Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [18]
He found the number he’d been looking for posted by a gravel driveway that looped behind a tired two-story frame house in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint. Cow pastures bordered the house on the east and south, with a huge garden and second farmhouse on the west. New alfalfa rippled green in a field across the road.
Roelke pulled into the driveway, got out of the truck, and walked across the lawn to the front porch and door. His cousin Libby’s voice echoed in his head as he knocked: This isn’t your problem, Roelke. Leave it. He ignored the voice.
The inner door swung open. “Oh!” Chloe said. “Officer … Mc-Kenna. I didn’t … that is, um, would you like to come in?”
“Yes, if I may.”
She held open the door, and frowned slightly when she noticed his truck. “You’re not on duty?”
“Just finished my shift,” he told her. “Parking police cars in peoples’ driveways sets off all kinds of speculation. This isn’t official business.”
“Oh.”
Roelke stepped inside. Cardboard cartons were stacked in the bedroom he glimpsed to his left. In the living room she led him to, also. Bare walls. No sign of personality. No sign of life.
She noticed his perusal and shrugged. “I just moved in. Can I get you something to drink? I’m having a rum and soda.”
“Nothing for me, thanks.” He perched on the sofa, and watched her sink back into a deep chair by the window. She had traded her casual work attire for shorts. God, she was thin. Too thin. She’d left her glass on the table by her chair, but he saw no evidence of a book or television set.
Abruptly he realized she was waiting for him to explain his visit. “Mrs. Lundquist was a member of the Lutheran church in Daleyville. The minister is planning a service for ten A.M. Friday morning.”
Chloe narrowed her eyes in thought. “Daleyville … that’s west of here, isn’t it?”
“Probably about an hour away. Eastern Dane County.”
“Have any relatives come forward?”
He shook his head. “No. Her neighbor said she attended the church, so the county guys checked with the minister. He wasn’t aware of any relatives, either. Mrs. Lundquist had been a widow for years.”
Chloe picked up her glass and took a sip. “Did they figure out what caused the accident?”
“Heart failure. She was seventy-four. These things happen.” His words sounded clipped and brusque in his own ears. He wasn’t any good at this stuff.
“I see.” Chloe used one finger to poke at an ice cube.
Roelke leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Did you find that antique she was looking for?”
“Does it matter?”
He shrugged. “I was just curious. Wrapping up loose ends.”
“I haven’t been able to find it.”
He got the distinct impression that she had something more to say. He waited, giving her plenty of space to spit out whatever was on her mind. She evidently decided against it. “I’ll keep my eyes open, though,” she said. “And I left a message for the sites division curator in Madison, to see if records on that end are more complete.”
Roelke watched her. Should he press for more? No. He didn’t have any reason to. He didn’t have any reason to even be here, since she’d given him her telephone number.
He stood. “Since Mrs. Lundquist didn’t have any legal claim to the antique, I think the issue is closed.”
“Yes, I guess so.” Chloe padded after him to the door. “Thanks for letting me know about the funeral.”
Roelke drove north through the Kettle Moraine State Forest, thinking about the woman sitting alone in a sterile farmhouse, nursing a drink, surrounded by moving cartons that showed no signs of being unpacked.
He felt too restless to head home. Fifteen minutes later, without conscious decision, he pulled over in front of an old farmhouse built from the locally common “cream city