Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [69]
“So,” Chloe said. “I really think we’d get farther if we cooperated. Communicated. That sort of thing.”
Roelke stared into his mug as if searching for answers.
“I’m a big girl,” Chloe added. She saw again Mrs. Lundquist’s pleading gaze. “And I’m the one who didn’t ask Mrs. Lundquist enough questions. If I’d only tried a little harder … I might have learned something that—”
“It’s not your fault she had a heart attack.”
“She gave me the impression that I was her last hope. I disappointed her. I was too self-absorbed to ask the right questions.” Chloe hitched her shoulders. “If I had, we might at least know why she was so desperate to get the piece back. And that might tell us if someone was threatening her, and who’s trying now to find the bowl.”
Roelke leaned over, forearms on thighs, head down as if protecting his thoughts. Dierdre began singing to the pony. A chickadee zipped in to one of the feeders.
Then Roelke straightened, slid a hand into one pocket and pulled out several dog-eared index cards. He put them on the iron table at Chloe’s knee.
Chloe felt a spark of satisfaction as she realized what she was reading. She retrieved her notebook, opened it to her page of notes about possible motive, and passed it to him. They both read in silence until one particular line of Roelke’s printing caught Chloe’s attention. “What’s this about upstairs?”
“At the Kvaale house there were footprints in the dust upstairs. They could have been left by one of the guides. But … maybe not.”
Chloe glared at the page. “I knew it. I looked for that ale bowl at Kvaale right after Mrs. Lundquist died, but it didn’t occur to my feeble brain to look on the second story. By the time it did occur to me—he’d already been there.”
“If it was an intruder, I don’t think he found what he was after. The line of tracks stopped at the doorway to the back room, as if the person had gone that far just to check.”
“Well, it was a long shot.” Chloe frowned again at his notes. “It’s the ‘no-sign-of-forced-entry’ that really bothers me. It happened at the trailer, too.”
“Remind me: who else has keys to those buildings?”
“A few permanent staff members, that’s all. I had to check my set out from the head maintenance guy.”
“Stanley Colontuono?”
“Right. He’s a jerk.”
“Who else would have easy access?”
“Ralph Petty, obviously. He’s a jerk, too. And Byron, who is something of a jerk as well.”
“Nice people you work with.”
“Yeah.”
“Tell me what your beef is with those guys.”
Chloe gave him a condensed version of her encounters with Stanley, Ralph, and Byron. Roelke pulled more index cards from another pocket, one for each man.
“And I suppose you could add Hank DiCapo to the list,” Chloe added. “He doesn’t like me.”
Roelke tapped his cards on a patio table to even the edges. “Any other workplace encounters you want to tell me about?”
Chloe pulled one heel up to her chair seat and wrapped her arms around her knee. “I don’t think so.”
Roelke shuffled through his pile of cards, reading slowly. “Hank DiCapo, security guard—insisted open trailer was your fault. Byron Cooke, curator of interpretation—argued over training—”
“Don’t roll your eyes,” Chloe interrupted.
“I didn’t roll my eyes.”
“Byron was really pissed, and didn’t care who knew it. And he mentioned once that he’d been in the storage trailers recently, where he’s got no business being.”
Roelke sighed, made another note on Byron’s card, and moved on. “Ralph Petty, site director—on your case. Stanley Colontuono, maintenance chief—asked you out.” He shook his head. “If there’s some connection here to your missing bowl, I don’t see it.”
“I don’t either.”
Roelke put his cards away. “OK, one more thing. This ale bowl—what is an ale bowl, anyway?”
“A bowl, carved from a single piece of wood, often very decorative. During wedding celebrations or other special feasts, they’d get filled with ale, and passed around. So I’m told.”
“Hunh.” Roelke took that in, then picked up her notebook. “All right. So, you’ve come up