Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [73]
“Would you shut up about calling me already? I said I’m glad you called.”
Chloe retreated into silence. Roelke inwardly cursed his clumsiness.
For the next few minutes he concentrated on getting out of Madison. When he was finally headed east he tried again. “Sorry. I’m not angry at you.”
“OK.” Chloe stared out the window, hugging her arms to her chest.
“Tell me again what happened.”
Chloe told him.
Roelke’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “OK, here’s why I’m angry at you,” he began.
“You just said you weren’t angry at me.”
“I lied. I am angry at you. What the hell were you thinking? Plunging into not one but two houses, alone, in suspicious circumstances? We’ve been through this before!”
“Stop yelling at me.”
“You deserve to be yelled at!” Roelke clenched the steering wheel so hard his hands hurt.
“OK, I get it.”
“Do you? Because I have no idea. I truly don’t. Bill Solberg was murdered, Chloe. Someone evidently bashed a nice old man in the head.”
“Stop it!” She scooted closer to the window.
“It could have been you. I could have just as easily gotten called to the morgue to identify your body. Do you hear me?”
“I think I’m going to throw up,” Chloe said in a small, tight voice.
Some of Roelke’s fury leaked away. “Seriously?”
“Yes.”
He pulled onto the shoulder. Chloe slid out and leaned against the cab, hands on knees, head lowered. Dammit, Roelke thought.
After five minutes Chloe straightened. Another five and she slowly climbed back into the cab. “OK,” she said. “It passed.”
“What have you eaten today?”
“Um … two cinnamon rolls and about four cups of coffee.”
Roelke eased back into traffic. “You need something to eat.”
“I need fresh clothes—”
“Fine. Your place to change, and then food.”
Chloe twisted her fingers together. “Someone was looking for the ale bowl.”
“Maybe it had nothing to do with the ale bowl.” Roelke sighed. “But for the sake of discussion … let’s say it did.”
“Mr. Solberg might have heard a noise from Mrs. Lundquist’s house. Or maybe he saw a light on over there, sometime late last night. Probably while that Carol Burnett show was on.”
“If so, Mr. Solberg went over to investigate, surprised the killer, and got—” Roelke caught himself just in time. “And, um, ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Chloe swiped at her eyes. “But why kill that sweet old man?”
Roelke shot her a sidelong glance. “Well, it may have been unintentional. It’s not as easy to kill someone by knocking them in the head as they made it look on Starsky and Hutch. Maybe Mr. Solberg fell and hit his head, and bled to death. Was there a lot of … never mind.” Asking about the amount of blood she’d seen—which could indicate how quickly Mr. Solberg had died—would be a bad thing to do. “We just don’t have enough information now to speculate.”
____
After Chloe had changed into fresh clothes, Roelke headed to his place. Ten minutes later he pulled into the tiny lot behind a second-hand clothing store in Palmyra, and parked beside a dumpster. “This is where you live?” Chloe asked dubiously.
“I rent the second story.” He led her up the exterior staircase, unlocked the door, and ushered her into the miniscule kitchen. “Watch your head.” Visitors often thumped their heads against the slanting pitch of the ceiling.
Chloe perched in one of the chairs, hugging herself as if chilled. Roelke looked in his refrigerator. What the hell did vegetarians eat? “Are eggs OK?”
“Yes.”
Cheese omelets, then. He put a cutting board, knife, and wedge of smoked Gouda in front of her. “Slice up some of that.”
She sliced, and he whisked, and soon butter was sizzling in a skillet. He made one large omelet, cut it in two, and slid the halves onto plates.
“Let’s eat up front,” he said. “More room.” Chloe followed him to the living room. He put her plate on an end table by the sofa, and dropped into his own favorite chair.
Chloe studied a model airplane hung from the ceiling with fishing line. “Did you make this?”
“Me and my dad did that, when I was about eight. It’s a Lockheed