The Heirloom Murders (8 page)

“A century ago, lots of farms around here had their own little cheesemaking operation,” Martine explained. “Maybe four or five farmers would bring their milk. Most of the little factories were gone by World War II. Gran and Grandpa kept theirs going, even when they just made cheese for themselves.”

“Your cows are Brown Swiss?” Markus asked.

“We’ve only got the two now,” Frieda said. “Years back, we also had some milking shorthorns. But Martine’s thinking about expanding the herd.” Her delight was obvious.

“My dad and his brother, and my older brothers … they have no interest making cheese,” Martine said. “Our farm over the way is completely modern, with a herd of Holsteins. I work there too, but I don’t want to see our family’s heritage lost. Gran and Grandpa and I have been kicking around the idea of keeping the
Käsehütte
going. The cool cellar where they used to store the cheese is still standing, too. I think there’s a market for cheese made in small batches, Sap-sago and Emmentaler and baby Swiss.”

“Martine is our vessel of tradition,” Frieda said.

“Wunderlicher
is more like it,” Martine said, and for just a second Chloe thought she saw something sad flash in her eyes.

But Frieda flapped a hand at her granddaughter, and said to Chloe, “Martine has acted in the Wilhelm Tell Festival since she was a little girl. And she’s learned archery.”

“I compete in
Schützenfests.
Next up is
Volkfest
, when New Glarus celebrates Swiss independence. Having women compete probably strains tradition, but I like the challenge.” Martine took her grandmother’s arm. “You’ve been on your feet long enough, Gran. Why don’t we stop the tour here for now.”

“When you come back, I’ll show you my garden,” Freida promised Chloe, as they headed for the car. “And my embroidery.”

Once farewells were said, Chloe and Markus headed back to New Glarus. Several miles passed in silence. Finally Chloe admitted, “I enjoyed that.”

“The Frietags are wonderful people.”

“That green cheese was wild,” Chloe said. “Have you seen that before?”

“It’s still made in Glarus, I think. Probably goes back a thousand years.” He shook his head. “Kids learn in school that the rainforest is full of medicinal plants, but no one thinks to wonder if the cure of some disease might be growing in some old woman’s garden down the road.”

“That’s why we do what we do.” Chloe enjoyed a moment of self-satisfaction. Then she remembered something she wanted to ask. “What does
Wunderlicher
mean?”

“It means, ‘an odd one.’” Markus scratched his knee, considering. “I suppose Martine meant she likes to spend time with her grandparents, learning to make cheese and Swiss dumplings.”

Chloe wriggled on the seat, tucking one foot beneath her. “Well, I don’t see anything odd about that.”

“You wouldn’t.” Markus laughed. “I imagine any old Glarnese farmer might stop by that farm and feel completely home.” He shoved his hair back, keeping one hand on the steering wheel. “And meeting the Frietags with you … well, it felt like old times.”

It did, a bit. Chloe poked at her feelings with a ginger finger. Today’s plunge back into Swiss history and culture had been less difficult than the first, when she’d met Markus at the New Glarus Hotel. It was a relief to think she might have gotten past the worst of their bad breakup, and her lingering aversion to all things Swiss. There was much to cherish about her time spent in Switzerland.

Markus glanced at his wristwatch. “We could still make it to Old World this afternoon. Any chance we could go see the farmer there?”

Chloe watched a bicyclist struggling up the hill as she considered. She did not want Markus at Old World … but he was clearly going to visit, with or without her. It felt churlish to refuse to so much as introduce him to the farmer. She blew her breath out slowly before once again saying, “Oh, all
right
.”

Roelke pulled into a
parking lot behind a sign that said
AgriFutures—Helping the World Grow!
The office building was an imposing black box with big windows reflecting the sun, perched on a hill outside of Elkhorn. In the green expanse on either side of the front walk stood enormous machines—a tractor on one side, a combine on the other.

Roelke pictured the Farmall A tractor that had served his maternal grandparents for decades. Roelke had driven it many miles himself during summers on the farm, up and down the cornfield, looking down to be sure the cultivator hoes were scratching up weeds instead of corn plants. Sixteen horsepower on the drawbar and eighteen on the belt, with twenty-one inches of clearance. If it rained, he got wet. If he wanted to hear music, he whistled. That old Farmall would just about fit into the wheel well of one of these monsters.

Well, times changed. Roelke still thought about his grandparents’ farm. A lot, actually. But he had no wish to become a farmer. None at all.

AgriFutures’ lobby was an atrium extending up half a dozen stories. A middle-aged woman with dark hair and a conservative suit sat at a sleek desk situated fishbowl-like in the center of the sunny column. Roelke offered his friendliest smile. “I’m here to see Mr. Sabatola, the vice-president.”

“We have two vice-presidents,” she said, sounding well rehearsed. “Simon Sabatola heads the equipment division. Implements and machinery. Alan Sabatola, the chemical division. Pesticides, herbicides, and fertilizers. Whom do you wish to see?”

“Simon.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No,” Roelke said politely. “But I need to speak with him.”

She hesitated for only a moment. “Sixth floor.”

He thanked her and headed upstairs in the elevator—all glass, with a view of both the atrium and the lawn behind the building. More equipment was parked with casual care, like sculptures outside some museum of modern agricultural art. Roelke almost heard his grandfather snorting with derision.

The elevator slid to a silent stop, and opened into a reception area where Edwin Guest, Simon’s fussy little secretary, was talking on the telephone. “That’s not the way I … no. We can’t apply for the patent until I’m sure that this is the way I want—” He noticed Roelke, and terminated the conversation abruptly. “I’ll have to call you back.”

Then he fixed Roelke with a look of prim disapproval. “Mr. Sabatola’s schedule is very full today. And on his first day back after the tragedy …” Guest let the sentence fade away.

“I’m very sorry to intrude again,” Roelke assured him.

Guest made a show of leaving Roelke waiting while he disappeared into an inner office. The reception area furniture was a unique fusion of Danish modern and farm, with stylized tractor seats for chairs, and even floor lamps fashioned from cultivator prongs. Huge images of agricultural machinery, brilliantly lit and photographed, filled the walls.

Weird shit. Roelke turned from what AgriFutures probably called AgriArt, and studied Guest’s desk by the window. A light was blinking on the phone. A stack of closed file folders stood neatly on one corner. An electric typewriter hunched under its dustcover on a side table. The personal touches were minimal: a tray holding several pots of African violets and a calendar with a photograph of a German shepherd. Normally the dog calendar would have forced Roelke to raise his opinion of the secretary a notch, but the African violets canceled that out.

Notations on the calendar were made in fine-tipped pencil, precisely lettered. Roelke studied the coming week. Tuesday:
Funeral.
Wednesday:
Conference call—Taiwan. R & D presentation. Board meeting.
Thursday:
Mtg. with legal re patent application. Mtg. with Patterson re 2nd quarter numbers. Roxie’s R., PM.

Roelke paused. Roxie’s R? The name might refer to anything or anyone, but something niggled at his brain … yes. There was a tavern on the outskirts of Elkhorn called Roxie’s Roost. He’d never been there, although he’d driven past it a few times. A typical small Wisconsin tavern, nothing flashy. It was hard to imagine Edwin Guest stopping there for a burger and beer on his way home.

The door to the inner office was still closed. Roelke lifted the calendar page with a fingernail and tipped his head to glance at next week’s schedule. More precise and often cryptic references to conference calls, meetings, reviews. And on Thursday, once again:
Roxie’s R.
Well, hunh.

The doorknob rattled. Roelke stepped away from the desk
before Guest reappeared. “You may enter,” the secretary said, gesturing Roelke toward the inner office.

Simon Sabatola was already on his feet, coming around a
massive desk with hand outstretched. His eyes were bloodshot. “Officer McKenna. Have you found any more information about Bonnie’s death?”

“No, sir, but I’ve got the death certificate and autopsy results for your wife,” Roelke said, as gently as he could. “Perhaps we could sit down?” He gestured toward a cluster of furniture at the far end of the huge office. He had his doubts about Sabatola, but nobody should have to hear “autopsy” and “your wife” in the same sentence.

Sabatola’s face seemed to lose what little color it had, and he dropped into one of the leather chairs.

Roelke sat on the sofa. “All the report really does is confirm what we already knew. Your wife died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. There were no signs of other physical distress of any kind.” Except the bruises. But Roelke was holding on to that tidbit, for now.

Sabatola closed his eyes and bowed his head. It took several moments for him to look up again. Finally he seemed to make a concerted effort to focus. “Thank you.”

“You’re free to make whatever plans you wish for burial.”

“Tomorrow,” Sabatola said. The word was barely audible, and he cleared his throat. “I’ve already talked with the priest at St. Theresa’s, in Eagle. Tomorrow, at two o’clock.”

“I understand that Dellyn Burke received a letter from her sister in the postal mail. Have you received one as well?”

Sabatola looked startled. “No, I—I’m afraid not.”

Roelke pulled his little notebook from his pocket. “I also hoped to get the names and phone numbers of some of your wife’s friends.”

“Is this really necessary?” Edwin Guest snapped from the doorway.

Roelke turned his head, eyebrows raised. “I am speaking with Mr. Sabatola.”

Guest tried to stare him down. Roelke didn’t let him. Guest looked physically fit—probably compensating for his short stature and receding hairline—but he was in no position to take control.

“It’s all right, Edwin.” Sabatola sounded weary. “Officer Mc
-Kenna is just doing his job. You can wait outside.” When the door shut he turned back to Roelke. “Don’t mind Edwin. He’s worked with me for years.”

“I understand,” Roelke lied. He understood nothing about the relationship between a male secretary and the vice president of an
international company. “And I wish my intrusion weren’t necessary.
Now … can you give me contact information for any of Bonnie’s friends?”

“Well, let’s see.” Sabatola studied the wall, as if a list might magically appear. “I know her best friend from high school lives in Guatemala now. Otherwise … well, I really didn’t pay much attention to Bonnie’s friends.”

“I can imagine that a job like this—“ Roelke waved his hand vaguely—“would consume most of your waking hours.”

Sabatola’s tone turned confidential. “Actually, I was afraid she was getting too cut off from her old friends. But she took a great deal of joy in our home.” He sighed. “I’m sure it must seem that I was a poor partner.”

Damn straight. “Not at all.”

“AgriFutures is an international company, and we’re experiencing explosive growth. My stepfather—he started AgriFutures, back in the fifties—died of lung cancer recently. Our Board of Directors hasn’t made the formal announcement yet, but I’ve been groomed to become CEO. My half-brother is younger, and doesn’t know the business as well. These past months have been intense.” He sighed. “But if I hadn’t worked late so many evenings, perhaps Bonnie …”

He rose abruptly and walked to the window.

Roelke stood too. “It’s always a difficult thing, trying to balance work and family.”

Sabatola gestured toward the mega-monsters on the lawn below. “Those machines represent the future of agriculture. And not just here in the States. The industrialized world needs to find ways to help third-world countries feed their people. AgriFutures is taking a leadership role in tackling world hunger.”

“Ah,” Roelke said. Usually a helpful prompt.

“We’re working on a new spring-loaded tiller designed for areas where people are still farming by hand. If one tine strikes a stone or root in the soil, the others continue to work at the correct depth. The main frame will be the strongest in the business, adaptable to a variety of conditions.”

“I helped out some on my grandparents’ farm when I was a kid,” Roelke said. “We probably could have used one of those.”

“In most parts of this country, agricultural innovation is an ongoing process. But in many third-world nations, desperate farmers are barely surviving. They don’t have time to evolve gradually. One machine like our new tiller could revolutionize the economy of an entire village.”

“It sounds exciting,” Roelke said obligingly. “But … how can those struggling farmers afford a new tiller like that?”

Sabatola waved one hand dismissively. “They can’t directly, of course. But we’re building a strong global network that includes investment companies. We’re partnering with people who have the vision to see the potential rewards inherent in aiding developing nations.”

“Ah,” Roelke said again.

Sabatola gestured toward one of the enormous combines below. “Impressive, aren’t they? Those machines have a beauty all their own.”

Beauty? Now, that was pretentious crap. “Everything is very …
big,” Roelke said.

“Our unofficial motto is ‘Get big or get out.’” A smile briefly softened Sabatola’s face. Then he shoved his hands in his pockets. “Forgive me. It’s just that …” He nodded toward the lawn. “All I have left right now is my work.”

Roelke wondered what Bonnie’s parents, who had worked the kind of small family farm now being overtaken by factory farms that needed equipment on this scale, had thought of their son-in-law’s line of work. Mr. Burke had likely owned a tractor much like the one Roelke had learned to drive on his grandparents’ farm.

“I’ll let you get back to work, sir,” Roelke said. “Thank you for your time.”

_____

Chloe and Markus reached Old World Wisconsin an hour before the site was due to close. “I know the farmer will be at one of the Finnish farms to milk the cows just after closing,” she told him. “We can walk out.”

“Let’s loop through the site,” Markus said. In response to her startled look, he shrugged. “I’ve studied maps of the grounds. I’d really like to see the farms.”

“OK,” she said. “Let’s go.”

They walked first through the Crossroads Village, where visitors were drinking root beer at the inn, exclaiming over goods in the store, playing croquet, participating in a temperance rally. The interpreters—those underpaid and underappreciated educators who donned period clothing and spent their days interacting with the visitors—kept toddlers from touching hot stoves, positioned their bodies between inquisitive adults and tempting artifacts, gave directions to the public toilets, and dispensed first aid to bee-sting victims. Markus was clearly impressed.

That bubbled into pure professional joy as they continued on to the German area. “Two
fachwerk
farmhouses? Your vernacular architecture collection is amazing! That’s a Plymouth Rock chicken? That mower is a reproduction?”

He had wanted to see the historic site through her eyes. Instead, Chloe was seeing it through his … which reminded her how lucky she was. Few outdoor museums in the country were as large, as well interpreted, as wisely located. Old World Wisconsin’s farms and crossroads village, comprised of structures moved from all over the state and painstakingly restored, were situated within the Kettle Moraine State Forest. Prairies, woods, and kettle ponds provided a natural visual buffer to modern intrusions.

“You can see the Norwegian and Danish farms another day,” Chloe said finally. “We need to catch the farmer before he’s done for the night.”

Slapping at mosquitoes, they walked a nature trail to the Ketola Farm, a Finnish homestead restored to its 1915 appearance. Chloe
introduced Markus to the historic farmer, a laconic blonde-bearded
man named Larry. Markus asked questions about the stump fence, the reproduction root cellar, the DeLaval cream separator, the young steers bellowing for attention in the pasture. In the big dairy barn, he ran an appreciative hand over a Jersey’s rump. “Do you get enough milk to support the site’s food program?”

“Well, pretty much,” Larry said. “Cheese, butter, milk for cooking … it starts right here.”

Markus grinned. “You’ve managed the ideal! Most sites have to set things up for show. It’s so much harder to actually make an agricultural system work as it should—to make the farm exhibits self-sufficient.”