Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [90]
He regarded her. “You’re not going to work today.”
“Of course I am!”
“Call in sick.”
“I don’t want to call in sick. I need to go to work and go through the accession books, page by page. I might be able to find the accession record for that apron. If it was removed, I can figure out the missing number and see if the registrar in Madison has a copy. They may not, if the donation came originally to Old World, instead of transferring—”
“That can wait.”
She turned on him. “No it can’t! If I can find the provenance for that apron, it might tell us something important. Something crucial.”
“But you’re exhausted!”
“So are you! Are you planning to call in sick?”
He wasn’t. For a long moment they scowled at each other. Birds were limbering their vocal muscles now, preparing to chorus the sun up. I’m trying to protect you! Roelke wanted to shout, but he was wise enough—at least he hoped it was wise—to keep his mouth shut on that one.
Chloe suddenly popped a hand to her mouth in an oddly child-like gesture. “Oh, geez! And I have to talk to Margueritte about Tobler!”
“Talk to who about what?”
“Sorry. Work stuff. It’s got nothing to do with this Norwegian mess.”
Roelke reached for the ignition key, and started the motor. “You make me nuts sometimes,” he muttered. “You really, really do.” After checking for oncoming traffic, he pulled onto the highway.
“Where are we going?” she demanded suspiciously.
“We are going to get breakfast,” he said. Then something else occurred to him, something he’d almost forgotten in the events of the past few hours. “And after I’ve had some coffee,” he added, “I am going to tell you about Stanley Colontuono.”
Back at the farmhouse, Chloe quickly changed into khaki trousers and a clean red shirt. As she stood in front of the bathroom mirror, brushing her hair, she saw dark blotches beneath her eyes. The shirt needed ironing, too. At least red was a power color.
Fifteen minutes later she and Roelke settled into a corner booth at the Cloverleaf Diner. “I can recommend the apple fritters,” Chloe said.
“You need protein.”
“Geez Louise, Roelke, would you please lighten up?”
“Would you please start taking things seriously?”
A waitress interrupted their standoff by silently splashing coffee into white ceramic mugs. Roelke ordered a Farmer’s Breakfast: two eggs, two pancakes, two sausages. Chloe ordered an apple fritter but, to make nice, added an order of scrambled eggs. “Made with cheese, if possible,” she added, then turned back to Roelke. “So, what’s this about Stanley?”
Voice low, Roelke told her about the flow of traffic recently observed at his house. “I am trusting you to keep this to yourself,” he added sternly.
Chloe put one placating palm in the air. “It won’t go any further. But … what does it mean? You think Stanley is involved in some gambling ring?”
“I don’t know. If he’s the bookie, it would have no connection to your ale bowl. But if he’s a gambler, it could mean he suddenly has a need for cash.”
Chloe pondered that while the waitress slammed their plates onto the table and disappeared again. “But Stanley has access to everything on the site. Why would he home in on one ale bowl? And if Stan did steal the bowl, and sell it so he could pay off gambling debts, how did Mrs. Lundquist get involved?”
Roelke dribbled syrup onto his pancakes. “I have no idea.”
Chloe frowned. Stan could have been looking for anyone the night Roelke saw him burst into the Eagle’s Nest. “I’m going to take a look around his office.”
Roelke pinned her with a stare sharp enough to carve diamonds. “No, you most certainly are not.”
“But maybe I could just—”
“No. Am I being clear? Stay away from Stanley Colontuono. If he is mixed up with a gambling operation, it could be bad business. You will stay away from him, and from his office. You are not leaving this table until you promise me that.”
Chloe could tell he wasn’t going to budge on this one. “I promise.”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you lying?