Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [49]
Chloe nibbled her bottom lip. “I’ll tell you what I think. First of all, I left my car at a garage in Elkhorn tonight, so whoever broke in probably thought no one was at home. Second …”
“What?”
“Well, maybe someone was looking for that ale bowl. Whoever was pressuring Mrs. Lundquist to get it back. Whoever went out to Kvaale, and broke into the storage trailer, looking for it. Maybe they thought I’d found it.”
“Why go so nuts over a particular antique that no one had seen in years?”
“If not that, then what?” she demanded. “Why pick this particular old farmhouse to break into? I don’t have anything worth stealing. There’s nothing in here but second-hand furniture from my parents’ attic and a bunch of cardboard cartons.”
But criminals aren’t always rational, he wanted to tell her. Sometimes bad things happen to pretty women—things I don’t want you to even know about.
He stood up. “I’m going to look around outside.”
After grabbing the heavy-duty flashlight from his truck, he searched the yard before going back inside. “Nothing,” he reported. “Do you mind if I look at your other ground-floor windows?”
“Go ahead.” She managed a tiny smile. “I do appreciate your help, really. It was very kind of you to come.”
Roelke worked his way around, living room to kitchen to dining room to bathroom, closing and locking each window. And fighting a new layer of unease. He was used to poking through other people’s houses. He’d been called to the homes of the rich and the poor. The slovenly and the tidy. The well-furnished and the cheaply cobbled-together. He’d been in homes that emanated warmth, homes crackling with tension, homes that made the hairs on the back of his neck quiver. He’d never been in a house like this one that exuded … nothing.
He checked Chloe’s bedroom last. No clutter on the dresser. Shelves empty of books. Nothing but an unzipped sleeping bag on a mattress.
The only memento in the room—in the whole house—was a photograph. He studied the snapshot of a younger Chloe on some mountaintop. She stood bent slightly forward to accommodate a backpack, hands tucked under the shoulder straps as if to relieve some of its weight. Her companion, a bearded man, stood erect beneath his pack. Both, sweat-stained, grinned deliriously at the camera.
Roelke clenched his jaw. I don’t know who you are, buddy, he thought. But if Chloe cares enough about you to keep this photograph out, you damn sure should be here making sure she’s OK.
Finally he rejoined her in the living room. “I locked all the windows,” he told her. “The screens are too flimsy. Talk to your landlord tomorrow about replacing them.”
“What about the screen the burglar pulled out? It’s still lying on the porch.”
“We’ll leave it for the Walworth County boys.” He doubted they would make much of it, but that was their call.
“OK. Listen, Roelke?” She tipped her head to one side. “I’m really, truly grateful to you for coming down. Now … I need to get some sleep.”
“Me, too. Mind if I crash on your sofa for the rest of the night? I’m pretty fried.”
That was a lie. He knew it, and he was pretty sure she knew it too. He waited.
“Um … sure,” she said. “That would be fine.”
____
Chloe lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if Roelke was awake, too. She was clearly weirding him out.
Well, so be it. She needed to find out who wanted Mrs. Lundquist’s ale bowl so badly. And why. This was no longer some well-intentioned but impersonal diversion. It was personal, now.
Mrs. Lundquist may have been afraid of you, she told the unknown culprit silently. But I’m not afraid of you. I have nothing to lose, and one way or another, I’m going to figure this mess out.
____
Chloe heard Roelke stirring a little after six. Groggy, she got up and pulled on a pair of jeans and her favorite dark green shirt. She found him in her kitchen, staring dubiously into her refrigerator.
“I’m not big on breakfast,” she said. “The fridge is dead, anyway.”
“So I see.” He shut the refrigerator door. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No,” she mumbled, stifling