Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [93]
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Chloe listened to her parents’ phone ring … and ring … and ring. “Answer the damn phone!” she yelled, before slamming the receiver back to its cradle.
OK. She needed to calm down. Breathe in, breathe out. She would catch up with Mom later. Right now, she could go talk to Nika.
As Chloe reached for her keys a car pulled up outside. By the time she got the door open, Byron was climbing from the state sedan.
“Hey, Byron,” she called. “What brings you here?”
He stopped at the steps. “I was just at the admin building. I, um, noticed you had these in your mailbox.” Without meeting her gaze, he handed Chloe two of the yellow WHILE YOU WERE OUT slips the receptionist used.
“Thanks.”
“And I wanted to get back to you about the Norwegian interpreters. Two people who worked there in the 1970s are still on staff. They’re both here today.” He gave her a piece of paper with the relevant information.
“Thanks again.” Chloe tried to read Byron’s expression. “But something tells me you didn’t drive over here just to hand-deliver these.”
Byron finally looked her in the eye. “The receptionist told me that Ralph asked her to set up a meeting in Madison this afternoon with the division curator and the division director.” He rubbed his palms on his trousers. “There was only one item on the agenda.”
“Me?”
“Yeah.”
Chloe took that in. “I think I’m toast.”
“I’m sorry.” Behind his little wire-rimmed glasses, Byron’s eyes were concerned.
Chloe chewed her lower lip. So, Ralph was going to fire her. But evidently he needed to let the Madison folks know what he wanted to do. And if that didn’t happen until late today, she still had a little time to figure out what was going on. Not much time. But a little.
Byron started toward his car, then turned back. “Are you coming to the picnic this afternoon?”
She blinked. “The picnic?”
“Didn’t you see the flyer? The interpreters are having an end-of-the-school-tour-season picnic in the village after work. Four o’clock, by the Inn. We’ve still got a few tours scheduled, but we’re definitely over the hump.”
“I don’t think I’m up for a picnic.”
“Well, think about it, OK?”
Chloe almost laughed. In the last few weeks she’d seen two dead people. Someone had broken into her home, and thrown a rock through a window and onto her bed in the middle of the night. She had just learned that her mother—her mother—was inexplicably involved in the whole mess. Ralph Petty was gunning to fire her. She was broke and exhausted and fending off clinical depression. And Byron wanted her to come to a picnic.
“Really,” Byron said earnestly. “You should come.”
Chloe couldn’t find the words to say no to someone who had turned, surprisingly enough, into an ally. “OK,” she said. “I’ll be there.”
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After Byron left, Chloe read her phone messages. One was from a woman who wanted to donate her grandmother’s crazy quilt to Old World. That would have to wait for the next curator, Chloe thought, and put the slip aside. The second made her shoulders sag. Nika called 7:30 A.M. Has to take Joel to Dr. in Milwaukee today. Will be in later if she can—otherwise will see you tomorrow.
Lovely, Chloe thought. All Nika’s likely to see tomorrow is Ralph Petty kicking my sorry ass off the site.
One day left. A clock seemed to be audibly ticking in her brain. OK. She still had a couple of possibilities. Next: search Stanley Colontuono’s desk.
Stan’s truck was parked by the maintenance building. Chloe waited an hour before she heard an engine starting. After he’d driven away, she hurried across the yard.
Stanley’s desk was a mess. Was he a disorganized slob who wouldn’t notice if his things were shuffled? Or was he—like Leila—in total control of the chaos? Chloe decided to begin with the desk drawers. One held a row of bulging files, grease-stained and dog-eared. As far as she could tell, all were stuffed with state business. The other drawers held junk: thumbtacks, envelopes, loose change, a spark plug, a pack of cigarettes, a doorknob, and various other bits of hardware.