Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [71]
“I won’t have that shit in my house,” she said.
He studied the dashboard. “I know.”
“You think my kids don’t get enough of that from their father?”
“I know.”
A little girl next door wobbled down her driveway on roller skates, the cheap kind that clipped onto the bottom of regular shoes. Roelke and Libby watched her make progress, trip, fall. It took her three tries to get up.
“OK,” Libby said finally. “I’ve got to get back inside. I don’t want Dierdre to wonder where I am.”
“You’re not always right,” Roelke said. Something ached inside.
She sighed. “You want to tell me why I’m wrong? Fine. But come back into the house.”
She opened the door, got out, slammed it behind her. She was halfway across the yard before she realized he wasn’t following. She stopped, then walked back. This time she came around the truck and stood by his open window. “Roelke? Are you going to sit and sulk, or are you coming back into the house?”
“I think it’s inside me.”
“What’s inside you?”
The ache in his chest tightened to a knot, squeezing, cutting off his air.
Libby glanced back toward the house. “Roelke? What’s inside you?”
“I think … sometimes I think I’m like my father.”
Her shoulders slumped. Then she reached into the cab and put her hand on his wrist. “You’re not.”
“You don’t know—”
“Yes, I do,” she said firmly. “About this, I know.”
Maybe she knew him better than he knew himself. Maybe she didn’t. He stared at the little girl on roller skates. She was getting her stride, now. Roelke became aware of a thickening in his throat, the sting of tears in his eyes.
“You are not like your dad,” Libby said. “You broke a glass. He broke your mother’s arm. Big difference.”
“But—”
“Would you ever hit me?”
Roelke finally looked at her. “I swear to God, Libby, I’d chop my hand off before I ever hit you, or the kids.”
“That’s what I know,” she told him. “Yeah, you’ve got a temper. You’ve got to deal with that. But I’m not afraid of you, OK? And remember, I do know what I’m talking about. I was afraid Dan was going to smack me long before he ever did.”
Toxic, Roelke thought. Men can be so toxic. Women could be too, for sure. But most often, it was men. And the thought that he might have even a trace of whatever—
“Come inside,” Libby ordered. “Come on. I don’t want you driving like this.”
Roelke sucked in a deep breath, exhaled very slowly. He wanted to go inside and pretend that the last half hour hadn’t happened.
He put the key in the ignition instead. “I’m sorry,” he told his cousin. “I’ve gotta get out of here.”
____
The clouds began to drizzle rain as Chloe drove toward Daleyville, replaying the morning’s conversation in her mind. It was freaky to discuss her co-workers as possible suspects. “I hope it’s Ralph,” she muttered, amused by the mental image of Roelke McKenna putting Petty in handcuffs. He’d actually ordered her not to inventory the collection. What sense did it make to raise funds for a storage building without knowing what there was to be stored?
Chloe thought that over, unease growing with every slap of the wipers. Ralph could be erratic and irrational. Was he just an autocratic megalomaniac, or was some secret fueling his volatility? She’d mention all this to Roelke when she called.
Just as Chloe eased her car into Mr. Solberg’s driveway, the rain turned torrential. Of course. Since she had not been home since the day before, she did not have an umbrella or jacket along. Of course. After killing the engine she sat for a moment, watching water cascade down the windshield. The front door stayed implacably shut.
“So it goes,” Chloe muttered, and plunged out of the car. She trotted across the small yard and up the front steps—which did not, of course, have the protection of a portico—and knocked on the door.
And waited, and banged again, and waited, T-shirt already sodden against