Old World Murder (2010) (11 page)

Libby shrugged. “The way you put your hand over your stomach when Therese was here. The look in your eyes. My best friend lost a baby at eleven weeks. She still gets that same look.”

“I had a miscarriage last July. The baby was nine weeks.”

“I’m really sorry. My friend miscarried over a year ago, and she’s still grieving.”

“I’m not grieving.” Chloe felt her cheeks flush. “I mean—I didn’t even know I was pregnant until I had the miscarriage. You can’t mourn a baby you didn’t know you had.”

Justin and Roelke trooped onto the patio. Chloe was grateful for the interruption. Ethan was the only person in North America who knew about her miscarriage. It was over and done.

“Hey, mom! Is supper ready?”

“Just about.” Libby got up to check the kabobs.

Roelke nudged the boy with his knee. Justin looked annoyed, but rattled what was obviously expected: “Mom-I’m-sorry-I-made-a-bad-choice-this-afternoon.”

“Thanks, buddy.” Libby ruffled his hair. “Go wash up.”

____

Libby had marinated the kabobs in an apricot-curry sauce, and she pulled the skewers of portabella mushrooms and peppers from the glowing coals at exactly the right moment. A course of grilled pineapple and pound cake topped off the meal.

Justin behaved well as they ate, and Libby rewarded him by suggesting a walk to the local frozen custard stand. Chloe treated everyone to a cone, and felt at least somewhat absolved for arriving empty-handed.

Then Roelke and Chloe said their goodbyes.

“Thank you,” she told Libby. “I can’t remember the last time I ate so well.”

“Come back any time, with or without this guy. And listen, I get together once a month with a couple of other writers. We pretend to critique each others’ work, but mostly we just drink wine and bitch about the industry. You’d be welcome to join us.”

Chloe blinked, absurdly touched. She had missed being in a critique group; had even looked for one when she moved to North Dakota. But being in a crit group meant writing, which seemed as impossible as tap-dancing on the moon, just now. “Thanks,” she said again. “I’ll let you know.”

Roelke didn’t speak as they drove south toward La Grange. “I like your cousin,” Chloe said.

“Me too,” he said simply. “And she’s had a hard time of it. Her ex is an ass of the first order.”

“That must make it tough, with the kids so young.”

His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Yeah.”

“You’re obviously a big help with Justin.” Was that an OK comment to make? Or too personal? Chloe looked out the window.

“I’d be happy if Justin never saw his dad again, but Dan has custody every other weekend.” Roelke slowed to pass two bikers, then accelerated again. Then he asked, “Did you ever talk with an expert about that ale bowl?”

“I talked to my mother.” Chloe flushed again. “She knows a lot about rosemaling, past and present.”

“Anything interesting come of that?”

Chloe shrugged. “Not really.”

Roelke slowed the truck as he approached her driveway. “And you still don’t know who might have known about that antique.”

She shook her head. “Nope.”

“So, is that the end of it?” He parked the truck and turned to look at her.

“Well, I asked my mother to do a little genealogical research on Mrs. Lundquist’s family. I only know her married name, so she’ll have to track back to the wedding records. But who knows? Maybe when she gets far enough in she’ll turn up some tidbit that will suggest something.” Chloe spread her hands. “I’m going to keep looking for that piece, and for whatever it was that made that poor old lady so desperate to get it back.”

“Why?” His tone was quiet, but his gaze was piercing.

Chloe stared at her landlord, cutting hay in the field across the road. “Because I owe Mrs. Lundquist that much.”

Roelke pulled his wallet from a pocket, extracted a business card, and scribbled something on it. “Here. Call me if you find anything new. This one has my home phone.”

Chloe accepted the card. “Well … thanks again. I really enjoyed meeting Libby and the kids.” She put her hand on the door handle.

“My schedule is irregular, but would you like to go out again sometime? Maybe listen to some music?”

Chloe felt a spasm of panic. Then a flicker of hope. It would be good, really good, to go hear live music. “I know a great bluegrass place near Fort Atkinson.”

“Bluegrass?” Roelke’s expression implied she had suggested listening to a fingernails-on-chalkboard band. “How about jazz?”

“Southern rock?”

“Blues?”

They stared at each other. Chloe didn’t know whether their standoff was funny or sad. “Thank you,” she said finally, “but I don’t think this is going to work.”

____

Well hell, Roelke thought, as he drove away from Chloe’s house. Maybe he should have given the bluegrass place a try. But what would be the point? He hated twangy music. Always had.

So. Maybe he should just forget all about Chloe Ellefson.

If only there wasn’t that—that
something
about her. Something that made his stomach muscles tighten. Something that made him see her behind his eyelids when he went to bed at night. Something that made him want to stand between her and all the trouble in the world. Something that made him yearn to make her laugh, to say something to bring that rarely-seen spark of heartfelt enthusiasm in her blue eyes. Something that made him want to twine his fingers in that incredible yellow hair, and to trace the hollows in her cheeks ….

The truck lurched as the right wheels fell from the road to the gravel shoulder. “Jesus!” Roelke yelped, jerking the vehicle back into the lane. He gave the mirror a quick glance, relieved to see empty road behind him. No witnesses to his erratic driving. That kind of thing could bite a cop in the butt.

When he got back to Palmyra he swerved onto a side road instead of heading to his own apartment. Two minutes later he parked beside the town’s tiny municipal airport. He got out of his truck and leaned against the hood, feeling the sun and breeze on his face, feeling his nerves settle. He’d flown in and out of Palmyra a couple of times when he’d been working on his pilot’s license, practicing take-offs and landings as he hopped between airstrips within a quick flight’s distance of Milwaukee’s Timmerman. The runway here was turf. There was something elemental and immensely satisfying about landing on a grass strip.

The field was quiet at the moment, but a couple of planes were tied down near the hangar. One was a bright yellow Piper Cub. A sweet little canvas-topped tail-dragger.

Roelke wanted it, bad.

He’d been saving money to buy a plane for a long time. He’d gotten some after his parents died; the rest he’d tucked away himself. He didn’t earn a lot of money as a cop—especially in Eagle, when he couldn’t even count on forty hours a week. But he lived simply, didn’t spend a lot, and picked up extra shifts whenever he could. It added up. For a while he’d lusted after a Cessna Cardinal, one of the prettiest planes ever built. They were much more expensive, though, unless he wanted to buy a share. But a Piper … he probably had enough money in the bank to start looking around for one.

Roelke couldn’t remember when he hadn’t wanted a plane. The dream may have been born when, as a very young boy, he’d watched old World War II movies of pilots soaring, shooting, almost single-handedly winning the war. Or it may have been born one particular September day when he was a few years older, and his father’s temper had driven Roelke outside. He remembered sitting against the side of the house, watching an airplane cross the sky and thinking,
That’s
what I want. That had probably happened not long before his mother took him to her parents’ farm for good… .

As the image of the tired old family farm popped into his head Roelke folded his arms and sighed. He wanted a plane. But inexplicably, stupidly, he wanted the farm, too.

He pressed one knuckle against his forehead, willing away the memories of his ancestors working those acres. He hated farming. He loved flying. Farms were dead weight. Planes were freedom. It should be simple.

It wasn’t.

What would Chloe think? Despite its current decrepit condition, she’d surely like the farm. That’s what she did, right? Look at old stuff and see its value? An ale bowl, a farmhouse, it was likely much the same. But did she like to fly? He didn’t know. And whether he ever owned a plane or not, the sheer joy of
flight
was part of who he was.

Roelke shook his head in disgust. As if it mattered. He and Chloe Ellefson seemed incapable of easy conversation, much less anything more.

He gave the Cub one last look. Then he got back into his truck and drove home.

Chloe spent much of
Monday sitting at the picnic table in the restoration area, reading about the site buildings so she had at least a vague clue about how she could help the interpreters do their jobs. Chloe would be making presentations to the summer interpreters in each of Old World Wisconsin’s areas—the Crossroads Village, German, Norwegian, and Finn-Dane.

She was reading about a Finnish family that afternoon when a shadow fell across the page. Chloe looked up to see Stanley Colontuono standing by the table. The maintenance chief wore snakeskin cowboy boots today with his tan pants and work shirt.

Chloe closed the research report. “Hey, Stan. You need the table?”

“Naw.” He waved a generous hand:
You may stay
. “I just saw you sitting here all day and figured you must be getting lonely.”

“Well … not really. I’m catching up on the research reports for each exhibit.”

“You want to go out sometime?”

“I—what?” she stammered inelegantly. She got to her feet.

“You and me.” Stan gave her a grin that might have been wicked if she didn’t keep flashing on the image of a marionette dangling in Buffalo Bob’s capable hands. “We could stop for a drink at Sasso’s one night after work.”

“I don’t think so, Stan,” Chloe said, as pleasantly as possible. “Thanks anyway.”

For a split second, the confident leer on Stan’s face wavered. Then he gave an exaggerated shrug. “Sure thing, doll,” he said, with a smile that made Chloe’s knee long to make contact with his nether regions. “Oops. I mean,
ma’am
. I guess some women like being lonely. My mistake.” He walked away, climbed into his truck, and roared off.

Chloe leaned her butt against the table. How would her refusal to visit Doodyville impact any help she might need from the maintenance department?

Then Nika’s Chevette rattled through the gate and parked near the trailers. Nika emerged and walked toward Chloe with lithe grace, looking especially trim in snug jeans and a tailored black blouse. Nika had pulled her cornrow braids back and secured them behind her neck with a vibrant green ribbon. They’d made a date to move the textile collection from the storage trailers to the church basement as soon as the site closed that day.

“What’s up?” Nika asked.

Chloe gave herself a mental shake. “Just waiting for you.”

“Look at that.” Nika scowled at one of the maintenance vehicles, evidently parked for the night on the far side of the lot. “I asked Stanley if we could borrow a truck, and he said nothing was available.”

“Stanley is a jackass,” Chloe said. “Never mind. We can get it done. It’ll just take a lot of trips.” Neither her old Pinto nor Nika’s old Chevette had much cargo capacity.

Nika waved that away. “No, my fiancé is meeting us here to give us a hand. His car’s got a big trunk. It just pisses me off that Stanley wouldn’t help.”

Chloe and Nika were hauling boxes of textiles outside when a gleaming silver Eldorado pulled into the parking lot. A genuine smile softened Nika’s face as she went to greet the young white man who got out. He was thin, almost gangly, and stood a head taller than Nika. He framed her face with both hands, his face glowing, before leaning down for a long kiss. Chloe turned away and fumbled with a bag of quilts.

Then Nika led the young man forward. “This is my fiancé, Joel Carlisle.”

Joel wore horn-rimmed glasses and a Chicago Bears cap. Chloe wondered what punched the most hot buttons in rural Wisconsin: dating a black woman, driving a Cadillac, or rooting for the Bears. “You’re a life saver,” Chloe told him.

“No problem.” Joel shrugged. “I know Nika’s eager to make progress with the textiles.” The pride in his smile twisted Chloe’s heart.

It took several trips, but the three of them got all of the textiles transported to the new storage area before dusk. “Well, it’s a start,” Chloe observed, wiping grubby palms on the seat of her pants. Boxes and bags of quilts and bonnets, blouses and tablecloths, were piled on Nika’s table.

Joel looked at his fiancé. “You’ve got your work cut out for you.”

“Yes I do,” Nika agreed placidly.

At least
someone
was doing serious collections work that summer. “You guys up for dinner at Sasso’s?” Chloe asked. “I’m buying.”

The tavern was busier than she’d expected for a Monday night. After washing up, she and Nika and Joel settled at the bar to wait for a table. Chloe ordered a Pabst for Joel, and glasses of Zinfandel for her and Nika. Chloe could see why the Old World staff loved Sasso’s. The crowded tavern had a friendly vibe that reminded Chloe of her favorite pub
in Brienz. That one served the best
rösti,
raclette,
and
äelplermagronen
in the canton, though. Vegetarian heaven. But no surprise; Markus had delighted in finding restaurants that served food she could actually enjoy.

Well, no
raclette
tonight. Chloe was glad when their drinks arrived. She lifted her glass. “Here’s to a good start.” She had to shout to be heard above the din of chatter and laughter and the TV over the bar. “Thanks again, Joel. Nika and I would be lugging textiles by flashlight if you hadn’t helped out.”

“My pleasure.” He grinned, leaning one elbow on the bar. “From what glimpses I got, we hauled a lot of white stuff. Linen, cotton. Those pieces should clean up pretty well, right?” He looked to Nika.

“Right,” she said. “A good soak, a little sunshine—they’ll perk right up.”

Chloe smiled at Joel. “You’ve obviously absorbed some tricks of the trade.”

“Hard not to, living with this lady. She tends to bring work home, figuratively if not literally.” He bumped his shoulder into Nika’s affectionately. “I don’t mind. I’ve always been a history buff.”

Chloe really wished these two didn’t quite so clearly adore each other. You’re being petty, she told herself, but there it was. She and Markus had once been like that, playful and openly affectionate. Hadn’t they? “I understand you’re studying to be a pharmacist?” she asked, trying to focus.

“That’s right. Not sexy, but necessary nonetheless.”

Nika put her glass down. “Excuse me. I see the German lead over there. Jenny asked me a question about the tealeaf china in Schottler, and I looked it up for her.”

Chloe sighed as she watched her intern slide through the crowd to a warm welcome. “I don’t even recognize the woman she’s talking to,” Chloe said, “much less know her name. I’ve told everyone their questions will have to wait until I get my feet on the ground. I don’t know how Nika keeps it all straight.”

“She’s something,” Joel agreed, that proud shine in his eyes again.

“So, how did you two meet?”

“In the Marquette library. I was doing some genealogical research and she was researching nineteenth-century black quiltmakers for a class paper. The focus knob on her microfilm reader wasn’t working right. I gallantly offered her the use of my machine.” He grinned at the memory. “She was all fired up. Her professor didn’t think she’d find enough information to satisfy his requirements.”

Chloe swiveled back and forth on her barstool. “And did she?”

“Oh, yeah. After working through the standard archival materials and collections, she contacted all the black churches in the city. Conducted a bunch of interviews. She ended up with over a dozen documented examples. Got an A on the paper
and
curated an exhibit at the county historical society.”

Chloe watched Nika across the room, chatting with Jenny. “That young woman is going to go far.”

“I know.”

“I keep trying to remember if I ever had that much energy.” Chloe sipped her wine, feeling old and tired.

“She is driven.” Joel’s gaze was on Nika too. “There’s a lot she wants to accomplish, and a lot she wants to leave behind.” He turned back to Chloe with a lopsided smile. “I’m so glad you gave her the chance to take on the textile project. She can handle it, and maybe she’ll find a piece or two worthy of further study.”

“Well, I don’t know what she’ll discover among the textiles. But she’s doing important work for the site. We’re lucky it worked out for you to live nearby.”

“My parents invited us to stay with them this summer, but we decided to rent a little place in Eagle. I thought it would be easier for Nika. My hours at the lab are flexible, and I don’t mind the drive.”

“Did you grow up in Milwaukee too?”

“Whitefish Bay.”

Chloe worked hard to keep her eyebrows, which itched to shoot skyward, in neutral position. She didn’t know Milwaukee well, but she’d heard of the exclusive suburb.

“Nika works long hours as it is,” Joel was saying. “If she’s not here, she’s at some library or another. If we had to add a long commute to that, I’d never see her.”

“Oh, it’s not so bad as all that.” Nika had returned in time to hear his last comment. “If I didn’t work evenings I’d be twiddling my thumbs while you fall asleep over an organic chemistry textbook.”

Ah, young love, Chloe thought. Fortunately, pharmacists were needed everywhere. If Nika pursued her museum career as doggedly as she seemed to do everything else, Joel would be moving—often.

“Hey, hi!” Delores Timberlake, the Norwegian lead, stopped beside them. She still wore her period clothing, with the unconscious ease of someone who spent as much time in costume as she did in modern dress. After being introduced to Joel, she looked from Chloe to Nika. “You’re coming out to Norwegian to do training tomorrow, right? Is there anything you want me to do to get ready?”

Chloe shook her head. “I don’t think so, thanks. Byron only gave us an hour. It’ll go by pretty quickly.”

Delores caught the bartender’s eye and ordered a soda, then turned back to Chloe. “Any luck finding that missing Norwegian bowl?”

The image of Mrs. Lundquist’s eyes—first pleading, then sightless—flashed through Chloe’s brain. “No.”

“Are we missing an ethnic piece?” Nika asked. Her cat-like eyes narrowed like a tom’s on scenting a mouse. “What do you know about it?”

Chloe tried not to cringe, wishing the topic hadn’t been raised inside this crowded bar. “Very little, so far. It’s the piece that donor came to talk with me about. The woman who died in that car wreck. I’m taking care of it.” Chloe spotted a group getting up from a table across the room. She put her empty glass on the bar and stood. “Let’s see if we can grab that table.”

Sasso’s was noisy and hazed with cigarette smoke, and by the time they finished their meal—chicken for Joel and Nika, grilled cheese for Chloe—her head ached. Joel took care of the check, and Chloe decided not to be bothered by that. “It was great to meet you, Joel,” she said, as the three of them made their way outside. “Thanks again for your help.”

He flashed that endearing grin. “No problem. Holler if there’s anything else I can do to get the collections program up and rolling.”

They crossed the railroad tracks to the parking lot. “I’ll meet you at the church at three to go over the plan for training,” Nika told Chloe.

“Right,” Chloe said. “Oh—Nika? I need to check on a wallpaper problem in Tobler. If I come by at 2:30 instead, do you want to go with me?”

Nika shrugged. “Sure, if you want.”

Nika’s no-nonsense demeanor was exactly what Chloe wanted. You are pathetic, she told herself, as she turned toward her car. Your intern is already climbing over you on her way to the top, and you ask her to come with you to check wallpaper.
Wallpaper.
Well, so be it. Tobler freaked her out, and she wanted company—

A wordless cry from Nika pulled her back. Nika and Joel stood staring at Nika’s Chevette. Nika’s expression was quickly changing from shock to fury. Joel, looking stunned, put a protective arm around her shoulders.

“What’s wrong?” Chloe asked sharply.

Nika put her hands on her hips, her face tight. “Some fucking bastard slashed my tires!”

____

Chloe was exhausted by the time she started driving home. She’d waited with Joel and Nika for the police to arrive. The responding officer—not Roelke McKenna—had been unable to guess why someone would slash the tires on Nika’s rust-bucket Chevette while ignoring Joel’s luxury vehicle. “Probably just random vandalism,” the cop had said.