The Heirloom Murders (6 page)

The best thing she could do for Dellyn was get back to work in the attic. The thought of ascending back into that purgatory of heat and dust and clutter made Chloe break out in a sweat. Some friend you are, she berated herself, and forced herself to move.

She spent a good hour in the attic before retreating back to the kitchen. After rummaging in the fridge, Chloe settled back at the table with a slice of the banana bread she’d brought the other morning—which she knew was quite edible, thank you—and a glass of tea. Valerie Bing’s magazine article about the Eagle Diamond lay beside her plate. The headline declared, “A Mystery Endures in Eagle.” Idly, Chloe began to read.

1876

Albrecht wiped his forehead
with his elbow. He was digging through clay, now. The well shaft smelled rank with his effort, and his eyes stung with sweat. His shirt was soaked. His kerchief was soaked. Even his hat was soaked. He pulled his canteen from the bucket where he’d left it, and gulped greedily. The water was warm and tasted of tin.

“You stopping?” Charles hollered down the shaft.

Albrecht hadn’t planned on stopping yet, actually. He had the energy to send up a few more buckets of earth, and to unload the buckets of limestone Charles sent down to line the shaft. But the irritation in Charles’s tone snapped Albrecht’s patience in two.

“
Ja
,” he yelled back. “I’m coming up.” He began the climb toward sunlight.

Charles was waiting for him, chewing a piece of grass, squinting. “I’ll go down again,” he said, as Albrecht flopped on the grass. “I’m not ready to quit.”

Albrecht watched Charles descend into the hole, then looked toward the garden. Clarissa had made good progress; a wide swath of raw, new-turned earth had been exposed. Clarissa herself was nowhere in sight. Good, he thought. He hoped she’d gone inside, out of the sun, and was taking a rest.

Charles probably never thought to ask his wife if she needed a rest. Just as he hadn’t thought to ask if Albrecht minded staying a while longer. Now that the shaft was so deep, one man was needed on the surface to handle the winch and dump the buckets of earth sent skyward. Albrecht flexed his shoulders, trying to ease their ache.

“Mr. Bachmeier?”

Albrecht scrambled to his feet so fast he almost lost his balance. “Mrs. Wood!”

“I thought you might like some switchel.” She still wore her bonnet, but so close, he could make out her face beneath the brim.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said. He sipped slowly, savoring the tang of apple vinegar-and-water; savoring even more the chance to stand so close to Clarissa. She smelled of sweat too, but hers was somehow sweet.

Finally, the tin cup was empty. He handed it back with reluctance, hoping his fingers might brush hers. They didn’t.

“It looks like your garden is coming right along,” he said, feeling a little desperate.

She smiled. “Oh, yes. I can’t wait to start planting. Vegetables, of course, but I must have flowers too.”

She’s a good woman, Albrecht thought. A good helpmeet. He tried to think of something else to say, but Clarissa was already turning away.

Chloe drained the last
of her tea as she finished the article. Interesting stuff, although she was curious about the woman mentioned. Clarissa Wood had become a widow some time after the Eagle Diamond had been found, but when? How?
Wisconsin Byways
was a glossy magazine intended for a general audience. No handy footnotes.

Well, Mr. Burke had compiled a file on the diamond, right? Dellyn wouldn’t mind if she looked through his records. Besides, the office was at least twenty degrees cooler than the attic. With the article in hand, Chloe made her way into Mr. Burke’s office.

An hour later she admitted defeat. She’d fingered her way through all the file cabinets, poked through stacks of cartons crammed with more file folders, and skimmed the ledgers. She hadn’t seen anything labeled “diamond” or “Eagle Diamond” or “Wood.”

Chloe glanced at her watch. Libby had invited her over for a cookout that evening, and she’d frittered away most of the afternoon. Time to leave a note for Dellyn, who had evidently been waylaid at her brother-in-law’s house, and am-scray.

As Chloe walked from the room she picked up the article again, skimming the columns of text … and abruptly, another name caught her eye: G. F. Kunz. She’d seen that name during her search of the files … hadn’t she? Somewhere?

She was tempted to forget it, but that nagging sense of familiarity plunged her back into the search. Twenty minutes later she f
ound the remembered file—thankfully, in one of the cabinets,
before having to manhandle the heavy cartons again. “I knew it!” she announced, rather impressed with herself. Not too long ago, when struggling with depression, she’d had trouble remembering what she’d had for breakfast on any given day. This was no small achievement.

The Kunz folder was flat, containing only a single document. Chloe read the letter and whistled. The information it contained predated the Eagle Diamond’s theft, but was significant historically. Dellyn would be tickled.

Chloe left the file on the kitchen table with a scrawled note:
Fun find for the day. Hope all went OK with Simon. I’m heading to Libby’s for a cookout supper. Come on over if you’d like company.

_____

When Roelke arrived at Libby’s house that evening he was surprised to find Chloe reclining in a lawn chair, sipping wine. That’s OK, he told himself. It’s cool. After all, he’d been the one to introduce Chloe to his cousin. At the time it had seemed like a good idea. These days, he wasn’t so sure. After his aborted attempt to kiss her, things might feel … awkward.

But Chloe greeted him pleasantly enough. The temperature was dropping, shadows had stretched across the back yard, and a light breeze kept most of the mosquitoes away. Libby’s two kids were at a neighbor’s house, which meant grownup conversation could reign. Maybe this would turn out to be a good evening.

Libby, as usual, turned out a feast with what appeared to be minimal effort. “Is your burger OK?” she asked Chloe, once everyone had been served.

“Amazingly good,” Chloe said, with obvious sincerity. Libby had grilled a portabella mushroom cap for her, topped with a thin slice of smoked gouda cheese. “Did you put hickory chips in the coals?”

“Hickory shells.” Libby extended her legs and crossed her ankles. “They have more oils than the wood.”

“The word ‘fanatical’ comes to mind,” Roelke said. He rolled his eyes, because his cousin would suspect something was up if he didn’t needle her. But as far as he was concerned, Libby could add frankincense and myrrh to the coals if it meant that Chloe ate a good meal. For a vegetarian, she didn’t pay enough attention to nutrition.

Chloe licked mushroom juice off one of her fingers. “If these are the results, she can be as fanatical as she wants.”

Libby got up to check whatever she was grilling for dessert. She was three years older than Roelke, practical and self-assured, and occasionally too all-knowing for her own good. But this old ranch house in Palmyra, worn and toy-strewn, felt much more like home than his own tiny apartment several blocks away.

And he really,
really
wanted to stay where he could come by Libby’s place whenever he wanted. “There’s a position opening up,” he announced. “EPD. Full-time.”

“Hey, that’s great!” Libby said.

“Yeah.” Roelke nodded, and tried what he hoped was a casual glance in Chloe’s direction.

“That
is
great,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll get it.”

He rolled his shoulders. “Well, I’m not sure. There are two of us going up for it. Me and Skeet Deardorff.” Roelke began tapping the arm of his chair with his thumb. “Skeet’s got as much experience in Eagle as I do. He’s taking extra classes. And he’s never given anyone in Eagle a speeding ticket.”

Libby blinked. “What?”

“He lets anyone with an Eagle address off with a warning.”
Roelke and Skeet had debated that approach many times. “They’re paying our salary, man,” Skeet would say. Roelke insisted that equity in every detail was the only way to go. Now, he tried to remember if he’d ever ticketed anyone on the Police Committee for speeding.

“Roelke? Hey, you.” Libby snapped her fingers. “Don’t obsess about it now. You’re a good cop.” She got up to check the grill.

Chloe smiled at him. “And you’ll do great at the interview.”

God, she was beautiful. Roelke didn’t like needing to compete—for the job he deserved, or for a place in Chloe’s life—but when she smiled like that, he felt as if anything was possible.

“Ah, perfect.” Libby pulled some fruit kabobs from the grill, and served them on small plates. Pineapple dusted with coconut, and some yellowy-orange fruit Roelke couldn’t identify. Mango, maybe? The skewered fruit provided the perfect treat to end a hot day, warm and crusty outside, juicy and sweet inside. The last of his tension leaked away.

“Anyone want a beer?” Libby helped herself to a Leinenkugel from the cooler, then turned to Chloe. “Did you talk to Dellyn today?”

Roelke felt his sense of calm head for the hills.

“I was at her house this afternoon,” Chloe said. “I’m helping her with a bunch of old stuff her parents left in the attic.”

“How’s she doing?” Libby poked a lime wedge into the bottle.

Chloe shot Roelke a sideways glance. “She’s OK, I think, considering.”

“Did something happen?” Roelke asked, trying really hard to sound mild.

Chloe told them about the letter. “Poor kid,” Libby muttered.

“I’d like to see that,” Roelke said at the same time.

Chloe squirmed. “Well, I told her to call you about it. Bonnie’s husband wanted to see it, though.”

“I hope they don’t destroy it.” Roelke gazed blindly over the lawn, thinking.

Libby frowned. “What difference does it make? The poor woman committed suicide, Roelke. I know that pisses you off, but you can’t change it.”

A chipmunk darted to the edge of the patio, packed his cheeks with seeds spilled from one of the bird feeders, and raced away. “Something feels funny about this one,” Roelke muttered. “I’ll talk to Dellyn about it.”

Now Chloe was frowning at him, too. “Do you really need to make Dellyn talk through everything all over again?”

Well, hell. Roelke considered his options: back away, or dig a deeper hole. Something compelled him to cling to his metaphorical shovel. “Will you two come on a drive with me?” he asked.

“Why?” Libby ran a hand through her short-cropped hair, eyeing him with suspicion.

“Where?” Chloe asked, with equal suspicion.

It belatedly occurred to Roelke that asking Chloe to help him dissect Bonnie Sabatola’s last earthly moments was quite possibly the worst idea he’d ever had. “Never mind,” he said. “Forget I said anything.”

“OK,” Libby said. “Listen, Justin just joined a soccer club. He wants to do it, but the poor kid isn’t as athletic as some. His first game is a week from Sunday. Want to come to his first game and help cheer him on?”

“Of course,” Roelke said. He tried to fill the gap left by Justin’s asshole father, who was more absent than not.

“Me too!” Chloe said, which was a surprise, but a good one. “Sounds like fun.” She glanced at her watch. “I really need to hit the road.”

Roelke walked her to her car. He considered trying to kiss her again, but the moment just didn’t seem right.

Libby was carrying dishes inside when he rejoined her. “I need your help,” he said. “Let’s go for that ride. It won’t take long.”

Libby insisted on putting the food away before leaving, but twenty minutes later, the two of them stood at the head of the White Oak Trail.

“Why are we here?” Libby gave Roelke her
I am not amused
look.

“An experiment. I’m going to head in a ways. I want you to walk the trail until you reach me, and count your steps.”

“Roelke—”

“Holy toboggans, Libby, do you think I’d bring you here if it wasn’t important?” He turned away and jogged to the spot where he’d found Bonnie Sabatola’s body. In the canopy overhead, songbirds warbled the day’s final songs. No evidence of the violent death remained. How many children had skipped unknowingly over this spot? How many hand-holding couples had wandered past?

Libby joined him a few minutes later. “Two hundred and thirty-two steps,” she announced flatly. “Now, what the hell was all that about?”

Roelke told her about Bonnie Sabatola’s instructions. “She said she’d be three hundred paces up the trail. I reached her in one-eighty-seven, but I was running. I wanted to calculate a woman’s pace. According to Bonnie’s driver’s license, she was five-feet-seven.”

“About my height.”

“Exactly. But you didn’t get even close to three hundred paces. Besides that, she said her wallet would be on the wheel of the car. Instead, I found it by the trail.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Libby said. She turned and started walking back toward the parking lot.

Roelke followed her. For a moment neither one spoke. Finally he said, “I just want to understand what happened.”

“Are you trying to understand the last minutes of Bonnie’s life?” Libby asked. “Or are you trying to figure out what sent Bonnie to that trail in the first place?”

Libby had a habit of out-thinking him. He hated when she did that. “Well, first of all,” Roelke said, “I want to know what pushed her over the line. Someone must have done something to make her feel the way she did.”

“Dellyn wasn’t aware of anything going on. If Bonnie’s sister didn’t know about any problems, and her husband says he didn’t know, what can you possibly do now? Even if Simon was having an affair or something, that’s not a crime.”

“I know,” he admitted. “And maybe I’m way off base. But something doesn’t add up here. What if someone
was
abusing or threatening Bonnie Sabatola in a criminal way? Isn’t discovering that worth some effort?”

Now Libby looked away. She had some experience with domestic abuse. After her husband’s first punch she’d left him, gotten a restraining order, and started divorce proceedings. But lots of women weren’t as strong-willed as Libby.

They reached the parking lot. Libby didn’t speak again until they’d climbed into his truck and left the trailhead behind. “Roel-ke,” she said quietly, “if someone was brutalizing that woman, physically or emotionally, I hope you find some way to nail his ass to the wall.”

“Thank you.”

“But I also think that you’re wasting your time obsessing about Bonnie’s last moments.”

“I’m not obsessing!”

“All I mean is, you’ll never understand what she was thinking. What she was feeling. You’ll never know why she said three hundred steps, and only went two hundred and thirty. I worry that …” She sighed. “Shit, I’m not your mother. I just don’t want you to make yourself nuts, OK?”

He thought about that, and reluctantly conceded that Libby had a point. He’d been on suicide calls before without feeling a need to get inside the head of the person just before they did the deed. Examine the scene, piece together motive from a letter or those left behind—sure. No more.

But something about this case was haunting him. And even he could figure that one out. Bonnie Sabatola’s was the first suicide call he’d taken since he’d met Chloe. Since he’d learned that Chloe had, not so long ago, been in some dark emotional pit herself.

“OK,” he said, as he turned onto Libby’s street. “I will never know exactly what happened on that trail back there, or what Bonnie Sabatola was thinking in her last moments. I will stop wasting time trying to figure it out.”

“Good.”

“But I’m not done trying to find out if she was being abused or threatened, at home or elsewhere,” Roelke added. “Not by a long shot.”

_____

That night Chloe wandered in circles, played with Olympia, tried to read a book. Finally she called her best friend. “I think I screwed up,” Chloe told Ethan, a buddy from her forestry school days at West Virginia University. “Twice, actually.”

Small silence. “What did you do?”

She pressed the telephone to her ear, wishing they didn’t have half a continent between them. “First I met Markus. Then I agreed to go visit an elderly couple with him.”

A longer silence. Then, “How was it to see him again?”