“You have a beautiful voice,” Mabel told her.
Frieda shrugged, but Mabel saw the corners of her lips curl up, pleased.
“I’d love to help. What can I work on?”
Frieda had no compunctions about accepting the assistance and pointed to three yellow onions. “You can cut those into quarter-inch slices, and after that, peel the potatoes in that bin.” Her accent sounded similar to Helga’s, but with a softer tone.
Mabel took an apron off of a hook and tied it around her waist and neck.
“How is it that you can put on such a spread when there is rationing going on?”
The cook leaned against the counter. “Mrs. Koehler survived the Great War, Prohibition, and the Depression. This is no different.”
Though the answer lacked the details Mabel was curious to know, it occurred to her that wealth afforded privileges that were far beyond the common person.
As if reading her mind, Frieda continued. “But there is no person more deserving than Mrs. Koehler to get ahead in a few ways. She has supported more people than you or I could ever imagine. And not only the family. But the whole of San Antonio.”
Perhaps that was the justice in it. And it wasn’t as if Mrs. Koehler hoarded the food for herself. It looked, from the spread in the kitchen, that she would be serving quite a crowd tonight.
For ten minutes, neither woman spoke, focused on their work. Frieda began to hum the song White Christmas, though the holiday had passed a few weeks ago. The weather outside was cold enough to still feel festive. Mabel joined her, humming it in harmony. Then, Frieda moved on to the melody of Silent Night and Mabel followed, two notes lower. Mama had taught her to harmonize everything from Joy to the World to Puttin’ on the Ritz. Music had a way of connecting people, no matter how different their lives or languages.
But there had been no more music in their house after Mama died.
Tears began to gather in Mabel’s eyes, and she wiped them away with her sleeve.
“Zwiebeln! The onions! They are making you cry.” Frieda covered them with a towel and put them aside. She walked over to the sink and washed her hands. “I can finish those later.”
The truth was too painful to share.
“We can boil the eggs for the meatloaf instead,” said Frieda.
Mabel had never had boiled eggs with meatloaf and was eager to see how that came together.
“So you’re writing Frau Koehler’s story?” the cook asked. “For a book?”
Mabel set aside the onions and began to wash the potatoes.
“I don’t really know,” she answered. “I’m taking notes, but she’s not told me what the purpose is.”
Frieda nodded her head. “It’s a good story. Frau Koehler, she is … I think you would say, a remarkable woman?”
“Yes. Exactly. Though she’s only just begun to tell me about when they first moved to San Antonio. It’s my understanding that the truly remarkable things happened after her husband died. Did you know Mr. Koehler?”
She shook her head. “Nein. It was so long ago. Almost thirty years.”
Mabel felt embarrassed by her mistake. Frieda couldn’t be more than forty. She would likely have been a child.
The cook didn’t seem to take any notice, so Mabel continued.
“Did you ever hear any stories about what kind of man he was?”
Frieda took a deep breath, seemingly careful with her words. “I was told he was a good man. And a busy one. He had many, many businesses. But after Frau Koelher’s car accident, he became very different.”
“A car accident?”
“Yes. They were visiting Germany when it happened. There was a brewery that Herr Koehler wanted to visit. Frau Koehler didn’t want to go; she was going to visit with her mother’s sister, but Herr Koehler insisted and she agreed. But in the rain, they slid into a tree. Frau Koehler was quite wounded, as I’ve heard it. Though she was spared the lähmen that would have happened if she’d hurt her spine.”
“Lähmen?” asked Mabel.
Frieda placed twelve eggs into the boiling water and turned down the heat. “Forgive me, sometimes the English words are still difficult. Lähmen—ah, where if her spine had been hurt, she wouldn’t get to walk?”
“Oh, paralyzed?”
Frieda lit up. “Yes! That is the word. Pa-ra-lyzed. The doctors said she was so close. It was a long time before she could walk. Her hip was broken and also her legs. It was two hours before a krankenwagen could get her to a hospital. She lost a good deal of blood, and it’s said that Herr Koehler was quite upset. And very angry with himself.”
“What happened after that?”
“She was in the hospital for many weeks, but her muscles didn’t work because she hadn’t been using them. So she was put in a rolling chair on the ship back to America. Mr. Koehler hired a nurse to care for her. Emma Dumpke was her name at that time, before she married. But it was an unfortunate decision.”
“Why?” Mabel wondered if Mrs. Koehler would ever tell her these details.
“Because Fräulein Dumpke and Herr Koehler had an affair soon after he’d hired her. And in the end, that was the first step that led to his murder.”
.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THERE WERE FIFTEEN people gathered around the table for dinner, though it was set for twenty. Mabel was astounded to learn that what normally fit eight seats could expand into more than double its size. Frieda showed her the secret as they set out the place settings.
“It’s a German design,” she said with pride. “You pull it out like this.” She tugged on one end and as if by magic, leaf after leaf rolled out on perfectly oiled tracks until it stretched to its full length, taking up most of the room.
“Then, you need to set down the legs.” Frieda walked to either end and unlatched a lock that, when undone, released supports that were attached by hinges.
“That is amazing,” said Mabel. Even more so was how it looked after they’d set out the bone China plates and the silverware that Frieda said she polished after every Sunday dinner. Linen napkins in powder blue matching the kitchen door were folded into swans—Frieda showed her the trick to it—and crystal goblets sat ready for the drinks. There were three at each place: one for water, one for red wine, and one for beer.
“Usually, the third would be for the white wine,” the cook explained. “But Frau Koehler orders a batch of the latest brew from Pearl every week and enjoys commenting on quality.”
Mabel bristled. After a lifetime of watching what alcohol had done to her father, she’d avoided even so much as a sip and didn’t want to start now. But how could she avoid offending the family whose very life had been shaped by it? She was already going to be under a great deal of scrutiny.
By six forty-five, the room had filled with strangers who prattled on in their native tongue, none of them giving her more than a sideways glance and air of suspicion. The mirrored buffet against the wall left the impression that there were double the number of people than what had been planned for. Mabel felt distinctly lost, but figured that it was to her advantage. Maybe she could pour the drinks into a nearby plant without anyone noticing.
Helga entered with the matriarch on her arm. Mrs. Koehler’s steps were feeble but determined and her expression held its usual formidable shape. There was no doubt that she was the strongest person in the room: in will, if not in body.
She had to be. Frieda said that Mrs. Koehler never showed up to Sunday dinner in her wheelchair.
“Stoppen,” she said, holding up the hand that was not hanging onto Helga. Everyone quieted at the sound of her voice. “I want to introduce you all to Miss Mabel Hartley of Baltimore, who will be my guest here for awhile. I expect you all to make her welcome and to speak in English so as to not make her feel left out.”
Fourteen sets of eyes turned toward Mabel. Only Frieda did not look her way, but she was flitting back and forth, setting out small bowls of lemon wedges at every third seat.
Mabel could t
ell that Mrs. Koehler’s assessment of her family was exactly right. The young men smiled at her, the young women groused. The older ones glared at her with the piercing suspicion that the old woman had anticipated. Mabel hoped that she would be seated in the corner by the kitchen, where she could slip in and out after Frieda and be of some use. Anything to escape the quiet judgment they’d already placed on her.
But to her chagrin, Helga escorted Mrs. Koehler to an empty chair at the head of the table, and in turn, Mrs. Koehler gestured for Mabel to come join her to her left. Mabel flexed her hands back and forth into a fist, hidden in a pocket. She took a breath that she hoped was unnoticeable and took her place.
The chair to her left was empty.
“Where is Bernard?” she asked to no one in particular. Her voice was weary, but determined.
Mabel wondered if that was the nephew she’d spoken of. Because even among the few young men gathered around the table, there was not one that she could imagine Mrs. Koehler feeling a particular affection for.
A stunning woman at the opposite end of the table spoke up. “He sent over a message earlier saying that there was a problem with the temperature control at Pearl and he hopes to make it by dessert.”
Mrs. Koehler pursed her lips. “Just like Otto,” she said under her breath. But Mabel heard the disappointment in her voice. Her hostess leaned over. “That is Ernestina. She’s a sharp one. A distant cousin on my late husband’s side. One of the ones who would have you for lunch if she could. But to your face, she’ll be sweet as pie.”
Already, Mabel felt intimidated, but if she was going to make a success of this, she needed to have the wherewithal to speak up and learn all she could. She reminded herself to use Mrs. Koehler’s given name, as she’d been instructed. “It would help me so much, Emma, if you could give me some hint as to whom I should befriend and whom I should avoid.”
Mrs. Koehler’s finger shook as she lifted it to eye level and answered. “I’m not suggesting that you avoid any of them. They are all intriguing in their own ways. But it’s best to know who to trust and who to be cautious with. See that one there?”
She pointed, discreetly, to a couple at the other end of the table. “The man with the mustache and the receding hairline is my nephew, Otto. Otto A., we call him, for Andrew, in order to distinguish him from my Otto. He oversees the brewery now. He’s the son of my late husband’s twin, Karl. The woman next to him with the long jaw and thin mouth is his wife, Marcia. Until recently, she excused herself from our Sunday dinners, citing her philanthropic duties. But now that my health is failing, she shows up, all smiles. She’s already redecorating this house, room by room. In her imagination, at least. She has it in her head that they are the natural heirs to the mansion. “And,” she leaned in closer, “they’re right. But it’s a great deal of fun to keep her guessing.”
Mabel grinned at her hostess. Though she’d seen signs of senility in the past few days, Mrs. Koehler was, at most times, completely sharp.
The meal was splendid, course after course. Frieda had outdone herself: garlic soup, meatloaf, Wiener schnitzel, turkey. Mabel could not believe that they ate like this every Sunday evening! She thought again of her father. How he would have loved it all. She vowed to ask Frieda for the recipes and, whenever she returned to Baltimore, try to entice him home with recreating them. Maybe by then, Buck would have been found alive. They could have a family dinner like they all used to do, or something as close to it as they could given that two were gone. Looking around the table, she remembered how very important that was.
Frieda entered with a steaming plate of hot cookies and a tub of vanilla ice cream. Mabel could smell the molasses and her mouth began to water. She waited until everyone had been served and took her first bite. The sweetness of the powdered sugar on top hit her tongue first, a prelude to the rich taste of the dessert.
“Ah! I got here in time for my favorite—Frieda’s pfeffernüsse cookies.”
Mabel had not heard anyone come in, but she looked up when he spoke.
It couldn’t be! There stood Erik, the man from the empty pool in San Pedro Park.
His eyes, brilliant blue even in this dim light, found hers right away, and it was only then that she realized that some of the powdered sugar had landed on her chin. She took the napkin from her lap and wiped it away, teetering her water goblet when her elbow hit it. But she steadied it before it could spill.
If he was as surprised to see her as she was him, he didn’t show it. Or maybe he didn’t remember.
“Ah, Bernard,” said Mrs. Koehler in as soft a voice as Mabel had ever heard. The old woman tried to push herself up from the table, but in two strides, he came to her side and placed his hands on her shoulders to keep her seated.
He kissed her cheek. “Auntie Emma, you’re looking especially beautiful today.”
“I’ve told you to see the doctor about your eyes, my boy.” But the pride in her smile was unmistakable.
Mabel was certain that he’d introduced himself as Erik, which only added to the confusion of what his connection was here. He’d also said he worked at the Little Theater, but Ernestina had announced that he was coming from the brewery.
Mabel was glad that this dessert course was the last and that he’d only arrived. She hoped for a chance to talk to him afterwards and get some answers, but if she’d had to sit through a whole dinner wondering, she feared she would have lost her mind.
Mrs. Koehler gave an introduction, but it did nothing to answer Mabel’s questions, nor did it hint at anything Bernard—Erik—had told her.
“There’s a place for you right there,” the old woman told him, pointing to the empty chair next to Mabel. There was an impish look in her eyes and Mabel could see the familial similarities between them.
“This is my nephew, Bernard Garrels,” she said. “He’s the only one in this bunch who is related to me on my mother’s side. The rest are either Bentzens like my father or Koehlers like my husband. Or branches off those. And, in truth, he’s a cousin, but everyone else calls me Aunt, so it seemed fitting.”
Garrels. Yes, he’d used that name at the park.
“You make me blush, Auntie,” he said, grinning. “Getting promoted to nephew like that.”
She wagged a finger at him playfully. “You deserve it, my boy.”
To Mabel, she leaned in and said, “There’s not a harder worker at Pearl than this one.”
Mabel forced herself to look to her left. She set her hands in her lap, gripping them together to keep them from giving away her nervousness. She didn’t want him to know that being so close to him had that kind of effect on her and barely wanted to acknowledge it to herself.
“And are you going to tell me who your lovely guest is?” he asked Mrs. Koehler. “Wait—I want to guess. If I’m right, I get a second pfeffernüsse. Seems fair, wouldn’t you say?”
Mrs. Koehler sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. “Oh, you’re a wily one. Five dollars says you’ll never get it.”
“Never mind the five dollars. Frieda’s cookies are worth way more than that. And you know I don’t make wagers.”
He turned to Mabel, the silly game an excuse for him to look her over again, this time in much closer proximity then when they’d been at the empty pool. She could smell on him something like the description of the hops that Mrs. Koehler had spoken of in reference to her husband. It was pleasant: somewhat sweet. It distracted her from feeling as jittery as she had when he’d walked in. She sat up straighter as he began guessing.
“You seem like the wholesome type,” he quipped, rubbing his chin. Mabel became keenly aware that the table had quieted again and all eyes were on this interaction.
“So,” he continued, “I’m going to guess Mary. I’ve never met a Mary who wasn’t a very nice girl.”
Mrs. Koehler laughed. “You’re not so far off. That’s a good start.”
He switched hands and rubbed his chin with the other. He grinned at Mabel, the smile reaching his
eyes. He was enjoying this and she felt heat in her stomach rise to her cheeks.
“So I’m close with Mary. Ma– Ma– Ma, how about Margaret? It’s a solid name. A sturdy name. A dependable name.”
He emphasized dependable and furrowed his eyebrows as he said it. Mabel found herself mirroring his expression unintentionally. It was not exactly every girl’s dream to be called “sturdy” and “dependable”. He’d done that on purpose, maybe to get a rise out of her.
Mabel could see Mrs. Koehler looking back and forth between them. Surely she was picking up on the unusual nature of this conversation. She spoke again. “You’re still close, Bernard. Quite close. Almost as if you already knew. “
Exactly. Nothing got past her.
“Are you calling me a cheater, Auntie Emma?”
“I’m calling you nothing of the sort. It’s just uncanny that you’re so near the target.”
“Well, that’s a pretty big hint and if I get this right, I’m not going to feel like I earned a cookie, but a deal’s a deal, so I’ll keep going.”
He looked at Mabel again, his eyes getting slim as he appeared to really concentrate. He was so believable that Mabel began to doubt herself. It even crossed her mind that he could be an identical twin of Erik’s instead of the man she’d met, so convincing was he. They ran in the family.
“I think I’ve got it!” He announced. “In fact, I’m sure of it. Your name is—Mathilda.”
Mathilda! It sounded even sturdier than Margaret.
Mrs. Koehler let out a robust laugh. “You were so close. So close. You had me believing that you actually knew. In fact, her name is Mabel Hartley. Of Baltimore. She’s a writer who has come to help me record my story.”
Bernard—Erik—had looked at his aunt, but at this, his head snapped back toward Mabel.
He put out his hand to shake hers, and Mabel obliged. The touch of his skin on hers, this time without the impediment of gloves, made her feel dizzy and she wondered if the racing of her pulse could be felt by him. She hoped not. It would be the height of embarrassment.
The First Emma Page 8