Someone must have been looking out for us, she thought. Had it been Mom? Chloe had no idea what happened to souls once the body had died, no idea what heaven actually looked like. But an image formed now in her mind: Mom, standing at the end of a row of women, all watching out for those they’d left behind. It was comforting.
Roelke stepped from the bathroom with toothbrush in hand. “How are you doing?”
“Yesterday I thought I’d gotten off easy.” She attempted a smile. “Today I feel like I got hit with a battering ram.”
Once they’d made themselves as presentable as possible, they plodded down the stairs for breakfast. Ulrikke hurried over to their table, fussing over their visible bruises and Roelke’s stitches. He took the proprietress’s solicitous concern for about two minutes before politely excusing himself to make a phone call.
The two women watched him go. “You are having a terrible time,” Ulrikke fretted. “Please let me know if there’s anything we can do to make you more comfortable.”
Chloe was touched. “You’re very kind. I can’t imagine a better place to be.”
She’d made her way through the buffet line and was watching brown sugar dissolve on her steaming bowl of oatmeal by the time Roelke returned. With one glance she knew the call had not gone well. “What’s up?”
He slid into his chair. “I was able to speak with one of the cops who responded to our crash yesterday.” He nodded at the waitress who appeared with coffeepot in hand, and took a bracing sip before continuing. “They’ve already gone over the Volvo. Apparently, while we were looking around the farm, someone slid under the car and cut partway through a section of the rubber brake line. Every time I pumped the brakes near the top of the tunnel I lost more hydraulic fluid.”
Chloe’s gut twisted. Someone really had tampered with the brakes.
Overwhelmed, she focused on a detail. “Why cut just partway? Do you think someone was trying to scare us?”
Roelke shook his head. “No. If the line had been cut all the way through, the fluid would have leaked out in the parking area. We probably would have seen it. Even if we hadn’t, I would have figured out that we had no brakes before we headed down. This bastard knew exactly what he was doing. The brakes didn’t fail until we were in the most dangerous place.”
Chloe put her spoon down. It would take a whole lot more than melting brown sugar to restore her appetite. “Why would someone do such a thing?”
“As you said, it’s got to have something to do with your family research,” Roelke muttered. “First someone tried to grab your daypack at the airport. Then someone managed to get into the safe and steal your heirlooms. Then, right after we’ve identified a farm that appears to have been owned by your ancestors, our car is deliberately damaged in a way that should have killed us.”
“All I’m trying to do is find my mother’s roots.” Chloe leaned back in her chair. “I wish I knew why Ellinor wrote Amalie’s name in her notes. Although I have to say, I can’t picture Ellinor scrambling underneath our car with bolt cutters or something.” Or Sonja, in her expensive clothes. Or Torstein, who was grieving his fiancée and cared so passionately about folk dance and music. Or Reverend Brandvold, or Ulrikke, or Barbara-Eden, or anyone else they’d met.
Another thought struck. “Besides, how was the sabotage even possible? There was no one else up the mountain while we were there!”
“It’s possible that someone was in the house and just didn’t answer my knock. I suppose someone could have slipped up to the lot without us noticing while we were out front.” Roelke’s knee was bouncing so hard the table was vibrating. “It’s also possible that someone parked a vehicle up that dead end that branched off from the parking area, where we couldn’t see the car.”
“But no one knew we were visiting the farm yesterday,” Chloe protested.
“Not true. The librarians knew.”
Chloe pictured the elderly man who’d limped through the library with a cane. It was impossible to imagine him shimmying under the Volvo. Then she pictured the young woman’s high heels, the linen suit. Equally impossible.
“And don’t forget that telephone message we received. By the time we’d both called home, we’d missed the ferry. That could have given somebody time to get up to Fjelland before we did.” Roelke’s eyes were hard as granite. “And there’s something else to consider. Your family textiles were stolen before we had the car crash. Either somebody has it in for you, or two different people are after your heirlooms. It’s possible that someone doesn’t know you’re not carrying them around anymore.”
Chloe folded her arms, trying to think everything through. “Do you think this is connected to Klara Evenstad’s death?”
“If so, I don’t see how,” Roelke admitted. “At least not yet.”
Chloe didn’t see how either.
“I’m going to get some breakfast.” He headed for the buffet and returned with a laden plate. He used a fork to slide half of a mound of scrambled eggs into a small dish and pushed it in her direction. “Eat.”
They finished the meal in silence. Chloe tried to imagine someone damaging the brake line, presumably hoping it would send her and Roelke either headlong into the tunnel wall or sailing over some cliff to their deaths. The image was horrific. But it also triggered something hot and sharp and welcome. I, Chloe thought, am royally pissed off.
Roelke forked up his last bite of smoked salmon. “Whenever you’re ready we should go call the rental car place. If we can figure out how to get back to Bergen, we can look into changing your flight—”
“No.”
He blinked. “No?”
“I do remember what I said last night. But I am not going to let somebody keep me from looking for Mom’s people.”
He hesitated, his fingers making a whispery noise as he rubbed the light stubble on his chin. “I really think that the best plan is for me to stay, and for you to—”
“No.”
He eyed her for a long time. Chloe met his gaze. Finally he sighed, nodded. “Okay, on one condition. If I feel it’s necessary, I get to pull the plug.”
Once, Chloe might have reminded him that she had a brain and free will, thanks all the same, and needed no one to set conditions. But she understood that he did know that. He was just trying to keep her safe.
Roelke called the car rental company, and Chloe listened as he explained what had happened. The decibel level didn’t rise when the agent learned that the caller had totaled one of their cars, which was encouraging. “That seemed to go okay,” she hazarded when Roelke hung up. “Are we screwed?” She couldn’t remember the terms of their insurance.
“We’ll pay a deductable, but it could have been a lot worse.” He exhaled a long, slow breath. “Good thing we got the top coverage possible.”
“And that we didn’t rent that little Volkswagen,” Chloe added humbly. “Your ‘be prepared’ proclivities, at home and abroad, have been completely vindicated. Feel free to remind me I said so.”
That made him smile. “The agent is looking into what other vehicles might be available, preferably somewhere closer than Bergen. Once we know our options, we can decide if we want to rent again or if we can rely on public transportation.”
They stopped at the desk, and a staffer handed over messages from Torstein and Reverend Brandvold. “Maybe Reverend Brandvold found something else about Amalie,” Chloe said hopefully. “I’m calling him first.”
After connecting, though, the conversation went in an unexpected direction. Reverend Brandvold had already heard about their accident, and expressed concern for their well-being. “We’re all right,” Chloe assured him. “And immensely grateful that it wasn’t much worse.”
“I thank God for that,” he boomed over the line. “Do you need a car? Mine’s available.”
Chloe blinked. “Reverend, that’s incredibly kind of you, but … do
n’t you need it?”
“I rarely drive anywhere. I’d be pleased if you borrow it.”
“Thank you. I’ll let you know.” She replaced the receiver to its cradle and shared the offer with Roelke.
“That’s generous, and it could come in handy,” Roelke said. “Although at this point I’d want to take an extremely hard look-see at any car before getting in and driving away.”
“Surely Reverend Brandvold isn’t involved in …” Her words died when she glanced at Roelke’s implacable expression. Clearly the retired pastor was on Roelke’s suspect list just like everyone else.
Moving on, she scrabbled in her pocket for more coins. “Torstein is no doubt calling about the dance.”
“The … oh. Right.” Roelke leaned against the wall and folded his arms. “You don’t still want to go, do you?”
“I do. It’s an amazing opportunity.”
He frowned. “But … surely you don’t feel ready to dance the night away. I certainly don’t.”
She frowned back. “Since you’d rather play jacks in traffic than step onto a dance floor, that doesn’t seem entirely relevant.”
“It’s not a good idea.”
Chloe was too stiff and achy for strenuous activity, and she didn’t want to bicker with Roelke. But dancing had always lifted her from worries, transported her to a place where nothing existed but the music and the steps. And for reasons she couldn’t entirely articulate, attending this particular dance felt especially important. “Roelke, I need to go. For my own sake, not just to learn. Even if all I do is listen and watch. Besides, I was the one who got the invitation. It would be awkward for Torstein and Ellinor to go if we don’t.”
“Maybe Torstein has decided he’s not up to it,” Roelke said hopefully.
“He’ll want to go.”
“Then I vote for borrowing Reverend Brandvold’s car and driving separately. That way we can leave if you get overtired, without worrying about whether Torstein and Ellinor are ready to go.”
“Good thinking.” Chloe made the calls, concluded the arrangements, and reported back. “We can pick up the car anytime after lunch, and we’ll meet Torstein and Ellinor at the dance at three.”
With that decided, she and Roelke considered the intervening hours. “With the offer of Reverend Brandvold’s car,” Chloe said slowly, “I suppose we could try going back to …” Her voice trailed away.
“Are you seriously considering going back up that mountain to Fjelland?” Roelke sounded incredulous.
Chloe rubbed at a loose thread on her jeans. Part of her was desperate to try again. Maybe today someone would be home! Honestly, though, when she thought about driving into that tunnel again … no, not yet. “I want to, but after what happened yesterday, I don’t think I can go back again. Not right away.”
“We’ve still got a few days. Maybe we’ll have another chance.”
“Maybe.” She tried to swallow a sudden lump in her throat. “Anyway, today I think I’d like to go back to the museum. Do you remember that symbol we saw at Fjelland, carved into one of the logs? It’s been nagging at me. I could swear I’ve seen it before. It’s the kind of design that might decorate a Hardanger fiddle, so I’d like to check the instruments on display.”
Roelke shrugged. “Okay.”
“Also, so much has happened that I haven’t had a chance to try and figure out why I had that strong reaction to Høiegård on Tuesday. I’m sure lots of information about the building was collected when the museum acquired it. I’d like to see the file.”
They set out into a misty morning. Clouds drifted below the mountain peaks and the fjord was a dull gunmetal gray. First stop, the library.
The elderly librarian was not working that day, but they found the young woman who’d helped them yesterday alone at the reference desk. She wore a bright blue pantsuit today, and had combed and sprayed her hair into little spikes.
“Pardon me,” Roelke said. “We were wondering if, by chance, you happened to mention our trip yesterday to anyone else.”
The young woman reached for a file folder. “Why would I do that? We respect patrons’ privacy.”
“So you did not mention our visit to anyone.”
Look out, Chloe thought. She recognized the signs of his suppressed anger: slightly narrowed eyes, tensed jaw muscles, the uncharacteristically friendly tone.
“Of course not.” The librarian rubbed the sides of her mouth with thumb and forefinger. “Is there anything else I can help you with? It’s a busy morning.”
Roelke waited until they were back on the street before speaking. “She was lying.”
That seemed a bit declarative. “How do you know?”
“She had trouble making eye contact. She felt a need to busy her hands. And she literally covered her mouth when she denied telling anyone about our trip. I can always tell when someone’s lying.”
Chloe tried to remember the last time she’d lied to Roelke. Note to self, she thought. Don’t.
At the museum, they found two tour buses parked in the small lot and the reception area jammed with visitors browsing for gifts and mementos. Chloe waved at the young woman behind the front desk before leading Roelke upstairs. His eyebrows raised when he saw the Hardanger fiddle display. “Holy toboggans.”
“They’re awesome, aren’t they?” Chloe walked slowly along the case, squinting at the mother-of-pearl and inked designs on each. At the end, she twisted her mouth in frustration. “Nothing here looks just like the symbol we saw at Fjelland. I must have been mistaken.” She crossed her arms, trying to remember where she might have seen the motif. “I don’t think it resembled any of the symbols on my handaplagg, but since it got stolen, I can’t check.”
“I’m truly sorry, sweetie.” Roelke touched her cheek. “I’m still hoping the police recover it.”
Chloe wanted to believe that too, but she didn’t feel optimistic. “Let’s look at the hand cloths on exhibit in the textile room. Maybe I saw it there.”
Several stunning hand cloths featuring black embroidery were on display. None of the motifs duplicated the design Chloe remembered from the high mountain farm, but they reminded her of something she’d almost forgotten. “Do you remember what Sonja said about my hand cloth when we met her at the airport?” She closed her eyes, wanting to get it right. “Sonja said, ‘The woman who created this handaplagg was expressing herself, yes? The ideas were more important than achieving perfection in the stitches.’ The design motifs embroidered on the old cloth had some symbolic meaning.”
“Let’s see if she’s here today,” Roelke suggested.
When they asked after the curator, however, the receptionist shook her head. “Sonja isn’t working this morning. She will be here later, though.”
Later, when we’re at the dance, Chloe thought. “How about Ellinor?”
“Ellinor’s with one of the tour groups. She’s leaving right after finishing up with them.”
“I wanted to take a look at whatever research file exists about the oldest building in the open-air division. Høiegård.” Chloe hoped the receptionist wouldn’t ask what Høiegård had to do with her study of folk music and dance. “Do you have a staff library?”
“Ellinor keeps master files for the restored buildings in her office. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you took a look.”
Back in the staff area, Ellinor’s office door was open. Chloe stepped inside and flicked on the light. “Maybe I can get another look at that Jørgen Riis file,” she whispered hopefully. If she could photocopy the page that included the reference to Amalie, she might learn something important.
But the bulging folder was gone from Ellinor’s desk. “Dagnabbit,” Chloe muttered.
Roelke considered four file cabinets standing against the wall behind the desk. “Maybe she filed it. I’ll start on the right.” He slid open the top drawer and began r
ifling through the folders.
Chloe did the same on the left, fighting a growing sense of anxiety. The files were clustered and neatly labeled: Budget, Summer Staff 1984, Maintenance, Special Events, Temporary Exhibits. “Everything in this first cabinet relates to operations,” she reported, and moved on. The second cabinet contained the research files, and she found reports about the museum’s restored buildings in the second drawer. “I found the Høiegård info,” she reported, extricating a thick file—commendable, but it would take a while to wade through everything.
“I have not found Jørgen Riis.” Roelke crouched in front of a lower drawer. “You?”
Chloe sighed. “Not a trace.”
Twenty-Seven
Solveig—August 1919
When the fiddle player who’d presented himself didn’t speak, Solveig repeated her question. “I said, who are you?”
“My name is Jørgen Riis.”
Solveig had never heard of Jørgen Riis. “I thought you might be a fossegrim.”
Riis seemed pleased. “I’m no fossegrim, but I’ll accept your words as a compliment. The old people say that particular water spirit can play with unheard of skill and grace. They say a fossegrim captures the sounds of the forest and the sea and the wind, and that when he plays his enchanted fiddle, the trees themselves start to dance.”
“They also say that the fossegrim only shares his talent with a human if he makes an acceptable offering,” Solveig countered. “Have you made such a deal?”
“I have not.” Riis stepped closer. “My music is my own.”
In the lamplight his hair looked black, with an untidy shock hanging over his forehead. The intensity of his gaze made Solveig grateful for the shadows.
“Is your music your own?” he asked. “I’ve heard you playing tunes that are unfamiliar to me.”
Blood warmed her face. “I can hardly claim to make music. Not compared to …” She waved a hand at the instrument and bow dangling from his left hand.
Fiddling with Fate Page 24