Where did that come from? Roelke wondered.
“Everyone is upset about Klara, of course,” Ulrikke was saying, “but Barbara-Eden can be … impressionable.”
“She hasn’t said anything inappropriate,” Chloe assured her. “And all of you must be in shock. I’m so sorry.”
Ulrikke nodded and disappeared into the office behind the counter. Roelke felt better when Chloe’s heirlooms were locked in the hotel safe.
Then he and Chloe walked back to the museum. Ellinor was talking on the phone in her office, leaning on one elbow as if to keep herself upright. “Yes … of course … yes. I will.” She hung up and waved her visitors inside. When the phone rang again, she rolled her eyes. “I’ll let the gift shop take that one.”
“I just wondered if you’d heard anything from Torstein,” Chloe said.
“Torstein. Yes. He stopped by.” Ellinor ran her hands through her hair. “He’s devastated, as you can imagine. Said he didn’t have the heart to think about fieldwork just now.”
“Of course.”
The man’s feelings were perfectly understandable, but Roelke couldn’t help wondering what Torstein’s absence might mean for Chloe’s obligation to the Stoughton Historical Society. He also couldn’t help wondering what Torstein had told the Norwegian cops when interviewed.
“He said that you were welcome to go without him. You can borrow our tape recorder, and …” Ellinor picked up a manila envelope and held it out. “He left contact info for you.”
That idea obviously appealed to Chloe. She tore open the envelope. “Yep—name, phone and address, some background.” She glanced at Roelke. “Up for a drive?”
Roelke opted against speculating about just what kind of roads they’d encounter on this particular jaunt. “Sure.”
“I wish I could come with you, instead of being chained to this office.” Ellinor pressed fingertips to her temples. “Sorry. I’ve never been in this kind of situation before. And I hope I never am again.”
Chloe called the informant’s granddaughter from the hotel. “You work with Torstein?” the woman asked.
“Yes. Unfortunately he’s not able to visit this afternoon, but he suggested that I come anyway. If that still suits.”
“I’d much rather do that than postpone, actually. My grandfather doesn’t speak English well, so I missed work to interpret for him.”
Chloe was doubly glad Torstein had suggested that she keep the appointment. “I look forward to meeting you both. I’ll have to look at a map. I’m not sure how long it will take to drive to your home.”
“We’re in Kinsarvik, so from Utne, there’s no need for a car. Just hop on the next ferry.”
Twenty minutes later Chloe and Roelke were on their way. The puffy cumulous clouds dappling a brilliant blue sky above were reflected in the water below. Along the shore, flowering apple and plum trees misted orchards pink and creamy white. But standing beside Roelke at the upper deck’s rail, Chloe felt an ache inside. Klara would never again hear birds call as they flew over the water. She would never again inhale the damp air, or watch the light change over the mountains.
“What’s wrong?” Roelke asked.
“I’m just feeling a little …” She tried to find the right word. “Emotional. Overwhelmed.”
Roelke tucked a wind-whipped strand of hair behind her ear. “Try to focus on your meeting this afternoon.”
Chloe exhaled slowly. “I’ll try.”
The ferry entered a small bay and chugged toward the dock. Kinsarvik hunched on the shore, embraced by mountains. The most prominent village feature was a white church near the water, enclosed by a stone fence. That looks familiar, Chloe thought, gripping the railing. Had Amalie Sveinsdatter known this view? Had she been eager to emigrate, or had her heart broken as she watched the landscape of home fade into the distance behind her?
Roelke cocked his head toward the stairs. “Let’s go down.”
After they disembarked Chloe suddenly felt so confused that she abruptly stopped walking. “A lot has changed.” She gestured toward the cars parked in a line, waiting to take their places on the ferry. “That’s where the church boats used to beach.”
Roelke pulled her out of the traffic flow. “Um … what church boats?” His voice sounded oddly hollow, as if they were speaking by telephone with a bad connection.
“The tioerings.” She squinted, trying to stabilize a wavering landscape: cobbled shore and empty boats. She heard the faint strains of a distant hardingfele.
“Chloe!” Roelke barked.
The fuzziness faded. She stared at the concrete seawall, the asphalt car lanes, the powerboats moored in a nearby marina, the neatly manicured picnic area beside the church grounds.
Roelke gripped her arm. “What’s going on? You sorta zoned out there for a minute. What’s a tioering?”
“A boat with ten oars,” she explained, although she didn’t know why she knew that. “People used them to travel from their village or farm area to church on Sundays. And for weddings.” That would explain the fiddle.
Roelke’s piercing gaze didn’t waver.
She took a deep breath. “Roelke, I know this place. I could swear I’ve been in Kinsarvik before.”
“Like you felt in Utne?”
“This is different. Much stronger.”
“You must have come through here on one of your earlier trips.”
“No.” Chloe shook her head. “I have never been here. But … remember what Reverend Brandvold said? If my ancestors lived in this area, they probably attended church here in Kinsarvik for centuries before later churches, like the one in Utne, were built.”
Roelke glanced at the church, then over his shoulder toward the ferry. “Maybe this field visit isn’t a good idea after all. Maybe we should go back to Utne—”
“I don’t want to go back!” Chloe felt an unexpected smile tug at her lips. “I think I just had a flash of genetic memory.” Something she’d read about, thought about, but never experienced.
Roelke eyed her for so long that Chloe almost regretted her words. Although he’d been remarkably accepting, maybe this was too personal. Too much.
Finally he nodded slowly. “Cool.”
Tension eased from her shoulders. “Thank you,” she whispered, and gave him a quick kiss.
“What does it feel like? Is it like what happened at that old cabin at the museum?”
She considered. “That was overwhelming. This sense of familiarity, here and in Utne, is sort of comforting.” She kicked a stone from the walkway, trying to find the right words. “It feels like … like I might remember things I never actually experienced. It feels like important memories are hovering right outside what I know.” She rubbed her temples. “It makes me think that if I just reach out quickly enough, I might capture something. Something specific. But … I don’t know how.”
“Holy toboggans.” Roelke looked away, briefly diverted by two boys racing around the picnic area before catching her gaze again. “I think you should keep trying. Don’t get frustrated. I can’t imagine that would help.”
Chloe snapped some pictures but was eager to learn if the sanctuary felt familiar too. “Let’s see if we can go inside the church!”
“Um … isn’t someone expecting us?”
“Oh, geez.” Chloe felt chagrined. How could she have forgotten her plans to meet an octogenarian rumored to have learned local dances from his grandparents? She dug the address and directions she’d been given from her daypack. “Okey-dokey. Let’s go.”
Roelke kept a surreptitious eye on Chloe, but she didn’t zone out again as they navigated Kinsarvik. They soon reached a frame home painted bright red with green trim. A yellow picket fence enclosed the small yard. Somebody cheerful lives here, Roelke thought.
They were warmly welcomed inside by the gentleman and his granddaughter, a p
lump woman in her forties. “Call me Bestefar,” the old man told them.
“I’m honored!” Chloe said, then murmured to Roelke, “That means ‘Grandfather.’”
Bestefar seemed mentally sharp and was obviously delighted that Chloe had traveled from America to learn about regional dances. He walked as if his knees hurt, but when he unexpectedly grabbed Chloe’s hand and twirled her around, his wrinkled face glowed and years slipped away. Roelke enjoyed seeing Chloe energized and enthused, chatting with an elder about a pastime they both loved.
Still, as an hour passed, the lengthy discussion of dialectical forms and vendingsdels, promenades and gameldansers, made him antsy. He didn’t realize his right knee was bouncing until Chloe put her hand out, gently stilling it.
“Why don’t you take a walk?” she suggested. “I’ll meet you down by the ferry dock when we’re through.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m fine, Roelke. See you later.”
“Well … okay.” Roelke thanked their hosts and let himself out the front door feeling guilty but liberated.
He wandered, taking his time, until he came to a gracious old white building near the harbor. A big sign said Kinsarvik Brygge. He didn’t know what that meant, but it appeared to be a tourism office. He went inside and picked up some information about nearby waterfalls and the Hardangervidda National Park. It seemed unlikely that Chloe would be able to spend a day hiking, but hey, he could dream. And be prepared with maps and trail descriptions.
As he emerged, the first cars puttered from a just-docked ferry. A stream of pedestrians emerged too, most dressed in casual hiking or sightseeing clothes. Then he saw a woman walking quickly, head down, angling away from the others. It looked like Ellinor, which didn’t make sense since Ellinor had said that she’d be “chained” to her office all day. But it definitely was the museum director. He recognized the silver hair, the gray suit.
What was Ellinor doing in Kinsarvik? Had she come to surreptitiously check up on Chloe’s interview? Roelke frowned. No, that made no sense either. Ellinor was dealing with a murder investigation. Besides, the envelope Torstein left for Chloe had been sealed. Ellinor hadn’t seemed to know the details, which meant she had no idea that Chloe was even in Kinsarvik.
Ellinor paused, glanced over both shoulders, then turned onto a side street and disappeared from sight. Roelke followed, careful to keep his distance. She strode along the walk at a brisk pace, head still down.
When she made another turn, Roelke stopped at the corner. Just ahead, Ellinor dropped onto a bench in front of a shop advertising Hardanger’s Best Selection of Souvenirs in half a dozen languages. A man was already seated on the bench—maybe thirty years old, maybe thirty-five, with thick brown hair swept back from his forehead and black-framed glasses resting on his nose. He wore jeans and a black jacket over a tan shirt. Roelke had no idea who the guy was. Ellinor apparently did, for although she didn’t turn to face him, she began to speak.
The man didn’t look at her, either. But after a moment he extracted something from his vest pocket and placed it on the bench between them. Roelke cussed silently, wishing he could see what it was. He edged closer, taking cover behind a food cart where a man was selling sausages. Two women who’d emerged from the souvenir shop looked at him warily as they passed. He unfolded his new map and studied it. Nothing to see here, ladies, he said silently. Just another lost tourist. The women walked on.
Roelke considered his options. He could give Ellinor the benefit of the doubt, acknowledge that her errand was none of his business. But he discarded that choice at once. One woman was dead, and too many odd things had happened since he and Chloe had arrived in Norway. Ellinor was acting furtively. He wanted to know why.
So that left only two courses of action. He could stay here and, if she moved on, keep following her. Or, he could ever-so-casually wander by, express great surprise upon seeing her, and try to get a glimpse of—
Too late. Ellinor shook her head vigorously and pushed whatever the man had shared back at him. Her rigid posture suggested irritation, maybe anger. Then she was on her feet, marching toward Roelke.
He held the map higher. She passed by. He waited a few moments before following.
Ellinor strode straight back to the ferry landing. The boat she’d arrived on had already departed, so she stood with her back to the village, arms folded, to wait for the next. He stepped inside the tourism office’s small portico, where he could watch Ellinor without being easily seen. But she didn’t move.
Half an hour later the next ferry rumbled to the dock. Ellinor didn’t even wait for the current load of cars and walkers to disembark before boarding. She never looked back.
Well, hunh, Roelke thought as he stepped back to the sidewalk. Ellinor’s behavior was curious. And … unsettling. Something about the stealthy exchange he’d just witnessed made him uneasy. He wished—
“Hey, sailor!”
He whirled and saw Chloe sauntering toward him with a saucy grin on her face. She blew him a kiss, and all Roelke wanted to do was protect her from all ills and evils.
Fifteen
Torhild—July 1870
Torhild straightened and swung one leg back over the goat she’d been straddling. The goat leapt indignantly away. Torhild stretched, rubbing her back. She sat on a stool when milking the cows, but most of the boisterous goats needed to be firmly held. She was always glad to finish with the goats.
When the evening’s milk was strained and set in pans to separate, Torhild turned to her son Erik, a sturdy seven-year-old who was spending the summer with her. “I’ll haul water to scour the pails. You go see to the animals.”
He looked worried. “Will you be all right?”
Torhild’s heart constricted. When had her little boy become her defender? Erik took his seter duties seriously, and she was grateful. Harder to bear was his growing concern for her. She suspected that not all the ills and evils he imagined came from wild animal attacks or avalanches or storms. Halvor and I must try harder not to argue in front of the boys, she thought.
When the buckets were scrubbed, she left the building that doubled as dwelling and dairy storage house. Erik was squatting on his haunches in the distance, watching over their two cows, several sheep, and half a dozen goats. The cows’ bells clanged dully as they nosed here and there in search of mushrooms. The frolicking goats’ bells added a lighter jingle.
She walked out to join him. “No sign of your father?”
The boy shook his head. He didn’t appear to be surprised or disappointed that his father had not arrived this Saturday night to see them, and to take the week’s butter and cheese back down to Høiegård. It would be nice to believe that Halvor was too busy with the farm below to make the climb, for since Lars had died, there was more work to do and fewer hands to do it. But Halvor was drinking more and more. He sometimes disappeared from the farm for days on end.
“Well, perhaps he or your brother will come tomorrow.” Torhild gently ruffled Erik’s hair. “I’ll come back to help when it’s time to bring the animals in for the night.”
She retraced her steps slowly, contemplating the low log-and-stone building. Rain dripped through gaps in the moldering logs. The turf roof leaked. Some people built their summer farms close to their neighbors’ seters, clustering the buildings so heavy chores like replacing logs or roofs could be shared. But Høiegård was isolated, so its seter was as well.
“I can’t do everything myself,” Torhild said. She thought about the wooden tubs of cheese waiting inside—sweet and salty brown brunost, soft goats’ milk gjetost, cooked kokeost. She had butter, too. Her cows and goats produced about two-thirds of their milk in the summer. She spent the long days transforming it into food they could sell in the village. But nothing could be sold if her husband didn’t come every Saturday, as promised, to leave empty containers and transport what she’d made. And
make sure we’re safe and well, she thought, with a humorless laugh.
But perhaps, she thought, I should be grateful he hasn’t come. She liked being here, liked being mostly on her own. She liked watching yellow primroses and purple foxgloves bloom among the grass, and going to sleep to the waterfall’s lullaby. She liked watching baby swallows poke their heads from the row of nests beneath the eaves, and hearing stonechats’ clicking song when they perched on the rock walls. Her mother still ruled Høiegård. Being at the seter gave Torhild a taste of independence, and a break from Lisbet’s sadness.
“Torhild!” Halvor was trudging up the path, walking stick in one hand and a tall, sturdy pack basket strapped to his back.
So, she thought. He’s come after all.
She waited until he’d approached before speaking. “Is everything well? I expected you earlier.”
“I was delayed,” Halvor said. That was all, and he didn’t meet her gaze, staring instead at a buzzard circling lazily overhead.
Torhild stifled a sigh. “Come inside. You’ll want to spend the night—”
“No.” Halvor raked one hand through his hair. “I’ll pack up what you have and walk back down.”
Either Halvor didn’t want to spend time with his wife and younger son, or he already had other plans for the evening. Torhild really didn’t care which. “Come along, then.”
The log building was cloaked in shadows, but there wasn’t much to see—one box bed in the corner where she slept, a pallet on the floor for her son, a corner hearth, table, two churns, buckets, a few dishes, shelves holding bowls and butter paddles. A row of ambars, the wooden tubs where she stored butter, waited near the door.
Halvor shrugged from the pack and began removing empty containers, every one carved by Torhild’s father and scoured after each use by Lisbet. For a moment Torhild’s parents and the relative security of childhood felt very close—Lars bent close to the fire on a winter night, quietly carving; Lisbet vigorously attacking the woodenware with hot water and soap and a handful of rushes.
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