The Heirloom Murders (15 page)

Libby crouched beside the gravel shoulder and watched the corn grow for a few moments, rubbing her temples. After a moment Roelke sat down beside her.

Finally Libby said, “From the way you described what happened, it doesn’t sound like you were impaired.”

“But after my dad … and Patrick …” His father and his brother. Both drunks. Roelke savagely pulled the head from a Queen Anne’s Lace plant. “The thing is, maybe I would have been able to keep the truck on the road if I hadn’t been drinking.”

“Your reaction time might have been a tiny bit slowed,” Libby allowed. “But that probably didn’t make any difference.”

Maybe not. But Roelke had broken his own commandment. He’d never be completely sure of anything. And no way was he going to take that to the Walworth County guys.

Was it a coincidence that he’d been run off the road so soon after leaving Roxie’s Roost? Simon Sabatola might be a piss-poor excuse for a husband, and Edwin Guest might be a fussy prig, but would either of them deliberately cause an accident? And if so,
why?

Roelke didn’t know. But he was royally pissed, and he was going to find out.

Chloe’s phone began ringing
the next morning while she was unlocking the trailer that served as her office. She wrestled her way inside and grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”

“Chloe? It’s Libby.”

Libby? Oh, God.
Roelke
. Had he been shot? Stabbed? “What’s wrong?”

“Roelke’s fine,” Libby said quickly. “But he was in an accident last night. Rolled his truck. I didn’t trust him to tell you himself, and I figured you should know.”

“But he’s OK?”

“Some bruises, some stitches. He’s at home and grouchy.”

Chloe blew out a whooshing sigh. It took conscious effort to relax her stomach muscles, and to loosen her grip on the phone. Something to think about later.

“I do have another bit of news,” Libby said. “I called a friend of mine in New York this morning. I’ve done a bunch of freelance stuff for
Rural Lifestyles
magazine, and the copy editor and I have gotten friendly. Anyway, I asked if she knew anything about Valerie’s abrupt departure from the city.”

“Learn anything new?” Chloe asked, then immediately felt a spurt of self-disgust. She earned her living, in a general sense, by poking into the lives of the long-dead. Prying into those of the living—that didn’t feel so good.

“Valerie’s ex is a senior editor.” Libby named a huge book publishing company. “Valerie accused him of infidelity when she filed for divorce. Evidently she went public in a big way. Her ex was known as a playboy, so probably the only person surprised by his affair was Valerie. Anyway, he got pissed. Threw a lot of mud her way. And in the end, Valerie got out-lawyered.”

Chloe poured water into the little coffeepot on the counter with one hand, thinking that over.
I’ve got nothing left but student loans
, Valerie had said. And,
I don’t like myself very much these days
. “Thanks, Libby.”

“You want to tell me what all this is about?”

Chloe sighed. “It’s probably about me being stupid.”

“Your prerogative,” Libby said. “Listen, though, will you be seeing Dellyn today? I’ve tried calling her several times in the past few days, and I never catch her.”

“Her Garden Fair is tomorrow and Sunday,” Chloe explained. “She’s been putting in extra hours on that.”

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do,” Libby said. “I’m worried about her.”

_____

Roelke was lying on his sofa that afternoon, listening to Duke Ellington’s
Sophisticated Lady
and thinking about his accident, when the phone rang. “That better not be work,” he muttered. He had the day off. He was in no mood to get called in. Without sitting up, he groped for the phone with his right hand. “McKenna here.”

“Roelke? It’s Peggy.”

Roelke closed his eyes, wishing he’d been called in to work. “Hey, Peggy.”

“How are you doing?”

No way was he going to tell her he’d spent the night in the hospital after rolling his truck into a ditch. “OK,” he said, and waited for her to say something else. Uncomfortable moments ticked by before he realized what
she
was waiting for. “Um, how are
you
doing?”

“Good, Roelke. I’m good, thanks.”

“Were you able to find anything about AgriFutures?”

Another pause. I don’t have the energy to chit-chat right now, Roelke told her silently. He didn’t feel good about that. He’d asked her for the favor, after all. Least he could do was be civil. But he didn’t want anything more than the favor, either. It would be all too easy to send the wrong signal.

Most of the time, he really did have no idea how to communicate with women.

“I was,” Peggy said finally. “I can assure you, Roelke, that AgriFutures is not in financial straits. They made a record profit last year.”

She named a figure that made Roelke blink. Holy toboggans. So much for the idea that Simon Sabatola might be in some kind of financial trouble. Unless he was hiding something
huge
, no way was a vice president of AgriFutures hurting for money.

“I’m no expert, but that sounds pretty good,” he allowed. “Did you pick up any insights into management?”

“Management?”

He chose his words carefully. “You know, management style. Does the CEO treat the employees well? Any scandals? I’d hate to put my money somewhere that …” He floundered. “You know.”

“No scandals, certainly,” Peggy said. “I wouldn’t suggest—”

“Of course not.”

Small pause. “Things may be a little unsettled there at the moment,” she said finally. “The founder died recently. He had two sons, both vice presidents. The Board of Directors is taking longer than expected to announce which son will take over the helm. The board’s split into factions, I guess.”

Oh, really? Simon Sabatola had said his ascension was a done deal.

“But I’m sure that will be resolved soon,” Peggy was saying cheerfully. “So, are you ready to invest? We really should talk about a diverse portfolio. Why don’t we get together?”

Roelke stifled a groan. “Well, here’s the thing, Peggy. I’m just home from the hospital. I rolled my truck into a ditch last night.” He held the phone a few inches from his ear until her exclamations had settled back into normal decibel range. “So at the moment, I don’t feel quite ready for anything social.”

“But I hate to think about you being all alone after that kind of experience! How about I drive up? I made some peach melba muffins this morning. I could bring some by.”

The thought of eating peach melba muffins—whatever the hell they were—while Peggy hovered and fluttered made Roelke want to crawl under the sofa. “Thanks,” he managed, “but the doctor said the best thing for me right now is sleep.”

“I understand. Call me when you’re feeling better, though, OK? You still owe me that coffee.”

“I owe you,” Roelke agreed miserably, and hung up the phone before he could get in any more trouble. Right now, he had his hands full with Simon Sabatola. It seemed really, really unlikely that financial problems had been a major source of stress in the Sabatola marriage. But if Simon and his half-brother Alan both wanted the CEO spot? That might make things a lot more difficult.

Roelke reached for an index card and made some notes. Simon Sabatola had worked hard to leave his hardscrabble childhood behind. He was a man who liked to be in control. Bonnie’s suicide meant he’d lost control at home. The possibility that the AgriFutures Board might give the top job to Alan would prove he had lost it at work, too. And the combination might make Simon Sabatola a desperate and dangerous man.

_____

Chloe wanted to spend the day helping Dellyn, but she had a mountain of paperwork waiting. Long before the addition of the audit-induced collections scavenger hunt, Director Petty had instructed Chloe to deliver daily reports, weekly reports, and monthly reports—evidently trying to provoke her into either screwing up or quitting. “I should jolly well make Ralph Petty wait,” she muttered to the walls, as she rolled another sheet of carbon paper into the typewriter she’d scrounged from a “damaged—surplus” pile at the historical society headquarters. The machine worked as long as she remembered to slide the carriage home gently, instead of slamming it. “Helping a fellow staffer prepare for a special event should take priority.” But Petty would get pissy all over again if she didn’t get the reports into his mailbox that afternoon. The whole audit thing had him wound more tightly than usual. And she’d promised Dellyn she would try not to antagonize the man.

Besides, she’d come to love her job. She didn’t want to lose it.

At 2:30 she wriggled into the period clothing she’d permanently borrowed from the interpretive staff—long black skirt, simple blouse, mismatched apron and kerchief. She wore it whenever she needed to work in one of the historic buildings during open-hours, minimizing the visual intrusion. Wearing period attire
meant chatting with visitors, which slowed her down. But in Chloe’s
opinion, taking care of guests was Job One of every staff member, not just the interpreters. Besides, she was an educator at heart. She liked talking with visitors.

She found Dellyn and Harriet Van Dyne in the big barn that was part of the newly restored Sanford farm near the Crossroads Village. The Sanfords had been prosperous Yankee farmers. Their home had been restored to its 1865 appearance, during Wisconsin’s brief career as a wheat-producing state. The barn was large, with a wide central drive-through, and Dellyn had chosen it for her Garden Fair.

Dellyn and Harriet were arranging a display of hand-held agricultural implements. Long tables held displays of heirloom fruits and vegetables: spiny West Indies gherkins, purple carrots, marbled beets, German fingerling potatoes. The array was colorfully impressive.

“You think visitors will be interested?” Dellyn asked anxiously.

“How could they not?” Chloe asked.

Harriet nodded emphatically. “I’ve learned so much since we started working together! Most people have no idea how much genetic diversity we’ve lost. All for the sake of some plastic-tasting thing that looks good after it’s traveled halfway around the world.”

Dellyn pulled a water bottle from its hiding place in a cloth-covered basket, and took a long drink. “It’s coming together. Harriet’s going to help me interpret in here over the weekend.”

Harriet beamed, poking a stray strand of hair beneath her head-
scarf, which was tied under her chin in old immigrant fashion. “I taught fourth grade for thirty years,” she told Chloe. “I was ready to retire, but I missed the kids until I started working here. I love it when families come through.”

The three women spent the rest of the afternoon finishing up the exhibits. Dellyn didn’t want to break for supper, so at six o’clock Chloe let herself into the now-locked Sanford House and scrounged up some bread and gooseberry jam the interpreters had tucked away. “Our jobs have unique perks,” Chloe said, as she shared the bounty with Harriet and Dellyn.

The light was fading when Dellyn stepped back from a colorful array of heirloom flowers she’d just arranged. “There. I think we’re about ready. I just need to get over to the Ketola farm.” She leaned against the wall, as if she needed the support. “The interpreters there canned beans and carrots this week. I thought we’d bring some jars over, and talk with visitors about how preservation technology evolved over the years.”

“I’ll do that,” Chloe said firmly.

“But—”

Chloe put an arm around Dellyn’s shoulders. “Dellyn,” she said quietly, “please go home now. Eat a real dinner. Get some rest. It’s going to be a busy weekend for you. I can finish up.”

“That’s an excellent plan,” Harriet added. “Come along, dear. I’ll walk out with you.”

Dellyn wavered, but finally nodded. “All right. I will. Thank you.”

Chloe watched Harriet and Dellyn trudge down the lane. One great thing about working at historic sites: there were lots of jobs for older women and, therefore, lots of mother-figures around.

Chloe set out on the short walk to the Finnish area. The day had been hot and muggy, but now a cool breeze riffled leaves and discouraged mosquitoes. Songbirds flitted overhead. As Chloe approached the Ketola farm one of the pastured cows raised her head, then returned to grazing.

Chloe felt some of her anxiety slide away. Being on-site after hours was a special privilege. The past always felt closer without visitors and trams puncturing the landscape.

Before heading to the house, she unlocked the sauna and stepped inside. In the bathing room she sank onto one of the benches and closed her eyes. She felt again that quiver of something strong, something calm, something feminine.
Help me
, Chloe thought, sending the message out to whatever long-gone Finnish women might be listening.
I want to take care of my friend Dellyn, and I don’t always know how
.
Oh—and my friend Roelke was just in an accident. I’m not too sure what to do about him, either.

Chloe’s breathing gradually slowed. The present-day, with its heartaches and problems, faded completely.

Later, Chloe wouldn’t be able to say if she was meditating, or communing, or simply resting. In any case, the sense of tranquil peace and warmth was so strong that it took several moments for the unexpected rattling noise to make its way through long-gone steam, and into her consciousness.

Once it had, she blinked back to the moment, struggling to identify the sound. Then she did.

“Oh, shit,” she muttered, scrambling to her feet. In the dressing room, she grabbed the door handle and pushed.

Nothing.

“Hey!” Chloe yelled, pounding the wooden door with her fist. “
Hey!
I’m in here!” She banged for at least a minute, pausing periodically to listen for a response. None came.

“
Shit!
” Chloe stared at the door with disbelief. She was locked in the sauna. She imagined an interpreter unlocking the building the next morning and finding her inside. Geez Louise. How humiliating
that
would be.

Who had locked her in, anyway? Probably a security guard who’d noticed the padlock she’d left dangling open on the outside hasp. She knew the guards checked every lock when they made their first after-hours round each day. She hadn’t heard a car … but then, no surprise there. She’d been far away from the here and now.