The Heirloom Murders - Kathleen Ernst [31]
Notations on the calendar were made in fine-tipped pencil, precisely lettered. Roelke studied the coming week. Tuesday: Funeral. Wednesday: Conference call—Taiwan. R & D presentation. Board meeting. Thursday: Mtg. with legal re patent application. Mtg. with Patterson re 2nd quarter numbers. Roxie’s R., PM.
Roelke paused. Roxie’s R? The name might refer to anything or anyone, but something niggled at his brain … yes. There was a tavern on the outskirts of Elkhorn called Roxie’s Roost. He’d never been there, although he’d driven past it a few times. A typical small Wisconsin tavern, nothing flashy. It was hard to imagine Edwin Guest stopping there for a burger and beer on his way home.
The door to the inner office was still closed. Roelke lifted the calendar page with a fingernail and tipped his head to glance at next week’s schedule. More precise and often cryptic references to conference calls, meetings, reviews. And on Thursday, once again: Roxie’s R. Well, hunh.
The doorknob rattled. Roelke stepped away from the desk before Guest reappeared. “You may enter,” the secretary said, gesturing Roelke toward the inner office.
Simon Sabatola was already on his feet, coming around a massive desk with hand outstretched. His eyes were bloodshot. “Officer McKenna. Have you found any more information about Bonnie’s death?”
“No, sir, but I’ve got the death certificate and autopsy results for your wife,” Roelke said, as gently as he could. “Perhaps we could sit down?” He gestured toward a cluster of furniture at the far end of the huge office. He had his doubts about Sabatola, but nobody should have to hear “autopsy” and “your wife” in the same sentence.
Sabatola’s face seemed to lose what little color it had, and he dropped into one of the leather chairs.
Roelke sat on the sofa. “All the report really does is confirm what we already knew. Your wife died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. There were no signs of other physical distress of any kind.” Except the bruises. But Roelke was holding on to that tidbit, for now.
Sabatola closed his eyes and bowed his head. It took several moments for him to look up again. Finally he seemed to make a concerted effort to focus. “Thank you.”
“You’re free to make whatever plans you wish for burial.”
“Tomorrow,” Sabatola said. The word was barely audible, and he cleared his throat. “I’ve already talked with the priest at St. Theresa’s, in Eagle. Tomorrow, at two o’clock.”
“I understand that Dellyn Burke received a letter from her sister in the postal mail. Have you received one as well?”
Sabatola looked startled. “No, I—I’m afraid not.”
Roelke pulled his little notebook from his pocket. “I also hoped to get the names and phone numbers of some of your wife’s friends.”
“Is this really necessary?” Edwin Guest snapped from the doorway.
Roelke turned his head, eyebrows raised. “I am speaking with Mr. Sabatola.”
Guest tried to stare him down. Roelke didn’t let him. Guest looked physically fit—probably compensating for his short stature and receding hairline—but he was in no position to take control.
“It’s all right, Edwin.” Sabatola sounded weary. “Officer Mc-Kenna is just doing his job. You can wait outside.” When the door shut he turned back to Roelke. “Don’t mind Edwin. He’s worked with me for years.”
“I understand,” Roelke lied. He understood nothing about the relationship between a male secretary and the vice president of an international company. “And I wish my intrusion weren’t necessary. Now … can you give me contact information for any of Bonnie’s friends?”
“Well, let’s see.” Sabatola studied the wall, as if a list might magically appear. “I know her best friend from high school lives in Guatemala now. Otherwise … well, I really didn’t pay