The Heirloom Murders - Kathleen Ernst [78]
“She’s not alone if she’s got you for a friend.”
“Sometimes life is all about showing up,” Chloe said. But her choice of words circled her back to the place she didn’t want to be: Markus, Roelke. In very different ways, both men had done that for her. “Why does life have to be so damn complicated?”
“I have no idea.”
“In this freaky way, things were easier when I was depressed,” she muttered. “Nothing mattered. Now a lot of things matter, and I don’t know what to do about any of them.”
“We-ell,” Ethan said dubiously, “that’s an improvement. I think. Just remember, you gotta take care of yourself first.”
“I know. And I know I have to keep my job, spend time with friends, strive for balance, blah-blah-blah.” Chloe pushed Olympia away from the bowl again. “Geez Louise. Maybe I got something out of therapy after all.”
“Here’s my advice. Give yourself time to figure out your love life.”
I don’t know if I have time, Chloe thought. Markus’s sabbatical was more than half over. Soon he’d be half a world away again. But she didn’t want to talk about Markus anymore.
By the time she hung up the phone five minutes later, Olympia had returned to the popcorn. Chloe picked up the bowl and dumped the contents into the kitchen trashcan. “You better not puke up all that butter,” she warned the kitten.
Olympia blithely began washing her ears.
Chloe suddenly felt exhausted. The last twenty-four hours had been too difficult, too full, too confusing. Too frickin’ much. “You know what? Go wild,” she told Olympia. “I’m going to bed.”
_____
The park was clean, the movie projector returned to the school, the folded chairs returned to the Methodist church, the volunteers thanked. T.J. and his girlfriend had departed holding hands. No members of the Police Committee had stopped to express discontent about the enterprise. Roelke decided to claim what victory he could, and head for home.
All he wanted to do first was take a quick look-see at Dellyn’s place. He parked across the street from her house, got out, and eased the truck door shut. The neighbors’ places were dark. No point in rousing anyone.
A single light burned from Dellyn’s living room. He decided to circle the property line. He walked along the far side of the garage, and paused at the building’s corner. Watching. Listening. He let minutes tick by as his eyes adjusted and the darkness eased into shadowed but distinct shapes—garden fence, scarecrow, shed, barn. Nothing.
No. Someone was moving on the far side of the garden. The silhouette was bent low, but unmistakably human. It disappeared silently behind the garden shed.
Roelke snatched his revolver from its holster, nerves taut, every cell focused on the spot where the person had disappeared. He waited, listening for a footfall, straining to see more movement. Nothing. Whomever was creeping through Dellyn’s yard had gone to ground behind the shed.
Roelke eased away from the garage wall, ready to take cover, but nothing happened. OK. He had a clear, grassy path to the shed. He took it.
No sign of flight from the skulker. Roelke reached the shed’s near corner, kept going. Two more steps to the far wall.
Then, an explosion of movement. “Police!” Roelke yelled. “Stop right there! Hands in the air!”
The asshole took off. Roelke pounded after him. The guy was panicked, making no attempt at silence now. He brushed against a shrub and thrashed wildly.
Roelke flew at him. He landed square against the guy’s back and they both went down. “Show me your hands!” Roelke bellowed. The guy put up a brief and feeble struggle before going still, heaving for breath. Roelke holstered his gun and got the man cuffed before rising. He grabbed the guy’s arm and heaved him to his feet.
“What are you doing here?” Roelke barked. He was panting too, more from adrenalin than the brief exertion.
“Nothing!” the guy whined. “I wasn’t doing nothing wrong.” In the faint light he seemed to be about Roelke’s age. Middling size,