The Heirloom Murders - Kathleen Ernst [54]
“Can I help?”
“No, thanks, I’ve got it.” She disappeared behind the refrigerator door, then emerged holding a bulb of garlic and an onion.
Roelke leaned against the wall and watched her work. “Is Dellyn doing OK?”
Chloe used the back of her knife to sweep translucent bits of onion into a bowl. “She’s running on empty. She’s talking about packing up and moving away. Somewhere.”
“I’m sure you’d miss her.”
“I would.” Chloe minced the final slices. “And it would be a terrible loss for Old World, too.”
Roelke was still staring at Chloe’s hands. Her fingers were long, slender, graceful even as they chopped the garlic. “Well, she’s just a gardener, right?”
Chloe straightened. “Just a gardener? What’s that supposed to mean?”
Oh, hell. “Nothing! It’s just that … well, I’m sure Dellyn is a really good gardener, but lots of people are, right? If she did leave—I mean, I know you’d miss your friend—but it wouldn’t be all that hard to find someone else to—”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Chloe snapped. “Dellyn is in charge of a dozen gardens, which represent a variety of ethnic groups, 1845 to 1915. She has to know what varieties of vegetables Finlanders planted in the cutover up north, and what progressive Yankee housewives planted in the southeast corner of the state.”
“OK, I get it.”
“She needs to find and propagate heirloom varieties of vegetables and fruits and flowers for each specific garden. She needs to consider whether German-speaking immigrants from Pomerania planted their gardens differently than German-speaking immigrants from Hesse-Darmstadt. She needs to understand how to control pests using historical methods. She needs to work with the interpreters to be sure the gardens support the foodways program. And then she needs to develop programs to help visitors understand the implications of—”
“O-kay!” Roelke held up both hands. “I don’t know what I’m talking about. I get it.” And Alpine Boy, no doubt, would have gotten it from the start.
The awkward silence between them was broken by the tiny hiss of steam as the water on the stove began to simmer. Roelke’s gaze fell on a line of bird feathers arrayed on a shelf of cookbooks. He picked up a crimson plume. Cardinal, surely. “Where did you get this?”
“The back yard. Why?”
“Did you know it’s illegal to have songbird feathers in your possession?”
Chloe’s eyes narrowed. Her mouth got tight. Her chin jutted forward. “Why are you being such an asshole?”
Roelke didn’t answer. He had no idea why he was being such an asshole.
“I think you should leave now.” She crossed her arms over her chest, the big knife still clutched in one fist.
Roelke opened his mouth, closed it again, and departed.
_____
Once Roelke’s truck had disappeared, Chloe turned off the stove. “Shit,” she muttered. She paced for a few moments, then went to the telephone and dialed a familiar number. “Ethan? It’s me. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No, it’s good, actually. I’m probably going to get called out in the next day or so. Looks like we’ve got a bad one in Montana.”
“Oh.” Ethan was a fire jumper. Scary stuff. “Well, I just called to announce that I hate men.”
Pause. “Does that pronouncement include me?”
Chloe pulled her feet up on the cushion. “Unless you are prepared to skip the fire, fly to Milwaukee tonight, drive out here, and marry me, then you, too are on my list.”
“What’s going on?”
“Roelke just left. I swear, Ethan, we can’t get through a conversation without fighting.”
“Why?”
OK, a person about to drop into an inferno didn’t have time to waste on the extraneous. “He … he just doesn’t get me, Ethan. He doesn’t get what I do. I’m worried about my friend Dellyn, and Roelke just blew it off.” OK, that wasn’t quite fair. “He blew off the importance of her job, anyway. He has no idea …” Her voice trailed away as it occurred to her that Ethan, her dearest friend in the world, wouldn’t understand the demands of Dellyn’s job either. Chloe leaned her head back against the chair, and closed her eyes.
“How did you react to that?”
Chloe was