The Heirloom Murders - Kathleen Ernst [53]
Chinaberry Circle was a cul-de-sac at the end of one of the quietest residential streets in the village. In the county, likely. But Mrs. Lennox called the station at least once a week. She’d once called for help after a junco stunned itself by flying into her kitchen window.
Maybe I should go back to Milwaukee, Roelke thought.
But … no. He’d thought that through. Made his choices. He was where he wanted to be.
“I got it,” he told Marie, and reached for the car keys.
When his shift ended Roelke didn’t really decide to drive to Chloe’s house. He just sort of found his truck headed in that direction. Early evening’s soft light muted the landscape’s colors as he drove the twisting road through the Kettle Moraine.
When he pulled into Chloe’s driveway, he was relieved to see only her old Pinto in the driveway. No sign of Alpine Boy. But … that only meant the problem was avoided, not erased. He set his jaw. Chloe needed to decide who she wanted to spend time with, dammit. Maybe he should just say so. He’d been patient. He didn’t deserve to be—
Chloe stepped out on the front porch to meet him. She wore faded jeans and a shapeless red T-shirt, an off-hand combination that struck him as incredibly hot.
He struggled to keep his mind where it belonged. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t call first, but … anyway. Can I come in?”
“I suppose so.” Chloe opened the screened door and gestured him inside. “Watch out for Olympia. She has a habit of getting underfoot.” Hearing her name, the kitten shot from the kitchen. Her trajectory altered when she spotted a fly banging against one of the windows.
“Why did you name her Olympia?”
“Olympia Brown was a Unitarian minister. I think she was the first woman to be formally ordained, back in the 1860s or ’70s. She served in Wisconsin.”
Roelke had never heard of Olympia Brown. Or Unitarians. He silently trailed Chloe into the living room.
The farmhouse Chloe rented was huge for one person, but it had finally taken on some identity: books on the shelves, a colorful rag rug on the floor. It was a curator’s space—a canning jar on the windowsill held wildflowers, an old iron did bookend duty, and a painted trunk served as her coffee table. The personal items she’d chosen to display included a cobalt bowl of stones, a hummingbird’s nest displayed in a crystal shot glass, a huge pinecone.
“Those can’t be easy to dust,” Roelke said, gesturing toward the treasures.
Chloe rolled her eyes. “Could you be any more German?”
Roelke ignored that, his attention caught by mementos of Switzerland—a cuckoo clock, a delicate alpine scene silhouette cut from black paper, several photographs that showed pretty chalets with overflowing window boxes. A record playing on the stereo suggested people in ethnic costumes dancing to the bouncy strains of fiddle and accordion. If someone starts yodeling, Roelke thought, I’m outta here.
Chloe dropped into her brown easy chair. “Did you want something?”
Roelke perched on the edge of her sofa. “Look, I don’t like the way things got left the night you got attacked. And I didn’t mean to ignore you at the funeral. I was watching Sabatola, that’s all.”
“Oh.” She studied him for a moment. Some of the tension seemed to drain from her posture. “OK.”
Relieved, Roelke leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “Listen, I’m keeping a sharp eye on Dellyn’s place. The other guys are, too.”
“Good,” Chloe said fervently. “It makes me sick to think that Dellyn might stumble across whoever it was that tried to bash me in the skull.”
“Yeah.”
“I was about to start supper when I heard your truck,” she said. “You want to stay?”
“What’s on the menu?”
“Popcorn and Oreos.”
“Chloe—”
“Oh, lighten up, would you?” She got up and headed toward the kitchen. “How about lentil stew and a tossed salad?”
He followed her. “I have known you to skip meals altogether,” he observed defensively. “I wouldn’t be surprised if—”
“Yeah, yeah.” Chloe filled a pot with water