Tradition of Deceit (9 page)

“MHS is highly respected,” Petty mused. “Collaborative efforts might bring more Minnesota visitors to Wisconsin sites.”

“I'm delighted that one of the staffers reached out to me. I've offered to consult on the interpretive plan.” Chloe beamed at Ralph, which always messed with his head. “On my own time, of course.”

Last up to report was Stan. “We've got enough snow for another day or two of skiing,” he reported. “I groomed the trails this morning. If they're good, we could open tomorrow. But I had to cut a new trail between the Village and German because of that big tree that came down. Somebody really needs to ski that section before we send visitors out there.”

When conditions permitted, Old World Wisconsin allowed cross-country skiers limited access to the site. Guests adored the unique opportunity to ski among historic structures within a state forest. But maintaining the trails in ever-changing conditions put a strain on the skeletal staff.

Everyone looked at everyone else. Suddenly Chloe realized that she was being an idiot. “I'll do it.”

Petty frowned at her again.

Oh for God's sake, Chloe thought. I'm trying to be helpful. “I've explored a couple of trails in the state forest over lunch breaks, so my skis are already here. Also, I don't want to ruin the visitor experience by leaving tire tracks on site, but I've been needing to get to the German area anyway. The oven in the Schottler stove isn't heating evenly, so I can ski out and check it.” None of the stoves on the site heated evenly, actually. That's what happened when century-old stoves were pressed back into service. But she doubted that Petty would think that through.

He did not. “Very well, Ms. Ellefson. Coordinate with Stan.”

Score
, Chloe thought. She'd had a horrible weekend, a good friend was freaking out, and Roelke had all but slammed the door on their relationship. A peaceful ski out to Schottler was just what she needed.

From the outside, the Bar didn't look to have changed a bit. Roelke stopped across the street. That hard-to-breathe heat flamed in his chest. God, how many times had he and Rick come here? It was close enough to their district to be convenient, far enough away that most of the neighborhood regulars were not people they'd questioned, arrested, or otherwise annoyed. Sometimes he and Rick blew off steam in a gripe session at the corner table, sometimes they just grabbed a meal. All in all … good times.

Roelke had timed his visit carefully, arriving fifteen minutes before Kip would flip the
Closed
sign to
Open
in the window. He slipped down the alley and let himself in the back door. The tiny kitchen was empty, and he walked quietly to the barroom door. Two women were racking clean glassware behind the bar. A bleach bottle blonde who looked vaguely familiar must have been working here back when. The brunette, who was not familiar, must be a more recent hire. He remembered the beer signs on the walls but not the bowling trophy. Roelke and Rick had played darts in one corner, but in their day, shooting pool in another had not been an option.

Darts were good enough for us, Roelke thought. He did not approve of the changes, which made him feel old—and that did nothing to improve his mood.

A side door opened, and Kip emerged from his office. He stared at Roelke. A slow smile spread across his face. “Officer Roelke McKenna!” he bellowed. “A friend from the past.”

Kip, who owned the Bar, was totally bald, of medium stature, and somewhere in his sixties. He looked harmless, but Roelke had seen him whip a baseball bat from beneath the bar with lightning speed. Command presence. It wasn't all about bulk. “Hey, Kip.”

Kip's smile faded. “Aw, Roelke. Come on into the office. Danielle and Joanie can open up for me.”

Roelke followed the older man into the claustrophobic confines of his workspace. The only writing surface was the top of a two-drawer file cabinet. Ledgers, boxes of envelopes, and other administrative clutter lived on high shelves. Kip opened two wooden folding chairs propped against the wall.

“I'm just sick about Rick Almirez,” Kip said. “I'm sorry, Roelke. You two were tight.”

“We were.” Roelke's voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “That's why I'm here, actually.”

“Yeah?” Kip leaned back in his chair. “Want to have a wake here? Nothing official. Just a chance for his friends to raise a glass in his honor.”

Roelke's throat grew thick. Again. “That's a great idea, Kip.”

“You name the date, and we'll make it happen.”

“Okay. The thing is … I've been trying to piece together what Rick's last duty shift was all about. And there are a couple of things I can't figure. Kip, did Rick ever come in here and drink while he was on duty?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Rick was spotted at a bar a couple of hours before he was shot. Drinking. He missed his mark, even.”

“What bar?”

“The Rusty Nail.”

Kip snorted with scorn. “It didn't happen. Not
any
where, but
especially
not a dive like that.”

“Well, evidently it did. I'll figure out what that was all about, but I've got another question. For a short time Rick was totally off com. No one tried to reach him from the station, but no one saw him on the beat, either.”

“I see.”

“The last person he talked to was his girlfriend. He said he was going to ‘the bar' ”—his tone made clear he was quoting—“as soon as he hung up. He didn't hit any of the taverns on his beat within the next forty-five minutes. I was wondering if he was referring to your place. Did you see him early Saturday morning?”

“No. He didn't come in at all.”

Roelke's feeble hope thudded to the ground. He hadn't realized just how much he'd counted on learning something new here.

Kip rubbed his jaw. “Rick came in only one day last week. Him and Dobry.”

Rick and Dobry? The three of them had come in together a few times, way back when. But Roelke had never imagined Rick and Dobry coming here.

Suddenly he had to get out of there. “Thanks, Kip.”

Kip grabbed his arm. “Roelke. I'm really sorry I couldn't help you.” His eyes were dark with concern. Roelke wondered if there was something else, something Kip wanted to say. But the moment passed. Wishful thinking, Roelke thought.

Back on the street, he shoved his hands into his coat pockets. His long exhale puffed white.
Keep moving,
he told himself.
You've eliminated one possible source of information, so move on to the next.

Trouble was, he couldn't remember what he needed to do next.
Rick
, he thought,
I don't know that I can do this. Nothing is stacking up.

Don't be a dumbass, McKenna.

“I
am
a dumbass,” Roelke muttered quietly. For some reason he thought of Chloe. Then he made himself stop thinking of Chloe.

He walked to a Polish diner that served
pierogi
and strong coffee. Once he'd ordered, he pulled his stack of index cards from his pocket and found his to-do list.

1.
verify Rick was drinking at Rusty Nail
2. check call box history—pattern?
3. FI reports?

Right. He could tackle both of those this afternoon. Getting back to an action plan, and a plate of pork-and-cabbage
pierogi
, gave him new energy. I might be a dumbass, Roelke thought, but I'm a long way from giving up.

Old World Wisconsin was magnificent in any season, and Chloe enjoyed her ski to the Schottler Farm, one of three farms in the German area. The other two were half-timbered structures built by Pomeranian immigrants. While they had much to commend them, they were not cozy. But the Schottler farmhouse, a glorious structure built unabashedly of big logs, had a kitchen with a door that closed. Once she'd built a fire in the stove, the room warmed up nicely. She used the hidden telephone to let Stan know that the trail was fine.

Then she settled in for some quiet time. On a lark, she'd even brought out the ingredients to make
kuchen
, a staple in the Schottler foodways program. After all, she did need to see if the oven heated unevenly.

As it turned out, as long as she turned the pan halfway through baking, the oven worked fine. By early afternoon Chloe was relaxing in the toasty kitchen, eating warm apple
kuchen
(she'd promised to bring some back to Byron if he sacrificed the fruit in his sack lunch), and doodling in the journal she'd tucked into her daypack.

Although she didn't talk about it much, Chloe loved to write. She'd taken creative writing classes in college and had almost finished a historical novel while living in Europe. That chapter of her life had not ended well, and she'd destroyed the typewritten manuscript.

Since starting work at Old World last June, Chloe had scribbled a few poems and even joined a writers' group. And although she hadn't admitted it aloud, she was toying with the idea of a new novel. A historical mystery, actually. She was of Norwegian descent, and in the interest of ploughing fresh ground, she'd decided to write about a German immigrant. So being here, alone, was good for all kinds of reasons.

When the muse subsided and thoughts of Roelke began to intrude, Chloe reached into her daypack again. At the last minute she'd grabbed the files Ariel had given her, cramming them in beside the old plastic butter tubs she'd used to transport flour, milk, and eggs from Byron's stash of foodways program supplies. Time to think about interpretive themes for the mill museum.

Chloe contemplated a morsel of
kuchen
before popping it into her mouth. It's all about flour, she thought. The staff of life. Everyone needs flour, be it baked into moist loaves, rolled into crisp crackers, molded into dumplings dropped into soup—or yes, even formed into
kuchen
. Everyone needs flour.

Eleven
May 1878

I need flour, Magdalena thought. Of all the brutal injustices Polish immigrants left behind, most summarized the reason for leaving their homeland in two words:
Za chlebem
. For bread. And here she was, in the new world, with not even a morsel. So she would go to the mill. But first, chores—hauling the sodden log and planks home, making soup for her boarders.

Magdalena left Frania guarding the planks while she dragged the heavy log away. Snowmelt had come late this year, but soon the river would rise, the Flats would flood, and she and Frania would be forced to camp on the hill for a week or so. But tonight, she could cook knowing that as soon as the log dried, she'd have firewood to last for a while. Her boarders would pay their rent in two days. She'd done laundry for a bachelor neighbor and received a catfish in exchange. She had the occasional egg from her lone chicken. She had a bit of fresh watercress, a few dried peas and barley left, and two wrinkled heads of cabbage she'd packed in a barrel of sand last fall. She had garden seeds ready to plant in the patch behind the cabin. For the moment, she and Frania were safe.

The sun was setting, Magdalena had changed into her other dress, and soup was bubbling on the stove by the time the men came home. She had four boarders, newly arrived Polish men who worked as loaders at the Washburn Mill. Before taking them in, she had explained the situation bluntly: “My daughter and I sleep in the loft. If I hear a footfall on the ladder, I will meet the intruder with a butcher knife. Understood?”

Wide-eyed, the young men had nodded. And she'd never had a bit of trouble.

“Wash up,” she ordered now. The men looked like ghosts. Flour dusted their hair, their skin, their clothes. Tiny balls of sweat-caked flour caught on the hairs along their arms. Once they'd done their best with basin and washrag, she dished up soup. Three of the boarders retired to a bench outside to eat in the fresh air of a spring evening.

Pawel settled at the split-log table near the stove. “Come sit with me, my
kwiatuszek
,” he called to Frania. My little flower.

The little girl climbed onto his lap. When Pawel bounced Frania on his knee, she laughed joyfully.

Magdalena felt a bittersweet ache beneath her ribs. She was used to tending Frania by herself—burdens, blessings, all rolled together. Seeing her daughter with Pawel made her wish …

“More!” Frania crowed.

“You've worn me out!” Pawel protested. “And my soup is getting cold.” Instead of sliding to the earthen floor, Frania leaned against Pawel and let him eat.

“You're good with her,” Magdalena said. The words slipped out before she could weigh the wisdom in speaking.

Pawel ducked his head, cheeks flushed. “I like children.”

Magdalena regarded him. Pawel was a big man with massive shoulders and corded muscles. He spent his twelve-hour shifts rolling 196-pound barrels of flour from the packing machines into train cars. He was part of the Polish Eagles, a six-man crew that usually bested other packing teams when challenged to a race. No one would pick a fight with Pawel.

But unlike some of the other laborers, Pawel had a gentle manner. His face was broad and plain, his hair the color of dried mud, his hands huge. No one would call him handsome, but Magdalena liked him. She thought he liked her. Maybe, she thought, just maybe …

Pawel pulled a rag from his pocket and dabbed at his eyes. “Was the dust bad today?” Magdalena asked. The men often came home with red-rimmed, watering eyes.

“As bad as I've ever seen it,” Pawel admitted. “So thick in the air that I couldn't see my hand at the end of my arm.” He picked a morsel of fish from his soup and handed it to Frania. She accepted eagerly.

“Pawel!” Magdalena protested. “You are kind, but you need—”

“Ah.” He waved her protest aside and smiled at the child. “I have a gift for you and your mother, Frania.” He pulled a piece of pale blue paper from his pocket.

Frania snatched it and beamed at her mother. “Mama!”

Magdalena took the treasure. One side was covered with English writing, but the other was blank. This paper, such a lovely blue, was a rare gift. She looked at Pawel with wonder. “Where did you come across such a piece?”

Pawel shrugged, looking both pleased and embarrassed. “One of the managers tossed it away. And I thought …” He waved his hand toward the delicate paper cuttings pasted on her whitewashed walls. “You do such fine work.”

Magdalena's cheeks grew warm. It was a small thing, really, the
wycinanki
. Years ago her mother had taught her to make intricate designs from tiny snips of paper, patiently layered, just so. Here in Minneapolis it was hard to come by colored paper, but she enjoyed carefully taking her sheep shears to what she could find. Her best piece, a bright spray of flowers with a rooster on each side, hung over the door.

“What shall I make with this, Frania?” she asked.

“A rose!”

“Yes. I shall cut a lovely blue rose.” Magdalena looked at Pawel, about to thank him, but his expression caught her by surprise. “Pawel? You look sad.”

He hitched one shoulder up and down. “I've been thinking of my mother. If she still lives, today is her fortieth birthday.”

“I'll say a prayer for her,” Magdalena offered softly. There weren't enough Polish immigrants here yet to support their own church, but she attended mass with some of the German Catholics. The priest had not—at least so far—lectured her for immoral behavior, as the priest in her village had done.

“What do you miss most about the old country?” Pawel asked.

The question startled her. “I try not to think about the old country,” she said after a moment.

“Sometimes I can't help it. I miss my mother most, I think. And oh—her
pierogi
! I do miss those. She made them for special occasions, stuffed with sauerkraut, or cheese, or mushrooms … all delicious.” Then a look of horror nudged the reminiscent smile from his face. “I do beg your pardon! You provide excellent meals. I did not mean—”

“I know.” Magdalena smiled, but an awkward silence settled over the room. I could make
pierogi
, she thought. I have cabbage. I have eggs. I just need flour.