The Heirloom Murders (7 page)

“Freaky.”

“He’s there just on business?”

Chloe leaned back in the big brown chair in her living room. “No. He says he still has feelings for me. He wants to try things again.”

“It took him long enough to figure that out.”

“No kidding.”

“Do you still have feelings for him?”

“I don’t know.” Chloe closed her eyes. “Mostly I just feel pissed off. All those months when I would have given anything for a phone call from Markus, and then,
finally
, just when I’m putting it all behind me …”

“What about you and that cop with the funny name? Are you still seeing him?”

“Sort of. Not really. I don’t know.” Chloe used one finger to stroke Olympia, who had jumped into her lap. “Ever since I told him about Markus, things have been really strained. He was over here the other evening—”

“Yeah?” Ethan sounded pleased.

“It’s not what you think. He was here on business. Sort of.”

Ethan groaned.

“Don’t freak out. It’s nothing that involves me.” Chloe told Ethan about Dellyn and Bonnie. “Roelke’s investigating Bonnie’s death. He just wanted to ask me about Dellyn.” And he almost kissed me, she thought. Almost.

“Are you doing OK?”

“I’m OK,” she said resolutely. “But I don’t have a clue what I’m going to do about Markus.”

He sighed audibly through the wire. “What do you
want
to do? What do you want, period?”

“I just—I think I just want some stability in my life. I’m thirty-two years old, for God’s sake. Isn’t it time I had a savings account, and a stable relationship?”

“Do you think Markus or Roelke could offer you those things?”

“I don’t want any man to take responsibility for my savings account. As for the other …” Chloe let the thought dangle. “Honestly? I have no idea. I don’t know that I could ever trust Markus again. And Roelke can be a nut job at times.”

“Maybe neither one of them is right for you.”

Chloe didn’t want to think about her tangled love life any more. “How about you and Chris? Everything OK on your end?”

“He’s good. We’re good. Celebrating three years together next month.”

“Good for you. I’m glad somebody’s life is stable.”

He laughed softly. “Things will work out for you, Chloe. Whatever ends up happening between you and Markus … maybe you needed to see him again. You two ended things so abruptly, there was bound to be a lot of stuff left unsaid.”

“Or maybe talking to him is the verbal equivalent of pressing my hand down on a hot stove just when the first burn was starting to heal.” Chloe switched the phone to her other ear. “Ethan? Thanks for listening.”

1876

“I’m coming up!” Charles
shouted.

Albrecht frowned. Charles had only descended into the well a few moments ago. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing! Just tend the rope.”

Albrecht made sure the windlass was secure. Maybe Charles had decided he was hungry, and wanted his mid-day meal.

Clarissa was on her knees, planting seeds in her new garden. Her hand cultivator obviously needed sharpening. And did she know that she might get only five or six weeks before first frost? Perhaps he should say something to her. Offer some advice. He was a novice well-digger, but he knew plants.

Then Charles clambered up from the depths of the well. Albrecht offered a hand and helped pull him the last foot or so. “You’re stopping for dinner?”

“No.” Charles pulled something from his pocket. “Look at this. Ever see anything like it?”

Albrecht squinted at the yellowish stone. “No.”

“Me either.” Charles spit on the stone, then rubbed mud away with his thumb. The stone grew shiny, even sparkled in the sunshine.

Albrecht took the stone from Charles’s palm and scraped it with a fingernail. “Hard, too.”

“Clarissa!” Charles called. He took the stone back and curled it into one fist.

His wife left the garden and joined the men. “What is it?”

“Something pretty.” Charles grinned, and gave her the stone.

Clarissa’s face softened into a smile that made Albrecht’s heart ache. “It
is
pretty! I’ll wash it up and put it on the windowsill.”

“We’ll dig for another hour or so before stopping for dinner,” Charles told her. He slapped Albrecht on the shoulder. “Let’s get
to it.”

Clarissa’s smile dimmed. She slipped the yellow stone into her apron pocket, and nodded. “I’ll have it ready.”

The man is a fool! Albrecht thought. If
he
ever had the chance
to put such a smile on Clarissa’s face, he surely wouldn’t cut the moment so short!

“You want top-side, or down below?” Charles asked.

“I’ll go down,” Albrecht said. As he backed into the hole, the last thing he saw was Clarissa, back on her knees in the garden. But in his mind, he could still see her delighted smile.

He’d give anything to bring a smile like that to Clarissa Wood’s face.

On Monday, Roelke dropped
his application materials off with the village clerk on his way into work. Step one. Done.

When he got to the EPD, Chief Naborski called him into the office. “We’ve got autopsy results for Bonnie Sabatola,” he said, and pushed a piece of paper across his desk.

Roelke skimmed the report. Trajectory of the bullet was consistent with what the scene had suggested. Stippling on the skin confirmed that Ms. Sabatola had pressed the muzzle of the gun against her throat. The ME did find old bruises on Bonnie Sabatola’s arms consistent with a man’s hands, but no evidence of broken bones. The only medical records he’d been able to find pre-dated her marriage.

“She hadn’t seen a physician in
any
capacity since her marriage?” Roelke frowned. “That doesn’t feel right.”

“Any records of 9-1-1 calls?” Naborski asked him. “Any relatives shed light on what was going on?”

“Nope.” Roelke tapped his thumb against the chair. Bonnie had never called for help, never reported her husband, never been treated for unexplained injuries. He’d checked.

“You come up with anything when you talked to the husband?”

“The guy is pretty shook up. No way’s he faking that. But …”

“But?” The chief tipped his chair back and regarded Roelke.

“I’d like to push a bit more.”

“Why?”

“It’s a gut thing,” Roelke said. “Something’s off. Just because a guy grieves for his wife doesn’t mean he didn’t knock her around before she died.”

The chief shook his head. “Unless you can prove false imprisonment or something, you’re going to have a very hard time getting anything to stick.”

“I know,” Roelke admitted. “But I’m not ready to let go. I’ll take Sabatola the autopsy results, for starters. If I want to talk to anybody else after that, I’ll do it on my own time.”

The chief’s chair banged back down on the floor. “OK,” he said. “Just don’t let it get in the way of your primary duties. Eagle residents expect to see their officers patrolling the village.”

Residents and the Police Committee, Roelke thought, as he left the chief’s office. Roelke paused, then opened his locker. The small photo of Erin Litkowski, a pretty redhead, smiled serenely down from the photo frame on the shelf. She’d cut all ties with family and friends and simply disappeared—all because of her asshole husband-turned-stalker. After learning that Erin had gone underground, Roelke had done some extra reading about abusive spouses. He’d seen them, certainly. But the books had helped him get inside the abusers’ heads. Sometimes that helped him spot trouble before somebody ended up in the ER. Or worse, the morgue.

But not this time,
he thought. He slammed his locker door and headed out.

_____

Markus had asked Chloe to meet him at The Swiss Historical Village Museum, which was operated by the New Glarus Historical Society. He was waiting in the parking lot, and bounded over when he saw her car. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?” he exclaimed. “I’ve more-or-less been headquartered here during my sabbatical. Have you toured the museum? No? I’ll take you around some time. The story of the Swiss community here is extraordinary.”

They drove to the Frietag farm in the Ford Fairmont Markus had rented for his stay. A child might have created the landscape with her smallest box of crayons: blue sky, white clouds, green fields, red barns.

“How was your staff meeting?” Markus asked.

“Painful as ever. We’re getting audited.” Ralph Petty, the site director, had been near apoplexy about it.

Markus frowned. “Audited?”

“It means ‘investigated,’ sort of. Evidently some nice folks think too much money has been funneled to Old World over the past few years. People within the historical society think more should flow to other historic sites and other divisions. And a state legislator has a bug up his butt about getting state historic sites moved into the division of tourism.” She shuddered, picturing some gung-ho official morphing Old World Wisconsin into an old-timey theme park.

“That would not be good.”

“No.”

“Well, try to forget about it for now. This will be fun.” Markus slowed to let a couple of motorcycles blitz past. “Johann and Frieda were born here in Green County, but English is their second language. Once the last of these elders pass on,
Bernertüütsch—
the Glarner dialect—will disappear. Help me watch for the turn, OK? You can’t see the house from the road. Look for a red mailbox with ‘Frietag’ painted on it.”

“Sure.”

“The community is very protective of them. Johann’s health is quite bad. I was in New Glarus for weeks before the folks at the historical society decided I was worthy of meeting them. Then it took me some time to connect with them. No telephone. I had to work through their granddaughter, Martine.” Markus flashed her a grin. “Don’t you love the sound of that?”

Chloe managed a small smile. “Do they have goats?”

“If I’m lucky. The earliest immigrants were primarily laborers in Switzerland, not farmers, so nothing goes back that far. But the settlers purchased cows and chickens upon arrival. And Swiss people continued to come. I might find some old-breed animals. OK.” He flipped on his turn signal. “Here it is.”

Johann and Frieda Frietag lived in a small frame farmhouse—perhaps 1870s, Chloe thought, although several haphazard additions had changed the profile. As Markus parked the car a woman about Chloe’s age stepped outside. She was big-boned and muscular. “Mr. Meili?” she said cautiously.

“Please, it’s Markus.” He gave her one of his warm grins.

Chloe stepped forward. “And I’m Chloe Ellefson.”

The other woman’s posture visibly relaxed, and she extended a hand. “I’m Martine.” Her grip was too strong, but obviously welcoming. “I live about a mile away, over that hill on my folks’ farm. But I keep an eye on things.”

“It’s kind of you to let us visit,” Chloe said.

Martine made a wry gesture. “I get calls for Gran and Grandpa all the time these days, and I almost always say no. I had to tell the historical society not to give our names to just anyone wanting to do research. Gran and Grandpa love company, but they both tire easily.”

“We’ll keep our visit short,” Markus promised.

“I’d appreciate that.” Martine shook her head. “The vultures are circling. I’ve found developers trespassing on our property. Someone writing a book spent ten minutes trying to impress me with how important he was, and how I was obliged to let him come interview my grandparents. And just this morning an auctioneer called me and offered to come ‘assess the household.’” She made air quotes with her fingers. “For only a nominal fee.”

Bastards, Chloe thought. “I’m so sorry.”

Martine gave a small smile. “I
am
interested in preserving what my grandparents know about agriculture. I’ve been learning to make cheese the old way, and Gran knows everything there is to know about gardening.” She nodded at Markus. “So when you called and said you were from Ballenberg, and that you had a friend from Old World Wisconsin who would come also … well, that appealed to me.”

So, Chloe thought, Markus mentioned me to Martine before he even asked me to come. Chloe looked at him with raised brows. Jerk. He gave her a tiny, apologetic shrug, looking only slightly abashed.

Martine led them through the house to the kitchen. The room was hot enough to take Chloe’s breath away, but also welcoming in a cluttered and comfortable way. “Gran?” Martine said. “Here are the visitors I was telling you about.”

A tiny wren of a woman with stooped shoulders turned from an iron-and-enamel wood cook stove. Speaking Swiss, Markus made introductions. Frieda beamed at him, then turned to Chloe.
“Gruetzi!”

“Hello,” Chloe said. “I’m afraid I’m not fluent in your first language.” She’d tried hard to scour all things Swiss from her mind, and her command of the language was rusty at best.

“No matter,” Frieda assured her. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Chloe was completely disarmed by the genuine pleasure in Frieda’s eyes. I love my job, Chloe thought. Some of her irritation at Markus faded. It had been arrogant of him to presume she would come … but he did know her well.

“Grandpa is upstairs,” Martine was saying. “He’s having a good day, so we’ll go say hello.” She led the way up a steep and narrow staircase. Frieda followed, clutching the banister tightly.

Johann Frietag was propped on pillows in a bed that might have been made a century ago, tucked beneath a quilt made of fabrics almost as old. He was a thin man, with the large hands of a farmer and glasses that seemed too big for his face. Each breath was labored, audible.

Martine got everyone settled into chairs near the bed, and made the introductions. Johann grinned, and Chloe glimpsed the young man he’d once been. “People used to call me an old coot,” he told them. “Then some lady from the historical society came out a year or so ago. Talked about how important it is to preserve the old ways. All of a sudden I’m a somebody important.” He looked pleased. “She called Frieda and me ‘vessels of tradition.’”

“That’s a fancy way of saying that we’re old,” Frieda said dryly.

With the Frietags’ permission, Markus started a small tape recorder and began asking questions. Chloe was content to just
be
. She felt a certain peace in this place, which was indescribably welcome. Johann and Frieda were delightful. Their speech was slow and sing-songy, rich with the Glarner inflection Markus had spoken of, and sprinkled with bits of dialect. Chloe caught the word
gulli
—rooster—when Markus asked Johann about his livestock.

Finally Martine said quietly, “That’s enough.”

“Why, this young man and I are just getting acquainted!” Johann protested.

“You need to rest now, Grandpa,” Martine said firmly. “Perhaps Markus can visit again.”

Markus nodded. “I’d like that.”

“All right, then,” Johann conceded.

Frieda gently tucked the quilt around her husband. For a moment the two gazed at each other, communicating with a silent intimacy. Then Frieda kissed him on the forehead. “Rest,” she whispered, and he closed his eyes.

When she saw Chloe watching, the old woman smiled. “We’ve been married for seventy-one years,” she whispered.

A hand squeezed Chloe’s heart. She felt sympathy for this woman facing the loss of her husband of seventy-one years. She felt envy, too.

Johann was snoring lightly as they all trooped back down to the kitchen. Martine gestured to the table, which was already set for a meal. “Please, sit down. Grandma wanted to serve you lunch.”

Frieda bustled about the kitchen for a few more moments, filling bowls and carrying platters to the table. “
Chabis
,” she said, setting a bowl of cabbage salad at Chloe’s elbow. “And fried chicken. And
spaetzle
.”

“What a feast!” Markus said, with the sincere enthusiasm that always melted elderly hearts.

Then Martine passed a plate of something that resembled cheese, but was green. “
Grünen Schabzieger,”
she said, with a mischievous grin. “The American name is ‘sap-sago.’ It used to be common locally, but no one but us makes it anymore.”

Chloe took a helping of the hard cheese. Everyone watched while she tried it. It had a strong flavor, but she pronounced it delicious.

Frieda nodded with approval. “The old Swiss folk used it to treat stomach troubles.”

“A few months ago, when Grandpa started failing, he was reminiscing about eating sap-sago as a boy,” Martine said. “So Gran and I tried a batch as a surprise.”

“Now,” Frieda said, “the
Bierabrot
.”

“Oh—I love
Bierabrot!
” Chloe carefully avoided looking at Markus. Swiss pear bread, moist and dense, had been a special Sunday-morning treat when they’d lived together in Brienz.

After the meal everyone went outside. Chloe heard bells clang with the placid movement of cows grazing on the steep hill behind the barn. The audible memory of glorious days in the Alps was so strong that she put a hand over her chest, expecting to feel her heart fluttering. This time she dared a glance at Markus. He nodded.

Frieda gestured. “There’s the
Käsehütte
.”

The cheese hut was a small frame building, nondescript except for a gleaming and obviously new coat of white paint. When they all trooped inside, Chloe’s mouth opened. “This is
amazing!
” The building was frozen in time.

“When I was a kid, Grandma still did her laundry in here.” Martine patted the iron cauldron built into a brick casing.

“Johann and I made cheese in here every day for over thirty years,” Frieda added.

“We’ve started making Emmentaler cheese again,” Martine said. She touched an enormous copper kettle hanging from a heavy beam. “After it cooks here, and we cut the curds, we use that pulley system to haul the curds over to the pressing table.”

Markus ran his hand over grooves in the old table. “These allow the whey to drain from the curds?”

Frieda nodded. “Into a bucket. Nowadays they say that whey has a lot of protein. Cheesemakers can sell it. We used to feed ours to the hogs!”