The Heirloom Murders - Kathleen Ernst [57]
“I know.” Chloe handed her a glass of Chablis. “Oh, look! That must be Valerie pulling in.”
Valerie Bing was tall and willowy, with honey-colored hair clipped back with a red barrette. The barrette completed an ensemble: jeans so stylish they could only be designer, a scarlet linen jacket over matching tank, and red high-heeled pumps. Very high, Chloe thought, trying not to stare. And pointy-toed. Ouch.
“Welcome,” Libby said, once introductions were made. “Glad you could join us. You’re new to the area, right?”
“Newly returned,” Valerie allowed, as she perched on the edge of an armchair. “I grew up near here. Eagle, actually. But I moved to Manhattan after college.”
Gina wriggled, settling more comfortably into the sofa. “So, what brought you back to Wisconsin?”
“A divorce. And since you’re no doubt wondering, here it is: Four months ago I was assistant editor at Stylish Women magazine. I also had a brand-spanking-new MFA in Poetry. Then my marriage fell apart, I was publicly humiliated, I ended up with nothing but a lot of student loans, and I moved back into my parents’ house. Yes, my parents’ house.”
Libby, Hilda, and Gina met that recital with the raised eyebrows and blank expressions of people who have no idea what to say.
OK, Chloe thought. Inviting Valerie here was a bad idea. And it was my idea. Me, the new kid in the group, already on thin ice for never bringing any writing to share. And on top of that, this bristling urbanite seemed an unlikely source of detailed information about the Eagle Diamond. Lovely.
Libby broke the awkward silence. “Did you bring pages to share?”
“Two new poems. Chloe said you’re a mixed-genre group.”
“Two poems will suffice,” Hilda said primly. “Let’s get to work.”
_____
Roxie’s Roost looked a little seedier than Roelke remembered it. The frame building could use a fresh coat of paint. The neon Blatz sign in the front window was missing its final two letters. BLA, the sign promised, with ironic humor. Roelke’s old red-and-white Ford Ranger pickup didn’t have an NRA or Ducks Unlimited sticker, just one for Milwaukee’s Summerfest. But he gauged it inconspicuous enough to blend in anyway.
This will probably prove to be a huge waste of time, Roelke thought, as he opened the front door. He couldn’t imagine Edwin Guest frequenting the place. And even if Guest liked to leave high business society behind and relax with a cold one every week, he wasn’t likely to turn blubbering informant. The secretary would probably realize that Roelke had seen the notation on his calendar, get even more pissed than he generally seemed to be, and leave again.
Well, so what? Sometimes it was good to stir things up and simply see what happened.
Once inside Roelke took a quick visual survey. The L-shaped bar stretched most of the length of the dim room. A couple guys wearing the bright orange vests of road construction workers sat at the middle of the bar, arguing about the Milwaukee Brewers’ chances of making the playoffs. A few patrons hunched over beers at tables. Five older women were engrossed in an animated game of Sheepshead. The room smelled of cigarette smoke and fried onions.
“Can I help you?”
Roelke turned toward the woman behind the bar, and hoped he hid his surprise. He’d seen her before. At Bonnie Sabatola’s funeral. Arguing with Simon Sabatola in the parking lot.
Holy toboggans. This was already interesting.
“Sure,” he told her. “Miller Draft. And a glass of water.” He slouched toward the long bar, and took the stool beside the wall.
The woman filled a glass stein and put it down in front of him. Her eyes held no hint of recognition. And why would they? He’d been wearing a suit at the funeral, and now was dressed in his oldest jeans and a faded T-shirt. And at the funeral, this woman had clearly been interested only in Simon Sabatola.
Roelke fished a five from his pocket. “Are you Roxie?”
“That’s me.” She slid a dish of peanuts his way. “You new around here?”
Her words had the intonation of someone asking an obligatory question. She sounded tired. Looked it,