The Heirloom Murders - Kathleen Ernst [59]
“No, don’t worry.” Sabatola waved one hand. “It’s all right.”
Roelke grabbed a peanut and crushed it in his fingers. “I just don’t understand women!”
“None of us do.”
“You try to treat them right, but sometimes they’re just never satisfied.”
Sabatola stared into his glass. Too far, too fast, Roelke berated himself. He planted his elbow on the bar and his cheek on his hand, striving for the “I’m too dejected to speak further” look.
The men in construction vests erupted into laughter. A very fat man wearing a biker’s black leather came into the tavern and waddled to a table. “Sixty-one! Sixty-one!” a woman crowed triumphantly from the card players’ table.
Finally Sabatola clapped Roelke’s shoulder in masculine solidarity. “You’re right,” he said. “Women are never, ever, satisfied.”
“Can you give me some advice?” Roelke asked. “I don’t earn a lot of money. I like being a cop, but I’ve been thinking that maybe I should go back to school. Get some kind of degree. My girlfriend … she’s got a Master’s degree, for Chrissake.”
“What in?”
“Um … what?”
“What’s her degree in?” Sabatola asked patiently.
“History. She likes old stuff.”
Sabatola smiled. “She may have an advanced degree, my friend, but it’s in a useless field. You go back to school and study business. Something useful. Something where a guy can apply himself and get ahead. Work your ass off. One day you’ll look around and realize that no one has anything on you.” With that he downed the rest of the whiskey, slammed the glass down on the counter, and disappeared into the restroom.
Sabatola didn’t speak to Roelke again, although he stayed at Roxie’s Roost for another forty minutes. He left at ten PM sharp. Roelke surreptitiously watched out the front window. He’d intervene if he had to, because no way was Sabatola fit to drive. But a car immediately pulled up. Sabatola got in. The car disappeared.
That explained why Edwin Guest had Roxie’s R. written on his own calendar. Evidently Sabatola indulged in a weekly binge, and evidently Guest’s secretarial duties extended beyond the office.
“Another beer?” Roxie asked.
Roelke hesitated, then nodded. “Sure.” He didn’t want another beer, but he also didn’t want it to appear that his business here was done at the exact moment that Simon Sabatola left. “And another glass of water, too.”
He hit the can himself, and got back to his stool just as Roxie was depositing the drinks. “Thanks,” Roelke said. He fished out another bill and tossed it on the bar. “Keep the change.”
Roxie pocketed the bill silently, regarding him. “So, you know Simon?”
“We’ve met. Can’t say I know him well.”
“How’d you meet him?” Roxie’s voice was tight. With challenge? Or maybe just irritation? Hard to say.
Roelke gave her an even gaze. “I’m a cop. Up in Eagle. When Mr. Sabatola’s wife committed suicide, I was first on the scene.”
“Oh, Lord.” Roxie looked away. “That must have been ugly.”
“Yeah. So like I said, I hardly know him well. Have you known him long?”
Roxie blinked. “You could say that. We grew up together.”
“Here in Elkhorn?” Roelke asked, trying to sound bored.
“Yeah. Me and Simon lived next door.”
“So you must know Alan Sabatola too.”
She hitched one shoulder up and down, as if shrugging both would take too much energy. “I never really got to know Alan. He’s younger than Simon. Simon’s mother left when he was eight. Just took off one day. After awhile Mr. Sabatola got married again. That’s when Alan got born.”
Roelke frowned, trying to reconstruct Sabatola’s family tree. “So Simon’s father—”
“Mr. Sabatola was Simon’s stepfather. Simon’s real dad died when he was a baby.”
Roelke chewed that over. “Mr. Sabatola—Simon, I mean—gave me some good advice earlier. I would have figured a rich guy like that couldn’t understand what a working guy like me has to deal with.”
Roxie snorted. “Simon wasn’t always rich, believe me. Before that farm stuff business took off, the Sabatolas were scraping by just like the rest of us.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
“Yeah. They all moved into a new house on the