The Heirloom Murders (17 page)

Oh, God.
Dellyn
.

_____

Once Roelke had checked in with the chief, he settled Chloe into the loaner Chevy he’d picked up that afternoon. He was acutely aware that she was in shock. She had never before allowed him to be so protective. He knew better than to think that it would hap
pen again anytime soon. But God Almighty, it had felt good to hold
her in his arms. He hoped she would at least remember how well they had fit together.

“Where’s your truck?” she asked.

Roelke did a tight three-point turn and drove from the farmyard. “Totaled.”

“It was that bad?”

“The cab got knocked hard enough to totally mess up the alignment. Insurance company declared it a loss.”

“I’m really, really sorry.” She put her hand on his arm.

He appreciated that. He didn’t care much for stuff, but his truck and his gun—those things were
his
, and not to be messed with. He needed them.

They rode in silence until he drove from the site. Then Chloe asked, “Has someone contacted Harriet’s family?”

“It’s been taken care of. Skeet said there’s a grown daughter.”

“I have to tell Dellyn.”

Roelke didn’t want Chloe to tell Dellyn. But he was pretty sure that nothing he could say would dissuade her. “OK. We’ll go together.”

Dellyn took the news as well as he had expected—which was to say, not well at all. “Is it me?” she demanded, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Of course not.” Chloe sat next to Dellyn on the sofa, an arm around her shoulders. Both women were wearing their old fashioned costumes. Roelke had the feeling he was seeing something timeless, this way women had of comforting one another.

“No, really,” Dellyn said. “Am I cursed, or something? Did I do something bad in a past life? Why are so many people I care about dying?”

“Come home with me tonight,” Chloe urged.

“No.” Dellyn shook her head. “I’ll be OK. I want to bake something for Harriet’s daughter. A casserole or something. I’ll take it over in the morning.”

Soon Roelke and Chloe were heading back toward her farmhouse. “In the morning, I’ll ask Libby to look in on Dellyn,” Roelke said.

“Good,” Chloe said. “That would be good.” She stared out the window until they were almost to La Grange. Finally she looked at him. “Roelke?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think the killer might have been after Dellyn? She and Harriet were dressed almost identically. My yellow braid shows, and if someone had been watching while I walked to Ketola, he would have known I wasn’t Dellyn. But it would have been easy to confuse Dellyn and Harriet, especially in the dark.”

Roelke maintained a grim, thoughtful silence.

“Same thing about the night I got hit from behind. I was in Dellyn’s barn. Whoever was there might have assumed that if anyone came in, it would be Dellyn. The attacker might have switched off the lights as soon as he heard someone come in, before he got a good look at me.”

Roelke exhaled slowly. “It’s possible. But what’s the motive?”

“It’s almost like someone
is
after the Burke family. First her parents, then Bonnie …” She pounded one fist lightly on her knee. “Maybe somebody was blackmailing Bonnie.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know. But you’re the one who keeps insisting that there was some specific reason she chose to take her life. It’s possible.”

What’s possible, Roelke thought, is that you are mixed up in something dangerous. His fingers strangled the steering wheel. Death by scythe suggested rage on the killer’s part. And if Harriet Van Dyne’s killer had been the same person who’d attacked Chloe in Dellyn’s barn, then Chloe had
twice
been in close contact with a murderer.

He turned into her driveway. “Look,” Roelke said, “it’s really late. How about I sleep on your sofa tonight?” He’d done it before.

“Well … OK.”

Was there some relief in her voice? He couldn’t tell. “Then in the morning I can run you up to get your car. I don’t have to work until evening. Maybe we could do something during the day. Something relaxing.” He turned off the engine and turned to look at her. In the faint light her skin looked like porcelain.

“That sounds nice,” Chloe said. Then her face clouded, and she sucked in her lower lip. “Oh—no, wait. Tomorrow’s Saturday. I … I’m sorry. I already have plans.” She got out of the car, shut the door, and began walking across the lawn.

For a moment Roelke sat immobile, watching. He’d been close to something good. So close! But it had slipped away. And he was pretty sure that Chloe’s plans involved Alpine Boy, the bastard. Why else wouldn’t she tell him what those plans were?

He got out of the car and followed Chloe. He didn’t want her to think he’d changed his mind about spending the night. He had no idea why Bonnie had killed herself. He had no idea why Harriet Van Dyne had been killed. He had no idea why Dellyn Burke seemed to be in the middle of a tornado of tragedies. What he did know? Chloe had somehow wound herself into some serious trouble.

You might have Chloe tomorrow, Alpine Boy, Roelke thought grimly. But I’m the one who’s here tonight. And I’m the one who’s going to keep her safe.

The next afternoon, Chloe
once again found herself driving
to a rendezvous with Markus. And once again, she cursed herself for being an idiot. Her eyes felt bleary. Her head felt fuzzy. Her nerves felt frazzled. It was not a good day to spend time with her ex.

The sense of intimacy she’d felt with Roelke the night before had vanished with the sunrise. She’d scrambled eggs for breakfast. Conversation had been polite. “Um, listen … I could probably cancel my plans for the day,” she’d said. If she could reach Markus.

“No need,” Roelke had said, with formal courtesy. He’d driven her back to Old World, and she’d collected her car. She thanked him for his help. They said an awkward good-bye. “Be careful,” he’d told her, before driving away.

“Dumb, dumb,
dumb
,” she muttered. It had been nice of Roelke to suggest doing something relaxing today. If she hadn’t been so exhausted, so dazed by Harriet’s murder, she would never have put him off. How could she spend time with Markus today? Ro
elke was the one who understood what had happened to her the night before.

Well, nothing for it now but to see the thing through. Gritting her teeth, she pointed her car toward New Glarus.

_____

When Chloe and Markus got to the Frietag farm, Martine and Frieda came to meet them. “Grandpa had a bad night,” Martine told them. “He’s sleeping now.”

“This is a bad time,” Markus said at once. “We’ll leave.”

Martine shook her head. “No, he knew you were coming. If he’s better in a bit, you can say hello. If not, he’ll want to hear all about your visit.” She managed a smile.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Frieda added. “Johann told me to show you the chickens.” She cocked her head toward the beautiful old bank barn, with room for cows on the lower level and hay stored above.

The reduction of livestock to two cows and a handful of chickens meant the barn had become a storage place over the years. Just like Dellyn’s, Chloe thought, flashing on the image of her friend’s bleak expression when she learned of Harriet’s death.

Frieda told Markus about her flock, and her memories of her parents’ poultry. Markus taped the conversation and supplemented the recording with photographs. Chloe wandered out of audio range, struggling to control her emotions. The last thing she wanted to do was break down here.

Her curator’s eye idly took in the mélange of agricultural detritus.
If the Frietags were up to it, she really should make arrangements to get Dellyn down here. Larry, too. In addition to a hand-plow and harrow, and an aging tractor, smaller pieces hung on the walls.

Suddenly Chloe’s breastbone thrummed like an electric wire. “Oh my God!”

Heads swiveled in her direction. “What’s wrong?” Markus asked. He stowed his tape recorder and came to join her.

“Um, sorry.” Chloe felt her cheeks flood with color. “It’s just that …” She pointed to a hand cultivator.

Markus looked at it, obviously bewildered. “It’s a garden tool.”

“I
know
it’s a garden tool.” Chloe stared at the primitive hand cultivator, homemade and horribly familiar. Martine and Frieda
joined them, and Chloe willed her hand not to shake as she
touched the rose carved in relief on the handle. “I—it’s unusual. Is it a family piece?”

“Well now, that’s hard to say.” Frieda planted her cane and leaned on it with both hands, considering. “It’s hung there as long as I can remember. It might have come down in my family, or Johann’s. Or it might have come from some other neighbor. When people sell their own place, they sometimes bring stuff over here.”

Chloe looked at Markus. “Have you ever seen one carved like that before?”

“No.”

Chloe tried to corral her thoughts. She didn’t want to tell Markus that she’d been attacked with an identical cultivator. And no
way
would she tell that to Frieda and Martine. “I saw one just like it recently. At my friend Dellyn’s place.”

“Really?” Markus brightened. “We should track down provenance on those two!”

That would be tricky, Chloe thought, with Dellyn’s cultivator in the Eagle PD’s storage locker. “Dellyn doesn’t know anything about hers. It was in her parents’ barn when they died.”

“I’ll ask Grandpa about it,” Martine said. “But I don’t know that he’ll remember anything.”

“No worries,” Chloe told her, and tried to smile.

_____

Roelke drove to Eagle that evening in his newly acquired truck, a 1978 GMC High Sierra, two-toned green. He’d wanted another Ford Ranger, but didn’t spot one on a dealer lot or in the paper, and he didn’t want to dink around. At least the color was good. And the mileage was low for a four-year-old vehicle, just 1,800 miles.

He checked his watch. Residents were making their way to the village park for Movie Night. Movie Night, for God’s sake. Chloe might have been murdered the evening before. She was likely being consoled right this minute by her stupid Swiss ex. Dellyn Burke might, or might not, be a killer’s target. Detectives were trying to discover who had killed Harriet Van Dyne.

And what am I doing? Roelke thought. I am about to set up a movie projector, and to make sure the volunteers handling the popcorn and sodas show up on time. Tonight’s film,
Mackenna’s Gold
,
had been chosen by Skeet, who thought the name was funny.

“Just hilarious,” Roelke muttered. It would be a double joke if Skeet got the permanent position.

_____

Frieda toured Markus and Chloe through her garden, identifying vegetables she thought had old origins. Markus got particularly
excited about one tomato. “I think these might be genetically iden
tical to an old Bernese tomato we’ve got at Ballenberg. If so—my God, how exciting to find a direct link here in America!”

Frieda smiled at him. “You tell me which ones you’re interested in,” she said, “and next time you come I’ll have seeds ready for you. I keep all my gardening things in the old granary, now.”

Chloe lingered over a border of lobelia. “Those are pretty, aren’t they?” Frieda asked. “I don’t know how old the variety is, though.”

“A friend of mine is planting a memorial garden for her mom and sister,” Chloe said. “They both liked blue.”

“I’ll go through my packets and find some of those before you come next time,” Frieda told her.

“And perhaps some
Käseklee
?” Martine asked.

Frieda smiled mischievously. “That’s the plant which gives
Grünen Schabzieger
its green color, but the flower is also a nice blue.” She turned toward the house. “Now, it’s time for supper. I want you two to stay.”

Chloe darted Martine a concerned glance. “Let her do it,” Martine whispered. “It helps her to keep busy.”

By the time they’d eaten, Johann woke and asked to see Markus. While the men talked livestock, Frieda showed Chloe some of her embroidery. “I’d like you to have this one,” Frieda said, handing Chloe a white dish towel stitched in bright colors.”

“It’s lovely!” Chloe was enormously touched.

Frieda beamed. “And I wrote down my
Bierabrot
recipe for you.”

“These are treasures,” Chloe told her. “Thank you so much.”

_____

Markus and Chloe were both silent as they drove the first few miles back to New Glarus. Chloe watched headlights from passing cars flash by, wondering if she’d see Frieda and Johann again. Frieda seemed to be in fairly good health, for a woman in her nineties, but Johann was failing. And when he passed … well, it wouldn’t surprise Chloe if Frieda died soon after.

Well, whether they had more visits in store or not, it had been a privilege to meet the elderly couple.

The only wrong note came from seeing the rose-carved cultivator. That had been freaky. Creepy, actually. How did one end up in Dellyn’s barn, and its twin in the Frietags’?

Beside her, Markus began to hum quietly. He’d always done that when he was thinking. Chloe was pretty sure he wasn’t even aware of it. The sound put a catch in her throat.

She had once known this man better than anybody else on earth.

Chloe rubbed her temples. OK. She was too tired to think about either the cultivator or her love life. She struggled for something banal. “It, um, sounds like you’re enjoying your time in New Glarus.”

“It’s more Swiss than Switzerland,” Markus mused, “but I like it here. I’ve gotten interested in the whole topic of Swiss acculturation—how both the original immigrants and their descendants have chosen to retain or even re-create aspects of their ethnic heritage.”

“I imagine that for some people, it’s heartfelt,” Chloe said. “And for some it’s about tourism dollars. It’s the same way in Stoughton, where I grew up. Very Norwegian. Guests from Norway are often astonished to see churches advertising
lutefisk
suppers.”

“It’s fascinating,” Markus said.

Chloe slid her gaze in his direction. Yes, it
was
fascinating. She understood exactly what Markus was thinking, and feeling. Surprisingly, Markus had been a part of the sense of respite she’d felt today. Roelke was the one who understood that Chloe had found a second dead body in the space of two months—but that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. She needed a break. She wanted her life to be about old people and heirloom goats and folk dancing again.

Markus seemed to read her mind. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, someone in the dance group in Brienz discovered a new schottische.” A schottische was sort of like a slow polka. When Chloe lived in Switzerland, she and Markus had been members of the folk dance group.

“Are the steps difficult?”

“I haven’t learned it,” he said, slowing the car as they neared a stop sign. “The schottische is a partnered dance. I haven’t been active in the group since you left.”

“Oh.”

“Have you found a group here?” he asked. “Maybe you and the policeman?”

Chloe made an attempt to picture Roelke McKenna dancing a schottische. Three seconds later, her head about to explode, she gave up. “No. I haven’t danced either.”

Markus was wise enough to let that go. “Well,” he said, as they reached the parking lot where she’d left her car, “thanks again for coming. It was fun. Maybe we can meet more informants while I’m here.”

Informants
. The word rang in Chloe’s brain like a cow bell. In Roelke’s world, informants were people with information about crimes. Sometimes horrible, brutal, heart-breaking crimes, like the murder of Harriet Van Dyne. In Markus’s world, informants were people like Johann and Frieda Frietag.

“I’d like that,” she said, and got out of the car.

_____

T.J. Malone fought like a hooked muskie as Roelke snapped the handcuffs into place. “You can’t arrest me! I haven’t done anything!”

Mackenna’s Gold
was well underway. Gregory Peck and Omar Shariff were arguing about the fate of some blonde woman. Still, half the movie-watchers craned their necks to watch Roelke tug the young man toward the squad car. “I’m not arresting you,” Roelke said as he levered T.J. into the back seat. “I’m detaining you while I go hear your girlfriend’s side of the story.”

“She’s a bi—”

Roelke slammed the door against both the unpleasant noun and the string of curses that followed. “I suggest you try to calm down,” he told T.J. through the glass, and left him.

T.J.’s girlfriend, a very pregnant brunette, was sitting on a picnic table a short distance from the area where Eagle residents, young and old, had settled in for Movie Night. “I didn’t
do
anything!” the girlfriend insisted as Roelke approached. Waterworks had left mascara streaks down her cheeks. “I said hello to a guy I went to high school with. That’s all! I wasn’t flirting or anything, but T.J. went
nuts!
” The young woman wiped her eyes with a crumpled tissue, doing further damage. “Ever since I got pregnant, he’s been acting like a big jerk!” She began to weep again. Noisily and sloppily.

In Roelke’s opinion, both parties needed to settle down before anything productive could happen. “Just sit tight, OK? I need to check on something. Then I’ll go talk to T.J.” Roelke waited until she nodded. Then he began a slow circuit of the park.

As far as he could tell, Movie Night was a complete disaster. First, his stitches and blossoming bruises attracted unwanted attention. Second, everyone and their brother wanted to talk about Harriet Van Dyne’s murder. Had the murderer been caught? What did Officer McKenna mean, county detectives and state police were handling the case? The crime may have happened on state property, but it was still an Eagle issue. Perhaps Officer McKenna should stay a little more involved.

Then there was the film itself. Skeet had evidently not previewed the old Western, which featured a scene where a naked woman tried to drown the blonde. Roelke was pretty sure that at least a couple of parents would not deem that family fare. The plot, about an ever-increasing bunch of idiots willing to risk their lives to find a legendary canyon of gold, kept pulling his thoughts back to Dellyn Burke’s suggestion that someone might go crazy over the legend of the Eagle Diamond. Watching the nutjobs in the film, all things suddenly seemed possible.