The Heirloom Murders - Kathleen Ernst [1]
Dedication
For all those who quietly labor
to collect, preserve, protect, and interpret
heirlooms of all kinds.
Author’s Note
Old World Wisconsin is a real place. I had the pleasure and privilege of working there for twelve years, starting in 1982. However, this book is a work of fiction. All characters, including Chloe Ellefson, were born in my imagination. I freely fabricated events to serve the story.
The Eagle Historical Society does exist (and today operates a museum). The Swiss Historical Village Museum in New Glarus is also a real place, and includes a small cheese factory. (The Imobersteg Farmstead Cheese Factory, restored at The National Historic Cheesemaking Center in Monroe, Wisconsin, also provided inspiration.) Seed Savers Exchange, which was founded in 1975, is located near Decorah, Iowa. My characters’ interactions with these sites and organizations are completely fictional.
To learn more about these fascinating places, and to plan your own tours, visit their websites:
http://oldworldwisconsin.wisconsinhistory.org/
http://eaglehistoricalsociety.org/
http://www.swisshistoricalvillage.org/index.html
http://www.nationalhistoriccheesemakingcenter.org/
http://www.seedsavers.org/
“The guy tried using a pistol?” Roelke McKenna asked, as he opened his locker door. It was almost eight in the morning. He was coming on-shift; Skeet Deardorff was going off. Roelke always arrived at the Eagle police station early enough to catch up on news.
“Yeah. Oh, man.” Skeet was laughing so hard he could hardly speak. The phone rang, and he waited until Marie answered it before gasping in a lower voice, “He couldn’t loosen the lug nut with a wrench, so he figured a shot or two would—”
Marie’s hand sliced the air so fiercely that Skeet stopped talking. She swiveled her chair to face the officers. Roelke’s nerves snapped to full alert.
In the sudden silence she said, “Ma’am, I’m sorry, I’ve got some static on the line. Can you repeat what you just said?” Then she pressed the speaker-phone button.
A woman’s voice: “—said, I’m about to kill myself.”
Jesus. Roelke snatched a daily report form and pen from a nearby desk and scrawled, WHERE? Before he could even thrust it at Marie she was asking, “Where are you, ma’am?”
“I’ll tell you in a moment,” the caller said.
Skeet fumbled for his duty belt. Roelke grabbed a radio.
“Please, ma’am, let’s talk about this,” Marie said. “I might be able to help. Can you tell me your name?”
“My name is Bonnie. But—”
“I’m Marie. Can you tell me a little about whatever is bothering you?”
“I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” Bonnie said. “Really. But there’s nothing to discuss.”
Roelke reached for the car keys. The hook was empty. Where were the damn keys?
“I’m only calling because I want the police to get here first.” Bonnie sounded young-ish. Twenty-five, maybe? Thirty? “I’m in a public place. I don’t want kids to find me.”
Roelke rifled the counter below the key hook. Papers sank to the floor with a languid rocking motion. Skeet snapped his fingers, then held up the keys. Roelke snatched them.
“I’m driving a Cadillac Cimarron,” Bonnie said. “You’ll find my wallet on top of the left front tire. I removed my credit cards, but left my ID. My keys will be in the right pocket of my jacket.”
Roelke felt the seconds ticking by with frenzied impatience. He stared at Marie, willing her to find a way to stop this. Marie spread her hands in a helpless gesture, but said, “Please, Bonnie, just tell me where you are.”
“I have a plastic garbage bag with me. I’ll be as tidy as possible.”
Roelke closed his eyes. He could feel Skeet quivering in the doorway beside him.
“Bonnie, please give us the chance to help you.” Marie was clutching a pen so hard that her knuckles were white. “If you just wait until one of our officers can get there—”
“Please tell the officer that I’m sorry.” An audible breath in, out. “I’ll be three hundred paces up the White Oak Trail—”
Roelke and Skeet bolted outside. Roelke slid behind the wheel of the squad car and