Old World Murder (2010) (14 page)

But it was no good. She simply wasn’t cutting it at Old World Wisconsin. She wasn’t making progress with the collections. She’d alienated several colleagues. She hadn’t even learned anything new about Mrs. Lundquist and her ale bowl. Chloe’s new life, her new start, was an utter failure.

Libby closed the spiral
notebook she’d been scribbling in as Roelke walked into her backyard. “Hey! What are you doing here?”

“I want to look at your kitchen faucet.” Roelke dropped into one of the lawn chairs on his cousin’s patio. “I noticed on Sunday that it’s leaking.”

Libby took a sip of iced tea. “I’ll take care of it.”

“I was driving by anyway. I’ve got my toolbox in the truck—”

“Roelke! Thanks, but I can do it.”

“I was just trying to help.” A dog down the street began barking. Roelke tried to figure out where he’d gone wrong. No telling. “Where are the kids?”

“Went out for pizza with Dan and his parents.”

“You OK with that?”

“No. But there’s not much I can do about it.”

“Maybe I should be here when he comes to pick the kids up next time.” Roelke wanted that, wanted to stare into Dan Raymo’s eyes with a clear message:
You step over the line, you so much as put one toe over the line, you deal with me.

“If Dan gives me any more trouble, you’ll be the first to know. But I don’t want to turn into a woman who can’t do anything for herself. OK?”

“Sure, I understand,” Roelke said, although he didn’t.

Libby traced one finger around the lip of her glass. “I need to talk to you about something.”

Roelke was beginning to wish he hadn’t stopped. “What?”

“When are you going back to Milwaukee?”

“You mean to work?” Roelke asked, although this time he knew what she meant.

“Yeah. To work.” Libby gave him a level look, eyebrows lifted. “Look, you got the heck out of Dodge as soon as you had your high school diploma. You had a career thing going on in Milwaukee. Then stuff got ugly between Dan and me, and suddenly you quit your job and move back here.”

“I was tired of the city.”

“Bullshit. Listen, you big idiot, I know why you moved. And as much as I hate to say it, I needed you. But things have settled down.”

Roelke felt a growl rising in his chest. “Dan is still a—”

“I know.” Libby held up one palm. “But the divorce is final, and I got the best custody deal I could.”

“I like seeing the kids. Justin needs guy-time.”

“Milwaukee’s not that far. It’s time to go back, Roelke.”

Roelke poured himself a glass of iced tea from the pitcher on the table. “You know what? I’m getting tired of everyone telling me how much I want to move back to Milwaukee.”

“I don’t want to keep you from doing what you wanted,” Libby said soberly.

“You’re not.”

“Just think about what I said, OK?”

He put his tea down untasted. “Did it ever occur to you that I just like being near you and the kids?”

“So drive out on your days off—”

“Dammit, Libby!” Roelke scrubbed his face with his palms. “What don’t you get? Everyone else is gone. My folks. Your folks. It’s just you and me.”

“That not quite true,” she said quietly. “Patrick—”

“Patrick doesn’t count.”

“He’s your brother, Roelke.”

Roelke leaned over, elbows on knees, and stared at the ground. A headache was starting to pinch the back of his skull.

“You need to deal with Patrick,” Libby said. “I’ve heard you talk about kids you meet on the job. You always say that a person’s first encounter with a cop can determine their future, and how that goes is up to the cop. If you can give strangers a second chance, why not Patrick?”

“Because it wouldn’t make any difference.”

“Maybe Patrick
is
his father’s son. But you’re Uncle Joe’s son, too.”

“Yeah,” Roelke said, watching an ant hauling a crumb three times its size. “And sometimes that scares the crap out of me.”

“You need to work on that.”

Right, Roelke thought. Just like that. He hated this know-it-all streak of Libby’s. She’d perfected it by age six.

Libby got up and disappeared into the house. A moment later she emerged with a small plate holding several brownies. “I need chocolate,” she said, holding out the plate. “Here.”

He didn’t need chocolate, but he took one anyway. “Thanks.”

They ate in a silence. Roelke wished Libby had kept her mouth shut about his job, and about Patrick. Especially about Patrick.

“So.” Libby propped her bare feet on the iron patio table. “You said you were headed somewhere?”

Hallelujah, a new topic. “La Grange. Someone broke into Chloe’s house last night—”

“What?”

“She ran the guy off. But she’s pretty shook up.” That was a lie, but a believable one. “I thought I’d run down and make sure she’s OK.”

“A burglar, you think?”

“I’m not sure.” Roelke began beating a rhythm on the arm of his chair with one thumb. “Possibly just some punk kid, looking for a stereo or something. Possibly not. Remember that old lady who had a heart attack and crashed her car? She’d been visiting Chloe to see about some old Norwegian bowl-thing, which evidently went missing at Old World before Chloe started. You know how some people get around antiques. There’s a chance someone might think Chloe found it.” The rhythm increased. “I just want to make sure she’s OK,” he repeated.

Libby looked at him pensively.

“What?” he demanded. “What now?”

“We-ell,” she said slowly, “are you sure you want to get mixed up in this?”

“Mixed up in what? I’m just doing my job.”

“No you’re not. You’ve met a pretty lady who’s been threatened. That always does a number on you.”

“Shut up, Libby.” Roelke glared at her. Now he definitely regretted stopping by.

“I worry about you. That goes two ways, eh? You worry about me, I worry about you.” Libby pressed her hand over his, stilling his thumb. “Stop doing that. You’re making me nuts.”

A lawnmower roared to life two or three yards away. “I thought you liked Chloe,” he said.

“I do like her. But I think she’s got a lot of stuff going on right now. Stuff that has nothing to do with prowlers and missing antiques.” Libby squeezed his hand gently. “Just be careful. That’s all I’m saying.”

Roelke considered that admonition as he backed the truck out of her driveway a few minutes later. Be careful. What did that mean? He was always careful. He was trained to be careful.

At the stop sign, he turned left toward La Grange.

____

Before Roelke turned into the driveway, he spotted Chloe sitting on her front porch, evidently watching alfalfa grow in the field across the street. She didn’t move when he cut the engine, or when he got out of the truck and slammed the door. His senses prickled to full alert.

“Chloe?” he called, and began jogging across the grass. “Chloe!”

He was almost at the steps before she heard him. She jumped to her feet and a glass fell to the porch with a noisy shattering and splash. “What? Oh, God!” She stared from him to the broken glass at her feet.

“Didn’t you hear me?”

She looked at his truck. “Oh, God. How long have you been here?”

“I just got here. Sit down. Do you have a dustpan?”

“A dustpan?”

“Sit down and don’t move!” he barked. She was barefoot; he didn’t want to add a trip to the hospital for stitches to their list of shared experiences. He went inside and looked in the cupboard under the kitchen sink—empty, of course. Finally he tore a piece of paper from a legal pad he found on the table, and used the pad’s cardboard backing to carefully brush the shards of glass on the porch into the paper. He deposited the entire mess into the small trash bag he kept in his truck.

Then he brought her sandals outside and handed them to her. “Here. I might have missed a sliver or two.”

“Thanks.” She slipped them on. Her cheeks were flushed, now. “I’m really sorry about—that. I didn’t hear you drive up. Please … sit down.” She gestured at the second chair.

Roelke opted for the top step instead. He leaned against the porch rail and stared across the road to the distant mass of the Kettle Moraine State Forest. Shadows were stretching across the landscape. A couple of swallows darted about overhead. Roelke waited.

“Shit,” she said finally. “That hasn’t happened for a long time.”

“What hasn’t happened?”

“Have you ever thought about checking out?”

Roelke’s heart made a determined attempt to exit via his windpipe. “No.”

“Well, I have. Last winter.”

He swallowed hard. All right. All right, think. “Are you thinking about that now?” He used his most measured, calming, cop-on-the-job tone.

“Not really. No.” She stood up abruptly. “I’m going to get another glass so I can make myself another drink, since I wasted most of the last one. Want one?”

“No. But bring some food out, too, if you’re going to drink. And a glass of water so you don’t get dehydrated.”

She disappeared into the house, and returned a moment later with a box of crackers, a small bottle of water, and a new glass. “Don’t worry, I’m not a closet alcoholic.” She shook her head. “And listen, forget what I said before. I don’t know why I dumped that on you.”

“That’s OK.”

“I’m just tired. I’m fine. Really.”

Roelke rubbed his palms on his jeans, choosing his words. “You’ve been here for over a week, and haven’t even started to unpack. You showed no signs of fear when confronted with an intruder—not once, but twice, if you count the missing lock incident at the trailers—”

“Maybe that’s depression’s silver lining. You don’t go through life afraid all the time, because you’ve already been at the bottom of the well.”

“You
need
to be afraid sometimes. The world can be an ugly place.” And I’ve seen things that wake me up at night.

“Why are you here?” Chloe asked quietly.

“Oh. I was visiting Libby, and since I’d come that far—” he’d gotten very good at sliding around the truth—“I thought I’d just stop by and make sure everything went all right with the Walworth County sheriff. You did file a report, right?”

“I did.”

“Do I need to call somebody?”

“No. They just told me to contact them if anything else happened.”

“And you talked with your landlord?”

Chloe took a delicate sip. “Well, actually … that slipped my mind.”

“It slipped your mind? Jesus Christ, Chloe! What is the
matter
with you?”

“I just told you,” she observed mildly.

Roelke felt his face flame. He rubbed it with his palms. While he tried to think of something to say, three bicyclists pedaled past. One of the Holsteins near the side fence coughed and flicked her tail.

Finally Chloe gave a tired, rueful smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

Roelke stood. “Come on. We’re going next door.”

Chloe’s landlord was a stocky salt-of-the-earth farmer in his forties who left the milking to his sons while she told him what had happened. Roelke offered recommendations for upgrading security at the farmhouse. Standing there in the straw-flecked aisle, with the smell of manure in the air and several kittens tumbling around their feet, Roelke felt a tiny measure of reassurance.

He and Chloe walked back to her house in silence. “I really don’t—” Chloe began as she stepped onto the porch, but stopped when her phone began to ring. “I better get that. Come on in.”

He followed her into the house, waiting while she grabbed the phone. “Hello?
Ethan!
Are you home safe?” Her thin face lit with true pleasure.

Great, Roelke thought. He’d somehow zoomed from protector to intruder.

Chloe glanced up and said, “Ethan, can I call you back in a little bit?”

“No need,” Roelke said. “I’ve got to get going. Don’t forget to lock up tight tonight.”

“So,” Chloe said to her caller, as Roelke let himself out, “tell me all about …”

He slammed the truck door, and drove away.

____

“Who was that?” Ethan asked.

“How was the fire? You didn’t get hurt or anything, did you?”