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• C. E. can’t find ale bowl

• 6/10—possible break-in at OWW storage trailers

• 6/12—attempted break-in at C. E.’s farmhouse

• 6/15—possible break-in at OWW/Kvaale house; evidence of possible foray upstairs; no sign of forced entry

Roelke sighed. The only concrete piece of evidence was the intruder at Chloe’s house, which might have nothing to do with the missing heirloom. Still, the list created an odd sequence of events. Something wasn’t right.

He was beating a fierce rhythm against the table with his thumb, trying to think, when the phone rang. “McKenna here.”

“Well gee, good morning to you too.” Libby’s voice was sardonic. “Still working on that pleasant greeting thing, I see.”

Her tone held no sign of “my-ex-is-being-an-ass” or “Justin-is-out-of-control.”

He frowned. “Why are you calling so early?”

“I want you to come over.”

Roelke leaned back in his chair. “Still working on that asking thing, I see. What’s going on?”

“Chloe’s here.”

Roelke sat back up straight. “And?”

“And you need to talk with her.”

He considered. “Does she know you’re calling me? Did she happen to mention that she’s royally pissed at me?”

“No and yes. And you know what? You both need to clear the air. You may never see her again, and that’s fine by me. But don’t leave things like this.”

“I haven’t even had coffee yet.”

“I’ve made coffee.”

“And I haven’t eaten.”

“I’m baking cinnamon rolls,” she said impatiently. “So stop making excuses and get your ass over here!”

____

Chloe could tell that Justin was in a sulky mood as soon as he emerged from the house. His sulks escalated into a tantrum thrown just as Roelke walked through the back gate. “I don’t want to be here!” the boy yelled. He hurled a plastic Smurf against the fence before stamping inside.

“I’ll get him,” Roelke offered, looking downright eager.

“No, I’ll get him,” Libby said firmly. “Sit. Drink coffee. Keep an eye on Dierdre.” Then she followed her son into the kitchen. Dierdre, wearing a Halloween princess costume, was playing on the grass with a turquoise toy pony.

“Good morning,” Chloe said. She hadn’t been thrilled to learn that Roelke was on his way over. But she was determined to be polite.

“Morning.” Roelke poured a cup of coffee from a carafe, stirred in some cream, and dropped into a chair. He wore his scuffed hiking boots, and he sat with one foot resting on its side and supporting the other. Those boots were once again oddly endearing.

“I’m sorry I was such a shrew on the phone,” she said. “But I hope you can see how disconcerting it was for me to find out by accident that you’d been called out to Kvaale the night before.”

“I would have thought there’d be a daily memo or something to share news like that.”

“Apparently there isn’t. And that’s not the point.”

Roelke gulped some coffee. It was evidently hotter than he’d expected; he jerked, and a few drops spilled on his hand. He managed to set the cup down without further disaster. “You’re right,” he said finally. The sky was threatening rain and Roelke’s sunglasses, thank God, were nowhere to be seen. “But I hope that you can see that—that I’m the cop here. I don’t know what’s going on—”

“I don’t know what’s going on either,” Chloe said, “but I deserve to know when something happens.”

“I don’t want you mixed up in this.”

“Excuse me? I’m already mixed up in this, remember?”

“It’s police business!”

“It’s my business!” Chloe retorted, then noticed Dierdre frowning at them. “It is my business,” she repeated more quietly. “Wait—are the police really getting involved?”

Roelke tried his coffee again, this time with more care and success. “No,” he admitted. “We would if the director of your museum filed a formal theft report. Have you talked with him?”

“With Ralph Petty? Yes. And he told me to forget about the ale bowl. I ignored that, but despite my best efforts, I haven’t been able to find the bowl. I suppose I could try talking to Petty again …” She chewed that over, then shook her head. “All I have is this feeling that something’s not right.”