Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [39]
“Oh.”
More silence. Chloe looked out the window. “I wanted to ask you about something,” Roelke said finally. “You mentioned the maintenance chief yesterday. Stanley something.”
“Stanley Colontuono.”
“Can you spell that?”
She did.
“All right. Thanks.” He flicked on his blinker, checked his mirror, and passed the car ahead of them.
“So … why did you want to know?”
“I ran across a Stanley in an Eagle bar the other night. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. I was just curious. What does your Stanley look like?”
“He’s not my Stanley.” The thought gave her the willies. “Howdy Doody with a beer gut.”
“What?” He shot her a perplexed glance.
Oh, Lord. Was this guy so young he’d never watched Howdy Doody? “Mid-thirties. Curly red hair. Cowboy boots.”
“Hunh.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Sounds like the same guy.”
They rode a few more miles in silence. “I have to ask,” Chloe said finally. “Why did you invite me to come with you today?”
He kept his gaze on the road. “You’re new in the area. You had a rough week. I think you’ll like Libby. She’s good people.”
Fair enough. Chloe settled a little more comfortably into the seat.
Roelke drove north through the Kettle Moraine to Palmyra, a village wrapped around Lower Spring Lake about six miles west of Eagle. His cousin lived in a brick ranch-style home on a quiet side street. The grass needed cutting, but baskets of pansies gave the place a welcoming air.
As Roelke pulled into the driveway a boy of perhaps six barreled around the corner of the house. “Roelke! Roelke!”
“Hey, Justin!” Roelke greeted the boy with a warmth Chloe wouldn’t have guessed possible. Justin wore glasses and an earnest, eager air. He launched a breathless flow of words that circled from finding a turtle to maybe going to a Brewers game with his dad to hoping he could have frozen custard that afternoon.
His mother joined them with a smaller girl in tow. “Catch your breath, buddy,” she told Justin. She flashed Roelke a grateful look before turning to Chloe with hand outstretched. “Hi. I’m Libby.”
Libby had frank eyes and an open smile. Short chestnut hair, prematurely shot with gray, framed a thin face. Cutoffs and a purple tank top displayed a runner’s physique, and her feet were bare. Chloe sensed a woman at home in her own skin.
“Come ’round the back.” Libby led the way to a fenced backyard. A flagstone patio spilled from the back wall, furnished with planters and deck chairs, and the biggest grill Chloe had ever seen, something akin to a metal drum tipped on its side. From the patio, Libby could keep an eye on a sandbox, a plastic wading pool, and one of those colorful slide-swing-jungle gym-fort things. Perennial beds provided the yard with a riotous border of reds and blues and yellows. Several birdfeeders hung from a river birch near the back fence.
“This is lovely,” Chloe said.
“I live out here in the warm weather,” Libby admitted. “Can I get you something to drink? Beer, wine, soda?”
Chloe accepted ginger ale served in a “Phone Home E. T.” glass, and settled into a chaise lounge. It felt surprisingly good to sit in the sunshine, watching mourning doves pick at the safflower seed in one of the feeders, letting conversation flow around her. Justin grabbed a handful of taco chips and retreated to a game that involved tossing small beanbags at a target. Dierdre, Libby’s three-year-old, settled placidly into the sandbox with a plastic shovel and stack of Tupperware.
“I think I’ll start the charcoal,” Libby said finally. “We tend to eat early around here because of the kids, Chloe. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” All Chloe had eaten that day were two granola bars and a piece of rhubarb cobbler her mother had given her. It belatedly occurred to her that polite people brought hostess gifts when visiting. Flowers or candy or something. Shit.
Libby tore open a bag of charcoal and poured some briquettes into the grill. “So, Chloe. Roelke said you’re a curator at Old World. What exactly do you do?”
“Well, I’m responsible for all the collections,” Chloe said. “I try to