Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [113]
A startled laugh hiccupped from Chloe. A smile twitched at Nika’s mouth, too. It was gone in an instant. A fresh sheen of tears glazed her eyes. But it gave Chloe hope that maybe, one day, Nika would be OK.
That evening, Chloe was surveying her dinner options—Oreos or peanut butter on crackers—when Roelke called. “Are you doing OK?” he asked.
“I’m working on it.”
“Did you get fired?”
So much for small talk. “As a matter of fact, no. I am still employed.”
“Hunh.” He sounded thoughtful. “Well, that’s good. So. Libby and I are meeting for fish at the Nite Cap Inn in Palmyra on Friday. Six o’clock. Want to join us?”
“Well … sure,” she said. “Why not.”
____
The Nite Cap was a big cream-city brick structure, quintessential Wisconsin, with a bar and restaurant on the lower story and rooms for rent on the second. When Chloe arrived at the tavern on Friday it was jammed, noisy, and full of smoke. She spotted Roelke waving from a corner table.
“This place is nuts,” she said, as she slipped into a chair across from him.
“Their fish fry is famous. I had to order so we could get a table. Libby should be along soon.”
A waitress came to take drink orders. Chloe splurged on a rum and Coke. Roelke ordered a beer. “So,” Chloe said, as they waited for their drinks. “I guess everything is about wrapped up.”
“It looks that way. Carlisle’s prints matched a couple that the Dane County boys found at Mrs. Lundquist’s house, so they’re considering Mr. Solberg’s death a closed case as well. The assumption is that Joel broke in searching for—something he thought might help him locate the bowl.”
“I am choosing to believe that Joel never intended to hurt Mr. Solberg.”
“Your call.” Roelke studied her. “I guess I won’t yell at you for acting stupid when Carlisle cornered you at the farm. Going into the barn after the bowl, coming out from the breezeway into the open, diving at—”
“Thanks for not yelling.”
“You were pretty damn accurate with those sheep shears. You could have killed either me or Carlisle—”
Chloe’s cheeks burned. “I was only trying to help.”
“I had things under control,” he said. “But where did you learn to throw like that?”
“I played softball in college. Just intramurals, but I was pretty good.” The waitress showed up with their drinks, and she took a grateful sip.
“When you dove at us, were you trying to keep Carlisle from shooting me? Or were you just trying to catch the ale bowl?”
“Well … I, um, assumed you did have everything under control. And Gro’s ale bowl is irreplaceable.”
Roelke rolled his eyes, then took a swig of beer. “So. Are you still feeling OK? Not, you know, depressed?”
“I’m still feeling OK.” Chloe leaned forward so she could keep her voice low. “Stop asking, all right? There’s nothing like being scared shitless to make you realize that you don’t want to die.”
He traced a line in the cold bottle’s sweat with one finger. “Then how would you like to go out sometime? Not with Libby. Not to talk about a crime.”
This was a conversation Chloe did not want to have. “We really don’t know each other very well.”
“Well, yeah,” he said. “That’s sort of the point. To get to know each other a little better.”
Shit. Where the heck was Libby? “I don’t think I’m ready for anything like that,” Chloe said, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “I’m still … sorting a lot of stuff out.”
“Is it that guy from Switzerland? Is he the one in the picture in your bedroom?”
“No. But speaking of pictures, what about the woman in the photograph I saw? At the police station? Above your locker?”
“Oh. No. That’s not someone I ever dated.”
The waitress appeared again, looking harried, and deposited plates of cod and walleye, plus homemade potato pancakes, coleslaw, and applesauce. Roelke was still waiting expectantly.
“Look,” Chloe tried. “I just don’t think it will work.”
“Why not?”
Because I don’t trust relationships! she wanted to shout. She’d believed that Markus Meili loved her. She’d thought that Joel Carlisle was a great guy, and that Berget Lundquist was a sweet old lady.