The Heirloom Murders - Kathleen Ernst [30]
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.