Loren was at his desk. “Good morning, Chloe. Come on in.” He waved her toward a chair.
She perched on the edge. “I just learned that Claudia called in sick. I’ve got plenty to keep me busy, but is there anything you’d like me to do?”
“Could you handle the staff briefing?”
“Sure. I’m glad to help.”
“Thanks.” Loren slumped back in his chair. “But I don’t think anyone can truly help.”
And how was a lowly visiting curator supposed to respond to that? Chloe wondered.
“When I was hired three years ago, I was told that I would be expected to increase attendance by twenty percent.” He gave a mirthless smile. “Needless to say, that has not happened.”
“Twenty percent?” Chloe echoed. That was a big number.
Loren steepled his hands in front of his chin. “I haven’t met expectations. Now Pendarvis is being threatened with closure.”
“It’s not that simple,” Chloe protested. “At any historic site, everything from bad weather to the price of gasoline can affect attendance.”
“True,” Loren allowed. “But the bean counters look only at the bottom line. I find myself obsessing over everything. Will such-and-such increase attendance?”
Chloe shifted in her chair. She sympathized with Loren, but she wasn’t used to such candor from administrators.
“I was thinking about Dr. Miller last night.” Loren picked up a small foam ball from his desk and began squeezing it in one hand. “Part of me was relieved that her book will never be published. Isn’t that terrible? I was worried about more negative publicity.”
“Do you know what the focus of her research was?”
“No, but she was certainly studying Pendarvis with a microscopic and a critical eye. Odd, since she wanted to work here.”
“Yvonne Miller wanted to work here?”
Loren nodded. “She applied for Claudia’s job.”
“I did not know that,” Chloe said slowly. It explained some things, though. Such as why Dr. Miller had harbored such resentment toward Claudia.
“She was very knowledgeable about local history,” Loren said. “A lot more knowledgeable than Claudia was, actually.”
“She seemed more focused on territorial politics and the Black Hawk War than on mining and immigrants,” Chloe observed. “There’s nothing wrong with discussing the territorial governor and his cronies, of course. And Native American history is critically important. But interpreting the lives of everyday Cornish people is important too, especially since your site is comprised of working-class homes.”
“I agree.” Loren shrugged. “In any case, academic knowledge is only part of the equation. I needed a curator who could get along with volunteers and interpreters and donors. A curator who could suit up and give tours, and be equally effective with senior citizens and children. Yvonne Miller looked good on paper, but Claudia presented herself much better. I’ve never regretted my decision.”
“Claudia’s great,” Chloe agreed, and stood because she didn’t want to talk about Claudia anymore. “I’ll go meet the interpreters. Oh, wait.” She pulled the sticking tommy found in Chy Looan from her totebag. “This belongs to a friend. I was struck by the decorative work. Nothing I’ve found in the Pendarvis collection matches it. Have you ever seen ironwork like this before?”
Loren took the candleholder and whistled. “This is a beauty! But no, I’ve never seen work like this. Have you shown it to Gerald?”
Chloe remembered Gerald accusing her of carrying about one of Pendarvis’s artifacts. “Only briefly.”
“He knows a lot about mining tools.” Loren rotated the sticking tommy with more animation than Chloe had seen since arriving in Mineral Point. “You might also want to show it to someone at the Mining Museum in Platteville, or the Shullsburg Mining Museum. Both are excellent resources, and an easy drive.”
Only if you have a car, Chloe thought. Those excursions would have to wait. Maybe she’d see what kind of a mood Gerald was in, and try again. “Thanks for the suggestions,” she told Loren, and escaped.
In the gift shop, Gerald stood with arms belligerently crossed over his chest as Chloe thanked the staff for their help in the wake of Miller’s death, announced that Claudia was ill, and reviewed the school tour notes with what she hoped was a knowing air. Rita listened politely. Audrey nodded along, probably eager to wrap things up so she could get back to her novel.
Chloe dismissed the staff with a chipper “Have a good day!” Then she added, “Gerald? Do you have a moment?” He turned back, looking unhappy, and she held out the sticking tommy. “I didn’t have a good chance to show you this yesterday. Have you ever seen this kind of workmanship on an iron mining tool? I’m hoping to identify the maker.”
“This is a fine piece,” he said grudgingly. He took it, and while examining it closely, his eyes lost their accusatory glare. “But I’ve never seen anything like it.” He handed it back.
“Thanks anyway.” Chloe tucked it away.
Gerald folded his arms again. “Why are you here?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Chloe snapped. “As you already know, I’m here to help Claudia.”
“No, I mean why are you really here? Are you the advance guard, come to assess the site before it goes into mothballs? The society’s already made the decision to close us down, right?”
Chloe felt steam rising inside. “Okay, you know what? I’ve about had it. I am heartsick about the possible closure of Pendarvis. All I know is what I read in the newspaper on Sunday. I will do anything I can to help keep the site open.” She pointed a finger toward his chest. “I hope you took that in, because I’m not going to say it again.”
For a few seconds she thought she’d gotten through. Then Gerald’s eyes narrowed with contempt. He whirled and went to meet the first tour group.
I give up, Chloe thought. There was no getting through to the man. She retreated to Claudia’s desk and settled down to type up her notes from surveying the storage area in Trelawny House.
Some time later, as she rolled a new piece of paper into the platen, she became vaguely aware of voices in the entry room. A firm knock on the office door made her swivel in her chair. Loren and a policeman stood in the doorway, and another cop was visible behind them. Chloe and Evelyn exchanged quick, wary glances. Loren looked even more morose than he had earlier.
“Pardon me, ladies,” Loren said wearily, “but you must vacate the premises. These officers have a warrant to search Pendarvis staff offices.”
Evelyn went home. Chloe didn’t blame her. Evelyn was a loyal volunteer, but enough was enough. Chloe settled on one of the picnic tables on the grounds to wait out the search. As the officers got to work, she could tell that this search was going to be much more involved than the preliminary one yesterday had been.
Chloe put her elbows on the table and her head in her hands. Fleeing Pendarvis appealed to her too. All I wanted, she thought, was a peaceful and pleasant week away. Had that really been so much to ask?
You are a guest here, she reminded herself. What was it she’d told Roelke when they were driving down on Sunday? I will not get involved in anything that’s faintly problematic or controversial. If something comes up, I will refuse to take delivery.
Well, things hadn’t turned out that way.
Under the circumstances, could anyone blame her if she just went home? Not to Tamsin’s apartment, but to the farmhouse she shared with Roelke and her cat. The thought was so appealing that Chloe’s throat ached. Surely somebody could come get her. If not Roelke, maybe her friend Dellyn. Claudia was distracted, Loren was melancholy, and the cops had just closed the site. There was nothing left to accomplish here.
Except … that wasn’t true.
With a mammoth sigh Chloe sat up straight. She truly cared about Pendarvis, and Pendarvis was under siege.
If she stayed, at the very least she could draft a decent plan for collections storage.
And although the investigation into Yvonne Miller’s death may not be her problem, it was Claudia’s problem. Maybe the most important thing to do was help her friend navigate a crisis. Maybe the timing of this trip was actually fortuitous.
And, Chloe thought, a bunch of unsettling things have happened to me. She hadn’t had a chance to tell anyone about the note she’d found in her totebag. Should she pass it on to Investigator Higgins? Compared to finding a skeleton in Chy Looan, and Yvonne Miller tumbling to her death in Polperro House, the note seemed silly. But it was creepy, and someone at Pendarvis had left it for her.
I can’t go home yet, Chloe thought. There are too many unanswered questions.
So. That being the case, she better get busy.
An officer had poked through her totebag, which she carefully kept with her now, before allowing her to take it from the office. Now she pulled out her notebook—an inexpensive spiral-bound number made with recycled paper instead of animal skin—and turned to a fresh page. If she was going to look for answers, she needed to organize her thoughts.
Someone may have pushed me into the badger hole
Someone removed safety rope from around badger hole
Someone left a threatening note in my bag
Yvonne Miller was found dead at bottom of Polperro House stairs
Yvonne’s journal is missing
Cops seem suspicious that Yvonne’s death not an accident
Chloe stared at the list, considering. If someone had shoved Yvonne down the steps, the deed had been done before the site opened. Who’d had access to Polperro House that morning? Who might have been angry at Yvonne—angry enough to snap?
Claudia
No, Chloe thought again. Claudia would never do such a thing. Besides, Claudia had won the curator job, the job Yvonne Miller had evidently very much wanted. If anything, it was more likely that Yvonne had wanted to push Claudia down the stairs.
Holly
The idea made Chloe sick to her stomach. But … it was possible.
Gerald, Rita, Loren, Evelyn, Audrey, et al.
All of the employees and volunteers Chloe had met were devoted to, and protective of, Pendarvis. Loren knew that Miller had been involved in the effort to shut down the historic site. Even if no one else had seen the stupid letter, Miller had seemed awfully damn pleased about that possibility. Her public comments about the site had surely rankled a lot of people.
Everyone in Mineral Point who needs tourism dollars
Restaurateurs, innkeepers, gallery owners, artists … “Oh!” Chloe suddenly remembered something. Evelyn had said that Adam’s friend Winter had stopped by yesterday morning, looking for Claudia. Had Evelyn thought to mention that to Investigator Higgins?
Maybe a visit to Winter was in order. If anyone knew about undercurrents of anger, it would be the woman organizing the effort to keep Pendarvis open.
Since she wasn’t permitted in the office and the interpreters clearly didn’t need her, Chloe asked Investigator Higgins if she could leave the site. He granted permission, which was reassuring in a selfish kind of way.
But instead of heading straight to High Street’s commercial area, she made a quick detour to Adam’s cottage. Midge’s tidbits about Mary Pascoe’s reputation were tantalizing.
Chloe paused in the cottage doorway, then stepped inside. She let herself become receptive. After being so focused on the murdered soul found in the root cellar, it was a relief to once again feel a sense of contentment in the main living space.
It must have looked just like this when Mary moved in, Chloe thought, glad that the house was presently devoid of modern furniture. She squeezed her eyes to slits, imagining a woman crouched by the hearth, baking pasties. Or slipping into bed on a cold night, the room dimly lit by a waning fire. She imagined laughter echoing from the walls. Or excited chatter in Cornish dialect when friends gathered to sit and knit and sew and share news from the old country. There would be no letters for people who couldn’t read or write, but stories would be passed from neighbor to neighbor. Newcomers would be welcomed with heartfelt enthusiasm, treated to saffron buns, and begged for news of Cornwall.
It was perhaps a simplistic picture, but until she could find more information about Mary Pascoe’s life, it pleased Chloe to imagine it that way. Mary, she thought, you lived here longer than anybody. I hope your time here was happy.
Twenty-One
july 1836
Mary Pascoe paused in the cottage doorway, then stepped inside.
Andrew came in behind her, grinning. “What do you think? I want you to be happy here, Mary.”
“I will be. We all will be. I think it’s almost perfect.”
“Almost?” His grin faded. “What would make it perfect?”
“Living here!”
He shook his head. “You do have odd notions sometimes, Mary.”
She put a hand on his arm. “Truly, Andrew, it’s a fine house. Don’t misunderstand. After a full year of living rough on the hill, I’m more than grateful. And to think, you own it!” The Pascoes had never owned property before.
“One of the first property owners of Wisconsin Territory,” Andrew said with quiet pride. Population had risen in the area so much that politicians had voted to create the new territory. “Wouldn’t Papa be proud.” Then Andrew’s eyes shadowed. He hesitated, shrugged.
Mary felt a familiar twinge of guilt. “You’ve done well—in spite of me. You had a rough spring after we took in Will.”
As they’d feared, Will’s uncle had tried to make trouble for the Pascoes. The Cornishmen on the hill rallied around them, and most of the Yankee men had no use for Hiram McCreary and his cousins either. But a few miners were always happy to drink hard and get wild—the kind who jumped into other men’s brawls and thought nothing of stealing a man’s gad or pick. Jory, Andrew, and sometimes Ruan had spent several cold, often wet months sleeping at the mine site. They were all relieved when the McCrearys packed up and disappeared, evidently discouraged.
“I’m not sorry we took in Will,” Andrew assured her. “I’m that pleased with him. Once he got used to eating enough food, and wearing warm clothes and boots, he proved an eager miner.”
Mary smiled. Will did love setting out to work with Jory and Andrew. Sometimes he went into the mine and they were glad of his help. Sometimes he did surface work, cobbing and washing the ore, and Mary was grateful. “He’s trying to show his gratitude, the only way he knows how.”
Andrew put a hand on her arm. “You did right to give him a family, Mary. And Ida too.”
“Thank you.” Mary squeezed the words past a salty lump in her throat. “It’s extra mouths to feed, I know.”
“I miss Elizabeth and Loveday too,” Andrew said huskily.
I know you do, Mary wanted to say. The girls, though, had been her responsibility. She was the one who’d failed them.
But there were no words for that. She curled her hands into fists, letting the nails dig into her palms.
He cleared his throat. “Well, Will and Jory are no doubt wondering if I’ve left the day’s digging to them.” He kissed her cheek. “Think about naming the house.”
“I’ve already chosen a name,” Mary told him. “Chy Looan.”
That brought a true smile to his face. “Chy Looan is a fine name. I’ll chisel it into the stone this evening.”
Mary watched him cross the creek on the board bridge, and start up the hill with long, confident strides. Jory would be glad enough to have four solid walls and a roof between him and the weather, but it meant more to Andrew. He’d seemed to stand taller as they’d watched the stonemason and his helper raise the walls for their home. Mary hadn’t realized how keenly Andrew had felt the burden of being eldest sibling, of needing
to provide for his family. She and Jory were his responsibility.
This cottage was proof that he’d done right by them.
Did Andrew feel released now? Lately Mary had seen him talking with the daughter of a London-born smelter. He walked her home after Sunday services, found reasons to stand beside her at informal gatherings.
The girl appeared to be thrifty and modest and pleasant. Mary didn’t doubt they’d all get along well enough if Andrew married her. Still, she was glad she had the chance to keep house at Chy Looan for at least a while before Andrew’s wife moved in and took charge.
And it truly is a fine cottage, she thought, leaning against the doorframe. Mary liked the mason. “You’ve got to understand the stone,” he’d said, caressing a block with a scarred hand. “It’s a sacred gift you’ve got to respect. The stone lives, you see. It breathes, it shrinks and swells with the weather. You have to make mortar that will live in harmony with the particular stone. God help the man who tries to build without knowing that.”
Still, what she’d tried to suggest to Andrew was true. She’d grown up in a cottage where the hearthstones were blackened from a century of use, and the sweet earthy scent of burning gorse was imbedded in the rafters, and the thick vines twined on strings around the windows had roots that stretched back generations. Chy Looan felt cold, hollow.
Several girls washing ore in the creek started splashing each other, shrieking with laughter—and reminding her that she’d left Ida alone at the camp. Mary took one last look over her shoulder. Just imagining Ida in the cottage made the room feel warmer. We will soon enough be making our own memories here, Mary reminded herself. God willing, they’d be good ones.
It took all morning for Mary and Ida to transfer their things to the new cottage—Ida staggering under unwieldy loads of wool blankets, Mary’s hands aching from the weight of her iron spider and kettle. By the time they finished, the little girl’s face was flushed from heat and exertion.
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