The Heirloom Murders - Kathleen Ernst [64]
“Well, call the sheriff’s office as soon as we get home. Let them handle it.”
Roelke sighed. He’d already given a statement to a Walworth County deputy. Roelke had pulled himself together enough to tell the deputy that he was a cop. Then he described the crash itself. Yes, another vehicle had run him off the road. No, he hadn’t gotten a good look at the vehicle, much less the driver. It had been dark. The other vehicle had been driving with high beams on. It had all happened fast.
“I can’t do that,” Roelke told his cousin.
“Why the hell not?”
A station wagon appeared from the north. Roelke pulled Libby farther onto the shoulder and waited for the car to pass. Then he said, “I’d been drinking.”
“What?” Libby stared at him, mouth open. “Have you gotten stupid all of a sudden? What were you thinking?”
“Long story. It was a work thing.” Unofficially.
The grim look in her eyes didn’t fade. “How much did you have?”
“A couple of beers.”
She blew out a long breath. “That’s not a lot.”
“I know. And I felt like I was OK.” Roelke winced as he said it; wasn’t that what every drunk driver believed? How many idiots had said those very words to him after getting pulled over for weaving all over the highway? “But … I may have been impaired.”
Libby crouched beside the gravel shoulder and watched the corn grow for a few moments, rubbing her temples. After a moment Roelke sat down beside her.
Finally Libby said, “From the way you described what happened, it doesn’t sound like you were impaired.”
“But after my dad … and Patrick …” His father and his brother. Both drunks. Roelke savagely pulled the head from a Queen Anne’s Lace plant. “The thing is, maybe I would have been able to keep the truck on the road if I hadn’t been drinking.”
“Your reaction time might have been a tiny bit slowed,” Libby allowed. “But that probably didn’t make any difference.”
Maybe not. But Roelke had broken his own commandment. He’d never be completely sure of anything. And no way was he going to take that to the Walworth County guys.
Was it a coincidence that he’d been run off the road so soon after leaving Roxie’s Roost? Simon Sabatola might be a piss-poor excuse for a husband, and Edwin Guest might be a fussy prig, but would either of them deliberately cause an accident? And if so, why?
Roelke didn’t know. But he was royally pissed, and he was going to find out.
Chloe’s phone began ringing the next morning while she was unlocking the trailer that served as her office. She wrestled her way inside and grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”
“Chloe? It’s Libby.”
Libby? Oh, God. Roelke. Had he been shot? Stabbed? “What’s wrong?”
“Roelke’s fine,” Libby said quickly. “But he was in an accident last night. Rolled his truck. I didn’t trust him to tell you himself, and I figured you should know.”
“But he’s OK?”
“Some bruises, some stitches. He’s at home and grouchy.”
Chloe blew out a whooshing sigh. It took conscious effort to relax her stomach muscles, and to loosen her grip on the phone. Something to think about later.
“I do have another bit of news,” Libby said. “I called a friend of mine in New York this morning. I’ve done a bunch of freelance stuff for Rural Lifestyles magazine, and the copy editor and I have gotten friendly. Anyway, I asked if she knew anything about Valerie’s abrupt departure from the city.”
“Learn anything new?” Chloe asked, then immediately felt a spurt of self-disgust. She earned her living, in a general sense, by poking into the lives of the long-dead. Prying into those of the living—that didn’t feel so good.
“Valerie’s ex is a senior editor.” Libby named a huge book publishing company. “Valerie accused him of infidelity when she filed for divorce. Evidently she went public in a big way. Her ex was known as a playboy, so probably the only person surprised by his affair was Valerie. Anyway, he got pissed. Threw a lot of mud her way. And in the end, Valerie got out-lawyered.”
Chloe poured water into the little coffeepot on the counter with