The Heirloom Murders - Kathleen Ernst [88]
“O-kay.” Chloe had no idea who Erin Litkowski was, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out. And she definitely wasn’t up to a recital of all the women Roelke had met in the course of his police career.
“Sorry,” Roelke muttered.
“I know you mean well. But let’s keep this about Bonnie Sabatola, all right?”
He was silent.
“Everyone’s situation is different,” Chloe said finally. “But if you want to talk about this more sometime, call me and I’ll try to help. I promise.”
When Roelke arrived at the station the next afternoon, Skeet was going off-shift. “Anything going on?” Roelke asked, trying to sound off-hand.
“Naw.” Skeet jerked his head toward the chief’s door, which was closed. “Chief told me there’s nothing new in the Van Dyne murder investigation. I knew you’d want to know.”
“Yeah,” Roelke said. “Thanks.”
Skeet lowered his voice. “You hear anything from the Police Committee?”
“Nope. You?”
“Nope.” Skeet glanced this time at Marie, who was typing away but doubtless following every word of the conversation. “Listen, man. I just wanted to say … well, whatever happens—you know, with the job thing—we’ll be cool, right?”
“Sure,” Roelke lied. “We’ll be cool.”
“Good.” Skeet nodded. “OK. I’m outta here, man. See you tomorrow.”
Roelke spent the afternoon patrolling, including a stint in a speed trap, trying not to obsess about the philosophy of speeding tickets. When he couldn’t stand that anymore he started on bar checks. He stopped first at The Eagle’s Nest, almost hoping to find some brawl to break up. No such luck.
Next stop was Sasso’s. Inside the barroom, several of the regulars lifted their hands or smiled in greeting. Roelke nodded back, and asked the bartender, “How are things tonight?”
“No problems,” the man said. “Thanks for stopping in, though. I appreciate it.”
I’m good in this town, Roelke thought, as he began his circle through the crowded room. I’m good for this town.
It was a typical week-night crowd. Most of the patrons wore faded jeans or overalls, but a few businessmen who commuted to Waukesha or Oconomowoc had settled in for a cold one, jackets tossed aside and ties loosened. As usual, a group in one corner wore old-fashioned costumes. No one gave them a second glance. Everyone in Eagle was used to seeing interpreters from Old World Wisconsin pumping gas, stopping at the post office, relaxing at Sasso’s.
Suddenly Roelke went still. Dellyn Burke was leaning against the wall, wearing her patched and faded Old World garb. He’d never seen Dellyn when she didn’t look stunned, grief-stricken, exhausted. She still looked tired, but her expression was animated. She was clearly enjoying the conversation she was having … with Markus Meili.
Roelke walked in their directions.
“Millions of people in poor nations who subsist largely on cassava roots rely on local legumes that are rich in protein to round out their diet,” Dellyn was saying. “And if crops engineered in industrial countries are forced upon them …”
“Not only will the local species likely go extinct,” Meili said, “but local people might lose an essential nutritional element.”
Dellyn sighed. “I’d really hoped that my little Garden Fair would give me an opportunity to help Old World’s visitors think about things like that. I mean, the USDA admits that in the last eighty years, we’ve lost ninety-seven percent of vegetable varieties here in the US! It’s appalling.” She shuddered, then put a hand on Meili’s arm. “Listen, I’ll be right back.” She disappeared toward the ladies’ room.
Roelke took a step closer, and Alpine Boy looked up from his beer. “Officer McKenna.” It wasn’t a warm greeting.
The two men stood staring at each other. The clamor of conversation surrounding them faded into obscurity.
Then Markus leaned a little closer. “I’m glad to see you, because
I need to say something.” He kept his gaze locked on Roelke’s. “You are not what Chloe needs.”
Roelke felt every already-tense