Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [5]
“Miss Ellefson, please!”
“—I will get back in touch with you as soon as I can.”
Mrs. Lundquist looked down at the table, but not before a telltale sheen of tears appeared in her eyes. “I see.”
Chloe felt wretched. “I promise you, I will find the ale bowl.”
The elderly woman gently patted Chloe’s hand again—a feeble, papery gesture that made Chloe want to cry herself. Then Mrs. Lund-quist got to her feet, wiping her eyes. “Thank you for your time.”
Chloe made sure she had current contact information, then helped Mrs. Lundquist down the trailer steps. Mrs. Lundquist walked slowly, her thin shoulders bowed. The Buick’s door seemed too heavy for her. Once seated, it looked as if she could barely see over the top of the steering wheel.
Didn’t I switch from interpretation to collections to avoid people problems? Chloe wondered, as the Buick crept from the parking lot. What on earth had prompted Mrs. Lundquist’s sudden change of heart so many years after the original donation was made?
Day One: she’d annoyed a security guard, irritated the curator of interpretation, and disappointed a sweet old woman. Not the promising start she’d wanted.
“Time to am-scray,” she muttered. She’d confront this donation imbroglio tomorrow. Right now she had a mountain of moving cartons waiting at her newly rented farmhouse.
She locked up the trailer, threw her bag on the Pinto’s backseat, and headed for home. She tried to forget Mrs. Lundquist, but as she turned onto County S, the irritating drone crept back into her brain: Must make this work. Must make this work—
The incantation died abruptly as Chloe crested a rise. Below her, at the foot of the hill, was the big Buick which Mrs. Lundquist had driven from the restoration area parking lot five minutes earlier: in a ditch, upside down, and partially wrapped around a tree.
Patrolman Roelke McKenna handed the man in the red Volvo his ticket. “Here you are, sir.”
“I know Chief Naborski personally.” The driver’s tone was peevish. “I think I’ll make a phone call about this.”
Roelke smiled pleasantly. “Be sure to mention that I clocked you doing fifty-seven in a school zone, sir.”
The man tossed the ticket on the empty passenger seat. Roelke had no more than stepped away from the car before the man furiously cranked up the window and pulled away.
“And have a real nice day,” Roelke added, before walking back to the squad car. Was the guy a long-time local? Roelke didn’t know. His old buddies from the Milwaukee Police Department, who often skewered Roelke for “fleeing to cow country,” assumed he was on a first-name basis with everyone. But although he’d been an Eagle cop for almost a year, he didn’t recognize everyone in the village.
Roelke noted the stop on his daily activity report while the radio chattered. Almost all of Waukesha County’s calls were routed through a centralized communications center, which kept the frequency busy. He was putting his clipboard aside when the dispatcher called his ID. “George 220. Respond to S & 67 for possible 10–50.”
An accident. Roelke snatched up the radio. “I’m three minutes from S. On my way.” He turned on siren and flashers and headed west, cutting through the swath of the state forest that bordered Eagle. As he turned left on County Highway S he took several deep breaths, steeling himself for … whatever.
When the cruiser crested the final hill on County S, Roelke saw a white Buick, flipped and crumpled against a massive oak. A thin blonde woman was on her knees by the broken passenger-side window. Roelke parked behind an old Pinto on the shoulder, slid from his car, and scrambled down the embankment. “What happened?”
“I think she’s dead.” The blonde sounded dazed. “I think I killed her.”
“What?”
“I didn’t try to move her. I’m just holding her hand. But I really think she’s dead.”
“Let me see,” Roelke commanded. “And you—don’t go anywhere. Get in my car and wait for me