Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [40]
“Interpreters? Do you have to speak a second language to work there?”
Chloe shook her head. “No. We call the guides ‘interpreters’ because they interpret the past for visitors. It’s really a very demanding job.”
“Are the interpreters all pure German or Norwegian or something?” Roelke asked. “People trying to learn about their own background?”
“No! You don’t have to be ‘pure’ anything to work there. Besides, cultural identity is more than racial and ethnic genetics. People can choose what aspects of their background they want to explore and celebrate.” Chloe reached for her drink. And that’s enough, she told herself. Don’t preach.
“I always thought Old World must be a fun place to work,” Libby said. Then she turned to her cousin. “What’s new on the beat?”
He sipped his beer. “Same old. Speeders. A domestic. A few DUIs. I hate DUIs.” His voice tightened and his face took on that granite edge that probably, Chloe thought, scared drunks sober. “Then there’s that gambling deal I was telling you about—”
Libby interrupted him with a low, inaudible curse. “There he goes.”
“I’ll get him.” Roelke jumped to his feet as Justin nailed his sister with a hurled bean bag. Libby scooped up Dierdre as she began to wail.
“Justin!” Roelke barked. He reached Justin before the boy could let loose again, and grabbed his wrists. Justin’s voice rose in a petulant whine as he stamped his feet, trying to break free. Roelke crouched in front of him, unmoving. As both children’s cries subsided, Chloe heard Roelke’s low, patient tone.
Once Dierdre was settled back with her toys, Libby rejoined Chloe. “Sorry for that bit of drama. Justin has some issues with misplaced anger.”
“That must be difficult for everyone.”
“It is.” Libby squirted lighter fluid on the coals. “Hardest on him, though.” She struck a match, lit the coals, and sank into a lawn chair. “Thank God for Roelke. He moved back out from Milwaukee just as things with my ex-husband were getting really bad. He’s been a rock.”
“I can see that.” It was a revelation.
Libby smiled. “You don’t know Roelke very well, do you?”
“I barely know him at all.” Chloe sipped her soda. “I, um, happened upon a car crash last Monday. My first day on the job. The driver had just left my office. I found her. Dead. Roelke was the next person to get there.”
“So you’ve experienced his tough cop routine?”
“Is it a routine?”
Libby stretched tanned legs out in front of her. “Yes and no. Do you watch Hill Street Blues?”
“Um … what?”
“That cop show? No?” Libby shrugged. “OK, you know the old cliché about the ‘good cop, bad cop’ thing? Sometimes I think Roelke’s both. His dad was a tough old guy—” her face hardened briefly—“but his mom was really sweet. She died before Roelke graduated from high school, though. It was really hard on him.”
Chloe looked at Roelke. The discussion concluded, he was pitching balls for Justin, who swung valiantly with a huge red plastic bat. She wasn’t sure she wanted to learn these things, personal things, about Roelke McKenna.
OK, time to change the topic. “Roelke said you’re a freelance writer?”
“I am. I did it on the side for quite a while, then finally felt ready to jump off the cliff and try it full-time.” Libby pulled a Corona from the nearby cooler and poked a wedge of lime into the bottle. “Always something new. And it lets me stay home with the kids.”
Chloe watched as Libby put her thumb over the opening and tipped the bottle until the lime floated to the bottom. “I like to write,” Chloe said, “but I’ve wondered if it would stop being fun if I had to actually earn a living at it.”
“Hey, Lib?” They were interrupted by a brunette woman opening the gate. She was very young and very pregnant. “Oh—sorry, I didn’t realize you had company.”
Libby gave her a calculating look. “Lordy, Therese, haven’t you had that baby yet?”
“Any day now. Just like Princess Di. Wouldn’t it be cool to have a baby the same day the royal prince or princess is born?” Therese smiled, then held out several envelopes.