Heritage of Darkness by Kathleen Ernst

I’ll find you something else. And she
    said, ‘It’s just a board. Don’t be such a chisler .’ She thought she was very clever, that Petra Lekstrom.”
    Roelke rolled his eyes. He wasn’t big on puns.
    “She took that board,” Emil said. “But that night, I told Oscar
    what happened. He just settled down with some wood like most
    every evening. He was still at it when I went to bed. In the morn-
    ing, I see he’s carved a woman holding a paint brush. It looks half like Petra and half like a witch. I laughed when I saw it. Oscar says to me, ‘You tell Petra Lekstrom that rosemalers sniff turpentine.’”
    “And … did you tell her that?”
    “No,” Emil conceded, eyes twinkling. “But Oscar and me took
    that carving to the rosemalers’ classroom real early, before anyone else was around, and put it up on a shelf. That Petra, she laughed when she took the wood. But we got the last laugh.” He held his
    board toward Roelke. “You see this curved design in between these
    two straight-edge borders? I’ll show you how to do that tomor-
    row.”
    The lacey design looked difficult. “Then I better get to bed,”
    Roelke said. “Thank you, Emil. Good night.”
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    After washing the mug, Roelke headed up the steep stairs to the
    guest room tucked beneath the eaves. His mind raced with
    thoughts … of Petra Lekstrom, of his father.
    Finally, after tossing and turning beneath the blankets for way
    too long, he made a deliberate mental switch and thought of
    Chloe instead. Usually thinking of Chloe—of the miracle of her
    actually dating him—was enough. Tonight, it wasn’t. They weren’t
    together and that was wrong, just plain wrong.
    Roelke had no intention of pushing things with Chloe. He’d
    wanted to date her for three months before she finally agreed to
    give things a try. Now three more months had passed, and he still
    sometimes felt as if he was trying to hold milkweed fluff in his
    hands. Chloe was fragile and strong. He didn’t really understand
    her work, or the things that made her happy, or the way her mind
    processed information. But none of that shook his faith that they’d do well together.
    He did not want to rush her. But tonight, with a killer wander-
    ing Decorah and a December wind rattling the windows, he really,
    really wished he could fall asleep with Chloe in his arms.
    
    Chloe spent a high-calorie evening with Bestemor Sabo, a widow
    as plump and endearing as Mrs. Santa Claus. Bestemor Sabo
    began with a heartfelt apology: “I’m sorry I only have nineteen
    kinds of cookies made, Miss Ellefson. If you can come back in a
    few days, I’ll be up to my usual two dozen.”
    Chloe needed two cassettes to record Bestemor’s family stories
    about holiday baking. She was less successful with the taste-test
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    the elderly woman had prepared, begging off after half a dozen
    cookies.
    “Well, I’ll just pack up the rest for you,” Bestemor Sabo said
    cheerfully.
    “Your children and grandchildren are lucky,” Chloe observed,
    watching as Bestemor made a nest of waxed paper in a cookie tin
    that looked old enough to accession into Vesterheim’s collection.
    “And everyone else on your list.”
    “I like to make people smile.” Bestemor Sabo paused, a delicate
    almond cookie in hand. “And this year … after what happened to
    Petra Lekstrom … well, we all must try extra-hard to bring holiday cheer back to Decorah.”
    “Did you know Petra?”
    The older woman got back to work. “Of course.”
    Of course, Chloe thought. It was that kind of community. “It’s
    awful. I know a lot of people didn’t really like Petra, but still …”
    “True enough,” Bestemor agreed. “Except for the ones who
    liked her a bit too well, if you know what I mean.”
    Chloe thought she did. “You mean men, right?”
    Bestemor Sabo ripped off another piece of waxed paper with
    one sharp jerk against the strip of tiny metal teeth. “Some say she had an affair with one of the competition