The Heirloom Murders - Kathleen Ernst [98]
Chloe plopped into a kitchen chair and frowned, feeling oddly left out. Would it have killed Markus or Dellyn to at least mention this trip? Something weird was going on. Something had been bugging Dellyn ever since Markus had toured the site with her on Tuesday.
After all, the note wasn’t proof-positive that Dellyn had actually gone to New Glarus. She’d missed her meeting with the volunteers that afternoon.
And what would happen if Dellyn spotted the rose-carved cultivator in the Frietags’ barn? Chloe hadn’t mentioned it because she didn’t want to add any tinder to Dellyn’s firestorm of worries. Too late now.
Chloe picked up the phone, called information, and managed to track down the number for Martine’s parents. She dialed. No answer.
Shit. Chloe sank back down at the kitchen table, trying to decide what to do. Perhaps pushed by her breath, two tiny hollyhock seeds dropped from their pods onto the paper towel tucked underneath. She remembered Dellyn saying that Puritan women sometimes brewed tea from dried hollyhock flowers to prevent miscarriages. And that Aztec people used zinnias to treat eye ailments. What had Markus said? Kids learn in school that the rainforest is full of medicinal plants, but no one thinks to wonder if the cure for a disease might be growing in some old woman’s garden down the road.
Thank heavens people like Dellyn were working to preserve such things, Chloe thought. And credit went to gardeners like Mrs. Burke as well, for keeping such detailed journals.
And then there was the other end of the spectrum—what Roelke had been asking about when he’d called earlier. Agro-chemical companies muscling small seed companies aside, practically enslaving peasant farmers and quite possibly destroying crops and processes that might be essential in addressing the next global catastrophe, all in the name of progress. And profits.
A new and troubling idea wormed into the mix, feeding her growing unease. Was it possible … ? No. Or was it?
Chloe glanced around the sunny kitchen. “Mrs. Burke?” she whispered. “Bonnie? I could use some help here. I’m worried about Dellyn.” She tried to listen, to be open for any advice.
Nothing.
Well, sitting here wasn’t going to accomplish anything. Chloe headed for the front door. She paused to scoop up the mail she’d almost tripped over. As she was setting it aside, a white envelope caught her eye. Her skin began to prickle. It bore a foreign stamp, and had no return address, but the writing was familiar. It was Bonnie Sabatola’s.
“That’s all the sign I need,” Chloe muttered. She grabbed the envelope, locked the house behind her, and trotted to her car. She was going to New Glarus.
_____
Roelke had an evening duty shift, and he left Roxie’s with just enough time to get to work. The office was empty, which was good, because he wasn’t in the mood to talk to anybody.
Did you really hope to get a full confession out of Simon Sabatola? he chided himself. Drunk or sober, Simon Sabatola was not a man to lose control easily. Roxie was scared enough to testify about Sabatola’s involvement in the accident that had totaled Roelke’s truck. But I can’t pursue that, he growled silently, because I was drinking.
Roelke slammed his locker door, put on his duty belt, and dropped into a chair. Guest was in the middle of all this, too. I couldn’t crack Sabatola, Roelke thought, so maybe I need to look again at Guest.
He pulled a now-creased and soft-edged index card from the stack in his pocket and stared at his list of known facts about the secretary:
—Grows African violets, likes dogs; no other known personal interests
—Very poor as a child; homeless; wore pajama top because no $ for a shirt; nothing but a neighbor’s herbal tea when no $ for dr.
—Science geek in school. Smart, but no $ for college
—Sabatola got a professional break because of his step-dad; Guest took secretarial role, subservient—source of more anger?
—But protects Sabatola, seems loyal
—Handled plan to run me off the road