Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [70]
“I don’t know how information like that would have suddenly come to light, though. Even if that info was in the accession record—the one that got ripped out of the ledger—somebody knew to go looking for the record. I can’t believe it was random.”
“We can’t make assumptions.”
“OK, OK.” Chloe poured herself another cup of coffee. “Well, I’m still digging. My mom is doing some library research—”
“Your mom?”
“My mother has connections in Norwegian circles like you wouldn’t believe. And maybe I can find some evidence of a long-lost relative. I’m going to visit Mr. Solberg again today—”
“The neighbor?”
“Right. I met him at the funeral.”
Roelke frowned, and one knee began to jiggle up and down. “It’s not smart for you to be asking questions so openly.”
“I’m going to visit a lonely old man,” Chloe said. “That’s all.” She didn’t explain that she’d called Mr. Solberg because she needed action, and she didn’t know what else to do.
Libby came out the kitchen door, carrying a plate of cinnamon rolls. “You two OK?”
“Yeah,” Roelke said. “Where’s Justin?”
“Watching a Mork and Mindy rerun. He’s all right. He just needs some space.”
Chloe surprised herself by eating two of the rolls, which were hot, moist, and not ruined with frosting. Finally, reluctantly, she carried her dirty plate and mug into the kitchen.
“Just leave them in the sink,” Libby told her. “I have to empty the dishwasher.”
“Thank you,” Chloe said. “For everything.”
Libby smiled. “No problem.”
Back outside, Roelke was waiting for her. “Where’s your car?”
“At the beach,” Chloe said. “Long story.”
“I’ll walk you over.”
Chloe was grateful that he didn’t ask why she’d left her car at the beach. They walked in comfortable silence. Two boys zoomed past on bicycles. A bell chimed from a nearby church, calling the faithful. Chloe thought about the big church in the little village of Daleyville. One less congregant, now.
“Do me a favor,” Roelke said when they reached her Pinto. “Call me tonight. Let me know what you find out.”
He’d put on his sunglasses, and his favor was inflected as an instruction, not a request. But Chloe didn’t want to get tangled in those dynamics again—at least not right away. “Will do,” she promised her double reflection, and got into her car.
When Roelke got back to Libby’s house he found his cousin in the kitchen, emptying the dishwasher. “Chloe get off OK?” she asked.
“Yeah.” Roelke looked around. “This place got quiet.”
“Justin went to play next door. Dierdre’s having a tea party with two dolls and a teddy bear. You want some juice? I’m out of OJ, but I’ve got cranberry.”
“Sure.” Roelke sat down at the table and accepted the glass without looking Libby in the eye.
“Hey, you,” she said. “I didn’t mean to piss you off the other day.”
He shrugged. “OK.”
She leaned against the sink, regarding him as she wiped some hard water spots from a plate. “But I care about you, Roelke. And I can’t just not say anything when I think I see you making a mistake. Especially when it’s because of me.”
Roelke loved Libby, but swear-to-God, there were times he wanted to shake her. “Libby, just stop. Stop talking. Stop telling me what to do. You don’t – know – everything.”
Libby put the plate away. “I do know you. I know how excited you were when you got hired on in Milwaukee. And I know the only reason you’re still hanging around Palmyra is me and the kids—”
Roelke’s glass shattered against the cellar door. Cranberry juice ran down white paint. In the seconds of stunned silence that followed, Roelke thought he could hear it dripping to the floor.
“Mama?” Dierdre called.
“It’s OK, baby,” Libby called, managing an almost-normal tone. “I just dropped something.”
Roelke shoved his chair back with such force that it clattered to the floor. In two strides he was out the back door. He strode around the house, climbed into his truck, slammed the door.
Then he sat. Jesus holy Christ.
He imagined Libby cleaning up