The Heirloom Murders by Kathleen Ernst

thing, trying to balance work and family.”
    Sabatola gestured toward the mega-monsters on the lawn below. “Those machines represent the future of agriculture. And not just here in the States. The industrialized world needs to find ways to help third-world countries feed their people. AgriFutures is taking a leadership role in tackling world hunger.”
    “Ah,” Roelke said. Usually a helpful prompt.
    “We’re working on a new spring-loaded tiller designed for areas where people are still farming by hand. If one tine strikes a stone or root in the soil, the others continue to work at the correct depth. The main frame will be the strongest in the business, adaptable to a variety of conditions.”
    “I helped out some on my grandparents’ farm when I was a kid,” Roelke said. “We probably could have used one of those.”
    “In most parts of this country, agricultural innovation is an ongoing process. But in many third-world nations, desperate farmers are barely surviving. They don’t have time to evolve gradually. One machine like our new tiller could revolutionize the economy of an entire village.”
    “It sounds exciting,” Roelke said obligingly. “But … how can those struggling farmers afford a new tiller like that?”
    Sabatola waved one hand dismissively. “They can’t directly, of course. But we’re building a strong global network that includes investment companies. We’re partnering with people who have the vision to see the potential rewards inherent in aiding developing nations.”
    “Ah,” Roelke said again.
    Sabatola gestured toward one of the enormous combines below. “Impressive, aren’t they? Those machines have a beauty all their own.”
    Beauty? Now, that was pretentious crap. “Everything is very … big,” Roelke said.
    “Our unofficial motto is ‘Get big or get out.’” A smile briefly softened Sabatola’s face. Then he shoved his hands in his pockets. “Forgive me. It’s just that …” He nodded toward the lawn. “All I have left right now is my work.”
    Roelke wondered what Bonnie’s parents, who had worked the kind of small family farm now being overtaken by factory farms that needed equipment on this scale, had thought of their son-in-law’s line of work. Mr. Burke had likely owned a tractor much like the one Roelke had learned to drive on his grandparents’ farm.
    “I’ll let you get back to work, sir,” Roelke said. “Thank you for your time.”
    _____
    Chloe and Markus reached Old World Wisconsin an hour before the site was due to close. “I know the farmer will be at one of the Finnish farms to milk the cows just after closing,” she told him. “We can walk out.”
    “Let’s loop through the site,” Markus said. In response to her startled look, he shrugged. “I’ve studied maps of the grounds. I’d really like to see the farms.”
    “OK,” she said. “Let’s go.”
    They walked first through the Crossroads Village, where visitors were drinking root beer at the inn, exclaiming over goods in the store, playing croquet, participating in a temperance rally. The interpreters—those underpaid and underappreciated educators who donned period clothing and spent their days interacting with the visitors—kept toddlers from touching hot stoves, positioned their bodies between inquisitive adults and tempting artifacts, gave directions to the public toilets, and dispensed first aid to bee-sting victims. Markus was clearly impressed.
    That bubbled into pure professional joy as they continued on to the German area. “Two fachwerk farmhouses? Your vernacular architecture collection is amazing! That’s a Plymouth Rock chicken? That mower is a reproduction?”
    He had wanted to see the historic site through her eyes. Instead, Chloe was seeing it through his … which reminded her how lucky she was. Few outdoor museums in the country were as large, as well interpreted, as wisely located. Old World Wisconsin’s farms and crossroads village, comprised of