Free Old World Murder (2010) by Kathleen Ernst

village hall.
    Once in the entryway Chloe opened the appropriate door and stopped. She’d vaguely imagined a reception area guarding private office space. Instead she’d stepped into a cramped, narrow workroom. The counters were topped with manuals and stacks of papers and cubbyholes holding an array of forms. Shelves crowded with more manuals and cardboard cartons covered one wall.
    A middle-aged woman who’d been clattering away at a typewriter looked up enquiringly, as did a very young officer sitting at the counter. Roelke McKenna stood at a line of lockers in the opposite wall, buttoning his uniform shirt. A framed photo of a pretty young woman perched on the shelf in his locker. She had long red hair, a fair complexion—probably of Irish descent—
    “May I help you?” the woman asked.
    Chloe flushed. “Um … I was hoping to see …” She looked at Officer McKenna.
    He closed his locker. “Is there something I can do for you, Miss Ellefson?”
    “You said I should contact you if—if anything came up about Mrs. Lundquist.” Chloe tried to sound matter-of-fact. She was acutely aware of the clerk and other officer.
    The patrolman seemed to catch on. “The chief is out. Why don’t we use his office.” He opened a door in the back wall and led her into a private office. Two chairs faced the desk; he took one and gestured to the other. “Please, sit down.”
    “Thank you.” Chloe looked away from his penetrating stare and made a mental note to break no laws in the Village of Eagle.
    “Did a relative contact you?” Officer McKenna asked.
    “No. I just—well, I’ve been looking for this ale bowl, you know, and I haven’t been able to find it. But a couple of odd things have happened.” She told him about the visitor who’d asked about a rosemaled ale bowl with cow heads, and the transfer page torn from the ledger.
    He listened in silence. “Do you think someone stole this antique from Old World Wisconsin?”
    Chloe spread her hands. “I don’t know.”
    “Would this be a valuable piece?”
    “I suppose so. Lots of collectors want nineteenth-century ethnic pieces in good condition.”
    “Nothing about this piece in particular, though?”
    Chloe shifted her weight. She was getting annoyed—whether at him or herself, she wasn’t sure. “I don’t know that either. I’m not an expert.”
    “You must know an expert though, eh? Someone you could contact who knows Norwegian antiques?”
    “Why, because I’m of Norwegian descent? Do you think we all sit around eating lefse and painting woodenware?”
    “No,” he said carefully. “Because you work for a museum.”
    Chloe ordered herself to get a grip. “Yes, of course. I do. I will. My original point, though, is that any rosemaled piece is valuable, and there are dozens of them at the site, both on display and in storage.”
    A phone rang in the outer office, and the clerk’s voice cut through Officer McKenna’s thoughtful silence. Then he asked, “Do you happen to have that piece of paper you showed me the other day? The one Mrs. Lundquist gave you?”
    She pulled it from her bag and handed it to him.
    He stared at it for a moment, then leaned forward and turned the paper sideways. “What does this number mean?” He pointed to the accession number, 1962.37.3.
    “Well … the ‘1-9-6-2’ means the ale bowl was originally donated in 1962. Mrs. Lundquist was the thirty-seventh person to donate something to the historical society that year. And the ‘3’ indicates that she donated at least three objects, and that the ale bowl was the third piece the registrar numbered and marked.”
    “What about the other two objects?”
    Chloe blinked. “What?”
    “What about the other objects she donated?” he repeated. “Were those first two transferred to Old World along with the ale bowl? Are they missing too?”
    Chloe felt herself flush again. A pox on her Scandinavian features. A pox on Officer Roelke McKenna for making her feel like an