Fiddling with Fate

by Kathleen Ernst

  Silence descended as they thought about that. Roelke realized that the other tables had all been cleared. Even the buffet tables were empty. He appreciated the staff leaving them alone.

  Finally Chloe mused, “I think Torstein is somehow connected to my mother’s family, and that he didn’t want me to learn that her people came from Høiegård. I think he used that symbol to express power. That’s why it’s on his fiddle. I suspect that’s why a circle got marked on Klara’s forehead after she died.”

  “But why would he kill Klara?” Ellinor cried. “She adored him!”

  “Well, I can make a general observation.” Sonja toyed with one of her dangling earrings. “Klara might have gotten caught up in something that flew out of control. On more than one occasion I have observed Torstein’s powerful impact on gullible women.”

  Like Barbara-Eden, Roelke thought. And Sonja herself? Who knew. Instead he observed, “The librarian who identified Fjelland as Chloe’s family’s farm was a young woman. Perhaps Landvik asked her to let him know if we came to the library for research help.”

  “And a handful of young women work at the hotel,” Chloe added. “He could have gotten one of them to pull the fire alarm, and to break into the safe if she’d somehow found the combination. And to give us a fake note saying we needed to call home.”

  “Surely Klara wasn’t involved in the whole mess,” Ellinor said. “She was such a lovely girl.”

  The director sounded sincere, but Roelke still wanted confirmation of Ellinor’s relationship with Klara. “Last summer Klara worked full-time at the museum. This year, even though she loved history, she was working full-time at the hotel and just helping out at the museum. Why was that?”

  “Because her younger brother is …” Ellinor turned to Sonja for help.

  “Developmentally disabled.”

  “Yes.” Ellinor nodded. “Klara wanted a job that included mornings and evenings so she could help at home during the day.”

  Okay, Roelke thought. Makes sense.

  “Chloe, did Torstein try to kill you at the dance yesterday?” Sonja asked. “I can’t figure that out. If he wanted you dead, why come running for help after you’d fallen? Why not go down the slope and finish the job?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that too,” Roelke said. “That ravine was treacherous. Since Chloe survived the fall, maybe Landvik was too scared of plummeting to his own death if he tried to follow her down the scree.”

  “Or maybe,” Chloe offered, “I just got dizzy and fell, and he was so shocked that decent instincts kicked in.”

  Roelke was in no mood to give Landvik any credit for decency. “This is all speculation. None of us should repeat anything we’ve discussed to anyone but the police. I’ll give Inspector Naess a call.” Roelke had given a statement the night before, of course. So had Chloe. But a lot of new ideas were floating around.

  “Skip the phone call.” Chloe leaned toward the window. “Inspector Naess just pulled up.”

  Roelke went to meet the inspector, and soon led him into the dining room.

  “We’ll leave you to talk,” Ellinor said. She and Sonja and Pastor Brandvold stood.

  “Pastor?” Naess said. “I’d like you to stay.”

  Looking startled, the minister sat back down.

  Naess took one of the empty chairs. “There have been some new developments. Miss Ellefson, when we searched Mr. Landvik’s room at his cousin’s house early this morning we recovered what appear to be the heirlooms that were stolen from the hotel safe. You’ll need to formally identify them, but they match your descriptions.”

  Chloe caught her breath, eyes glimmering. “That’s wonderful.”

  Thank you, God, Roelke added silently. A weight slid from his shoulders.

  “We can make arrangements before you leave the country. You’re cleared for travel. Now, I have a few more questions.” Naess looked around the table. “What can any of you tell me about Trine Moen?”

  The name was familiar, but Roelke couldn’t immediately place it.

  Chloe looked confused too. “Trine Moen? The woman doing an exchange program in Wisconsin?”

  “Trine Moen is a student at the University of Bergen,” Naess said. “One of her classes last year was taught by Torstein Landvik.”

  Roelke remembered meeting Trine at Marit’s funeral. They’d seen her again at the Stoughton Historical Society. She’d been working with Hilda on … Oh, hell. He scrubbed his face with his palms. “We were just talking about Landvik’s apparent appeal to some women.”

  Naess turned to the pastor. “I understand you once employed Trine Moen?”

  “I did.” Pastor Brandvold looked as gobsmacked as Chloe. “I often hire students to help manage my local history collection. Trine worked for me last summer. Later, she gave me a few hours if she came home from school on weekends. And at Christmastime.”

  Naess scribbled. “The last time you saw Trine Moen was at Christmas?”

  “No. She flew back to Norway at the end of April for Easter. She spent a day cataloging a new box of materials for me.”

  “When did the letter from Amalie Sveinsdatter disappear?” Roelke asked. He was out of line, but he just couldn’t help it. “The one you remember even though we couldn’t find it?”

  “The last time I saw it,” Brandvold said grimly, “was right about that time.”

  That afternoon, Chloe wasn’t ashamed of clutching Roelke’s hand as Reverend Brandvold drove his old sedan up the torturous road to Fjelland. She might have held her breath while in the tunnel, too.

  “Oh my,” Barbara-Eden squeaked when they parked. “That was quite a drive.”

  Her presence on this trip had been the pastor’s idea. “She’s feeling lost right now,” he’d said. “An outing might help.” Chloe had been happy to agree.

  Today a police car followed them. Inspector Naess asked them to wait in the parking lot while he questioned Helene about Torstein. Since all Helene had been expecting was a little family reunion, Chloe regretted the need for the inspector’s visit, but it couldn’t be helped.

  Naess returned within half an hour. “Mrs. Valebrokk had two sisters and one brother,” he reported. “Torstein Landvik is the grandson of that brother.”

  Torstein and I truly are related, Chloe thought. She’d suspected it. The confirmation was abhorrent, but it explained so much.

  “After Mrs. Valebrokk’s parents died, her brother become a traveling preacher,” Naess continued. “He had no use for the farm. Mrs. Valebrokk was a widow and sold the orchard she’d inherited from her husband so she could buy the property from her brother. In recent years Landvik was a frequent visitor, but Mrs. Valebrokk gradually realized that the property meant more to him than she did. She said his charm hid a darker side. After Landvik pressured her to put him in her will, she had the locks changed and asked him not to return. And she quietly took him out of her will.”

  “So all of this was for nothing.” Roelke’s hands fisted. “If he’d just been nice to his great-aunt …”

  “Apparently so.” Naess shook his head and took his leave.

  “I would have been overjoyed to meet Torstein as a distant cousin,” Chloe said sadly. But when Torstein somehow learned that Helene had distant American relatives, he saw only a threat. He wasn’t some anonymous psychopath on a random rampage. Torstein had been deliberate.

  “Try to put all that aside for now,” Roelke advised. “Your great-aunt must be looking for us.”

  Helene was waiting on the patio in front of the house. If the interview with Naess had been distressing, she gave no sign. She wore a dusty rose dress, and her white hair was again braided into a coronet. “Welcome to the farm!” She folded Chloe into a gentle hug.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I brought some friends.” Chloe introduced Roelke, Reverend Brandvold, and Barbara-Eden.

&nb
sp; “Oh, no.” Helene gestured them into lawn chairs. “For so many years I had very little company. Not many were willing to make the climb.”

  “The climb?” Chloe echoed.

  “The road and tunnel only went in about fourteen years ago.” Helene patted Chloe’s arm. “The government wanted to put some sort of tower up on the ridge, so they paid for it. Before that, we traveled on foot. Everything needed was carried up the mountain.”

  That meant Helene had hiked up and down until she was what … somewhere in her seventies? Maybe even early eighties? Chloe felt the weight of her own obvious and glaring inadequacies.

  Helene smiled, as if sensing Chloe’s thoughts. “But you came here to talk about the family.”

  “Maybe Barbara-Eden and I should take a walk,” Pastor Brandvold suggested. “So you three can talk.”

  “You’re welcome to stay,” Chloe assured them, then turned back to her great-aunt. “Could you start by telling me about my grandmother Amalie?”

  “Amalie?” Helene looked surprised. “Chloe, Amalie was not your grandmother.”

  “Yes, she was,” Chloe protested. Then she rubbed her temples. “Wasn’t she?”

  Helene patted Chloe’s arm again. “I’ll tell you the story.”

  Thirty-Three

  Amalie—June 1920

  “Wake up, Amalie.” Someone shook her arm—her mother, leaning over the bed.

  “What are you doing here?” Amalie mumbled. Since Solveig had emigrated to America, Britta was spending the summer at the seter.

  “Pack your things.”

  “What?” Amalie sat up, ashamed to be caught napping. Father would whip her if he knew. But she’d hardly slept the night before. Ever since he had—

  “Get up!”

  “You want me at the seter?” Amalie pushed away the covers. “But I’m expected at the Utne Hotel—”

  “Just do as I say! We’re not going to the seter. I made arrangements for the livestock.”

  Probably the boy from the closest farm, Amalie thought as she stamped into her shoes. He’d helped out before. But why was Mother here?

  Everything had turned upside-down. Her brother was off on a week-long fishing trip. Yesterday, on Midsummer, Father had disappeared for hours. He’d come home in a strange mood, sometimes sitting morosely, sometimes pacing. Then he’d dropped to his knees and ordered Amalie to join him. He’d prayed at length about the wickedness of women and fiddlers.

  Afterwards she staggered to her feet, sending up her own prayer of gratitude. But Father had one more thing to say: “Amalie. You will marry Gustav Nyhus in the fall.”

  “Marry Gustav Nyhus?” Amalie stared blankly. Gustav had taken to visiting the hotel lately, but she’d never imagined this. “But—”

  “It is decided!” Father had roared. Amalie had cried herself to sleep. The next day he’d left to hunt game in the high mountains—something he’d never done before.

  Now this.

  Fifteen minutes later she and Britta left the house. Amalie carried her belongings in a satchel—clothes, a hair brush, a lace collar, sewing supplies, her spoon. Britta, carrying a rosemaled tine filled with flatbread, cheese, and a few dried apples, headed for the trail that wound down the steep mountain.

  Amalie felt even more bewildered. “When will we be back to Høiegård?” Høiegård—or Fjelland, as Father had renamed the farm—had always been her home.

  Britta stopped at the edge of the clearing. “I don’t know when you’ll be back.” Her voice trembled, but she firmed it up. “Please, Amalie. Do you want to marry Gustav, or do you want to come with me?”

  They caught a ride along the coast with a fisherman, then another ride from a farmer, and reached Helene’s house by late afternoon. When Britta knocked on the front door, Amalie hung back. She’d been three when Helene married and left home, and they’d seen each other only a few times since.

  Sounds came from within, but it took several minutes for Helene to open the door. “Mother! And … Amalie!” Helene looked astonished to see them. “Please, come in.”

  Once seated in the kitchen, Britta didn’t hesitate. “I need your help, Helene. But first, a question. Have you seen your sister in the last year? Is she here?”

  Amalie shot her mother a bewildered look. Solveig was in America … Wasn’t she?

  A ticking clock on a high shelf sounded loud in the silence. Then, from upstairs, came the sound of a crying baby. Helene made a gesture of futility. “Yes, she is. I’ll fetch her.”

  Britta sighed with obvious relief before bowing her head, lips moving as if in thankful prayer.

  Moments later, Solveig crept down the stairs. Her cheeks were hollow. Her eyes were red and swollen, as if she’d been sobbing. And she held a baby in her arms.

  “Oh, child. I so hoped I’d find you here.” Britta gently wrapped her arms around Solveig and the infant, rocking them back and forth.

  Finally Solveig broke away and kissed Amalie on the cheek. “As you can see, things didn’t happen as I’d planned.” Even her voice was thin, worn out.

  “Who is this?” Amalie whispered. The baby had a round face and a fuzz of brown hair.

  “This is my sweet Marit.”

  Britta cooed at her first grandchild. “She’s beautiful. But I think you should sit down, Solveig. Tell us what’s happened.”

  By the time Solveig finished her tale, Amalie felt numb. “Father did this? And Gustav?” The man she was to marry.

  “I watched it happen.”

  Amalie still couldn’t grasp what she’d heard. “Are you sure Jørgen is dead?”

  “Yes.” The word was clipped, brittle.

  “But … I saw him just before Midsummer,” Amalie protested, as if that might change everything. “He stopped by the hotel for a meal. He was so happy that day. Excited.” Now she knew why. He’d been on his way to reunite with Solveig.

  “I don’t know how Father knew we’d be at the Midsummer dance,” Solveig said dully. “But somehow he did.”

  A memory struck Amalie like a blacksmith’s hammer. “Solveig, Gustav was in the dining room the day Jørgen came.”

  “Did Jørgen mention me?”

  Amalie tried to remember. “He said he was on his way to the dance. And … he’d said he’d written a tune for you. I thought he meant in your honor!”

  “That must have been enough to make Gustav suspicious,” Britta muttered.

  “I got to hear the tune.” Solveig’s gaze grew distant, as if she heard a faraway fiddle. “At least I have that.”

  Amalie struggled to offer consolation. The words bunched in her throat, inadequate.

  Solveig looked at their mother. “Something else must have happened. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  “Yes.” Britta nodded. Solveig’s tale had clearly shaken her, but she was calm. “Your father stopped by the seter yesterday to say that he’s going hunting—”

  “He’s afraid the police might be hunting him.” Solveig’s mouth twisted bitterly.

  “I expect that’s true,” Britta agreed. “But he also announced that he’s promised Amalie to Gustav.”

  “She mustn’t!” Helene exclaimed.

  Britta closed her eyes for a moment, as if gathering strength. “Can Amalie stay here for now? I’ll see if anyone I trust might know of a job available in Bergen—”

  “I don’t want to go to Bergen!” Amalie protested. She felt trapped.

  But she certainly didn’t want to marry Gustav, either. She wanted to go back in time. She wanted to sing with Solveig while doing chores at the seter, and to giggle with friends at the Utne Hotel. She wasn’t brave like her older sisters. They’d both been eager to leave home. The thought terrified Amalie.

  “At least stay here while we think things through,” Helene urged.

  Britta opened her little purse
and dumped its contents on the table. “I brought some money for Amalie’s keep.”

  Solveig’s eyebrows rose. “That’s more than a few coins set aside from the milk money.”

  “Perhaps.” Britta hitched her shoulders, unrepentant.

  Amalie stared at the money. Had Mother raided Father’s purse? How else could she have saved so much?

  “We don’t know what Father will do next,” Solveig said slowly. “He might look for Amalie here.”

  Amalie crimped her lips together. The thought of Father finding her was terrifying too.

  “I’ve a little money set aside as well,” Solveig said. “Added to that”—she nodded at the coins on the table—“it’s enough to get Amalie to America.”

  Amalie’s stomach lurched. No, no, no! Solveig couldn’t be serious.

  “America is your dream,” Helene reminded Solveig.

  Solveig shrugged wearily. “But I’m not well enough to travel. Amalie should go instead.”

  “I couldn’t possibly!” Amalie insisted.

  But one by one, her mother and sisters whittled away her objections. “You’ll have to travel under my name,” Solveig said. “I have a passport, and an attest from the pastor.” A testimonial of good character was required for passage.

  I’m losing my home, Amalie thought. I’m losing my name. Who will I be?

  “And Amalie …” Solveig hesitated, then leaned forward. “I want you to take Marit with you.”

  “What? No! How would I manage? I—”

  “Please.” Solveig went to the cradle, scooped up Marit, and slipped the infant into Amalie’s unwilling arms. “I need to know that both of you will be safe.”

  Amalie stared at Marit. She smelled sweet and sour at once. “I don’t know how to take care of a baby!”

  “No one does, until they have to.” Their mother’s voice was firm. “You’ll manage.”

  Amalie felt the baby’s weight in her arms. She thought of Høiegård, long taken for granted. She couldn’t imagine crossing the ocean on a ship filled with strangers, only to find more strangers in America. She would feel so alone …