Fiddling with Fate

by Kathleen Ernst

  As a collections curator, Chloe had faced her share of tearful would-be donors begging her to accept beloved heirlooms they no longer had space or resources to keep. I’ve got to admire his spirit, she thought. “Yes, sir. I’m sure it’s all important.” She nudged her fiancé. “Right, Roelke?”

  He swallowed. “Absolutely.”

  “I’ve gone through those things already.” Reverend Brandvold gestured toward a heap near his desk. “I was sure that the letter bearing the name Amalie Sveinsdatter was in that batch. But I didn’t find it. I must have filed it away somewhere. I thought that if you have time …”

  “Sure!” Chloe said brightly, ignoring Roelke’s pointed stare. Her first real glimpse of Amalie might, just might, be somewhere in here.

  She wouldn’t have blamed Roelke if he bailed on the endeavor but he, bless his heart, waded in too. Several hours later, though, no letter or anything else bearing Amalie’s name had surfaced. Katt was snoring, the pastor looked tired, Roelke had started sneezing, and Chloe was frustrated. Much as she wanted to keep going, common sense prevailed. “I think we should call it a night.”

  “I’m sorry.” The minister looked chagrined. “I’ll keep searching.”

  Chloe took a deep breath. “Before we go, Roelke and I wanted to talk with you about something else. If we may.”

  “Certainly, but let’s go into the living room. We’ll be more comfortable.”

  Once he was ensconced in an easy chair, and she and Roelke had settled together on an overstuffed sofa, Chloe leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Pastor Brandvold, Roelke and I went to Kinsarvik today and toured the church, and I felt a real … well, I’ll call it a kinship with the building. And Roelke liked it too.” She glanced at him: Feel free to jump in any time. He shook his head: You’re doing fine.

  “Ah, that building is quite the treasure, isn’t it?” The pastor seemed more at ease now. “A fine example of Romanesque architecture, complete with Norman arches.”

  “Roelke and I wondered if it would be possible to get married there before we leave. And if you’d be willing to officiate …” Chloe’s voice trailed away. Reverend Brandvold was already shaking his head.

  “I’m truly sorry,” he said, “but it is not easy for two foreigners to marry in Norway. You must have a residence permit or something similar. I could not officiate a marriage without a certificate from the Tax Administration verifying you meet all requirements. And getting one would take some time.”

  “Oh.” Chloe studied her knuckles. She’d known it might not be possible to pull a wedding together so quickly. But she was still profoundly disappointed.

  “You could get things started, and then come back,” Reverend Brandvold suggested. “I’d be honored to help in any way.”

  Chloe glanced at Roelke, and she knew they were both thinking the same thing. It was miraculous enough that the fates—and Mom—had conspired to get them to Norway once. No way could they afford a second trip in the foreseeable future. If ever.

  “That won’t be possible,” Chloe told him. “Thank you, but I guess it just isn’t going to work out.”

  As if sensing that she needed solace, Katt jumped onto the sofa and settled on Chloe’s lap. She petted him softly, returning in her mind to the Kinsarvik Church as she’d imagined it for a wedding day—the faint aroma of wood polish, the narrow windows glowing in the sun, the echoes of ages past suggesting comfort and companionship. The peaceful sense of reverence and faith she’d tried to soak in. I can’t marry where you might have married, she told her female forebears, but wherever you lived and wherever your worshipped, I hope you also found comfort.

  Seventeen

  Britta—November 1886

  Britta took no comfort from her mother Torhild’s funeral. The November wind knifed through the Kinsarvik churchyard. Her brother Erik was leading the hymn-singing and graveside scripture-reading, but he paused every few minutes to wipe his running nose. The few mourners stood in a miserable ring around the lampblack-stained coffin resting beside the grave. Britta’s father Halvor was long dead, and her oldest brother too. Drunks, both of them. Halvor had passed out on the way home to Høiegård one frigid night four years ago, when Britta had been just twelve, and died of exposure. Two years later her older brother had stumbled from a pier and drowned.

  She turned her head toward the old Kinsarvik Church. She wished they could say goodbye to her mother inside, but that luxury was reserved for dignitaries, not a widow from a struggling farm like Høiegård. And perhaps that’s well, Britta thought, picturing the painting of St. Michael weighing souls with devils at his feet. How would the saint weigh Torhild’s soul? Britta blinked hard against threatening tears. More than anything else, Torhild had loved to dance. Maybe, Britta thought, that’s where Mother found her strength.

  There were some, even now, who found fault with dancing and music. But Britta and Erik were observing a ceremonious burial. They’d led the small procession down the long trail from their farm to the shore. From there the mourners went by church boats to Kinsarvik. Bells had been rung. Psalms had been sung. On Sunday the pastor would toss some dirt on the grave and say his own words.

  Erik stopped speaking. They’d brought a keg of burial beer, and he offered a toast to Torhild before drinking from a carved bowl. When he handed it to Britta, she gripped the horsehead handles, sipped, passed it on. She hoped the drink would last until the bowl came back to Erik. Running out before everyone got a swallow would disgrace the family.

  Not that my mother would have worried about such a thing, Britta thought. Torhild had managed the farm and kept her small family fed when Halvor had not. No matter how tired or worried, Torhild always found time for her daughter. Torhild had told stories during days-long flatbread baking sessions or as they sat spinning wool by the fire. Some were family stories. Some were old tales she’d learned from her mother, Lisbet, who’d learned them from her grandmother, Gudrun. “We honor them by remembering their stories,” Torhild had explained. “One day you will share them with your daughters and granddaughters.”

  But Britta wasn’t sure if her mother had died proud or with regrets. The day before she succumbed to a long, lingering illness, she’d spoken of something never mentioned before: fear. “It will all be up to you and Erik,” she’d whispered. “You must keep Høiegård going. It’s a poor farm, but if you lose it, you will have nothing. That frightens me.”

  Britta, who’d been sitting on a stool pulled close by her mother’s bed, didn’t say that she was terrified of that as well. “I’ll try, but Erik …” There was no need to finish the thought. At heart, Erik was not a farmer. He was a musician, a fledgling kjøgemester who’d already been called to perform at several weddings. He played the instrument that had belonged to their grandfather, Lars. It was smaller than the newer fiddles, but it served him.

  Many men fiddled and farmed. Bondekunster, folks called men like Erik—Norwegian farmer-artists. But Erik was working less and less on the farm, wandering away for days or even weeks at a time to meet other fiddlers, learn new tunes, play for new audiences.

  “Erik has a bit of his father in him,” Torhild had agreed. “But his heart is good. I should have been harder on him, perhaps.” She lifted one hand in a gesture of futility. “You’re the youngest child. And a daughter. But it’s up to you now, Britta. Keep an eye on Erik. Remind him of his duties. And find a good man to marry.”

  Now Britta looked around the circle of shivering mourners. There wasn’t a man among them she could imagine marrying. A young man she knew only slightly had surprised her with his presence here, but he was a loutish fellow who loved to fish, not farm. Even now he was staring out over the fjord as if impatient to be away. The only other single man in attendance was Svein Sivertsson, a widower ten or more years older than she was. Britta didn’t know him well, but she saw him here at weekly Sunday services. The big man was a husmann—a farm laborer—an
d as a younger son with no right of inheritance, he would likely never be more. Big hands and broad shoulders suggested that he was a good worker. He was also quiet and dull. I hope to do better, Britta thought, glancing at Svein.

  He was staring at her across the circle, over Torhild’s coffin. The intensity in his hooded eyes made her uncomfortable, and she quickly looked away.

  Rituals completed, her brother cleared his throat. “We will now recite the Lord’s Prayer …”

  When the coffin had been lowered, Britta cast her fistful of soil upon the lid and sent a silent farewell to her mother: I will do my best to honor your wishes and your memory. Then she turned away, almost breathless, fighting a sudden surge of panic. She bowed her head, trying to calm her racing heart … and realized she was standing near Gudrun’s grave.

  Britta walked over and placed one mittened palm on the moldering wooden marker. She’d never met Gudrun, but somehow, thinking about her today brought the comfort she’d been craving.

  I come from a line of strong women, Britta reminded herself. They’d done what they needed to do. She could do the same.

  Eighteen

  Roelke was glad to escape the pastor’s study. “I was afraid some pile might collapse and bury us all,” he told Chloe as they started walking back toward the hotel.

  “I appreciate your help.” Her voice was subdued.

  “Hey.” He stopped by the side of the road. “We didn’t get the news we wanted about getting married while we’re here, but at least now we know. We’ll come up with another plan.” Although they’d had six months to come up with another plan, and had not. Roelke had suggested getting married at the Kinsarvik Church mostly because he thought it would make Chloe happy. Now he realized that he was disappointed, too.

  “I suppose. But it’s discouraging.” She hitched one shoulder up and down. “Aunt Hilda is still in a coma. My genealogist friend hasn’t found a trace of Amalie, and Reverend Brandvold has apparently lost whatever clue he had. Finding Klara dead was horrid, and the murder has everyone at the museum twisted into knots. And we finally came up with a wedding plan that appealed to both of us, only to learn that it won’t be possible.”

  Roelke put one arm around her. The mountains stood black against an evening sky streaked with deep shades of blue. Lights blinked out in the nearest house.

  “Sorry,” Chloe said finally. “Whining doesn’t help anything.”

  He squeezed her shoulder. “Here’s what I know: we want to get married, we will get married, and—wherever and whenever—the wedding will be wonderful.”

  Chloe kissed his cheek. “I believe that too. You’re absolutely right.”

  They started walking again and soon approached the Utne Church. Its steeple was silhouetted against the sky, its white walls clear in the lingering twilight. When a stealthy figure slipped around one corner of the building, the shadowed profile stood in stark relief.

  Roelke switched from boyfriend to cop. “Wait here,” he whispered. He hurried away before she could protest. Maybe whoever was down by the church was simply a resident taking a shortcut home, but he wanted to be sure.

  As he silently hurried toward the churchyard, he eased free the flashlight kept in his jacket pocket. He emerged from the drive just as the person reached the end of the wall. Roelke thumbed on the light. The lurker cringed, raising an arm to block the beam. Roelke made a quick inventory: Jeans. Dark jacket with hood pulled up. Small stature. No sign of a weapon.

  “I’m Roelke McKenna,” he called. As if that would mean diddly to whomever had been creeping around the church. “Is everything all right?”

  The guy slowly lowered his arm. Except it wasn’t a guy. It was Barbara-Eden Kirkevoll, the redhead who worked at the hotel.

  “Mr. McKenna?” she quavered. “You scared me!”

  He hurried to join her. “Scaring you was not my intention,” he assured her. “I was surprised to see someone here at this hour, and wanted to—” He whirled when he heard footsteps behind him.

  “What’s going on?” Chloe asked.

  He shot her an exasperated look: I told you to stay where you were!

  Ignoring it, Chloe turned to the younger woman. “Is everything okay?”

  “I … It’s … no!” She pulled off her glasses and swiped at her eyes.

  “What are you doing here?” Roelke asked. He glanced at his watch. “It’s after eleven.”

  Barbara-Eden sniffled.

  “Why don’t we sit down.” Chloe put a gentle arm around the girl’s shoulders and walked her to a nearby bench. Roelke had no choice but to follow.

  Barbara-Eden sniffled harder. “I just came t-to sit in the church for a while. That’s all.”

  Roelke didn’t think that was all. “Is there something you need to tell us?”

  Chloe shot him a disapproving glance, but it was too late. Barbara-

  Eden dissolved into tears. “I w-wasn’t doing a-anything wrong!” She scrabbled frantically in one pocket, found a tissue, and blew her nose. “And I haven’t done anything wrong!” With that she shot to her feet and ran up the drive.

  Roelke and Chloe watched her disappear into the shadows. “That could have gone better,” Chloe observed.

  “My fault, I guess,” Roelke admitted. “But something was off about her being here. Call it instinct.”

  “That may be, but when you go all cop on somebody, you can be a wee bit … intense.” Chloe sighed. “I know that serves you well. But I suspect that the only thing wrong was that Barbara-Eden’s best friend was just murdered. Maybe she came here to pray.”

  “Maybe.” Roelke knew that grief provided a rational explanation for the girl’s behavior. Still, there had been something about the encounter that left his cop antennae quivering.

  “Well, there’s nothing more we can do.” Chloe shoved to her feet. “Let’s go. No, wait. Shine your light over here again.” She pointed, and when he obliged, she crouched and picked something up from the ground behind the bench. “What’s this?”

  Roelke kept the beam on her hand. She’d retrieved a small drawstring bag made of black velvet.

  “Was Barbara-Eden carrying this?” Chloe asked.

  “I didn’t notice it. But it could have slipped from her pocket when she pulled out the tissue. Or someone could have dropped it earlier.”

  “Let’s see what’s inside.” Chloe loosened the string. She poked one finger into the bag and withdrew an ornate silver necklace. She stared from the jewelry to Roelke and back again. “Oh my.”

  “Is that …” Roelke frowned, trying to remember.

  “Yes.” The dangling antique silver swung gracefully from her finger. “This is definitely Klara’s necklace.”

  The corroboration made Roelke’s jaw tense. He quickly scanned the shadowed churchyard. “Slide the necklace back into the bag. Be careful not to handle it. Let’s go back to the hotel before we discuss this any further.”

  They didn’t speak again until they were back in Room 15. “What do we do now?” Chloe plopped down on the bed. “Ask Barbara-Eden if she dropped it? Or … talk to Torstein about it? He’s the one who gave it to Klara in the first place.”

  “No.” Roelke shook his head. “Not under these circumstances. First thing in the morning we’ll turn it over to the cops.”

  “Was Klara wearing it when she died?”

  He thought back. “I don’t think so. Since she fell forward, I suppose it might have been hidden beneath her, but I think I would have noticed the chain around her neck when I checked for a pulse.” He thought back farther. “I do know that Klara was wearing it when I saw her hiking yesterday morning.” The combination of hiking garb and antique necklace would have been hard to miss.

  “Oh, Roelke,” Chloe said sadly. “Torstein cared so much for Klara that he spent, presumably, a whole lot of money for this token of his feelings. Klara held th
is gift so dear that she wore it even while working. Even while hiking! It’s hard to imagine her loaning it to someone. Do you think Barbara-Eden stole it?”

  Roelke had been entertaining that thought but didn’t want to say so. “We don’t know enough to draw that conclusion. It’s possible that someone else dropped the purse in the churchyard. I’m guessing that necklace is pretty valuable?”

  Chloe held the drawstring bag to her nose and sniffed.

  His eyebrows lifted. “Um … what are you doing?”

  “Real silver doesn’t smell like anything. If a silver piece has a strong smell, it likely contains a lot of copper. This one doesn’t smell, so it’s probably sterling. If I had ice cubes, or a magnet, I could test that theory.”

  He decided against asking what ice cubes or magnets had to do with anything.

  “The point is, based on my extremely limited understanding of silver, I do think this necklace is good quality. The workmanship is exquisite, and it’s in beautiful condition. And it’s antique. So yes, it’s valuable. Women today pay small fortunes for good Norwegian silver jewelry to wear with their bunads.”

  That was pretty much what Roelke had figured.

  “This necklace has gone from being a love token to a clue in a murder investigation.” Blinking hard, Chloe handed Roelke the velvet bag. “Here. I’ll let you handle things with the police. It’s all just unbearably sad. I’m going to get ready for bed and try to distract myself.”

  She soon slipped beneath the sheet and picked up the local history book she’d borrowed from Ellinor. Almost immediately she returned it to the nightstand. Roelke watched her curl into a tight ball. He felt an ache in his chest, and another in his jaw. He made a concerted effort to unclench tense muscles. But his heart would hurt as long as Chloe was struggling. The anxiety about finding Marit’s roots during this short visit to Norway … Klara’s murder … Barbara-Eden’s possible role in whatever was going on … it was all taking a toll.