? A more magnificent cathedral?”

  Roelke regarded her, rubbing his chin.

  “We can write our own vows. And when we’ve exchanged them, in our hearts we’ll be truly married.”

  “It’s a nice idea. But I want our marriage to be official.”

  Well, I do too, Chloe thought. “So … when we get home we’ll go to the courthouse and make it legal. At that point it will be a formality, so I won’t mind. And after that, we can have a reception for our family and friends at the Sons of Norway lodge.” She stopped then, giving Roelke time to catch up. If they were going to do this, it had to be because they both wanted to.

  He looked away for a long moment, thinking. Then he grinned. “Let’s do it.”

  Three days later, Chloe and Roelke dressed in their best: Chloe’s only remaining skirt and a blouse; Roelke’s dark trousers and a white dress shirt. “I wish we could just go to the farm,” Chloe murmured as they left their room.

  “Inspector Naess said this wouldn’t take long,” Roelke reminded her. “And I’d like an update.”

  Officer Naess was waiting in one of the hotel’s side parlors. “I have good news,” he said without preamble. “Torstein Landvik has given a full confession.”

  “Wow.” Chloe tried to take that in. She felt more sadness than relief.

  “I’m surprised,” Roelke admitted. “I’d expected him to fight all the way.”

  Naess offered a hard, satisfied smile. “He tried, but we had a lot of evidence. First, Trine Moen has admitted to Wisconsin police that she collaborated with Landvik.”

  “Oh.” Chloe had hoped that Torstein had duped Trine.

  “She confirmed she’d found a letter from Amalie Sveinsdatter in Pastor Brandvold’s things, and passed it on to Landvik,” Naess continued. “And she confirmed that Landvik believed that your real goal, Miss Ellefson, was to claim his inheritance and steal heirlooms he thought should belong to him.”

  Chloe clenched her teeth. That part still really hurt.

  “How did Landvik learn that Chloe was a distant relative?” Roelke asked.

  Naess glanced at his notebook. “Klara Evenstad and Trine Moen both helped Landvik search for family history. And once Moen was in Wisconsin, she began searching records there. She knew she’d made an astonishing find when she got a good look at Hilda Omdahl’s fiddle.”

  “Trine had worked at the Hardanger Folkemuseum,” Chloe observed. “She’d certainly know that a Riis fiddle would be an extraordinary find.”

  “Mrs. Omdahl told Trine that it had been a gift from your mother.” He nodded at Chloe. “And the details you provided to Ellinor Falk and Sonja Gullickson about your family search, and the heirlooms you were bringing, enraged Landvik.”

  Torstein Landvik was gunning for me before I ever decided to come to Norway, Chloe thought. It was creepy-horrible to imagine him scheming about her while she was oblivious to his existence.

  “And,” Naess continued, “we have the silver necklace—”

  “The necklace?” Chloe frowned in confusion. What did the necklace have to do with anything?

  “After Barbara-Eden Kirkevoll confessed to taking it from Klara’s locker, we returned it to Klara’s mother. She found a note inside—”

  “It’s a locket?” Chloe blurted. Roelke put a hand on her knee. “Sorry. I don’t mean to interrupt.”

  “It’s an antique bridal locket,” Naess explained. “Brides carried the pastor’s fee inside for safekeeping. When Klara’s mother identified the locket, she showed me a hidden catch.”

  Well, shut my mouth, Chloe thought. Inspector Naess was the first cop to school her in historical detail.

  The inspector leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Klara had found a letter from Trine Moen in Landvik’s things. It referred to the letter from Amalie Sveinsdatter that Moen stole.”

  Chloe waited until she was sure he was finished. “Have you recovered the letter?” She longed to find out what it said.

  He nodded. “It is evidence, but in time, it will be returned to Pastor Brandvold.”

  Roelke stroked his chin with thumb and forefinger. “So, Moen knew what Landvik was doing, and helped him.”

  “Yes,” Naess confirmed. “But Klara Evenstad assumed Torstein’s interest in family history was completely innocent.”

  Why wouldn’t she? Chloe thought. Klara had loved history. She’d understood that heritage and traditions were important for their own sake, not for financial gain.

  “Landvik told Klara that he wanted to surprise you with the discovery that you were distant cousins of some sort. But after you arrived, she found Trine’s note and discovered that Landvik had completely misled her. She confronted him about it.”

  “She must have been shocked to discover she was involved in something unethical,” Roelke said.

  “And to realize that she was not Torstein’s one and only,” Ch
loe added.

  “Landvik’s reaction frightened Klara. When she got upset, he begged her to meet him in that cabin, Høiegård, later. Said he’d explain everything. Evidently they’d met there before. Landvik knew it had come from his old family farm, so that must have appealed to him.”

  “A part of Klara must have still believed, or at least hoped, that Torstein could provide some kind of explanation.” Chloe grasped her shoulders. She hated picturing Klara daring to meet Torstein—only to be murdered.

  “But part of her also feared the worst,” Naess said. “Before meeting him Klara wrote a note about what she’d discovered, hid it in the locket, and left that in her locker.”

  An employee carrying a bucket of cleaning supplies appeared, spotted them, and backed out. Naess continued, “Moen’s relationship with Landvik had become strained. She hoped that if she could actually present the Riis fiddle to him, she’d win his affection.”

  Chloe looked at Roelke. “Kent said Trine was having boyfriend troubles, remember?”

  Roelke looked revolted. “I do not get why so many women went gaga for that guy.”

  “Trine Moen went to Hilda Omdahl’s house the night of Marit Kallerud’s funeral,” Naess said. “She tried to talk Mrs. Omdahl into selling the fiddle. Things got heated.”

  “And Hilda ended up in a coma,” Chloe said bitterly.

  “Moen panicked and fled without the fiddle. She hoped the problem would go away.” Naess’s mouth twisted with disgust. “That’s a quote. But she really panicked when Hilda showed signs of improvement.”

  “Which, fortunately, she did.” Chloe had enjoyed a brief but wondrous telephone conversation with Aunt Hilda the day before.

  “Moen called Landvik, and all he did was criticize her for not finishing the job. I think that’s why Moen was so eager to talk to the police.”

  “A woman scorned,” Roelke murmured.

  Naess leaned back in his chair. “As you see, we had a lot to lay out to Landvik. He knew he was caught. He confessed to trying to grab your pack at the airport, to killing Klara Evenstad, to ransacking your room in search of any other heirlooms, and to stealing your textiles from the safe. He enlisted the help of a female employee here for that.”