Fiddling with Fate Read online

  Damn, Chloe thought.

  “What does all that have to do with these?” Hilda gestured at the artifacts.

  “Maybe nothing,” Chloe admitted. “But I found this box buried in Mom’s closet. Any of these items could be sixty years old. I thought that maybe I’d found a clue.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t help you, dear.”

  “I’m probably way off-base anyway.” Chloe picked up the doll, smoothed her miniature apron with a gentle finger … and felt a little something under the cloth. She lifted the apron—nothing. Then she eased back the skirt, and saw a yellowed bit of folded paper pinned to the doll’s petticoat.

  Chloe removed the pin. The strip of paper cracked in half, and she gingerly laid both pieces on the table and leaned close. She could just make out the writing: Vennligst gi dette til barnet.

  She sucked in her lower lip, mind racing. By 1920, when Marit was born, the earliest Norwegian immigrants had been in Wisconsin for … what, eighty years? But if Marit’s people had been early arrivals, most likely her mother, as a second- or third-generation American, would have spoken and written in English.

  “What is it?”

  “A note, written in Norwegian.” Chloe could almost hear Mom chiding her for not learning to speak the language. Well, I’ve got backup at the moment, Chloe thought. With a fingernail she gingerly turned the pieces toward Hilda.

  Hilda frowned, pulled a magnifying glass from her needlework basket, and tried again. “Gracious,” she said softly. “It says, ‘Please give these to the child.’”

  Chloe caught her breath. “These things are clues! Whoever gave my mom up for adoption wanted her to have these mementos.”

  Hilda considered the doll, the tine, the doily, and the embroidered cloth. “It does appear that way.”

  “Do any of these items suggest something specific to you?”

  The older woman pinched her lips together for a moment, then shook her head. “No. They all appear to be Norwegian, but I’m no expert on folk arts.” Hilda looked up, eyes gone shiny. “If only Marit were here!”

  But she’s not, Chloe thought. I had a chance to talk with her about this, and I didn’t, and I lost my opportunity.

  She pressed her fingertips to her temples. She’d decided months ago that she needed to try to discover her mother’s biological lineage. Something about the discovery of these personal artifacts in the depths of Mom’s closet only added a sense of urgency.

  Hilda seemed to sense her distress. She picked up the doily. “Well, we know this is Hardanger embroidery.”

  “So it comes from the Hardanger region, right?” Chloe summoned a mental map of Norway. The country’s famous Hardangerfjord reached inland from the southwest coast.

  “Hardanger is a district in Hordaland County, but Hardanger embroidery has come to broadly represent Norwegian heritage.” Hilda tilted her head thoughtfully. “Same thing for the doll.”

  “The doll …?” It took Chloe a moment to catch up. “You mean her costume? Is this style from Hardanger? It’s similar to what Mom often wore.”

  Hilda touched the miniature bunad. “It suggests the Hardanger region. And although simplistic, you’re right—it does look like the bunad your mother wore most often.”

  “She must have been born in Hardanger!” Chloe breathed. “Or perhaps she was born here, but her birth mother or grandmother was.”

  “Not necessarily.” Hilda held up one hand. “‘Bunad’ has become an umbrella term. It does refer to traditional clothes once worn in different rural areas, but it has also come to mean ‘folk costume.’ The Hardanger woman’s bunad has evolved into a sort of a national folk costume—just like the embroidery now represents Norway as much as the Hardanger district.”

  Chloe tried to sort that through. “So … the fact that Mom wore a bunad once particular to the Hardanger district might not mean that she knew she had ancestors from that area.”

  “Exactly. And the same might be true of the doll’s costume. For all we know, whoever purchased this found it in an Oslo gift shop.”

  “I suppose,” Chloe conceded. Certainly Norwegian souvenirs and gifts were being sold in any tourist hotspot by the 1920s. “But it’s a place to start, anyway.” She cocooned the doll in tissue and nestled it back into the tine.

  “Chloe,” Hilda began, then paused.

  Chloe tried to decipher the older woman’s expression. Hilda looked uncertain, but there was something more too. Was that guilt flickering in her eyes?

  Then Hilda blinked, and the flicker was gone. “Never mind.”

  “What’s wrong, Aunt Hilda?” This was the second time today that Hilda had started to speak, then thought better of it. “Did you think of something else?”

  Hilda rubbed one hand with the other. “No.”

  Silence settled on the room, thick and heavy. Chloe felt something important hovering just out of reach. What was Hilda thinking? What had Mom been thinking? What had Mom known?

  Finally a clock chimed ten times, rousing Chloe from her reverie. “It’s late. Thanks for indulging me, Aunt Hilda.”

  Hilda got up to see her out. Chloe was almost to the door when she paused by the table. The tablecloth’s embroidery wasn’t as fine as the workmanship displayed in the doily she’d found. The design scale was larger, the stitching less delicate. But it was still lovely. “Who made this, Aunt Hilda?”

  “My mother,” Hilda said with quiet pride.

  “Was it a reflection of national heritage, or was she actually from the Hardanger district?”

  “She was from Hardanger. Who knows, perhaps that’s why Marit and I were friends!” Hilda smoothed an invisible wrinkle in the cloth. “It’s not really an antique, but I treasure it.”

  Chloe felt a prick of envy. She wanted something like Hilda’s tablecloth—a family heirloom, a lovely true story, certain knowledge of the people behind the object. Something that would remind her that even though she and Mom hadn’t been especially close, she still had a place in a long chain of strong women.

  “It is a treasure,” she agreed wistfully. After kissing Hilda on the cheek, Chloe left.

  The next morning, Roelke had some quiet time in the kitchen. Nice, he thought, savoring the stillness. Although he liked Chloe’s family and wanted to be supportive, he’d felt a bit on display at the church yesterday.

  But that’s understandable, he thought. Chloe had deep roots in this town. Of course people were curious about her fiancé. And he’d liked everyone he’d met …

  Well. Except for Kent Andreasson. Roelke didn’t like the way Andreasson had made Chloe smile, and he didn’t like picturing the two of them whirling around together in their dance costumes.

  The stab of distaste surprised him, and not in a good way. Chloe was wearing his engagement ring, for God’s sake. Was he really so insecure?

  Yes. Apparently he was.

  Well, he and Andreasson would probably never cross paths again. Roelke put the other man out of mind as he fixed a bowl of instant oatmeal and added a sliced banana.

  He’d visited this house many times, but it felt different now. Marit’s absence was almost a presence itself, hovering in the periphery of his vision. Chloe’s relationship with her mother had been complicated, but Marit had taken to him from the start. He sent a silent message skyward: Marit, I will take good care of your daughter.

  Roelke had realized long ago that he was best off staying out of mother-daughter dynamics, but now he worried that Chloe was left with regrets. She’d come back from Hilda’s house the night before all excited about the note pinned to the doll’s petticoat. The stuff Chloe had found in her mother’s closet suggested that Marit’s birth parents had been Norwegian. And the note did seem to validate Birgitta’s story about Chloe’s mother being adopted. But where all of this would take Chloe next, he had no idea. He just hoped that—

  �
�Good morning.” Chloe appeared in the doorway, yawning. She’d pulled on jeans and a green shirt and thick wool socks, but her long hair was loose. God, she was lovely. She’d insisted they sleep in separate bedrooms here, which struck Roelke as unnecessary, since her dad was well aware that they lived together. He was looking forward to getting back to their own home.

  “Hey, sweetie,” he said.

  She kissed him. “Dad hasn’t come down yet?”

  “He’s come and gone. Something about breakfast with the guys?” Roelke went to the stove. “I’ll get you something to eat.”

  “Thanks.”

  He turned on the burner beneath a teakettle. As he reached for another banana he heard Chloe sigh, and glanced over his shoulder. “Something wrong?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.” She nibbled her lower lip. “Twice yesterday, when we were talking about my mom, Aunt Hilda started to tell me something, then stopped. I think she knows something she’s not telling me.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s troubling her.” Chloe rubbed her forehead. “I think I’ll go see her again and try to find out what’s on her mind.”

  “Are you sure? You might put Hilda in a difficult position. Maybe Marit told her something in confidence.”

  “My mom is dead,” Chloe countered. “Nothing’s going to trouble her now. I’m the one who needs help.”

  “Have you decided whether to tell Kari about the Norwegian heirlooms you found?”

  Chloe sighed again. “Yeah, I think I need to. She deserves to know, even if she doesn’t want to do anything about it, so—”

  The back door opened and Kari walked into the kitchen.

  “Freaky,” Chloe muttered.

  “What?” Kari deposited a cookie tin on the counter and kissed Roelke’s cheek. “Good morning, Roelke.” He’d done her a huge favor once. They got along just fine.

  He was glad to see her looking more composed than she’d been at the funeral. “Hey.”

  Then Kari turned to her sister and folded her arms. Both women were blond and blue-eyed, and so close in age that people sometimes mistook them for twins. “Thanks a lot for volunteering me, Chloe.” Kari’s voice held both resignation and annoyance.

  Roelke flashed back to yesterday’s church hall conversations. It was clear from Chloe’s expression that she realized that she might, just possibly, have spoken out of turn. “For volunteering you?” she repeated.

  “I just got off the phone with Kent Andreasson. He wants me to go to Norway on a research trip in Mom’s place. And he said it was your idea.”

  “I figured it might be a treat for you,” Chloe tried.

  “Are you out of your mind? I live on a dairy farm! I have two young daughters! I can’t drop everything and go to Norway.”

  “Okay, okay. It was just an idea.”

  “A bad one.”

  Roelke poured Chloe a cup of coffee. He looked at Kari with a silent question: Want some?

  She shook her head, but some of the stiffness left her shoulders. “How’s Dad?”

  Chloe sipped with obvious gratitude. “Doing as well as could be expected, I guess. He’s out to breakfast with his lodge buddies.” She took a deep breath. “Listen, Kari, I have something else to tell you. I found some things in Mom’s closet last night.” She fetched the box and displayed the heirlooms, including the note she’d discovered pinned to the doll’s petticoat. “This was buried in Mom’s closet. Have you ever seen any of this stuff before?”

  Kari considered the objects without stepping up for a closer look. “No.”

  “I think we finally have a tangible clue to Mom’s birth parents, and—”

  “Chloe, I don’t care! I just want to remember Mom the way she was.”

  Roelke opened his mouth but thought better of speaking. Everyone was extra-emotional right now. The sisters had to work things out for themselves.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to sound shrill,” Kari said stiffly. “Anyway, back to Kent. When I turned him down on the trip idea, he hit me up for a donation for a bake sale they’re having this evening.” She patted the container she’d brought. “I whipped up some almond cookies, and I told him I was sure you’d be delighted to participate as well. Better get busy. And deliver mine at the same time, okay?”

  “But …”

  “See you later.” Kari awarded Roelke a smile before letting herself out.

  Chloe stared after her. “Well, that bit me in the butt.”

  “You love to bake,” he observed mildly. “But eat your breakfast first.” He sprinkled nutmeg over her steaming oatmeal and set it at her place.

  “It’s not just that.” Chloe propped an elbow on the table and one cheek on her palm. “Kari spent a lot of time with Mom, and she made it look easy. I should have tried harder. But I’m trying to do something good now.”

  “It sounded like the subject of those heirlooms is closed with Kari.”

  “Yeah,” Chloe said morosely. “I’m clearly on my own.”

  “How do you feel about that?” He was learning that asking Chloe questions was usually more helpful than offering advice. As illogical as that seemed.

  “Liberated,” she said. “And lonely.”

  Three

  Chloe baked a double batch of snipp, diamond-shaped cookies flavored with cardamom and cinnamon. If I’m lucky, she thought, the Sons of Norway won’t call Kari about taking Mom’s vice president slot until Roelke and I have gotten home.

  “There,” she said, settling the lid on a cookie tin. “Want to come with?”

  “Sure,” Roelke said.

  Chloe tucked a few cookies into a small container. “I’m going to leave these with Hilda on the way to the museum. She deserves a treat.”

  Roelke filched a cookie and raised an eyebrow.

  “I won’t upset her,” Chloe protested. “But if Mom did tell her something about her past, I deserve to know.”

  After Roelke pulled into Hilda’s driveway, Chloe grabbed the cookies and led him up the walk. Suddenly he grabbed her arm, pointing ahead with his other hand. Hilda’s front door was ajar. “That’s odd,” Chloe murmured uneasily.

  Roelke stepped in front of her, mounted the steps, and knocked on the door. No answer. He banged harder. No answer.

  Chloe leaned closer. “Hilda? Hilda!”

  Still no answer. Roelke pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  When Chloe crowded in behind him, the first thing that caught her gaze was Hilda’s beautiful heirloom tablecloth. It was rumpled, slightly askew.

  Then Roelke cursed beneath his breath and ran across the living room. “Call 911.”

  Chloe’s pulse began to pound. Hilda lay crumpled on the floor in front of the fireplace.

  “Chloe! Call an ambulance!” He crouched and pressed a finger against Hilda’s carotid artery. “She’s still alive.”

  “Do you think she’s going to be okay?” Chloe asked anxiously as the EMTs whisked Hilda out to the ambulance.

  “I don’t know.” Roelke’s jaw was tight.

  Officer Corvado, the young policeman who’d been first on the scene, approached. “You two are friends of the victim, correct? Do you have contact information for Mrs. Omdahl’s family?”

  Chloe winced as the ambulance pulled away with siren blaring. “Hilda didn’t have any family that I know of. She’s a widow. No kids.” Even her best friend, Marit, was gone. It all seemed impossibly sad.

  “Listen,” Roelke said, “you need to know that when we arrived, the front door was standing open. It’s chilly today. Why was the door open when she was on the far side of the room?”

  As his meaning became clear, Chloe’s mouth opened and her eyes went wide. She’d figured Hilda had tripped and fallen, or suffered a stroke or something. “Are you suggesting that Hilda was attacked?”r />
  Roelke held up both palms. “I’m merely considering the possibilities.”

  “Let’s not rush to conclusions.” Officer Corvado’s tone was calibrated to defuse tension. “Did you notice anything else amiss?”

  “That.” Chloe pointed to the off-kilter tablecloth. “It looks as if someone stumbled against the table and kept going.”

  “Perhaps one of the EMTs?”

  “No,” Chloe insisted. “I noticed it before they arrived. That’s a treasured heirloom, and Hilda wouldn’t leave it crooked. I was here last night, and it didn’t look like that.”

  “Can you tell if anything is missing?” the officer asked.

  Chloe gazed around the room. “Everything looks in place,” she said finally, “but I couldn’t say for sure.”

  Officer Corvado gave them each a business card. “Please call if you think of anything else. If you want to head to the hospital, I’ll secure the house.”

  At Stoughton Hospital, Chloe and Roelke settled in the emergency waiting room with cups of bitter vending machine coffee. Officer Corvado arrived with Hilda’s insurance card and several medications he’d found. “No sign of forced entry at the house,” he told Roelke. “I’ll talk to the neighbors, see if anyone noticed a visitor at Mrs. Omdahl’s place.”

  A young woman in blue scrubs came to ask Chloe questions: “Has Mrs. Omdahl had recent vision problems? Dizzy spells? Headaches? Numbness? Does she have diabetes? Any history of seizures? Of strokes?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Chloe said over and over, wishing her mother was there. Marit would have known.

  When she’d answered what she could, Chloe found a payphone and called her father and the pastor. Then she settled down to wait beside Roelke, whose knee was bouncing with suppressed agitation. Chloe hunched over, feeling numb.

  When the doctor finally talked with them, she tried to listen, she really did, but she had a hard time taking in his words. “Non-responsive … brain scan … depressed brainstem reflexes … coma.”

  How can this be? she thought. Just last night Hilda had been fine. Chloe needed Hilda to be fine again. She couldn’t lose Mom and Aunt Hilda.