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I say? shrug.
    “Hmm,” Chloe said. It seemed wise to leave things at that.
    Violet sighed. “I can’t think of anything more horrible to spoil
    the beginning of Vesterheim’s big week of classes and Christmas
    festivities.”
    I can, Chloe thought morosely. If Petra Lekstrom didn’t survive
    her attack, the mood at Vesterheim would only get worse.
    33
    five
    Chloe, Sigrid, and Mom arrived at Vesterheim’s Education Cen-
    ter, down the block from the museum, just after eight the next
    morning. All of them were loaded with totes and tubs stuffed with
    the copious amount of stuff rosemaling evidently required. Chloe,
    who’d vaguely imagined needing to purchase a brush and a few
    tubes of paint, had been shocked by a “Needed Supplies” list that
    included Q-tips, tracing paper, masking tape, a stylus, multiple
    sable and foam brushes, a palette knife, and an expensive pad of
    something called Painter’s Palette.
    “We have new classrooms,” Sigrid said, as she led the way
    inside. “Beautifully lit, away from public view … we even have our own lounge and kitchen.”
    “Remember how cramped we were back in sixty-seven?” Mom
    said. “And none of us cared.”
    Mom’s words were right, but her tone was subdued. Chloe felt
    true remorse for resenting her mother’s enthusiasms. That Marit
    Kallerud was subdued here, at Vesterheim, was just plain wrong.
    34
    Chloe managed to make it to the third floor without dropping
    either her supplies or Violet’s pumpkin spice muffins. In the
    lounge, several women were setting out trays of coffeecake and
    bowls of fruit. Chloe spotted Roelke leaning against the wall in a far corner. Something tight beneath her ribs eased a bit.
    “Sigrid! Marit!” Howard Hoff hurried across the room, looking
    an inch away from total meltdown. “We need to talk.” The museum
    director hustled the older women away.
    Chloe surrendered the muffins and joined Roelke. He gave her
    a quick kiss and an appraising look. “I’m all right,” she told him firmly. “Is there any news?”
    “Yeah,” he said. “Petra Lekstrom died last night.”
    Dammit . Chloe hung her head for a moment. Petra … Vester-
    heim … Mom … this was bad, bad, bad. “Do the cops have any sus-
    pects?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Chloe asked the question she’d avoided last night. “What did
    the police chief want to talk to you about before we left?”
    “Since I’m going to be on the inside this week, he asked me to
    keep my eyes open, and—”
    “What?” Chloe eyed him with dismay. It hadn’t occurred to her
    that Roelke might get sucked into this tragedy. “‘On the inside?’ I thought cops hated working with cops from other places.”
    “I give the chief credit for being open to all sources of informa-
    tion. He’s new here. He doesn’t know the community, or the
    museum, or anything about Norwegian stuff. I guess Investigator
    Buzzelli doesn’t know much about Norwegian stuff either.”
    35
    Chloe didn’t want to believe that “Norwegian stuff ” had any-
    thing to do with Petra’s murder. She also didn’t want Roelke to
    spend the week in cop mode—tense, terse, focused like a laser.
    He was already at it, in fact—not-so-casually scrutinizing the
    students straggling into the lounge. “What did you hear about
    Petra Lekstrom after I left last night?” he asked. “Did your mom
    and Sigrid talk about her?”
    “They didn’t want to.”
    Roelke was still eyeing the growing group as if Jack the Ripper
    might appear in a painter’s smock. “Your mom might tell you stuff
    about Lekstrom that she wouldn’t share with the police …” He
    frowned when Chloe began massaging her forehead. “What?”
    “I asked about Petra last night,” she told him. “Mom just about
    bit my head off.”
    “Can you try again? This is important.”
    “I know it’s important, but—”
    “May I have your attention?” Howard had emerged from his
    huddle with Sigrid and Mom. Twenty or so students