Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [42]
She shook her head. “Nope.”
“So, is that the end of it?” He parked the truck and turned to look at her.
“Well, I asked my mother to do a little genealogical research on Mrs. Lundquist’s family. I only know her married name, so she’ll have to track back to the wedding records. But who knows? Maybe when she gets far enough in she’ll turn up some tidbit that will suggest something.” Chloe spread her hands. “I’m going to keep looking for that piece, and for whatever it was that made that poor old lady so desperate to get it back.”
“Why?” His tone was quiet, but his gaze was piercing.
Chloe stared at her landlord, cutting hay in the field across the road. “Because I owe Mrs. Lundquist that much.”
Roelke pulled his wallet from a pocket, extracted a business card, and scribbled something on it. “Here. Call me if you find anything new. This one has my home phone.”
Chloe accepted the card. “Well … thanks again. I really enjoyed meeting Libby and the kids.” She put her hand on the door handle.
“My schedule is irregular, but would you like to go out again sometime? Maybe listen to some music?”
Chloe felt a spasm of panic. Then a flicker of hope. It would be good, really good, to go hear live music. “I know a great bluegrass place near Fort Atkinson.”
“Bluegrass?” Roelke’s expression implied she had suggested listening to a fingernails-on-chalkboard band. “How about jazz?”
“Southern rock?”
“Blues?”
They stared at each other. Chloe didn’t know whether their standoff was funny or sad. “Thank you,” she said finally, “but I don’t think this is going to work.”
____
Well hell, Roelke thought, as he drove away from Chloe’s house. Maybe he should have given the bluegrass place a try. But what would be the point? He hated twangy music. Always had.
So. Maybe he should just forget all about Chloe Ellefson.
If only there wasn’t that—that something about her. Something that made his stomach muscles tighten. Something that made him see her behind his eyelids when he went to bed at night. Something that made him want to stand between her and all the trouble in the world. Something that made him yearn to make her laugh, to say something to bring that rarely-seen spark of heartfelt enthusiasm in her blue eyes. Something that made him want to twine his fingers in that incredible yellow hair, and to trace the hollows in her cheeks ….
The truck lurched as the right wheels fell from the road to the gravel shoulder. “Jesus!” Roelke yelped, jerking the vehicle back into the lane. He gave the mirror a quick glance, relieved to see empty road behind him. No witnesses to his erratic driving. That kind of thing could bite a cop in the butt.
When he got back to Palmyra he swerved onto a side road instead of heading to his own apartment. Two minutes later he parked beside the town’s tiny municipal airport. He got out of his truck and leaned against the hood, feeling the sun and breeze on his face, feeling his nerves settle. He’d flown in and out of Palmyra a couple of times when he’d been working on his pilot’s license, practicing take-offs and landings as he hopped between airstrips within a quick flight’s distance of Milwaukee’s Timmerman. The runway here was turf. There was something elemental and immensely satisfying about landing on a grass strip.
The field was quiet at the moment, but a couple of planes were tied down near the hangar. One was a bright yellow Piper Cub. A sweet little canvas-topped tail-dragger.
Roelke wanted it, bad.
He’d been saving money to buy a plane for a long time. He’d gotten some after his parents died; the rest he’d tucked away himself. He didn’t earn a lot of money as a cop—especially in Eagle, when he couldn’t even count on forty hours a week. But he lived simply, didn’t spend a lot, and picked up extra shifts whenever he could. It added up. For a while he’d lusted after a Cessna Cardinal, one of the prettiest planes ever built. They were much more expensive, though, unless he wanted to buy a share. But a Piper … he probably