The Heirloom Murders (14 page)

“What are you doing here?” Sabatola rotated the glass he still held. The ice cubes made a tinkling sound.

Roelke shrugged. “Just needed a drink, you know?”

“Why here?”

“Well, I live in Palmyra and work in Eagle.” Roelke took a drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Drinking in the communities where you’re recognized as a cop isn’t the best idea. Sometimes a guy just needs a quiet beer. Without being judged for it, you know?”

Sabatola leaned one elbow against the bar. “I’m with you there.” He tossed back the last of his whiskey and snapped his fingers in Roxie’s direction. “Something in particular got you troubled, officer?”

“Please—just call me Roelke. As for what’s got me down …” Roelke hesitated. He sometimes used pretense while on duty, but he’d never pushed anything this far. And Lawrence Olivier, he was not.

Roxie provided a brief reprieve as she silently poured another whiskey. Sabatola threw half of it down his throat without blinking.

That eased Roelke over his moment of doubt. He was used to dealing with drunks. Sabatola might not show it, but he
had
to be getting schnockered.

“Just a woman thing,” Roelke said morosely. Then he looked up, oozing contrition. “Oh, God—my apologies. That was thoughtless.
My little problems are nothing, compared to …”

“No, don’t worry.” Sabatola waved one hand. “It’s all right.”

Roelke grabbed a peanut and crushed it in his fingers. “I just don’t understand women!”

“None of us do.”

“You try to treat them right, but sometimes they’re just never satisfied.”

Sabatola stared into his glass. Too far, too fast, Roelke berated himself. He planted his elbow on the bar and his cheek on his hand, striving for the “I’m too dejected to speak further” look.

The men in construction vests erupted into laughter. A very fat man wearing a biker’s black leather came into the tavern and waddled to a table. “Sixty-one! Sixty-one!” a woman crowed triumphantly from the card players’ table.

Finally Sabatola clapped Roelke’s shoulder in masculine solidarity. “You’re right,” he said. “Women are never,
ever
, satisfied.”

“Can you give me some advice?” Roelke asked. “I don’t earn a lot of money. I like being a cop, but I’ve been thinking that maybe I should go back to school. Get some kind of degree. My girlfriend … she’s got a Master’s degree, for Chrissake.”

“What in?”

“Um … what?”

“What’s her degree in?” Sabatola asked patiently.

“History. She likes old stuff.”

Sabatola smiled. “She may have an advanced degree, my friend, but it’s in a useless field. You go back to school and study business. Something useful. Something where a guy can apply himself and get ahead. Work your ass off. One day you’ll look around and realize that
no
one has anything on you.” With that he downed the rest of the whiskey, slammed the glass down on the counter, and disappeared into the restroom.

Sabatola didn’t speak to Roelke again, although he stayed at Roxie’s Roost for another forty minutes. He left at ten
PM
sharp. Roelke surreptitiously watched out the front window. He’d intervene if he had to, because no way was Sabatola fit to drive. But a car immediately pulled up. Sabatola got in. The car disappeared.

That explained why Edwin Guest had
Roxie’s R
. written on his own calendar. Evidently Sabatola indulged in a weekly binge, and evidently Guest’s secretarial duties extended beyond the office.

“Another beer?” Roxie asked.

Roelke hesitated, then nodded. “Sure.” He didn’t want another beer, but he also didn’t want it to appear that his business here was done at the exact moment that Simon Sabatola left. “And another glass of water, too.”

He hit the can himself, and got back to his stool just as Roxie was depositing the drinks. “Thanks,” Roelke said. He fished out another bill and tossed it on the bar. “Keep the change.”

Roxie pocketed the bill silently, regarding him. “So, you know Simon?”

“We’ve met. Can’t say I know him well.”

“How’d you meet him?” Roxie’s voice was tight. With challenge? Or maybe just irritation? Hard to say.

Roelke gave her an even gaze. “I’m a cop. Up in Eagle. When Mr. Sabatola’s wife committed suicide, I was first on the scene.”

“Oh, Lord.” Roxie looked away. “That must have been ugly.”

“Yeah. So like I said, I hardly know him well. Have you known him long?”

Roxie blinked. “You could say that. We grew up together.”

“Here in Elkhorn?” Roelke asked, trying to sound bored.

“Yeah. Me and Simon lived next door.”

“So you must know Alan Sabatola too.”

She hitched one shoulder up and down, as if shrugging both would take too much energy. “I never really got to know Alan. He’s younger than Simon. Simon’s mother left when he was eight. Just took off one day. After awhile Mr. Sabatola got married again. That’s when Alan got born.”

Roelke frowned, trying to reconstruct Sabatola’s family tree. “So Simon’s father—”

“Mr. Sabatola was Simon’s stepfather. Simon’s real dad died when he was a baby.”

Roelke chewed that over. “Mr. Sabatola—Simon, I mean—gave me some good advice earlier. I would have figured a rich guy like that couldn’t understand what a working guy like me has to deal with.”

Roxie snorted. “Simon wasn’t always rich, believe me. Before that farm stuff business took off, the Sabatolas were scraping by just like the rest of us.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

“Yeah. They all moved into a new house on the other side of town. Very la-di-da. But we still went to the same high school. Me and Simon and Edwin.”

“Yeah, I’ve met him too.” Roelke took a drink, disinterested.

Roxie glanced over her shoulder, then called to the young woman he’d noticed earlier. “Kiki, honey? Check on them, OK?” She jerked her head toward the card players.

Kiki nodded. She wore her long dark hair loose, so it was hard to see her face clearly, but she looked too young to be working in a tavern. Let it go, Roelke counseled himself. Let it go.

Roxie leaned against the bar. “Edwin had it the worst. He and his family lived in their car for a little while. I remember one winter he got sick and if this old lady down the block hadn’t taken him in and given him some herbal tea or something, and a place to rest … well, who knows. And a year or two after that he showed up in school wearing a pajama top instead of a shirt. All Goodwill had to fit him, I guess.”

Ouch, Roelke thought. He didn’t care for Guest, but he could easily imagine what adolescents would make of
that
.

“But he was real smart,” Roxie was saying. “A science nerd, always getting good grades. And look at him now.”

“Was Mr. Sabatola a good student, too?” Roelke asked. “I mean, I’m just a cop. I can’t imagine taking over a big business like AgriFutures.”

“Mr. Sabatola rode Simon pretty hard,” Roxie said. “Simon never was a genius or anything. But he studied a lot.”

“Ah.”

Roxie smiled. The change was abrupt and transforming. “I was a cheerleader,” she told him. “I didn’t make varsity. Varsity was full of snobs. But I made J-V. I was good, too.”

“I bet you were.” Roelke smiled back. It was painful to glimpse this woman as she must have been in those days. Pretty and full of energy. Edwin and Simon had climbed into big business. Whatever relationship Roxie still maintained with Simon couldn’t change the fact that she ran a bar.

“Well, that was a long time ago.” Roxie’s smile, and the loveliness, faded as quickly as it had come. She went back to work.

Roelke left a generous tip and headed for his truck. Before starting the engine he paused. He felt fine, but he hated getting behind the wheel after drinking
anything
alcoholic. It was a personal policy thing. Maybe he should call somebody.

But who? Libby would have to arrange for child care to come get him. And Chloe … well, no way was he going to ask Chloe to pick him up at a bar.

“I’m all right,” he muttered. He’d take it easy. Stick to secondary roads. County Highway H, which sliced through farmland, would get him back to Palmyra. It was late—going on eleven—and there wouldn’t be much traffic.

Roelke felt a flush of satisfaction as he pulled out of the parking lot. “Childhood buddies,” he mused, as he headed northwest. Maybe Roxie had played a role in whatever troubles led Bonnie, with gun in hand, to the White Oak Trail that day. But he couldn’t help feeling sorry for a woman who gloried in memories of the J-V cheering squad while serving drinks in a dingy bar.

Lights appeared in Roelke’s rearview mirror as some idiot zoomed up behind him. A kid trying to beat his curfew, probably. The road ahead was clear. Roelke eased toward the right shoulder so Mario Andretti could pass.

Andretti didn’t pass, though. Instead he flashed his high beams several times.

“Asshole!” Roelke muttered. Why the hell didn’t the driver just—

Suddenly more bright lights appeared in front of his truck. Too close, too brilliant, blinding him. “What the fu—” Roelke began, braking hard.

The lights disappeared, front and back, and the rear end of
Roelke’s truck thumped off the pavement. He felt a flash of panic: he was losing control of the vehicle.

Some part of his brain knew he had only seconds to avoid a crash. The fear disappeared. In the dashboard’s faint glow he stared at his hands on the steering wheel. He thought about which way to turn the wheel, flashing back to skid practices on icy parking lots with his dad; more practices at the police academy. OK, he thought. Turn wheel slightly right, not left.

It didn’t work. The right front of the Ranger was on the shoulder now. The shoulder was too soft. It dropped toward the ditch too quickly.

I’m going to crash, Roelke thought. Should he shield his face, or keep both hands on the wheel? Shield his head. And lean away from the steering column. He’d seen what they could do to a driver.

Roelke let go of the wheel when the pickup lurched sideways.
It slammed on its side. Continued to roll. I’m upside down, he thought with wonder, as the truck cab flipped on its roof. He had the sense that the truck was going to keep rolling, over and over and over.

Then the driver’ side of the truck struck earth, and Roelke’s head struck glass.

To Chloe’s amazement, the
evening was not a total train wreck. Valerie proved herself a skillful critiquer, stressing positives and presenting suggestions for improvement that left each author feeling energized instead of beaten down. No mean feat.

“Stay a few minutes, will you?” Chloe asked Valerie, as the others began tucking notepads and folders into tote bags.

Valerie slipped the file folder holding her poems into the leather briefcase she’d brought. “Thanks for inviting me,” she said, when she and Chloe were alone. “Your call came as a total surprise.”

Chloe began carrying glasses into the kitchen. “Well, like I told
you on the phone, Dellyn Burke gave me your number. She showed
me the article you wrote about the Eagle Diamond.”

“Oh. That one.” Valerie picked up the snack plates and followed her.

“I liked it!” Chloe assured her.

Valerie twisted her mouth in distaste. “Local history fluff pieces for
Wisconsin Byways
wasn’t quite the direction I expected my career to take.”

“Stuff happens.”

“Yeah.” Valerie picked up the last cheese straw and nibbled at one end.

Chloe hesitated. She didn’t want to set Valerie off again. She also did not want to let the evening pass without trying for more insight into the Eagle Diamond stuff. “You knew about the diamond story because you grew up in Eagle, I assume?”

“Right. I was looking for something quick and easy. I pitched over the phone, and the editor jumped at it.”

Olympia bounded into the kitchen and sniffed at a golden crumb of cheddar cheese on the floor before happily gobbling it down. Chloe hoped that the kitten would at least wait until Valerie left before she decided that tidbit didn’t suit her delicate digestion. “I’d never heard of the diamond until Dellyn mentioned it. Did you find anything in your research to suggest that it might have somehow made its way back to Eagle?”

Valerie crouched on her red spike heels and let Olympia sniff her fingers. “Heavens, no. I did some legwork at the state historical society, but didn’t turn up anything to suggest that. I don’t think anyone has a clue what happened to the Eagle Diamond after it was stolen. Cut into smaller pieces and sold, almost certainly.”

“What did you learn about the guy who found it? Any handy memoirs left behind?”

“Hardly. There’s little to go on except newspaper accounts, and a photocopy of an appraisal.”

Dellyn’s parents must have provided the photocopy of Kunz’s appraisal to the state historical society, Chloe thought. Good for them.

“No one interviewed Charles Wood about it,” Valerie added. “Or the hired hand, either.”

“Um … what?” Chloe turned around and leaned against the sink. “There was a hired man? That wasn’t in your article.”

“I had a word limit, and the hired man wasn’t important,” Valerie said. She looked at Chloe with narrowed eyes. “Why all the questions?”

“Just curious.” Chloe gave her a bright smile. “I love that kind of stuff. And since Dellyn’s parents were so involved in the Eagle Historical Society, and I’m helping Dellyn sort through their
things … The story caught my attention. Must be my novelist
brain, leaping into overdrive.”

Olympia wandered away, and Valerie straightened again. “It was a shame about Mr. and Mrs. Burke. Dellyn’s going through their stuff ?”

“Yeah. In her spare time. It’s slow going, I’m afraid.” Chloe began rinsing plates. “So, what happened in Eagle after they learned the stone the guy found was actually a diamond?”

“Everyone thought it was just a lucky fluke. A geological gift, not to be repeated.”

“Anything else pop up in your research? Any little tidbit that didn’t make it into the article?”

Valerie spread her hands, showing a flash of brightly polished nails. Crimson, of course. “Sorry. Not a thing. A diamond was found. A woman got cheated. A jewel thief made a fortune. End of story.”

Chloe walked her guest outside. They’d reached the car when Chloe suddenly thought of something else. “You went to school with Bonnie Sabatola, right?”

“We were in the same class. I was really shocked to hear about what happened.”

“Were you good friends?”

“Not best friends, anything like that. But we had a small class. Everyone knew each other. Bonnie and I stayed in touch until she got married.”

“What happened after that?”

“Nothing. I was in New York, and didn’t make it to the wedding. I sent a gift, and she sent a thank-you, and that was that. I sent Christmas cards for a couple of years, that kind of thing. But I never heard from her again.” Valerie opened the car door, and slid inside. She started the engine … and then she sat, staring through the windshield, making no move to put the car in gear. Finally she looked up through the open window. “Listen, I—I hope I didn’t mess up the evening.”

“No!” Chloe said, striving for hearty cheer. “Of course not.”

“I don’t like myself very much these days,” Valerie said. “But I discovered tonight that I do still care about poetry. Thanks for that.”

Chloe was still groping for a response when Valerie pulled away. Chloe watched her turn back toward Eagle, back to her old bedroom in her parents’ house. If members of the Wine and Whine Critique Group were willing to let Valerie come again, it might be a good thing for her. But Valerie Bing had an edge that made Chloe nervous.

_____

The next morning found Roelke in a room at the Elkhorn hospital, in a very bad mood. “I’m getting out of here,” he told the plump young nurse who arrived to check his temperature and blood pressure.

“After the doctor makes his rounds—”

“No, as soon as my cousin comes to get me. I already called her.” He gestured toward the phone beside the hospital bed.

The nurse frowned her disapproval. Roelke ignored her. He was no doctor, but he knew he was OK. Bruised, banged. He had a goose egg on the left side of his head, and seventeen stitches in his left arm. But he’d come out of the wreck in surprising good shape, thanks in part to his training and in part to his compulsion to plan for the worst. “You’re such a friggin’ Boy Scout!” Rick had hooted, the first time he saw the sheepskin covers Roelke had added to his lap belt and shoulder harness.

If he hadn’t, Roelke thought now, the bruises left by the belt would be worse. And his headache was much better today. That was all that really mattered.

Twenty minutes later, dressed and dozing in the bedside chair, he heard Libby’s voice in the corridor. “I
am
immediate family! Just tell me where he is!”

“Jesus,” Roelke muttered.

Libby burst into the room. She wore old jeans and a purple tank top and running shoes. For a moment she looked ready to fling her arms around him. He braced for the onslaught. She stopped herself just in time. “Oh my God. Are you OK?”

“I’m OK. I look worse than I feel. Where are the kids?”

“At a neighbor’s house.” Libby scanned his face, his arm. “Oh God, Roelke. I’ve always been afraid something like this would happen.”

“I was off duty, Libs. I didn’t get shot. I got run off the road.”

Libby still looked stricken. It wasn’t a good look for her. “Did they get the driver?”

Roelke started to shake his head, but quickly switched back to verbal communication. “No. The guy—whoever it was—kept going. It was probably some drunk. Or some kid. Or some drunk kid.” He didn’t mention that there had been two drivers at the scene of the accident. One behind, one who came at Roelke’s front, seemingly out of nowhere. Neither had hung around.

Libby pinched her lips together for a moment. “If anything ever happened to you—”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” Roelke growled. “Come on. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Once settled into Libby’s car, Roelke leaned his head against the rest. “Take H, OK? I want to look at the crash site.” The day was cloudy, thank God, since his sunglasses were in his truck, which had been towed to a garage. God, his
truck
.

She shot him a disapproving look. “I really think we should—”

“You can take me to the scene, or I’ll drive back by myself.”

He’d gone off the road in the farming community of Sugar Creek. He spotted the residue of his adventure beside a cornfield. Some broken glass glinted in the sun—mirror, most likely. Vegetation was crushed from the shoulder to the bottom of the ditch.

Libby pulled over and they both climbed from the car. “I went off here,” Roelke pointed, “then rolled. Three-quarters of a full rotation.”

Libby reached for his hand and squeezed.

“It’s strange,” Roelke mused. “I had this clear sense that the truck was going to roll many times. But I don’t know where that came from. The ditch isn’t that deep.”

Libby unpinched her lips long enough to say, “I imagine everything was a blur.”

“It wasn’t, though. Everything must have happened really fast, but it didn’t
seem
like it. And I didn’t hear anything, although the truck must have made a lot of noise as we banged over. But I was thinking clearly.”

“Come on.” Libby tugged his hand. “Let’s get you home.”

“Give me a minute.” He pulled free and walked into the middle of the empty road. He looked in both directions, trying to overlay his memories on the geography.

“I was heading north, right down there, when this vehicle zoomed up out of nowhere,” he said. “Right on my ass. I eased over, hoping the guy would pass, but he didn’t. Just flashed his high beams. They hit my rearview mirror.”

“Jerk,” Libby muttered. Her posture was tight, as if ready to spring. If the driver showed up right then, Roelke had no doubt Libby would take him down.

He tried to focus. “Then, while I was dealing with that, brights hit me from the front. I swear, they seemed to come out of nowhere. I was already right next to the shoulder. I swerved, trying to get away from the other car. That’s when I went off the road.”

He frowned, trying to figure out where the car in front had come from. Nobody would be stupid enough to drive down County H in the dark with no lights on, would they? Well, if the driver hadn’t been driving south on H, he must have been …

“
There
.” Roelke pointed. The accident had happened just after he’d passed the junction of Sugar Creek Road, which hit County H from the west; and just before Schmidt Road bisected H from the east. The angles of the three roads formed a small triangle of unclaimed ground on the west side of County H, filled with trees and shrubby vegetation, tall and dense.

“I think the bastard was sitting on Schmidt, right there, as I was coming up. He pulled out onto H without any lights on, then hit his brights.” Roelke turned again. “And whoever was on my tail must have turned onto Sugar Creek after the other guy went by. I remember the lights from both vehicles disappearing, right as I started to roll.”

Libby’s eyes went wide. “Are you saying somebody did this on
purpose
?
”

Roelke chewed that over. It may have all been a bad combination of unrelated events. But if someone had wanted him to crash … this would be a place to try it. And if it
was
deliberate, and aimed at
him,
the person responsible must have known that he’d be driving north on County H, right then; must have known he’d be leaving Roxie’s Roost and heading home.

“Roelke?” Libby demanded.

“Just give me a minute.” He thought back to his conversation with Roxie. He’d lingered at the tavern long enough for Guest and Sabatola to come up with the plan and get into place.

But it would have taken two drivers to pull off the maneuver. Driver A had climbed up on his tail, and flashed his brights to signal
Yes, this is McKenna
. Then Driver B pulled out and flipped on his brights. Had Sabatola been sober enough to handle a vehicle?

“
Roelke!
” Libby snapped. “You think this was deliberate?”

“It may have been,” he admitted. “Now that I’m here, and can see the lay of the land, it all stacks up.”

“Well, call the sheriff’s office as soon as we get home. Let them handle it.”

Roelke sighed. He’d already given a statement to a Walworth County deputy. Roelke had pulled himself together enough to tell the deputy that he was a cop. Then he described the crash itself. Yes, another vehicle had run him off the road. No, he hadn’t gotten a good look at the vehicle, much less the driver. It had been dark. The other vehicle had been driving with high beams on. It had all happened fast.

“I can’t do that,” Roelke told his cousin.

“Why the hell not?”

A station wagon appeared from the north. Roelke pulled Libby farther onto the shoulder and waited for the car to pass. Then he said, “I’d been drinking.”

“
What?
” Libby stared at him, mouth open. “Have you gotten stupid all of a sudden? What were you
thinking?
”

“Long story. It was a work thing.” Unofficially.

The grim look in her eyes didn’t fade. “How much did you have?”

“A couple of beers.”

She blew out a long breath. “That’s not a lot.”

“I know. And I
felt
like I was OK.” Roelke winced as he said it; wasn’t that what every drunk driver believed? How many idiots had said those very words to him after getting pulled over for weaving all over the highway? “But … I may have been impaired.”