The Heirloom Murders - Kathleen Ernst [44]
“Well, hell,” he muttered. He stamped down the cramped under-the-eaves corridor to his miniscule kitchen, opened the fridge, and stared at the shelves with disapproval. He never kept beer at home. But every once in a great while, he wished he did.
Just as every once in a while, he wished he’d never left the MPD. He missed shooting the shit with Rick every day. Missed hanging out with guys he’d gone through the academy with.
Roelke poured himself a glass of apple juice and looked out the kitchen window. Beyond the exterior staircase to his apartment, which was a total bitch to shovel in the winter, was a parking lot. Nothing to see at this hour except his truck and a dumpster.
“I like working in Eagle,” he muttered.
But that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that he seemed hell-bent on screwing himself out of the permanent position. Something about this Sabatola case was making him nuts. He was losing perspective. Just when he should be hunkered down, playing everything by the book, not giving Chief Naborski a single moment’s pause.
And then, of course, there was Chloe. He was doing a pretty good job of screwing his chances with her, too.
He thought about his dad, and his brother Patrick. Both of them had self-destructed. Roelke had always tried to hold himself above their examples. And despite his momentary longing for a cold one, he didn’t have their problem with alcohol.
But there was more than one way to self-destruct. If anyone should know that, a cop should.
“What’s eating you?” Marie demanded.
Roelke slammed his locker door. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve been barking at people all morning,” the clerk said.
“No, I haven’t.”
Marie held both palms toward him in surrender. “Right. Have it your way.” She swiveled back to her desk.
Great. Pissing off Marie did not bode well for anyone at the EPD, most especially a part-timer trying to win a full-time slot. “Marie,” he began.
“Chief needs to present bids on new tires for the squad car,” Marie said. “I’ve got to get this written up.”
Well, hell. Roelke grabbed the squad keys and left. As he drove down Main Street, he realized that his fingers ached. He was clenching the steering wheel like a terrified first-time driver.
Well, hunh. Maybe something was eating him.
Five minutes later he climbed the front steps of a small brick ranch house, just north of Dellyn Burke’s place. Clouds of flowers lined the walk, and spilled from a dozen or more hanging baskets. No wonder Sonia Padopolous and Dellyn’s mother had been friends.
The front door was open, but no one answered his knock. He was about to try again when he heard faint chords of … something vaguely musical. He followed the sound around the house.
A plump woman wearing a lavender sweat suit and Keds sat in a lawn chair, strumming a ukulele. “When the red, red robin comes bob-bob-bobbing along,” she sang, evidently to the robin splashing in a cement birdbath nearby.
OK, this was a first. Roelke waited until the song ended before coughing politely. “Mrs. Padopolous?”
“Oh!” Sonia Padopolous jumped to her feet, her eyes wide. The expression that chased the surprise aside, though, was not fear, or even wariness. Instead, a look of … regret, perhaps resignation, shadowed her eyes. Her shoulders slumped.
He waited for her to speak. She didn’t. “I’m Officer McKenna,” he said finally. “I got called to your neighbor’s house last night. A friend of Dellyn Burke’s startled a prowler—”
“A prowler? At Dellyn’s? Last night?” The color drained from the woman’s face, leaving two artificially pink blots of blusher on her cheeks. She stood with the instrument dangling from one hand.
Something not quite right here, Roelke thought. “Might we step inside?” he asked politely.
Mrs. Padopolous ushered him into a spotless kitchen. “You go through there and have a seat in the parlor. I’ll get you a snack.”
Roelke remembered Chloe’s warning. “No thank you, ma’am,” he began, but she flapped her hands in a shooing motion. He watched her bustle about the kitchen with what seemed to be an excess