The Heirloom Murders - Kathleen Ernst [66]
Roelke reached for an index card and made some notes. Simon Sabatola had worked hard to leave his hardscrabble childhood behind. He was a man who liked to be in control. Bonnie’s suicide meant he’d lost control at home. The possibility that the AgriFutures Board might give the top job to Alan would prove he had lost it at work, too. And the combination might make Simon Sabatola a desperate and dangerous man.
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Chloe wanted to spend the day helping Dellyn, but she had a mountain of paperwork waiting. Long before the addition of the audit-induced collections scavenger hunt, Director Petty had instructed Chloe to deliver daily reports, weekly reports, and monthly reports—evidently trying to provoke her into either screwing up or quitting. “I should jolly well make Ralph Petty wait,” she muttered to the walls, as she rolled another sheet of carbon paper into the typewriter she’d scrounged from a “damaged—surplus” pile at the historical society headquarters. The machine worked as long as she remembered to slide the carriage home gently, instead of slamming it. “Helping a fellow staffer prepare for a special event should take priority.” But Petty would get pissy all over again if she didn’t get the reports into his mailbox that afternoon. The whole audit thing had him wound more tightly than usual. And she’d promised Dellyn she would try not to antagonize the man.
Besides, she’d come to love her job. She didn’t want to lose it.
At 2:30 she wriggled into the period clothing she’d permanently borrowed from the interpretive staff—long black skirt, simple blouse, mismatched apron and kerchief. She wore it whenever she needed to work in one of the historic buildings during open-hours, minimizing the visual intrusion. Wearing period attire meant chatting with visitors, which slowed her down. But in Chloe’s opinion, taking care of guests was Job One of every staff member, not just the interpreters. Besides, she was an educator at heart. She liked talking with visitors.
She found Dellyn and Harriet Van Dyne in the big barn that was part of the newly restored Sanford farm near the Crossroads Village. The Sanfords had been prosperous Yankee farmers. Their home had been restored to its 1865 appearance, during Wisconsin’s brief career as a wheat-producing state. The barn was large, with a wide central drive-through, and Dellyn had chosen it for her Garden Fair.
Dellyn and Harriet were arranging a display of hand-held agricultural implements. Long tables held displays of heirloom fruits and vegetables: spiny West Indies gherkins, purple carrots, marbled beets, German fingerling potatoes. The array was colorfully impressive.
“You think visitors will be interested?” Dellyn asked anxiously.
“How could they not?” Chloe asked.
Harriet nodded emphatically. “I’ve learned so much since we started working together! Most people have no idea how much genetic diversity we’ve lost. All for the sake of some plastic-tasting thing that looks good after it’s traveled halfway around the world.”
Dellyn pulled a water bottle from its hiding place in a cloth-covered basket, and took a long drink. “It’s coming together. Harriet’s going to help me interpret in here over the weekend.”
Harriet beamed, poking a stray strand of hair beneath her head-
scarf, which was tied under her chin in old immigrant fashion. “I taught fourth grade for thirty years,” she told Chloe. “I was ready to retire, but I missed the kids until I started working here. I love it when families come through.”
The three women spent the rest of the afternoon finishing up the exhibits. Dellyn didn’t want to break for supper, so at six o’clock Chloe let herself into the now-locked Sanford House and scrounged up some bread and gooseberry jam the interpreters had tucked away. “Our jobs have unique perks,” Chloe said, as she shared the bounty with Harriet and Dellyn.
The light