The Heirloom Murders - Kathleen Ernst [28]
“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