Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [86]
Then she remembered the thick stack of photocopies she’d made in the microforms room that afternoon. At this point, even delving into Aldrick Tobler’s oh-so-Swiss life was more appealing than other options. She padded to the living room, grabbed the papers from her briefcase, turned on the floor lamp, and settled down to read.
It was boring stuff, mostly—notices of land sales, advertisements, reports from local social clubs—all reproduced in tiny, blurry fonts. Chloe felt her eyes growing gritty with fatigue. Good.
She kept reading. She knew she was too tired when words began to literally not make sense. She rubbed her eyes and forced herself to read the small business notice in her hand again.
She sat up straight, suddenly wide awake, and read it one more time.
Then she turned off the light and went to stand at the living room window, trying to let the darkness soothe her eyes and her nerves. This simply did not make sense.
Nothing was making sense. Alone in her big dark farmhouse, staring at the still night, she wondered if her tentative grip on emotional stability had truly been strained to the breaking point.
Then the night exploded, in a crashing and tinkling of broken glass.
Roelke felt an odd sense of déjà vu as he roared into Chloe’s driveway. This time, though, every light in the farmhouse was on. Chloe was sitting on the front step, her blonde hair shining almost white in the porch light’s glare. She wore shorts and a long T-shirt and, he was glad to see, sandals. She didn’t move when Roelke got out of his truck, but her landlord emerged from the house and came to greet him.
Roelke was operating in that strange half-buzzed, half-exhausted state that comes from too little sleep and too much adrenaline. He had worked the three-to-eleven shift the night before, and had been about to go off-duty when he spotted a clearly inebriated driver weaving north on Highway 67. By the time he’d made his arrest, taken the asshole to the Waukesha County jail, finished his paperwork, and headed home, it was almost two o’clock in the morning. He heard his phone begin to ring as he trudged up the staircase to his apartment.
When he grabbed the receiver, an unfamiliar man’s voice greeted him. “Officer McKenna? It’s Gene Holsworth. Chloe Ellefson’s landlord? We met that time—”
“What happened?”
“She’s OK,” Gene Holsworth had said. “But I think you better come down here.”
Now Roelke gripped the farmer’s hard, calloused hand. “What happened?” he asked again.
“Somebody threw a rock through a window. I was up with a sick calf, and heard it.”
He pointed. Roelke stared at the savage hole. The bastard had hit Chloe’s bedroom window.
“A county deputy has come and gone,” Gene was saying. “I tried to get her—” he cocked his head toward Chloe—“to wait over at our place, but she wouldn’t go. She didn’t even want me to call you.”
“I’m not surprised.”
Chloe frowned at the two men. “I can hear you, you know.”
Gene Holsworth leaned closer and muttered, “The wife and me, we just didn’t think she should be by herself.”
“I’m fine,” Chloe announced.
Roelke decided to ignore her for the moment. He helped Gene cover the jagged pane with a piece of plywood brought from next door. “That’ll do ’til I can get the glass replaced,” Gene said, stowing his hammer back in the loop on his overalls. “It was probably some kids out drinking beer or smoking dope or something. I don’t know why they keep hitting this old place, though. I bet this’ll kick my insurance up another notch.” He shook his head. “Well, if that’s it, I’ll head on home. I’ll be milking before too long.”
When the older man was out of earshot, Roelke planted himself in front of Chloe. “Why the hell didn’t you call me yourself?”
“Maybe it’s because the last time somebody broke into my house, you scolded me because I did call you.”
“I didn’t—that’s not—you know I—Jesus!” He glared down at her.
Chloe stood, neutralizing his advantage. “I’ve already called you twice to come rescue me. Maybe I’m sick of playing the distressed