The Heirloom Murders (12 page)

Chloe had taken Tuesday
off. When her alarm clock shrilled at nine
am
, she slammed the snooze button. Five minutes later it shrilled again, got slammed again.

Get up, she told herself.

No response.

She hid her face in the crook of one arm, staving away the growing brightness. Her brain insisted on cataloging her problems: someone had attacked her the night before, a good friend was grief-stricken and—perhaps—the target of more trouble, Markus had somehow wormed his way back into her life, she and Roelke had argued.

“But I am not depressed,” she muttered. “And I am not going to
get
depressed.”

Response came in the way of a nose-nudge from Olympia. Chloe opened her eyes and stroked the kitten under her chin. “And I have a furry little buddy.”

The alarm blared again. This time Chloe turned it off and struggled to her feet. Her palms stung. Her shoulder ached, and now sported an enormous bruise. She rolled it again, tried a careful shrug. Everything still worked.

“And I have a job,” she told Olympia’s backside—the kitten was already racing to the kitchen, giddy with the prospect of breakfast.

But Chloe couldn’t talk herself out of her funk. Being hit in a dark barn had scared the bejeebers out of her. Fighting with Roel-ke made her feel horrible. And she was getting seriously worried about Dellyn.

Dellyn had brushed aside Chloe’s offer of company that morning. The hell with that, Chloe decided. After breakfast for her and the cat, she dressed and headed to Eagle.

When she got to the Burke place she sat in the car for a moment. Even in daylight she felt skittish being here. She flashed again on the sound of her attacker approaching. The shock. The pain.

But today is about Dellyn, she reminded herself grimly. That comes first.

She found Dellyn sitting in the garden with Harriet Van Dyne, her favorite volunteer. “You, too?” Dellyn said, when she saw Chloe. But she smiled.

“I brought a coffeecake,” Harriet said, as Chloe joined them. “Dellyn and I were just talking about creating a blue memorial garden in honor of her mother and Bonnie.”

“Blue was Bonnie’s favorite color,” Dellyn explained. “And my mom’s too.”

Chloe searched her limited mental data base of ornamental flowers. “Delphiniums? Phlox?”

“And lupines,” Harriet added. “Definitely lupines.”

Dellyn managed a watery smile. “Thank you both for coming. It really means a lot.”

_____

Eagle’s yellow water tower—painted with an enormous smiley-f
ace—loomed over the roof of St. Theresa Catholic Church.
Roelke stared at the iconic landmark which was, he had learned yesterday, situated on Diamond Hill.

“The world is a very strange place,” he muttered, and got out of his truck. He’d leave the historical stuff to Chloe and Dellyn. All he wanted to do was catch bad guys.

Which was why he was attending Bonnie Sabatola’s funeral. He always attended the services for people killed while he was on duty, if he could. Sometimes he went in uniform, offering respect on behalf of the police department. Today he wore his best civvies. He was more interested in seeing than being seen.

The church reached perhaps half-capacity with mourners. Most of them looked like business acquaintances of Simon Sabatola, the men in expensive suits and the women wearing heels and dark dresses and lots of jewelry. Sonia Padopolous was there, and Roelke pegged a small contingent as Dellyn’s Old World Wisconsin friends. No one had come in costume, which he’d half-expected, but their clothing was less formal. Several wore glasses with old-fashioned wire frames. One long-bearded man wore suspenders and waistless trousers that gave him a vaguely Amish look. Chloe was wearing a denim skirt and light blue blouse that looked great, Roelke couldn’t help noticing, with her coloring. She sat beside an older woman.

Dellyn Burke and Simon Sabatola had settled in one of the front pews with Edwin Guest and a man and woman Roelke didn’t recognize. Simon stared at his lap through much of the service. When the priest began talking about “the lovely light that was Bonnie Burke Sabatola,” Dellyn’s shoulders began to shake, and the sound of muffled sobs drifted through the hot and hushed sanctuary. Simon put his arm around Dellyn’s shoulders. She leaned against him.

Roelke wished he had a better handle on Simon Sabatola. The man couldn’t name a single friend of his wife’s, or provide any real details about how she’d spent her days. Roelke was still inclined to pin an ‘abusive husband’ badge on the widower, despite his grief and tears. But … was that only because he’d found no other trigger for Bonnie’s suicide, and the spouse was always the first place to look?

Roelke wanted to be thorough. He also wanted to be fair.

At the end of the service he followed the mourners to the
fellowship hall and lingered at the end of the straggle of guests,
listening, watching. When he finally reached the head of the
receiving line he saw Dellyn’s eyes widen in surprise. “Why …
Officer McKenna!”

“I wanted to pay my respects.” Roelke told her, and then of
fered his hand to Simon Sabatola.

To his dismay, Sabatola’s eyes filled with tears. Again. Edwin Guest, without even meeting his boss’s gaze, discreetly passed a fresh handkerchief into his hand. Then Guest stepped into the background again, silent and unobtrusive, gaze lowered.

That guy’s borderline creepy, Roelke thought. Unless … was it possible that there was more to the relationship between Sabatola
and Guest than met the eye? If so, and Bonnie had found out …
Hunh.

“It was kind of you to come,” Simon said, when he’d blotted his
eyes. He turned to the man standing beside him. “Alan, this is
Officer McKenna. He investigated Bonnie’s death.”

“Alan Sabatola,” the man said, pumping Roelke’s hand vigorously. He was mid-thirties, perhaps, with tired eyes. “I’m Simon’s brother.”

Half-brother, hadn’t Simon said? Roelke chewed on that as he retreated against a wall. The two brothers settled at a nearby table with some of the AgriFutures crowd. People began to filter to the buffet spread on folding tables by the church ladies. Alan Sabatola’s voice rose as he talked with a heavy-set guy. “We are positioning ourselves to increase the productivity of subsistence farmers
all over the world! Branching out from pest management to crop genetics is essential. We’re going to replace old cereal grains with higher-yield crops.”

Roelke listened with some disgust. Couldn’t business wait until the reception was over? Maybe an impromptu board meeting was underway. Simon, he noticed, never looked directly at Alan. The two men kept more than casual space between them.

“Hey.” Chloe poked his arm with her index finger. “I saw you, and just wanted to say hi.”

“Hi.” He tried to gauge her pissed index while still keeping an eye on the Sabatola brothers.

She pleated her skirt in her fingers. “Listen, I’m sorry we quarreled last night. Would you like to sit with us?” She glanced toward the Old World people.

“No.” That sounded terse even to his ears. He lowered his voice and tried to back-pedal. “I mean, not right now. Can I join you in a little bit?” Simon Sabatola said something to his half-brother that seemed to sit poorly. Alan’s face set in hard lines. Discreetly, letting his body shield the gesture from most of the guests, Alan stabbed one index finger toward Simon’s chest and said, “Stop it, Simon.” Roelke didn’t hear Simon’s response.

Roelke suddenly realized he hadn’t heard Chloe’s response, either. She was gone.

Damn.

Before Roelke could decide if he should submit himself to introductions to the Old World crowd, Simon Sabatola stalked out the door. Then a skinny woman Roelke didn’t recognize got up from a nearby table and followed. She paused at the door, glancing over her shoulder, and slipped out after Sabatola.

Well, now. Even more interesting.

Roelke followed the woman outside in time to see her hurry after Sabatola, who was striding away from the building. She wore a plain skirt and sandals with a white blouse that seemed too large. Her dark shoulder-length hair was worn straight, with heavy bangs. She didn’t fit the rich-business-acquaintance set.

She caught up with Simon in the middle of the parking lot, and put a hand on his arm. Sabatola jerked away from the touch, but he did stop. Roelke fiddled with a pack of cigarettes he pulled from his pocket, keeping an eye on the unlikely pair. The woman seemed to be pleading with Sabatola, who responded with a vigorous shake of his head. The woman said something else.

“Not
now!
” Sabatola blazed. He turned his back on the woman and strode back toward the fellowship hall.

Roelke leaned against the brick wall, affecting complete disinterest as he pulled a lighter from his pocket. He didn’t smoke, which put him in a distinct minority among cops, but this pretense let him linger unobtrusively in all sorts of places. Sabatola, head down and fists once again clenched, didn’t even glance his way.

The skinny woman stood for a few moments, staring after him. Then she got into an old-model Dodge Dart, and drove away.

Roelke was still mulling that exchange over when the door opened again. Another woman stepped outside and immediately began scrabbling through her purse. She extracted her own pack of cigarettes, but further search failed, evidently, to produce matches or a lighter.

“Can I offer you a light?” Roelke asked. He normally didn’t encourage anyone to smoke, but this wasn’t the time for a talk about lung cancer.

“Thanks.” She joined him, put a cigarette to her lips, and inhaled fiercely. She was about his own age, with a narrow face framed by reddish curls.

“It’s a difficult time,” Roelke said.

“Yeah.” She took another drag. “Are you a friend of the family’s?”

Roelke introduced himself. “I was on duty the day Mrs. Sabatola died.”

“Oh, God.” The woman hunched her shoulders, as if defending herself from the vision of what he’d found on the trail.

“Were you and Mrs. Sabatola friends, Miss … ?”

“Sorry. I’m Mona Lundy. Bonnie and I were friends all the way through high school together, and we both worked at a dress shop in Elkhorn.”

Roelke felt something quiver inside. Finally, finally. “How long did you work together?”

Mona considered. “A year or so, I guess. She quit after the wedding.”

“Did she say why?”

“No. She just came in one day and gave notice.” Mona stared at a dandelion straggling through a crack in the sidewalk.

“Perhaps with a big house to take care of … and the gardens …” Roelke made a
You know
gesture.

Mona shook her head. “Bonnie loved her job. She had a knack for finding just the right style or color for customers. And she told me that she wanted to keep working after she got married. ‘Simon wants me to quit,’ she said, ‘but I can’t imagine not contributing anything to the family finances.’”

Lie number one, Roelke thought. Simon Sabatola had said Bonnie had wanted to quit her job. “Did you keep in touch after Bonnie left the dress shop?”

“I never saw her again.” Mona took one last drag, dropped the cigarette onto the pavement, and ground it out beneath the toe of one shoe. “We talked once or twice on the phone. After awhile, though, the maid or whoever it was always said Bonnie wasn’t home. She never returned any of my calls.”

“Do you happen to know if Bonnie kept in touch with any other high school friends?”

“No, she pretty much disappeared.” A new tear began dragging another black streak down Mona’s cheek. “And then … this. Now I wish I’d tried harder to stay in touch.”

Roelke expressed his regret, and traded one of his business cards for Mona’s contact information. “Sure, I’ll call if I hear anything else,” she told him. “But I doubt if I will. All of us—Bonnie’s old high school friends—lost touch with her years ago.”

Chloe spent the day
after Bonnie’s funeral cataloging artifacts in one of the old trailers that, for the time being, housed part of the historic site’s collection. She’d recently completed a proposal for a new collections storage facility, and the site director was working on raising funds.

For now, simply organizing collections was an ongoing task. Some of Old World’s objects had been donated directly to the site; some had been transferred from the state’s collection back in 1976, when the historic site opened. Interpreters were permitted to actually use only a small subset of the artifacts in any given house, and those items needed to be unobtrusively but clearly identified. The financial gods in Madison had not yet budgeted a computer for the site. Wrestling the mélange of records she’d inherited into a concise and useful form was a task that would keep Chloe busy forever, if she chose to stay that long.

After the site closed, and she was free to drive her car onto the grounds, she locked the trailer and went in search of Dellyn. Chloe found her friend dead-heading zinnias in the narrow beds around the Hafford House, once the home of a widowed Irish woman who had made her way in the world by taking in laundry. “Hey,” Chloe said, as she walked into the yard. “Pretty flowers.”

Dellyn straightened. “Did you know that the Aztec name for zinnias meant ‘eyesore’?”

“Um … no, I did not know that.” Chloe surveyed the beautiful rainbow of flowers—orange, yellow, purple, red. “What were the Aztecs so cranky about?”

“The name meant they treated eye problems with it. The Spanish did too. They called the plant
mal de ojos
. The name we use today came from a German guy named Dr. Zinn who helped promote the flowers as ornamentals.” Dellyn pulled off a few more dead blossoms. “There’s your bit of garden trivia for the day.”

Chloe watched her work for a moment. “Can’t the interpreters do that?”

Dellyn wiped her hands on her stained apron. “In theory. But they can’t keep up with everything.”

“Neither can you,” Chloe observed. Dellyn’s cheeks looked hollow. Dark smudges beneath her eyes looked like bruises. “Dellyn, I’m worried about you. Your mom’s garden, the inventory of your folks’ collection, the Garden Fair, all the gardens here … it’s too much to juggle at the best of times. Which this isn’t.”

Dellyn stared over the rest of the Crossroads Village. “I don’t know if I even want to be head gardener at Old World Wisconsin anymore.”

This is not good, Chloe thought. She tipped her head toward a nearby bench. “Let’s take a break.”

For a moment they sat in silence, savoring the peace of the site after-hours. Chloe watched a monarch butterfly dancing over the
flowers. Finally Dellyn said, “Part of me wants to succeed as historic
gardener. Part of me wants to get the heck out of town. But if I left, what would I do? The only things I’m much good at are waiting tables and planting seeds and pulling weeds.”

“That’s not true!” Chloe protested. “First of all, any historic site or public garden would welcome your knowledge. And on top of that, you’re an artist!”

“At the moment, I’m not anything,” Dellyn said. “I was a second-
rate painter and a second-rate daughter and sister. Sometimes I think I should just sell my house and everything in it, and use the money for some kind of practical training.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure I even care. There’s got to be a way I can pay my bills and still have enough time and energy left over to paint on weekends.” She sighed. “I’m just so tired.”

“Dellyn … you buried your sister yesterday,” Chloe said. “Please give yourself time. Don’t make any big decisions right now.”

“I guess I don’t need to decide right this minute.” Dellyn shaded her eyes with one dirty hand. “What about you? You’re sure you’re OK after what happened in the barn?”

“One whopper of a bruise, but no real harm done.” Chloe didn’t want to dwell on the attack. “How are plans for the Garden Fair coming along?”

“Pretty well, despite everything. Harriet is making labels for the produce displays.” Dellyn wiped sweat from her forehead with her apron. “And the interpreters are excited about choosing their best heirloom vegetables to represent their farms.”

“A little competition is a good way to stir up the summer doldrums.” Chloe had worked at historic sites for a long time. For summer hires—college students, mostly—the job that had seemed so romantic and fun in April sometimes got tedious by muggy mid-summer.

Dellyn arched her back, stretching out a kink. “And I asked Nika to take a look for any artifacts in storage that might work well on display.”

Chloe was used to people asking her intern for help. Nika was a workaholic with an encyclopedic memory. “I can think of … oh.” Her voice trailed away as a muffled roar broke the afternoon’s peace. A moment later Site Director Ralph Petty rode into view on a red motorcycle. Chloe willed him to keep going.

He didn’t. Instead, he parked behind her car and walked down the path to join them.

Dellyn stood to meet him. “Hi, Mr. Petty.”

“Hello, Dellyn.” The site director turned to Chloe and added coolly, “Miss Ellefson.”

Chloe flashed him her brightest, most chipper smile. “Actually, I prefer Ms.”

Ralph Petty frowned at her. “As you know, Miss Ellefson, the auditors arrive in a few weeks. You will likely be drilled on procedures and policies. I just left in your mailbox a memo containing several random accession numbers from our collection. It will be good practice for you to check your records and verify the location of each artifact.”

Chloe ground her teeth together. Didn’t she have enough to do without Petty’s petty make-work projects?

“Leave the results in my mailbox,” he was saying. “In a timely manner.”

Prick. “Okey-dokey,” Chloe said. She flashed another smile, just to throw him off balance.

The director turned back to Dellyn. “I haven’t had a chance to tell you how sorry I was to hear about your sister.”

“I appreciate that.”

“I also wanted to tell you how wonderful the gardens look.” He gave a broad gesture, indicating that he meant all of the site’s many gardens, not just those at the Hafford House. “You’re doing a wonderful job, Dellyn. Truly wonderful.”

“Thanks,” Dellyn said a little dubiously. Ralph Petty wasn’t inclined to give effusive praise. Or any praise, for that matter.

Chloe tried the mental-signal thing again, this time aiming it at her friend:
Don’t bring up the fair. Don’t bring up the fair.
She didn’t want a more prolonged conversation.

Her telepathy didn’t work any better than it had the first time. Dellyn added, “Plans for the Garden Fair are coming along nicely. I’ve spent several days working through old newspapers from the counties our farms came from.”

“I applaud your incentive, Dellyn. That’s
exactly
the spirit we need around here.” Petty looked at Chloe.

Yeah, yeah, Chloe thought, as she nodded in agreement.

“Chloe’s helping with the collections stuff,” Dellyn said quickly.

“Good. Nothing can happen without teamwork. Keep up the wonderful work, Dellyn. Miss Ellefson.” He strode back down the walkway, mounted his cycle, and roared away.

Chloe looked at her friend. “You’re making me look bad, Dellyn. You know that, right?”

“That was not my plan.” Dellyn looked troubled. “I’m sorry Petty’s taking this audit stuff out on you.”

“Don’t worry. He just doesn’t like me.”

“I heard that he tried to fire your butt.”

“Well, yeah. He did.” Chloe spread her hands. “But the powers that be intervened. I’m still here.”

“Your life might be easier if you didn’t go out of your way to antagonize the man.”

“It’s just so instinctive!”

“I don’t want you to get fired.” Dellyn’s voice quavered.

Chloe felt absurdly touched. “Hey, I’ll try harder with Petty, OK?” she said. “Look, I like my job. I
need
my job. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Sorry. I get weepy over everything these days.”

“It’s OK, really,” Chloe said. “But, um, listen, Dellyn? You look exhausted. You’ve laid the groundwork for the fair. Maybe you should leave things to your volunteers, and the interpreters—”

“I don’t
want
to leave things to other people. I need a break from going through the things in my parents’ house. I need a break from my own thoughts. I need something to keep me so busy I can actually sleep at night.”

Chloe watched a metallic green beetle lumber across the gravel path. She knew better than to think she understood how Dellyn felt, or what was the “right” way for her to deal with her problems. “I’ll help you, OK?” she said at last. “We’ll get it done.”

_____

Roelke answered a couple of minor calls that afternoon, and got back to the station twenty minutes before Marie left for the day. The chief’s door was closed. Marie was preparing paperwork for court. The radio on her desk was tuned to a station that grated his nerves—Lord, was that really the Bee Gees?

He reminded himself that he needed to curry Marie’s favor. Complaining about her music wouldn’t help. “Hey Marie,” he said.

“Hello.” Her voice was clipped. She didn’t look up.

OK, she was still pissed. He pulled up a chair and sat at her elbow. “Marie, I need your help,” he said, hoping he sounded humble.

She stopped typing, turned her chair to face him, crossed her arms, and waited.

“I visited Sonia Padopolous yesterday. She lives—”

“I know where she lives.”

Of course she did. Marie had lived in Eagle all her life. Unlike him. “She seemed nervous. Not about the break-in next door, I mean. Nervous to be talking to a cop.”

“Probably because of Alex,” Marie said promptly.

Roelke sent up a quick, silent prayer that Marie would never retire. “And Alex is … ?”

“Her son.”

He felt his eyebrows rise. “Her son? I asked about children, and she most definitely did not mention a son.”

“Alexander Padopolous.” Marie nodded slowly. “I haven’t seen him in years. He must be … oh, thirty by now. He raised hell when he was still living at home. Put poor Sonia through the wringer.”

“What kind of hell?”

The straight line of Marie’s shoulders eased a bit. “Teen stuff, mostly. Speeding, DUI. But some petty larceny, too. Shoplifting.”

Well, hunh. Roelke thought that over.

“Last time I saw Alex was likely three or four years ago,” Marie said. “Sonia and I were teaching Sunday School, and I dropped by with some curriculum materials. Alex was lying on the sofa with a beer can in one hand, watching TV. He looked like he hadn’t showered in a week.” Her nose wrinkled. “I could tell Sonia was mortified.”

“Her place today was neat as the legendary pin,” Roelke said, trying to project empathy.

“I told Sonia later that she needed to put her foot down with Alex. There was nothing wrong with that boy but pure laziness. He had a chip on his shoulder big enough to fell an ox.” Marie tightened her lips for a moment. “Maybe it came from growing up without his dad around. That’s hard on any kid. But enough was enough.”

“What did she say?”

“Not much at the time. But within a month, Alex was gone. He moved up to Waukesha.”

The phone rang. “Marie, thank you,” Roelke said quickly. “I really appreciate your help.”

She gave him an all-is-forgiven smile.

Roelke thought about what he’d learned. Sonia Padopolous, widowed young, left to raise a lazy, troublemaker son. Could Alex Padopolous have been the prowler at Dellyn Burke’s place? The prowler who had chosen to attack Chloe, rather than slip away into darkness? Might Alex Padopolous have been looking for the Eagle Diamond?

It was a stupid idea. Absurd, even. And yet … not completely impossible, either. An article had recently been published about the missing diamond. Alex had grown up next to the Burkes. He would know they collected local history stuff. He would likely even know his way around the barn.

Roelke always kept personal notes on index cards. He liked the form, the ability to shuffle, the ease of pulling them in and out of pockets. He grabbed one and began to write.

Alex Padopolous

—still in trouble?

—possibly saw article in
Wisconsin Byways
?

—need to

The chief’s door opened. Roelke hunched his shoulders like a child afraid of being caught writing a note in class.

“Nice work, son,” Chief Naborski was saying, as he and Skeet emerged from the office. Naborski clapped Skeet on the shoulder.

Chief Naborski didn’t dish up praise with a generous spoon. And shoulder claps—those were even more rare. Roelke’s last bit of tangible praise from the chief had been accompanied by a disciplinary letter, after a complicated mess with Chloe and a missing antique back in June.

The chief nodded a greeting before disappearing back into his office. Roelke stared at the closed door. The muscles between his shoulders bunched. He wanted that full-time job. Wanted it bad. But Skeet was evidently doing what he needed to do to win it.