The Heirloom Murders - Kathleen Ernst [99]
Guest was a science geek. Guest grew African violets. Roelke thought about what Chloe had told him about genetic engineering and global argibusiness corporations. Was Guest trespassing into Alan Sabatola’s arena? If so, that would create even more animosity between the Sabatola brothers.
Roelke turned that possibility around in his mind. It was an interesting theory, but he couldn’t find a way to make it useful.
Well, he needed to head out on patrol, anyway. He was almost to the door when he noticed a missed-call slip in his mailbox.
Roelke—Chloe Ellefsen called 5:45 PM. Said she’s going to New Glarus to look for Dellyn Burke who is visiting an elderly couple. Wants to talk to you about the Eagle Diamond (!). Please call her at home later.—Marie
Roelke frowned at the note, trying to sniff out Chloe’s motivation for leaving the message. New Glarus, of all places. He really wished the stupid Swiss people who’d settled Green County in the last century had gone elsewhere. Ontario, maybe. Or Wyoming would have been good.
He also wished he’d never heard of the Eagle Diamond. Chloe was way off base on this one. Roelke still didn’t know why Guest and Sabatola had felt compelled to run him off the road, but he was willing to bet his career that finding the Eagle Diamond was not part of their business plan.
Well, he’d call Chloe later if he got the chance. He crumpled the note and tossed it into the trash. Outside, the radio squawked before he’d even settled in the car. “George 220. We have a report of a drunk driver heading east from Palmyra on Highway 59. He’s driving an AMC Pacer, two-tone cream over brown.”
Great, Roelke thought. Just what he needed tonight. Another drunk.
Chloe got lost twice while trying to find her way back to the Frietags’ farm, but eventually she spotted the red mailbox that marked their drive, and turned in. A wind had kicked up, and the trees along the lane waved their branches in a frenzied greeting that did nothing to calm her nerves.
When she finally emerged into the clearing, she blew out a long breath. A car she didn’t recognize was parked near the house—Martine’s, probably—and Dellyn’s car was beside it. So she was here! Chloe hadn’t been willing to admit how scared she’d been of not finding her friend here.
The farmyard looked deserted, but a faint tang of wood smoke hung in the air and the occasional chime of a cowbell drifted down from the hill behind the barn. No one answered the front door when Chloe knocked, so she walked around the house. The kitchen garden and farmyard were empty. A thin plume of smoke was just visible rising from the Käsehütte chimney before being whipped away by the wind. Martine must be making another batch of cheese.
Frieda and Dellyn were probably in the granary, talking about heirloom veggies. Chloe headed in that direction, but she paused to poke her head into the cheese house’s open door. “Hello? Martine, it’s—”
Chloe’s stomach clenched like a fist. The hut was littered with tools: a curd scoop, calipers, a trier, wooden hoops. The huge copper kettle of milk steamed over its fire, but the big whey bucket had overturned. The liquid had flowed over the floor.
And Dellyn lay on her side in the middle of it, curled in a ball. Her clothes were torn. They were bloody. Very bloody. The metallic smell mixed sickly with the odor of milk.
Oh God oh God oh God. Chloe crouched beside her friend. “Dellyn!”
“Chloe?” Dellyn whispered. Her eyelids fluttered.
Chloe clutched that whisper of recognition to her heart like a prayer. “You’re going to be OK, you hear me? You’re going to be OK.” Dellyn didn’t respond.
Chloe fought down panic. She had to stop the blood loss. Both of Dellyn’s forearms were bleeding, and she had a horrid tear in one calf. Smaller wounds seeped red from her neck, one shoulder … It was too much. Chloe had no idea where to start, and nothing to use anyway. “Hang on,” she said. “I’m going to get help.”
She scrambled for the door. A growling blur of fur flew at her.
Chloe stumbled backward and hit the kettle of hot milk. She snatched a curd-cutting