The Heirloom Murders - Kathleen Ernst [75]
Frieda smiled at him. “You tell me which ones you’re interested in,” she said, “and next time you come I’ll have seeds ready for you. I keep all my gardening things in the old granary, now.”
Chloe lingered over a border of lobelia. “Those are pretty, aren’t they?” Frieda asked. “I don’t know how old the variety is, though.”
“A friend of mine is planting a memorial garden for her mom and sister,” Chloe said. “They both liked blue.”
“I’ll go through my packets and find some of those before you come next time,” Frieda told her.
“And perhaps some Käseklee?” Martine asked.
Frieda smiled mischievously. “That’s the plant which gives Grünen Schabzieger its green color, but the flower is also a nice blue.” She turned toward the house. “Now, it’s time for supper. I want you two to stay.”
Chloe darted Martine a concerned glance. “Let her do it,” Martine whispered. “It helps her to keep busy.”
By the time they’d eaten, Johann woke and asked to see Markus. While the men talked livestock, Frieda showed Chloe some of her embroidery. “I’d like you to have this one,” Frieda said, handing Chloe a white dish towel stitched in bright colors.”
“It’s lovely!” Chloe was enormously touched.
Frieda beamed. “And I wrote down my Bierabrot recipe for you.”
“These are treasures,” Chloe told her. “Thank you so much.”
_____
Markus and Chloe were both silent as they drove the first few miles back to New Glarus. Chloe watched headlights from passing cars flash by, wondering if she’d see Frieda and Johann again. Frieda seemed to be in fairly good health, for a woman in her nineties, but Johann was failing. And when he passed … well, it wouldn’t surprise Chloe if Frieda died soon after.
Well, whether they had more visits in store or not, it had been a privilege to meet the elderly couple.
The only wrong note came from seeing the rose-carved cultivator. That had been freaky. Creepy, actually. How did one end up in Dellyn’s barn, and its twin in the Frietags’?
Beside her, Markus began to hum quietly. He’d always done that when he was thinking. Chloe was pretty sure he wasn’t even aware of it. The sound put a catch in her throat.
She had once known this man better than anybody else on earth.
Chloe rubbed her temples. OK. She was too tired to think about either the cultivator or her love life. She struggled for something banal. “It, um, sounds like you’re enjoying your time in New Glarus.”
“It’s more Swiss than Switzerland,” Markus mused, “but I like it here. I’ve gotten interested in the whole topic of Swiss acculturation—how both the original immigrants and their descendants have chosen to retain or even re-create aspects of their ethnic heritage.”
“I imagine that for some people, it’s heartfelt,” Chloe said. “And for some it’s about tourism dollars. It’s the same way in Stoughton, where I grew up. Very Norwegian. Guests from Norway are often astonished to see churches advertising lutefisk suppers.”
“It’s fascinating,” Markus said.
Chloe slid her gaze in his direction. Yes, it was fascinating. She understood exactly what Markus was thinking, and feeling. Surprisingly, Markus had been a part of the sense of respite she’d felt today. Roelke was the one who understood that Chloe had found a second dead body in the space of two months—but that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. She needed a break. She wanted her life to be about old people and heirloom goats and folk dancing again.
Markus seemed to read her mind. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, someone in the dance group in Brienz discovered a new schottische.” A schottische was sort of like a slow polka. When Chloe lived in Switzerland, she and Markus had been members of the folk dance group.
“Are the steps difficult?”
“I haven’t learned it,” he said, slowing the car as they neared a stop sign. “The schottische