Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [43]
Roelke couldn’t remember when he hadn’t wanted a plane. The dream may have been born when, as a very young boy, he’d watched old World War II movies of pilots soaring, shooting, almost single-handedly winning the war. Or it may have been born one particular September day when he was a few years older, and his father’s temper had driven Roelke outside. He remembered sitting against the side of the house, watching an airplane cross the sky and thinking, That’s what I want. That had probably happened not long before his mother took him to her parents’ farm for good… .
As the image of the tired old family farm popped into his head Roelke folded his arms and sighed. He wanted a plane. But inexplicably, stupidly, he wanted the farm, too.
He pressed one knuckle against his forehead, willing away the memories of his ancestors working those acres. He hated farming. He loved flying. Farms were dead weight. Planes were freedom. It should be simple.
It wasn’t.
What would Chloe think? Despite its current decrepit condition, she’d surely like the farm. That’s what she did, right? Look at old stuff and see its value? An ale bowl, a farmhouse, it was likely much the same. But did she like to fly? He didn’t know. And whether he ever owned a plane or not, the sheer joy of flight was part of who he was.
Roelke shook his head in disgust. As if it mattered. He and Chloe Ellefson seemed incapable of easy conversation, much less anything more.
He gave the Cub one last look. Then he got back into his truck and drove home.
Chloe spent much of Monday sitting at the picnic table in the restoration area, reading about the site buildings so she had at least a vague clue about how she could help the interpreters do their jobs. Chloe would be making presentations to the summer interpreters in each of Old World Wisconsin’s areas—the Crossroads Village, German, Norwegian, and Finn-Dane.
She was reading about a Finnish family that afternoon when a shadow fell across the page. Chloe looked up to see Stanley Colontuono standing by the table. The maintenance chief wore snakeskin cowboy boots today with his tan pants and work shirt.
Chloe closed the research report. “Hey, Stan. You need the table?”
“Naw.” He waved a generous hand: You may stay. “I just saw you sitting here all day and figured you must be getting lonely.”
“Well … not really. I’m catching up on the research reports for each exhibit.”
“You want to go out sometime?”
“I—what?” she stammered inelegantly. She got to her feet.
“You and me.” Stan gave her a grin that might have been wicked if she didn’t keep flashing on the image of a marionette dangling in Buffalo Bob’s capable hands. “We could stop for a drink at Sasso’s one night after work.”
“I don’t think so, Stan,” Chloe said, as pleasantly as possible. “Thanks anyway.”
For a split second, the confident leer on Stan’s face wavered. Then he gave an exaggerated shrug. “Sure thing, doll,” he said, with a smile that made Chloe’s knee long to make contact with his nether regions. “Oops. I mean, ma’am. I guess some women like being lonely. My mistake.” He walked away, climbed into his truck, and roared off.
Chloe leaned her butt against the table. How would her refusal to visit Doodyville impact any help she might need from the maintenance department?
Then Nika’s Chevette rattled through the gate and parked near the trailers. Nika emerged and walked toward Chloe with lithe grace, looking especially trim in snug jeans and a tailored black blouse. Nika had pulled her cornrow braids back and secured them behind her neck with a vibrant green ribbon. They’d made a date to move the textile collection from the storage trailers to the church basement as soon as the site closed that day.
“What’s up?” Nika asked.
Chloe gave herself a mental shake. “Just waiting for you.”
“Look at that.” Nika scowled at one of the maintenance vehicles, evidently parked for the night on the far side of the lot. “I asked Stanley if we could borrow a truck, and he said nothing was available.”