The Heirloom Murders - Kathleen Ernst [60]
“Yeah, I’ve met him too.” Roelke took a drink, disinterested.
Roxie glanced over her shoulder, then called to the young woman he’d noticed earlier. “Kiki, honey? Check on them, OK?” She jerked her head toward the card players.
Kiki nodded. She wore her long dark hair loose, so it was hard to see her face clearly, but she looked too young to be working in a tavern. Let it go, Roelke counseled himself. Let it go.
Roxie leaned against the bar. “Edwin had it the worst. He and his family lived in their car for a little while. I remember one winter he got sick and if this old lady down the block hadn’t taken him in and given him some herbal tea or something, and a place to rest … well, who knows. And a year or two after that he showed up in school wearing a pajama top instead of a shirt. All Goodwill had to fit him, I guess.”
Ouch, Roelke thought. He didn’t care for Guest, but he could easily imagine what adolescents would make of that.
“But he was real smart,” Roxie was saying. “A science nerd, always getting good grades. And look at him now.”
“Was Mr. Sabatola a good student, too?” Roelke asked. “I mean, I’m just a cop. I can’t imagine taking over a big business like AgriFutures.”
“Mr. Sabatola rode Simon pretty hard,” Roxie said. “Simon never was a genius or anything. But he studied a lot.”
“Ah.”
Roxie smiled. The change was abrupt and transforming. “I was a cheerleader,” she told him. “I didn’t make varsity. Varsity was full of snobs. But I made J-V. I was good, too.”
“I bet you were.” Roelke smiled back. It was painful to glimpse this woman as she must have been in those days. Pretty and full of energy. Edwin and Simon had climbed into big business. Whatever relationship Roxie still maintained with Simon couldn’t change the fact that she ran a bar.
“Well, that was a long time ago.” Roxie’s smile, and the loveliness, faded as quickly as it had come. She went back to work.
Roelke left a generous tip and headed for his truck. Before starting the engine he paused. He felt fine, but he hated getting behind the wheel after drinking anything alcoholic. It was a personal policy thing. Maybe he should call somebody.
But who? Libby would have to arrange for child care to come get him. And Chloe … well, no way was he going to ask Chloe to pick him up at a bar.
“I’m all right,” he muttered. He’d take it easy. Stick to secondary roads. County Highway H, which sliced through farmland, would get him back to Palmyra. It was late—going on eleven—and there wouldn’t be much traffic.
Roelke felt a flush of satisfaction as he pulled out of the parking lot. “Childhood buddies,” he mused, as he headed northwest. Maybe Roxie had played a role in whatever troubles led Bonnie, with gun in hand, to the White Oak Trail that day. But he couldn’t help feeling sorry for a woman who gloried in memories of the J-V cheering squad while serving drinks in a dingy bar.
Lights appeared in Roelke’s rearview mirror as some idiot zoomed up behind him. A kid trying to beat his curfew, probably. The road ahead was clear. Roelke eased toward the right shoulder so Mario Andretti could pass.
Andretti didn’t pass, though. Instead he flashed his high beams several times.
“Asshole!” Roelke muttered. Why the hell didn’t the driver just—
Suddenly more bright lights appeared in front of his truck. Too close, too brilliant, blinding him. “What the fu—” Roelke began, braking hard.
The lights disappeared, front and back, and the rear end of Roelke’s truck thumped off the pavement. He felt a flash of panic: he was losing control of the vehicle.
Some part of his brain knew he had only seconds to avoid a crash. The fear disappeared. In the dashboard’s faint glow he stared at his hands on the steering wheel. He thought about which way to turn the wheel, flashing back to skid practices on icy parking lots with his dad; more practices at the police academy. OK, he thought. Turn wheel slightly right, not left.
It didn’t work. The right front of the Ranger was