Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [105]
“I’ve been watching this kid,” Roelke said. Not quite another lie, since he had realized while interrogating Carlisle that he had seen Engel—entering Stanley Colontuono’s house. “I think I can get him to roll. If that wouldn’t mess up your plans, of course.”
“No, that’d be good,” the detective said. “Thanks.”
____
Roelke worked late that day. He spent much of that night trying not to think about Chloe as he’d last seen her, waiting for her father in the ER lobby. He had no idea when he’d see her again. If, even.
On Saturday morning, his phone rang before his alarm went off. “Roelke?”
“Skeet? What’s up?” For one wild moment Roelke wondered if Skeet had already been promoted to full time.
“I just took a call from county.” Skeet hesitated. “And I figured you’d want to hear this.”
“No, really, I’m OK,” Chloe told Ethan. She was sitting in her old bedroom in her parents’ house staring at a hideous purple macramé creation that she’d made in seventh grade. “I’m just going to hide out at my parents’ place for another day or so.” It was Saturday morning. She wasn’t ready to go back to the farmhouse. Wasn’t ready to even think about facing anyone at the site.
Ethan muttered something inaudible.
“I’ve had lots of time to sit and think, though. And I do have some good news. I think I’m finally starting to get over Markus.”
“Really?”
“I still miss Switzerland. But I think I miss Switzerland a lot more than I miss Markus.”
“An important distinction,” Ethan agreed.
She sat up straight as a red pickup truck pulled up to the curb below. “I’m sorry, but I gotta go,” Chloe said. “Thanks again for always being there. You’re my best friend.”
“Always, Chloe,” Ethan said. “Always.”
Ten minutes later she and Roelke were seated at the round wrought-iron table on the back patio. Chloe’s mom had left them glasses of iced tea that neither seemed to want. “So,” Chloe said finally. “I didn’t expect to see—”
“Joel Carlisle is dead,” Roelke said. “He overdosed. At his parents’ house. They found him this morning.”
It took her a moment to take that in. Truly take it in. She swiped at sudden tears. “He was so young. He had so much—”
“He might have killed you! Or me!”
“He’s dead, Roelke. Isn’t that enough for you?”
“No. It’s not.”
Chloe put her elbows on the table and rested her forehead on her fingertips. “Was he telling the truth about Nika? Was she involved?”
“I questioned Carlisle on Thursday night,” Roelke said. “Nothing suggests that she had any idea what Joel was doing.”
Chloe was relieved to hear it. “I’ve been thinking about what Joel was trying to tell me. About Emil—Mrs. Lundquist’s brother. I couldn’t figure out how Joel knew about Emil. Then I remembered that Joel is a genealogist.”
“That’s it exactly. Carlisle discovered that Nika had a great aunt she didn’t know about. Berget Lundquist. He got all excited, and wrote to her. And he mentioned Nika’s job at Old World in his letter.”
“And?”
“She wrote back and said that as far as she was concerned, Emil died when he got married.”
“Because he married a black woman.”
“Right. Evidently Mrs. Lundquist called the state historical society and learned that the ale bowl had been transferred to Old World. She was afraid that Nika would somehow get her hands on it when she started working there. She told Carlisle that she wouldn’t let that happen.”
Fresh tears welled in Chloe’s eyes. “Everything is so sad.”
“Berget Lundquist was a nasty bigot,” Roelke said brusquely. “And Joel Carlisle was a weak bully who took the coward’s way out.”
“People who do what he did aren’t necessarily cowards,” Chloe said. She dug in her pocket for a tissue, winced in pain, and redistributed her weight to ease the pressure on the stitches in her thigh.
“Did you ever …” Roelke began, and then stopped. He stared at three girls jumping rope in the next yard. Faint snatches of their jumping chant drifted over the fence.
“Did I ever try?” Chloe asked shortly. “No. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t think about it, during the worst time.”
“What … what happened?