The Heirloom Murders - Kathleen Ernst [107]
Albrecht hadn’t quite finished when Charles called him to the barn. “Job well done,” Charles said. He held out his hand and dropped the agreed-upon wages into Albrecht’s palm. “Thanks.”
“If you have any more chores, I’m available,” Albrecht told him.
“Nothing at the moment.” Charles turned away, already reaching for a harness.
Ten minutes later Charles had saddled his mare and ridden from the farmyard. Albrecht didn’t know where he was going, or how long he’d be gone. Clarissa was on her knees in her garden, hacking a shallow trench where she could bury potato skins and apple cores. This was his last chance.
He splashed his hands and face with cool water pulled up from the well he’d help dig. Hair slicked back, skin dried on his sleeve, he approached Clarissa with the small sack he’d brought with him that morning. “Pardon me, ma’am.”
Clarissa had been humming to herself, and she started. “Oh! Mr. Bachmeier. Are you finished?”
“Almost, ma’am. And—well, you see—I wanted to thank you for the kindness you’ve shown me.”
She waved that off with a little laugh. “I’ve done nothing more than feed you dinner! No need to thank me for that. You worked hard. Charles and I are both grateful.”
“It was more than cooking,” Albrecht said quietly. “And I have two small tokens of my esteem.” He offered first a tiny packet made of brown paper.
She accepted it slowly. “What’s this?”
“Seeds, ma’am. They’ll grow a flower that all the women in the village where I was born used to make a kind of cheese, Grünen Schabzieger. It’s strong medicine, especially good for stomach troubles. But you don’t have to make cheese with them!” he added hastily, seeing the tiny frown between her eyebrows. “You could make tea. And the flowers are beautiful in their own right. A strong blue.”
She beamed. “Why, how thoughtful! I do love trying new plants. I often trade seeds with people, but I don’t believe I have any German varieties.”
“Swiss,” he corrected her. He knew that Charles had made an assumption—most of the Yankees did, when they heard his accent—but he wanted Clarissa to know who he was.
Then he reached into the sack and pulled out his second gift. “And I made this for you. That old cultivator you use looks dull. You needed a sharper one.”
He watched as Clarissa examined the hand tool slowly. He’d made a cultivator like this one for his mother, and given it to her before he’d left the Swiss community in New Glarus. He’d known he needed to live among people other than his own so he could learn about their plants, trading seed for seed. He was trying to establish himself as a horticulturist. He’d do odd jobs and farmhand work until he’d saved enough money to buy a few acres of his own, where he could cultivate flowers and vegetables. Maybe even fruit trees, one day.
Anyway, his mother had liked her cultivator. Albrecht held his breath.
A slow, delighted smile lit Clarissa’s delicate features. “This will be ever so handy! Thank you. And the rose carving is lovely! Is this your work?”
“Yes ma’am,” he said. “I’m glad you like it.”
Albrecht Bachmeier nodded, then turned away. He wanted to remember the woman he loved as she was right then, smelling of damp soil and sunshine, beaming with the pleasure of his simple gifts. He hadn’t found a topaz to give her … but he’d found a gem of his own. He’d touch her memory when he needed to, the way she sometimes touched her pretty yellow stone. That was enough, he decided. That would have to be enough.
At seven am, Roelke pulled on his uniform again and drove to Chloe’s house. A blue Fairmont sat in the driveway behind Chloe’s rustbucket Pinto. Meili’s, of course. Roelke felt numb. He cut the engine and forced himself into cop mode. He needed to get this over with.
Chloe answered the door, her hair still damp from a recent shower. Roelke felt a tiny notch of relief. The thought of rousing them