The Heirloom Murders - Kathleen Ernst [12]
“He just likes my cooking,” Clarissa said lightly. She cracked the oven door, and a new wave of heat shimmered into the room. She hoped that would excuse any flush staining her cheeks. Charles was a good man. A good husband. Still … it had been a long time since he’d looked at Clarissa the way Albrecht looked at her.
“I think there’s more to it than that.” Charles stepped behind her, and Clarissa felt a whisper of unease. Then he surprised her, wrapping his arms around her, holding her close.
Clarissa leaned her head against his shoulder, smelling sweat and dirt, the cheap cotton shirt rough beneath her cheek. “Perhaps,” she admitted. “But he’s harmless. A young man who hasn’t yet found a good woman of his own. We’re lucky he’s willing to work for you.” She and Charles only rented the land they were developing. They were saving every penny toward buying the lot. A Yankee workman would have asked twice what they were paying Albrecht.
“I suppose so,” Charles admitted. He sounded distracted. He pressed his mouth against the side of her neck. Then he reached for her hand, tugged.
“Let me at least take the roast from the oven!” Clarissa protested, but she laughed. If her husband’s dinner scorched, he’d have no one to blame but himself.
“Got a minute?” Chief Naborski asked.
“Sure.” Roelke followed the chief into his office. It was shift change again. The older man liked to catch up with whomever was coming on duty. He always posed his request as a question, though. Not an order.
Chief Naborski dropped into his chair. He refused to purchase anything that swiveled or rolled; he liked chairs he could tip back on two legs, which he did now. “Fill me in on the suicide. Have you talked to the husband?”
“Simon Sabatola.” Roelke settled in a chair in front of the desk. “Not yet. He was playing golf in Lake Geneva with a client. Some business thing.” He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The idea that playing golf on a summer morning qualified as work was beyond his experience. “It took awhile for the local guys to track him down. Sabatola’s office, and the client’s office, knew about the golf outing but didn’t know which course. I’m going to talk to Mr. Sabatola today.”
“Good.” Chief Naborski ran a hand over his buzz-top. He was a stocky man, plain-spoken, fair with his officers and with the public.
“I’ve got a funny feeling about this one.”
“Suicides are never easy.” The chief shook his head. “Hard to tell what finally pulls the trigger, so to speak. Money problems. Relationship problems. Or who knows what else.”
“Yeah.” Roelke thought about that. Money and marriage. Tricky things to investigate. But he was going to try.
“Different topic. Everything set for your first Movie Night?”
“All set.” Roelke had proposed a summer series of free, family-friendly movies in the village park. His theory was simple: kids watching a movie were not bored and, therefore, not getting into trouble. He’d written a grant that pulled in some state dollars, and gotten approval from the village board.
“Lined up all the help you need?”
“I’ve got volunteers from the Lions Club, American Legion, the Fire Department, and the Kettle Moraine Snowmobile Club.”
“Good. One more thing.” Chief Naborski gave him a level gaze. “Wasserman’s retiring.”
Roelke felt every cell quiver, like a hound catching a scent.
“So there’s going to be a permanent, full-time slot opening up,” Naborski said. “Patrolman II. Earns $7.40 an hour.”
Which would be a nice bump from Roelke’s current Patrolman I status, at six bucks an hour.
“We’re not going to open the search to outside applicants,” the chief was saying. “Not when I’ve got two good part-time officers already waiting.”
Two good part-time officers, Roelke thought. Me and Skeet.
Naborski twiddled a pen in his fingers, like a cheerleader with a miniature baton. “It’s out of my hands, of course. The Police Committee will handle it. Get your application to the Village Board by next Wednesday.”
“Will do.” Roelke realized that his right knee was bouncing up and down with suppressed energy. He forced it into