The Heirloom Murders - Kathleen Ernst [58]
“I live in Palmyra.” Roelke echoed her tone of polite disinterest. Requirements complete, Roxie left him alone.
Roelke sat sideways on the stool, back to the wall, left cheek propped on his left hand. He consciously mimicked the posture of a thousand drunks he’d seen in too many bars, trying to drown sorrows real and imagined. And I do have a few sorrows of my own, he thought, as an hour inched by without anything else of interest presenting itself. His love life was in the crapper. His professional life might be too, if the Police Committee chose to give the permanent position to Skeet. If only—
The door opened. Roelke slid his gaze in that direction as Simon Sabatola sauntered inside. The screened door slapped closed behind him.
Sabatola! Not Guest. Curiouser and curiouser. Roelke looked back at the remains of his carefully nursed beer. Sabatola settled on the bar stool farthest away from him.
Roxie folded her arms and stood for a long moment, staring at Sabatola. Evidently she was still pissed about whatever they’d argued about in the parking lot. Finally, unasked, she poured a glass of whiskey and deposited it in front of Sabatola.
Roelke watched the pair for the next hour or so. Roxie tended to other customers as needed, but in quiet moments she gravitated toward the far end of the bar. Her back was to Roelke, but her posture remained rigid. Roelke couldn’t make out anything over the increasingly boisterous conversation between the road crew workers, but from what he could see of Sabatola’s face, the businessman wasn’t nearly as upset about whatever as the bartender was.
So … what does that tell you? he asked himself. Squat, actually, interesting as it was. Sabatola was involved with this woman in some way. An affair? Roxie didn’t seem like Sabatola’s type—but maybe that was the attraction.
“Tens take Kings,” one of the card players said loudly. Roelke watched a young woman across the room stack dirty glasses on a tray, thinking. Maybe getting it on with a struggling tavern keeper represented something exciting for Sabatola. And maybe Bonnie had discovered that. If Bonnie was already struggling with depression and marital problems, learning of an affair might have pushed her over the edge.
He had no way to prove that little theory, though. And last time he checked, adultery wasn’t a felony.
Sabatola had tossed back at least three whiskeys before he needed to visit the can. As he passed Roelke, Sabatola paused. “Officer McKenna?”
Roelke sighed audibly, looked up, and made a show of registering surprise. “Oh—Mr. Sabatola! Excuse me, sir, I didn’t realize it was you.”
“What are you doing here?” Sabatola rotated the glass he still held. The ice cubes made a tinkling sound.
Roelke shrugged. “Just needed a drink, you know?”
“Why here?”
“Well, I live in Palmyra and work in Eagle.” Roelke took a drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Drinking in the communities where you’re recognized as a cop isn’t the best idea. Sometimes a guy just needs a quiet beer. Without being judged for it, you know?”
Sabatola leaned one elbow against the bar. “I’m with you there.” He tossed back the last of his whiskey and snapped his fingers in Roxie’s direction. “Something in particular got you troubled, officer?”
“Please—just call me Roelke. As for what’s got me down …” Roelke hesitated. He sometimes used pretense while on duty, but he’d never pushed anything this far. And Lawrence Olivier, he was not.
Roxie provided a brief reprieve as she silently poured another whiskey. Sabatola threw half of it down his throat without blinking.
That eased Roelke over his moment of doubt. He was used to dealing with drunks. Sabatola might not show it, but he had to be getting schnockered.
“Just a woman thing,” Roelke said morosely. Then he looked up, oozing contrition. “Oh, God—my apologies. That was thoughtless. My little problems