A Song of Joy
Page 2
Nilda looked at the woman beside her. This was something new, or at least she’d never known of it.
Heinrik shot his sister a questioning look but did as she requested. “God and Father of us all, we thank you for the great success you have given our companies, for wisdom now as we traverse the morass of today’s business world. As our father always said, please show us the way to go and help us to remember who is indeed in charge in this country and world. Amen.”
“Would that we believed and lived that all. Thank you.” Mrs. Schoenleber smiled around the table, her white hair catching the light from overhead. “Are there any questions before we begin?”
The meeting continued as had all the other meetings with one new and jarring element: the constant CLICK CLACK of Mr. Jurgenson’s typewriter.
Heinrik spent twenty minutes on his overall report. Jacob closed his report with “We still have a few years, but we are running out of timber in Minnesota. There are still pine forests in other states, such as western Montana and northern Idaho, but they are remote. Shipping costs money.”
Jonathon nodded. “We ship more than just logs and lumber, but that is a significant part of our profit.”
At the end of day, Mrs. Schoenleber stood. “The size of this corporation has grown far beyond the scope of anything we or our father ever envisioned. It would be easy to rest on our laurels, but we must not. Nor must we neglect the charity that was our father’s primary aim. Everyone is dismissed.”
Everyone gathered their papers and prepared to leave, general conversations raising a hubbub in the boardroom and down the halls. Mrs. Schoenleber turned to Nilda, started to say something, then turned back when someone asked her a question.
“Will you be joining us for supper at the club tonight?” Jacob asked.
“You mean they are allowing women entrance now?” Mrs. Schoenleber asked.
“Oh, yes, they are quite progressive. There is one dining room set apart for couples.”
“Well, thank you for the offer, but I prefer a quiet supper after a long day like today. Will you be joining us at the symphony tomorrow night?”
He shook his head. “The symphony is just—just . . .”
“You mean you’d rather sleep in your bed at home?”
He nodded and leaned closer. “But don’t go telling Heinrik. He thinks everyone enjoys classical music like he does. Now, if there were dancing at the same time, we would be there.”
The next evening, as the maids assisted them in dressing and styling their hair, Nilda asked, “Why do I have a feeling that there is something deeper going on here than attending the symphony? After all, they’ve never invited us before.”
“They used to. When I was younger and enjoyed attending music and theater and such events. But I stopped going a few years ago.” Mrs. Schoenleber stared into the mirror, nodding slowly. “I have a suspicion you might be right, but we will follow along, innocent as lambs, until we know what is behind it. Have you been to a symphony before?”
“No, but I love to listen to Fritz play both the piano and the organ. I’m looking forward to hearing and learning more.”
“Another good experience for you. And I do enjoy it too.” She stood and thanked the maid. “We will return late, so we will expect your help then.”
“Of course, ma’am. Can I get you anything else?” A knock at the door called her away.
“They are here,” Mrs. Schoenleber said.
A young man bowed in the hallway. “Your driver is downstairs waiting for you.”
“Thank you.”
The maid helped them into their wraps and saw them out the door.
Mrs. Schoenleber settled herself in the cab. “Hmm. I assumed Jeffrey would come for us.”
Nilda shrugged. While Jeffrey seemed an intelligent and charming young man, she’d much rather have attended with Fritz.
The thought stopped her. Now, that was a surprise.
As they descended from the cab, it appeared to Nilda that thousands of people were here for the concert, but it was probably only hundreds. Mrs. Schoenleber spoke to an usher, and he led them to their seats. Heinrik and Jeffrey were there already. They stood as Mrs. Schoenleber and Nilda sat down between them.
Nilda found herself next to Jeffrey. He said excitedly, “I’m glad you came. I bet this is your first symphony concert.”
“It is, yes.”
“They’re playing Beethoven, you know.”
She consulted the program the usher had given her. “So I see.” Jeffrey pronounced it as Fritz had; you would think the name would be pronounced Beeth Oven.
She turned her attention to the huge concert hall. The seats were all of dark red velvet. And look at the intricate and interwoven designs on the domed ceiling! Everything from leaves and grapes to a few cherubs here and there protruded in three dimensions. That could not all have been carved; it must have been plaster. The orchestra members were taking their places on a large stage, scraping chairs around and playing odd bits of music. This was the new word Nilda had recently learned: cacophony.
The electric lights dimmed. Electric lights! Would Rune’s farm ever have electric lights one day? Now that would be real progress!
When one of the violinists stepped up on a riser and turned his back to the audience, the orchestra hushed. From the rear, an instrument played a single wailing note. All the violinists played that note. The man on the riser looked around, nodded, and sat down.
An august gentleman in formal attire came out onto the stage. The audience applauded enthusiastically. Why? He hadn’t done anything yet. He stepped up on the riser, bowed deeply, turned his back, and raised his arms. One hand held a small, thin stick. He brought his arms down sharply.
Da-da-da DUMMMM!
Nilda jumped a tiny bit in surprise. But then the second da-da-da-dum and the music that followed swept her away. This was amazing. And loud. Brilliant. Indescribable! There were too many voices in the orchestra to keep track of them all. She could not begin to analyze how all this could blend together so perfectly, so she simply sat back and let herself be lost in the beautiful music. The piece ended, but no one clapped. She glanced at Mrs. Schoenleber, who sat serenely.
The orchestra began again with another theme. How long did she sit here? She had no idea. She knew only that she was surrounded by something absolutely new and absolutely wonderful.
The ending was thunderous. The audience clapped wildly, and voices all around her shouted strange new words: “Bravo!” and “Encore!”
Jeffrey sounded bored. How could he be bored after that? “Oh, I do hope they don’t play the William Tell Overture again. That piece is becoming so dreary.”
The man on the riser announced, “William Tell Overture, Rossini,” and turned his back again. The music began quietly, reminding Nilda somehow of farm country, with birds singing. Then it pepped up.
“Here we go again,” Jeffrey grumped.
Now it was a galloping piece with lots of triplets. Fritz had tried to teach her the proper way to play triplets, but she was not good at it, her fingers not fast enough. This orchestra was perfect with triplets! Oh, how she loved this! Finally she was allowed to clap as the audience again burst into applause.
Mrs. Schoenleber looked as pleased as Nilda felt. “It has been far too long since I enjoyed an evening of music this splendid. Nilda, we must come to these concerts more often.”
“Oh, I would love to!”
Heinrik smiled broadly. “So, what did you think?”
Jeffrey sniffed. He didn’t look nearly as pleased as Mrs. Schoenleber and Nilda. In fact, he looked tired. “All right, I suppose. But the brass seemed a bit behind the beat, and I heard the woodwinds go off-key in the third movement. Of course, I’ve never much liked the woodwinds anyway, oboes especially. Too whiny.”
Nilda stared at him. “If you find this so wearying, why do you come?”
“It’s the thing to do, of course. At our level of society, everyone goes to the symphony.”
Chapter
2
Welcome home.” Charles opened the carriage door, and Nilda stepped out into the front yard of the Schoenleber house. Behind her, Mrs. Schoenleber descended from the carriage.
Nilda drew a deep breath. “Ah, it is so good to be back. The city is exciting, but I much prefer less excitement and more natural beauty.”
Mrs. Schoenleber grinned broadly. “Wonderful! That was a complex thought, and you articulated it well in English. Nilda, you have come very far indeed. And incidentally, I agree with you. This is a much better place to call home than is St. Paul.”
Charles cleared his throat. “Ah, madam, you have a guest awaiting you in the parlor. The gentleman is a detective employed by the Pinkerton National Detective Agency.”
Mrs. Schoenleber frowned at Nilda, but Nilda knew the frown was not because of her. “I do hope he was not sent by Schmitz Enterprises.” She squared her shoulders. “Let us go see.”
Detective agency? One of Nilda’s assignments from Miss Walstead, who was tutoring her in English, was to read every article in the English-language newspaper. As much as she could remember, the Pinkerton National Detective Agency mainly worked for large companies, quelling labor strikes and arresting people who tried to start unions. Did this mean that Schmitz Enterprises was having labor trouble?
Mrs. Schoenleber marched to the house. “Charles, we will receive the gentleman in five minutes. We will freshen up first. It is a long journey under the best of circumstances.”
“Yes, madam. I will tell him.”
Nilda followed Mrs. Schoenleber upstairs and went to her room. She handed Gilda her hat and wool cape, took advantage of the facilities, and returned downstairs. She followed Mrs. Schoenleber into the parlor.
The Pinkerton detective was a tall, solidly built man. He was not fat by any means, but stocky. How old was he? Thirty? About so. He was sitting by the fireplace. He set his teacup aside and leapt to his feet as the women entered the room. “Mrs. Gertrude Schoenleber?”
“I am. This is my assistant, Nilda Carlson.”
Nilda nodded to him. “How do you do, sir.”
“Miss Carlson.” He gave a slight bow.
“Do be seated.” Mrs. Schoenleber sat down in her favorite chair near the fireplace, so Nilda took her usual straight-backed chair nearby.
“Thank you.” He paused to show Mrs. Schoenleber an official-looking silver badge before he sat down. “My name is Crawford Galt, and I am employed by the Pinkerton agency. You may have heard of us.”
“I have. Yours is a private law enforcement agency and is known as a union buster. Let us get right to it. Is this conversation regarding Schmitz Enterprises?”
“No, it is not. In fact, I would greatly prefer that Miss Carlson not be present. This is a private matter.”
What should Nilda do?
Mrs. Schoenleber just sat for a moment. Then she said, “Very well, as you wish. Nilda, go tend to your duties in the alcove.”
The alcove? And then Nilda realized what Mrs. Schoenleber was saying. She hopped up. “Yes, ma’am.”
She left through the big doors, closing them behind her, and quickly turned the corner into the alcove beside the parlor. Here was the dumbwaiter, the vertical shaft used to transfer things from floor to floor. She opened the square, waist-high door. On the opposite side of it was a similar door, closed, that served the parlor. With this door open, she could hear everything that was said in the parlor! She leaned into the shaft, listening.
Mr. Galt was speaking. “I understand you were acquainted with a young man named Dreng Nygaard.”
Nilda almost cried out. She clapped her hands over her mouth. She must not make a sound, or Mr. Galt would hear her and realize she was listening.
Mrs. Schoenleber said, “Yes. There are very few opportunities here in Blackduck for young people to become acquainted and socialize, so I conduct a social each month. Mr. Nygaard was a guest.”
“The Pinkerton agency has been retained to look into the matter of his untimely death. I would like to ask you some questions.”
Nilda’s heart thumped. Everyone told her that she had not caused Dreng’s death, but what if this detective found reason to accuse her? What if he decided that she actually was responsible?
“The local sheriff, Daniel Gruber—who is fully competent, I might add—undertook a careful investigation of Mr. Nygaard’s death. I recommend you talk to him.”
Mr. Galt replied, “I already have. I understand that Miss Carlson, the assistant who just left, also knew Mr. Nygaard.”
“That is true. They emigrated from the same town in Norway and were acquainted.”
“How well acquainted?”
Nilda thought that Mrs. Schoenleber’s voice hardened. “I have no idea, nor have I ever inquired. Other than our gatherings, I never saw them in each other’s company on a social basis, nor did Mr. Nygaard ever come calling on a social basis.”
“Miss Carlson is an attractive young woman. I trust she is well chaperoned.”
If Mrs. Schoenleber’s voice was hard before, now it was stony. “She has proven herself to be a responsible adult in no need of chaperoning. Never have I—nor has anyone else—seen her engage in even the most innocent of flirtations. In the language of the local farmers, Mr. Galt, Miss Carlson tends to her own chickens.”
Behind her, Charles was coming down the hall. Nilda stood erect and made shushing motions, her finger to her lips.
Charles paused and frowned. He must have caught on, because he turned away from her and opened the big doors. Nilda heard him ask, “Is there anything I may bring you?”
Mr. Galt asked, “You are the majordomo, is that correct?”
“That is correct, sir.”
Mr. Galt said, “Mrs. Schoenleber, I wish to interview this man regarding the matter at hand.”
“You may do so.”
“Miss Carlson and the hostler as well.”
“For the complete picture, you have my permission to interview the downstairs maid and the cook also, who are both privy to the situation. Miss Carlson, however . . .” She paused. “Either Charles or I will be present any time that you interview Miss Carlson.”
“Oh?” Mr. Galt’s voice sounded instantly suspicious.
“Miss Carlson had a very difficult time in the aftermath of the matter at hand; the circumstances of Mr. Nygaard’s death caused nightmares and intense, intrusive memories. She needs emotional support.”
“I see.”
Mrs. Schoenleber suggested, “If you need nothing more from me, perhaps you ought to sit down with Charles here and complete that little chore on your list of conversations. I will leave the two of you alone.”
After a moment, the big doors opened and she emerged. The doors closed. To follow her or continue listening? Nilda followed her. They went straight to the kitchen, and Mrs. Schoenleber plopped down at the kitchen table. Nilda sat beside her.
“Verna, tea.” Mrs. Schoenleber was obviously furious. The anger poured out of her. She kept her voice tight, controlled. “You did listen, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What do you make of it?”
Nilda licked her lips. “I don’t know, ma’am. The sheriff said the case was closed. Why would this Mr. Galt come?”
“You knew the Nygaards in Norway and told me about them, the missus in particular. I am thinking that perhaps Dreng’s parents, most likely the mother, engaged the detective agency. After all, we are merely a small, backwater town in a rural area. Surely the local investigation was superficial at best. Incompetently done.”
Nilda had to think a moment, translating the words Mrs. Schoenleber used. “It was not! Sheriff Gruber w
as very thorough. Oh, wait. I see what you are saying.”
Cook set cups, saucers, tea dishes, and a pot of tea by Mrs. Schoenleber and then poured.
Mrs. Schoenleber sat quietly, studying nothing at all. Then she said, “The facts are on record, and there is nothing to hide. We will remain candid with this Mr. Galt but volunteer nothing. Answer only the questions asked.”
Cook brought a plate of maple-syrup rolls and set it between them, but Nilda was too upset to eat one.
They sat in silence. Charles returned and sent the cook to the parlor.
Mrs. Schoenleber waved a hand. “Join us.”
“Thank you, madam.” Charles brought a cup and sat down across from Nilda.
“Have you any insights?”
He grimaced. “I asked a few questions of my own. From his answers and the general tenor of his questioning, I’d suggest that our friend in there is certain that some horrific crime is being carefully covered up. Whoever hired him gave him incomplete information and an incorrect description of what occurred.”
“In short, he is looking for trouble.”
“I believe so. Was that your impression also?” Charles seemed angry too, but not so angry that he didn’t take a maple-syrup roll. He poured himself tea.
“Yes. His whole approach suggests that Dreng’s family in Norway sent the Pinkerton agency out here.”
Nilda thought about this. What a terrible thing to come home to. A person trying to dig up dirt that wasn’t there. “What if he . . .” She could not think of an English word for it. “What if he comes to a, uh, wrong decision? If he hears things and reads them wrongly. Is ‘read’ the right word?”
“It is. Very good.” Mrs. Schoenleber almost smiled. She picked up a roll.
Charles almost smiled too. “Miss Carlson, your English is coming along very well. I suggest the phrasing you seek is ‘come to the wrong conclusion’ or ‘misconstrue the evidence.’ It could well happen. He is not investigating this with an open mind.”
“An open mind?” Nilda thought she understood but she wasn’t certain.
“From his approach and the questions he is asking, I perceive that he has already made up his mind; he is not very open to evidence that would prove false the case he invented.”