away and leaned against the wall.
Hoff raised his voice. “No, I insist. Judy, I—no, honey, just lis-
ten for a moment. You’re the best daughter in the world, but you’ve got a fiancé in California. There’s no good reason for you to spend money on an airplane ticket.”
Now, that was a surprise. Roelke would have figured Hoff that
would leap at the offer of moral support from his daughter.
“I’m sure the police will find whoever did this terrible thing to
Petra,” Hoff was saying. “… Yes, I promise. I’ll call you soon.”
49
Roelke gave the director a moment before stepping to the door.
Hoff stood holding a photograph in a silver frame. Roelke raised
his hand to knock, but something about the director’s profile
made him pause. Howard stared at the photograph with an
expression of grief and loneliness … and something else too.
This errand was already proving interesting.
Roelke stepped backward and coughed discreetly before pre-
senting himself. Hoff swiveled, blinking in surprise. “Excuse me,”
Roelke said. “I told Chloe I’d pick up some files. Something about that folklore project?”
“Oh! Yes, of course.” Hoff glanced down and seemed surprised
that he was still holding the photograph. He put it back on a cre-
denza, positioning it just so. Roelke could now see a black-and-
white image of a woman, head and shoulders held in an awkward
studio pose. She had a heart-shaped face, an elaborate upswept
hair-do, and a genuine smile. The only other thing on the gleam-
ing expanse of polished wood was a rosemaled bowl, which she’d
probably painted.
Hoff ’s desk was covered with files, binders, sloppy stacks of
phone message slips. The director rummaged through a teetering
stack of folders. When he reached the bottom without success he
began excavating in a drawer. “Oh,” he murmured, looking per-
plexed, “ there’s the accreditation file.” He put it on top of the manila Matterhorn and dug further. Finally he extricated several
fat files.
“Here you go.” He held them out to Roelke. “And …” After
another few minutes’ search Hoff unearthed a small recorder and
some blank tapes. “She’ll need these, too. I’m so glad Chloe was
willing to pick up the final interviews.”
50
“She’s delighted with the opportunity,” Roelke assured him.
Then he left the director to his work and his memories.
I need to learn more about Director Howard Hoff, Roelke
thought as he hurried away. He’d studied a lot of faces, gotten
pretty good at reading people. And he was pretty sure that the
emotion clouding Hoff ’s grief was guilt.
“Be sure to clean your brushes thoroughly before leaving,” Mom
reminded her students.
Chloe took that as permission to quit for the day. Thank the
good Lord, she thought fervently.
The afternoon had been even more stressful than the morning.
A clerk in Vesterheim’s folk-art supplies shop had helped the
beginning students trade the platters Petra had listed on her sup-
ply sheet for oval trays that fit one of Mom’s designs. Chloe had
sanded her tray and slapped on a base coat of dark acrylic. She
also managed to transfer Mom’s pattern to the tray without calam-
ity.
But all too soon, Mom moved on to actual rosemaling. “Since
Telemark motifs are asymmetrical,” she explained, “this style is
ideal for beginners.” She walked her students through the first few steps, calling them forward so she could demonstrate each bit of
the pattern before sending them back to try it themselves. Chloe
never finished one assigned motif before Mom moved on to the
next, and she was ending the day behind.
51
Now she shot a surreptitious glance at Gwen’s work. Her table-
mate’s work was even further along than Chloe had expected. That
means I’m even more behind than I realized, Chloe thought.
Gwen sealed her palette into a spiffy plastic container that
looked much more professional than Chloe’s
Hoff raised his voice. “No, I insist. Judy, I—no, honey, just lis-
ten for a moment. You’re the best daughter in the world, but you’ve got a fiancé in California. There’s no good reason for you to spend money on an airplane ticket.”
Now, that was a surprise. Roelke would have figured Hoff that
would leap at the offer of moral support from his daughter.
“I’m sure the police will find whoever did this terrible thing to
Petra,” Hoff was saying. “… Yes, I promise. I’ll call you soon.”
49
Roelke gave the director a moment before stepping to the door.
Hoff stood holding a photograph in a silver frame. Roelke raised
his hand to knock, but something about the director’s profile
made him pause. Howard stared at the photograph with an
expression of grief and loneliness … and something else too.
This errand was already proving interesting.
Roelke stepped backward and coughed discreetly before pre-
senting himself. Hoff swiveled, blinking in surprise. “Excuse me,”
Roelke said. “I told Chloe I’d pick up some files. Something about that folklore project?”
“Oh! Yes, of course.” Hoff glanced down and seemed surprised
that he was still holding the photograph. He put it back on a cre-
denza, positioning it just so. Roelke could now see a black-and-
white image of a woman, head and shoulders held in an awkward
studio pose. She had a heart-shaped face, an elaborate upswept
hair-do, and a genuine smile. The only other thing on the gleam-
ing expanse of polished wood was a rosemaled bowl, which she’d
probably painted.
Hoff ’s desk was covered with files, binders, sloppy stacks of
phone message slips. The director rummaged through a teetering
stack of folders. When he reached the bottom without success he
began excavating in a drawer. “Oh,” he murmured, looking per-
plexed, “ there’s the accreditation file.” He put it on top of the manila Matterhorn and dug further. Finally he extricated several
fat files.
“Here you go.” He held them out to Roelke. “And …” After
another few minutes’ search Hoff unearthed a small recorder and
some blank tapes. “She’ll need these, too. I’m so glad Chloe was
willing to pick up the final interviews.”
50
“She’s delighted with the opportunity,” Roelke assured him.
Then he left the director to his work and his memories.
I need to learn more about Director Howard Hoff, Roelke
thought as he hurried away. He’d studied a lot of faces, gotten
pretty good at reading people. And he was pretty sure that the
emotion clouding Hoff ’s grief was guilt.
“Be sure to clean your brushes thoroughly before leaving,” Mom
reminded her students.
Chloe took that as permission to quit for the day. Thank the
good Lord, she thought fervently.
The afternoon had been even more stressful than the morning.
A clerk in Vesterheim’s folk-art supplies shop had helped the
beginning students trade the platters Petra had listed on her sup-
ply sheet for oval trays that fit one of Mom’s designs. Chloe had
sanded her tray and slapped on a base coat of dark acrylic. She
also managed to transfer Mom’s pattern to the tray without calam-
ity.
But all too soon, Mom moved on to actual rosemaling. “Since
Telemark motifs are asymmetrical,” she explained, “this style is
ideal for beginners.” She walked her students through the first few steps, calling them forward so she could demonstrate each bit of
the pattern before sending them back to try it themselves. Chloe
never finished one assigned motif before Mom moved on to the
next, and she was ending the day behind.
51
Now she shot a surreptitious glance at Gwen’s work. Her table-
mate’s work was even further along than Chloe had expected. That
means I’m even more behind than I realized, Chloe thought.
Gwen sealed her palette into a spiffy plastic container that
looked much more professional than Chloe’s
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